“I feel bound to say to you,” said Mrs. Archibald, “that that impertinent fellow is persisting in his attentions to Miss Dearborn, and that Mr. Archibald and I will not have it.”
“I imagined that the discussion was on that subject,” said the bishop, “for Mr. Clyde has intimated to me that Raybold has been making himself disagreeable to the young lady.”
“I do not know what we are going to do,” said Mrs. Archibald, reflectively; “there seems to be no way of making an impression upon him. He is like his sister—he will have his own way.”
“Yes,” said the bishop, with a sigh, “he is like his sister. But then, one might thrash him, but what can be done with her? I tell you, Mrs. Archibald,” he said, turning to her, earnestly, “it is getting to be unbearable. The whole evening, ever since you left the camp-fire, she has been talking to me on the subject of mental assimilation—that is, the treatment of our ideas and thoughts as if they were articles of food—intellectual soda biscuit, or plum pudding, for instance—in order to find out whether our minds can digest these things and produce from them the mental chyme and chyle necessary to our intellectual development. The discourse was fortunately broken off for to-night, but there is more of it for to-morrow. I really cannot stand it.”
“I wouldn’t stand it,” said Mrs. Archibald. “Can’t you simply go away and leave her when she begins in that way?”
The bishop shook his head. “No,” he said, “that is impossible. When those beautiful eyes are fixed upon me I cannot go away. They charm me and they hold me. Unless there is an interruption, I must stay and listen. The only safety for me is to fly from this camp. At last,” he said, smiling a little sadly, “I am going to go. I did not want to do this until your camp broke up, but I must.”
“And you are really going to-morrow?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I have positively decided upon that.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” she said. “Good-night.”
When Mrs. Archibald entered her cabin she found her husband sleeping soundly, and she again sat down by the window. There was no such thing as sleep for her; her mind was more tossed and troubled than it had been before she went out. The fact that the bishop was going away made the matter worse, for just as she had found out that he was willing to help her, and that he might be able to keep Raybold away from them without actual violence—for she saw that the young boaster was afraid of him—he had told her he must leave, and in her heart she did not blame him. With great fear and anxiety she looked forward to the morrow.