CHAPTER III NAN'S SECRET
When Nan opened her eyes the next morning it was with a consciousness that something pleasantly exciting was to happen, and she lost no time in hurrying down-stairs and, after breakfast, in getting through her prescribed duties with more than usual haste. Her mother smiled to see that she was so eager and businesslike and that her moodiness of the day before had departed, while Aunt Sarah said: "I hope your fancy will not lead you to try the tune the old cow died of to-day, Nannie."
Nan smiled but made no reply. What matter if Aunt Sarah did cast slurs upon her musical attempts? There were persons in the world who took them seriously, and she felt a thrill of satisfaction as she thought of the soft white hair and blue eyes of her fairy godmother.
It was with some difficulty that she was able to reach the sunset tree without being seen. Jack, in penitential mood, and Jean looking for sympathy, followed her everywhere, and it was not till she had robbed a rose bush of its red berry-like seeds andhad constructed a wonderful set of dishes, a lamp, and a whole family of people from the berries, that the reward of her ingenuity came to her in the delight of the children over these novel toys and in their content with a corner of the porch for a playroom. After seeing them well established, Nan set off.
"I've dusted the living-room, made my bed, picked up after Jack, and I believe that is all," she told herself. "There's Phil coming, I am thankful to say, so Mary Lee will not tag me." She paid no heed to the question, "Where are you going?" which Mary Lee called after her, but kept on till the barn hid her from sight. She hoped she had not kept her friend waiting and that she would not become impatient and leave, for it was after ten. But as she came up to the tree she saw the sombre little figure sitting quietly there. "I was so afraid you couldn't wait," said Nan breathlessly. "The children were so tiresome and wanted all sorts of things done for them so I couldn't get away before."
"There's plenty of time," replied her friend. "Sit down and cool off; you've come too fast in the hot sun. Tell me about the children."
"Jean is a dear, and Jack can be perfectly fascinating when she chooses. They are the twins, youknow. Jack's name is Jacqueline. Aunt Sarah says she was mixed together with more original sin than any of us, and if there hadn't been a lot of angel used in her make up she doesn't know what would become of her. She is simply dear this morning, but yesterday afternoon!" And Nan gave an account of Jack's muddle with the paint.
Her companion laughed. "She must keep you in hot water," she said. "Tell me about Mary Lee."
"Oh, do you know there is a Mary Lee?" said Nan in surprise. "But of course everybody knows us. She is named for our mother, and I am named for papa's sister Nancy Weston who died. We called Jack and Jean after papa. His name was John and Jean is the French for John, only we give it the Scotch pronunciation. Papa was always called Jack and so Jacqueline is called that."
"Yes, I know—I mean I see," returned her companion. "Come, now, shall we go on? Are you ready to be conducted to the place of your desires? You must go blindfolded."
"How lovely! That makes it so deliciously mysterious. I hope I shall not fall and bump my nose."
"I'll take care that you do not. Let me tie this ever your eyes." She drew a soft silken scarf froma bag she held, and made it fast over Nan's eyes. "Can you see?" she asked.
"No, indeed, I can't. Not the leastest little bit."
"Now give me your hands. There, I'll put them around my waist and you will walk just behind me."
Their way was made very cautiously and slowly and at last Nan set foot upon a board floor. "Now I can lead you," said her guide. "One step up, please."
Nan was led along the floor for some distance making one sharp turn, and then was gently forced to a seat. "There," said her guide. "Sit here perfectly still till you hear a bell ring; then you may untie your scarf, but you must not leave the room till I come for you."
Nan sat very still. Presently she heard a light footstep cross the floor, then a door closed and after a few minutes a bell in the distance tinkled softly. Up went her hands and the scarf was withdrawn in a jiffy. She found herself sitting before an open piano. On each side of her were set lighted candles in tall brass candlesticks. Into the room no gleam of daylight made its way. In the shadowy corners were sheeted chairs and sofas and on the wall were covered pictures. Nanrecognized the place at once. It was the drawing-room of her grandmother's house and over the mantel must be the very portrait she had once gazed upon with such delight. Now it was screened from view. "I just wonder who in the world she is," exclaimed Nan thinking of her guide. "I'd like to know how she got in here and all about it. Perhaps she is some of our kinsfolk who has come down here to look after something for grandmother. I'm going to ask her."
