Rudder Grange — Ch. 10: Wet Blankets, pt. 2
“Oh no!
” said Euphemia.
“And we're not going to back down.
Are you ready?
” On our way down-stairs we had to pass the partly open door of our own room.
I could not help holding up the lantern to look in.
There was the bed, with its fair white covering and its smooth, soft pillows; there were the easy-chairs, the pretty curtains, the neat and cheerful carpet, the bureau, with Euphemia's work-basket on it; there was the little table with the book that we had been reading together, turned face downward upon it; there were my slippers; there was-- “Come!
” said Euphemia, “I can't bear to look in there.
It's like a dead child.
” And so we hurried out into the night and the rain.
We stopped at the wood-shed and got an armful of dry kindling, which Euphemia was obliged to carry, as I had the bundle of bed-clothing, the umbrella, and the lantern.
Lord Edward gave a short, peculiar bark as we shut the gate behind us, but whether it was meant as a fond farewell, or a hoot of derision, I cannot say.
We found everything as we left it at the camp, and we made our beds apparently dry.
But I did not sleep well.
I could not help thinking that it was not safe to sleep in a bed with a substratum of wet mattress, and I worried Euphemia a little by asking her several times if she felt the dampness striking through.
To our great delight, the next day was fine and clear, and I thought I would like, better than anything else, to take Euphemia in a boat up the river and spend the day rowing about, or resting in shady places on the shore.
But what could we do about the tent?
It would be impossible to go away and leave that, with its contents, for a whole day.
When old John came with our water, milk, bread, and a basket of vegetables, we told him of our desired excursion, and the difficulty in the way.
This good man, who always had a keen scent for any advantage to himself, warmly praised the boating plan, and volunteered to send his wife and two of his younger children to stay with the tent while we were away.
The old woman, he said, could do her sewing here as well as anywhere, and she would stay all day for fifty cents.
This plan pleased us, and we sent for Mrs. Old John, who came with three of her children,--all too young to leave behind, she said,--and took charge of the camp.
Our day proved to be as delightful as we had anticipated, and when we returned, hungry and tired, we were perfectly charmed to find that Mrs. Old John had our supper ready for us.
She charged a quarter, extra, for this service, and we did not begrudge it to her, though we declined her offer to come every day and cook and keep the place in order.
“However,” said Euphemia, on second thoughts, “you may come on Saturday and clean up generally.
” The next day, which was Friday, I went out in the morning with the gun.
As yet I had shot nothing, for I had seen no birds about the camp, which, without breaking the State laws, I thought I could kill, and so I started off up the river-road.
I saw no game, but after I had walked about a mile, I met a man in a wagon.
“Hello,” said he, pulling up; “you'd better be careful how you go popping around here on the public roads, frightening horses.
” As I had not yet fired a single shot, I thought this was a very impudent speech, and I think so still.
“You had better wait until I begin to pop,” said I, “before you make such a fuss about it.
” “No,” said he, “I'd rather make the fuss before you begin.
My horse is skittish,” and he drove off.
This man annoyed me; but as I did not, of course, wish to frighten horses, I left the road and made my way back to the tent over some very rough fields.
It was a poor day for birds, and I did not get a shot.
“What a foolish man!
” said Euphemia, when I told her the above incident, “to talk that way when you stood there with a gun in your hand.
You might have raked his wagon, fore and aft.
” That afternoon, as Euphemia and I were sitting under a tree by the tent, we were very much surprised to see Pomona come walking down the peninsula.
I was annoyed and provoked at this.
We had given Pomona positive orders not to leave the place, under any pretense, while we were gone.
If necessary to send for anything, she could go to the fence, back of the barn, and scream across a small field to some of the numerous members of old John's family.
Under this arrangement, I felt that the house was perfectly safe.
Before she could reach us, I called out: “Why did you leave the house, Pomona?
Don't you know you should never come away and leave the house empty?
I thought I had made you understand that.
” “It isn't empty,” said Pomona, in an entirely unruffled tone.
“Your old boarder is there, with his wife and child.
” Euphemia and I looked at each other in dismay.
“They came early this afternoon,” continued Pomona, “by the 1:14 train, and walked up, he carrying the child.
” “It can't be,” cried Euphemia.
“Their child's married.
” “It must have married very young, then,” said Pomona, “for it isn't over four years old now.
” “Oh!
” said Euphemia, “I know!
It's his grandchild.
” “Grandchild!
” repeated Pomona, with her countenance more expressive of emotion than I had ever yet seen it.
“Yes,” said Euphemia; “but how long are they going to stay?
Where did you tell them we were?
” “They didn't say how long they was goin' to stay,” answered Pomona.
“I told them you had gone to be with some friends in the country, and that I didn't know whether you'd be home to-night or not.
” “How could you tell them such a falsehood?
” cried Euphemia.
“That was no falsehood,” said Pomona; “it was true as truth.
If you're not your own friends, I don't know who is.
And I wasn't a-goin' to tell the boarder where you was till I found out whether you wanted me to do it or not.
And so I left 'em and run over to old John's, and then down here.
” It was impossible to find fault with the excellent management of Pomona.
“What were they doing?
” asked Euphemia.
“I opened the parlor, and she was in there with the child,--putting it to sleep on the sofa, I think.
The boarder was out in the yard, tryin' to teach Lord Edward some tricks.
” “He had better look out!
” I exclaimed.
“Oh, the dog's chained and growlin' fearful!
What am I to do with 'em?
” This was a difficult point to decide.
If we went to see them, we might as well break up our camp, for we could not tell when we should be able to come back to it.
We discussed the matter very anxiously, and finally concluded that under the circumstances, and considering what Pomona had said about our whereabouts, it would be well for us to stay where we were and for Pomona to take charge of the visitors.
If they returned to the city that evening, she was to give them a good supper before they went, sending John to the store for what was needed.
If they stayed all night, she could get breakfast for them.
“We can write,” said Euphemia, “and invite them to come and spend some days with us, when we are at home and everything is all right.
I want dreadfully to see that child, but I don't see how I can do it now.
” “No,” said I. “They're sure to stay all night if we go up to the house, and then I should have to have the tent and things hauled away, for I couldn't leave them here.
” “The fact is,” said Euphemia, “if we were miles away, in the woods of Maine, we couldn't leave our camp to see anybody.
And this is practically the same.
”
