THE BOARDER'S VISIT.
For the rest of the afternoon, and indeed far into the night, our conversation consisted almost entirely of conjectures regarding the probable condition of things at the house. We both thought we had done right, but we felt badly about it. It was not hospitable, to be sure; but then I should have no other holiday until next year, and our friends could come at any time to see us.
The next morning old John brought a note from Pomona. It was written with pencil on a small piece of paper torn from the margin of a newspaper, and contained the words, "Here yit.""So you've got company," said old John, with a smile. "That's a queer gal of yourn. She says I mustn't tell 'em you're here. As if I'd tell 'em!"We knew well enough that old John was not at all likely to do anything that would cut off the nice little revenue he was ****** out of our camp, and so we felt no concern on that score.
But we were very anxious for further news, and we told old John to go to the house about ten o'clock and ask Pomona to send us another note.
We waited, in a very disturbed condition of mind, until nearly eleven o'clock, when old John came with a verbal message from Pomona:
"She says she's a-comin' herself as soon as she can get a chance to slip off."This was not pleasant news. It filled our minds with a confused mass of probabilities, and it made us feel mean. How contemptible it seemed to be a party to this concealment and in league with a servant-girl who has to "slip off!"Before long, Pomona appeared, quite out of breath.
"In all my life," said she, "I never see people like them two. Ithought I was never goin' to get away."
"Are they there yet?" cried Euphemia.
"How long are they going to stay?"
"Dear knows!" replied Pomona. "Their valise came up by express last night.""Oh, we'll have to go up to the house," said Euphemia. "It won't do to stay away any longer.""Well," said Pomona, fanning herself with her apron, "if you know'd all I know, I don't think you'd think so.""What do you mean?" said Euphemia.
"Well, ma'am, they've just settled down and taken possession of the whole place. He says to me that he know'd you'd both want them to make themselves at home, just as if you was there, and they thought they'd better do it. He asked me did I think you would be home by Monday, and I said I didn't know, but I guessed you would. So says he to his wife, 'Won't that be a jolly lark? We'll just keep house for them here till they come. And he says he would go down to the store and order some things, if there wasn't enough in the house, and he asked her to see what would be needed, which she did, and he's gone down for 'em now. And she says that, as it was Saturday, she'd see that the house was all put to rights; and after breakfast she set me to sweepin'; and it's only by way of her dustin' the parlor and givin' me the little girl to take for a walk that I got off at all.""But what have you done with the child?" exclaimed Euphemia.
"Oh, I left her at old Johnses."
"And so you think they're pleased with having the house to themselves?" I said.
"Pleased, sir?" replied Pomona; "they're tickled to death.""But how do you like having strangers telling you what to do?"asked Euphemia.
"Oh, well," said Pomona, "he's no stranger, and she's real pleasant, and if it gives you a good camp out, I don't mind."Euphemia and I looked at each other. Here was true allegiance. We would remember this.
Pomona now hurried off, and we seriously discussed the matter, and soon came to the conclusion that while it might be the truest hospitality to let our friends stay at our house for a day or two and enjoy themselves, still it would not do for us to allow ourselves to be governed by a too delicate sentimentality. We must go home and act our part of host and hostess.
Mrs. Old John had been at the camp ever since breakfast-time, giving the place a Saturday cleaning. What she had found to occupy her for so long a time I could not imagine, but in her efforts to put in a full half-day's work, I have no doubt she scrubbed some of the trees. We had been so fully occupied with our own affairs that we had paid very little attention to her, but she had probably heard pretty much all that had been said.
At noon we paid her (giving her, at her suggestion, something extra in lieu of the midday meal, which she did not stay to take), and told her to send her husband, with his wagon, as soon as possible, as we intended to break up our encampment. We determined that we would pack everything in John's wagon, and let him take the load to his house, and keep it there until Monday, when I would have the tent and accompaniments expressed to their owner. We would go home and join our friends. It would not be necessary to say where we had been.
It was hard for us to break up our camp. In many respects we had enjoyed the novel experience, and we had fully expected, during the next week, to make up for all our short-comings and mistakes. It seemed like losing all our labor and expenditure, to break up now, but there was no help for it. Our place was at home.
We did not wish to invite our friends to the camp. They would certainly have come had they known we were there, but we had no accommodations for them, neither had we any desire for even transient visitors. Besides, we both thought that we would prefer that our ex-boarder and his wife should not know that we were encamped on that little peninsula.
We set to work to pack up and get ready for moving, but the afternoon passed away without bringing old John. Between five and six o'clock along came his oldest boy, with a bucket of water.
"I'm to go back after the milk," he said.
"Hold up!" I cried. "Where is your father and his wagon? We've been waiting for him for hours.""The horse is si-- I mean he's gone to Ballville for oats.""And why didn't he send and tell me?" I asked.
"There wasn't nobody to send," answered the boy.
"You are not telling the truth," exclaimed Euphemia; "there is always some one to send, in a family like yours."To this the boy made no answer, but again said that he would go after the milk.