Having made this decision, she turned her attention to the piano. In spite of long disuse it gave forth mellow and delightful tones as she touched it softly. It seemed very big and important after the little melodeon, but soon the girl gained confidence and became absorbed in writing down her little song which she did note by note, calling each aloud. "I am not sure that it is just right," she said as she concluded her task, "but it is as right as I can make it."
She arose from her seat and tiptoed around the room, lifting the covers from the shrouded furniture and getting glimpses of dim brocade and silky plush. Then she went back to the piano. All was so still in the house that Nan felt the absolute freedom of one without an audience. She touched the keys gently at first, but, gaining confidence and inspiration,went on playing by ear snatches of this and that, becoming perfectly absorbed in the happiness of making melody.
She was so carried away by her performance that she neither saw nor heard the door open and was not aware of any one's presence till a soft voice said: "I declare, the blessed child really has talent."
"Oh!" Nan sprang to her feet. "Were you listening?"
"I have been for a short time only. How did you get along with your song?"
"Pretty well. I don't know whether it is exactly right. I don't know much about time, and sharps and flats."
"May I see? Perhaps I can help you."
Nan timidly held out her little awkwardly written tune and the lady scanned it carefully. "You haven't your sharps and naturals just right," she remarked. "You see this is the sign of a natural," and taking Nan's pencil she made the necessary corrections, then sitting down to the piano she played the simple air through and afterward went off into a dreamy waltz while Nan listened spellbound.
"Please tell me who you are," the child cried when the music ceased.
"I did tell you. I am your fairy godmother. You may leave out the fairy if you like, for I am quite substantial."
"Are you kin to—to grandmother? Did she send you?"
"She did not send me and has no idea I am here."
Nan stared. "I know, of course, just where I am," she said. "This is Grandmother Corner's house. I saw into this very room once and I saw that," she indicated the portrait. "I just saw it for a minute and I do so want to see it real good. Could I?" she asked, wistfully.
"Why do you want to see it?" asked her companion.
"Because I love it. Oh, I know, I know," she went on hastily. "Landy has told me."
"Has told you what?"
"I can't tell you unless you are kinsfolk."
"You can tell me anything because there is nothing I don't know about this house and those who used to live here."
"Oh, then, you know how cruel my grandmother was to papa, and how she couldn't bear his marrying mother."
"It wasn't because it was herself," put in the other eagerly. "There was no objection to Mary personally, but she hated to give him up to any one.She would have felt the same way if he had wanted to marry a princess. She never did get over the fact of sharing him with some one else; she never will."
"I didn't know all that, but I knew about the bitter words and how they have been haunting her, and I feel so very sorry for her. I know it would break my mother's heart to lose one of us," said Nan, "and if she had been cross to us and anything had happened that we were hurt meantime she would never forgive herself. Why, when Jack has been her naughtiest, mother never misses kissing her good-night. Last night Jack had to be put right to bed for punishment and before I went to sleep I heard mother in the nursery and Jack was crying, then when mother came to kiss me good-night I saw she had been crying, too. She is such a dear mother."
"She must be," said the little lady, her voice a-tremble, "and you are right to feel sorry for your grandmother. She needs all your love and sympathy."
"I wonder if I shall ever see her," said Nan wistfully.
"I hope so. I think so."
"And may I see the picture?"
"It is too high to reach, I am afraid."
"Oh, but I can get a pole or something and lift up the cover," said Nan, quick to see a way.
"Run, then, and find one."
Nan disappeared and soon returned with an ancient broom, the handle of which was used to lift the cover sufficiently so that by the dim light of the candles, which her friend held high, Nan beheld the portrait again.
"Thank you, so much," she said gratefully. "I am very glad you are kin of ours, even if I don't know who you are. I love you and I am going to try to love my grandmother."
The little lady suddenly put her arms around her and held her close. "You are a dear, dear child, and I love you, too," she said. "Some day you shall see me again. Kiss me, Nancy."
Nan held up her sweet red mouth to receive the warm kiss. "I shall be seeing your grandmother before long," said her friend, holding the girl's hands and looking tenderly at her.
"But she is in Europe."
"And are there no steamers that cross the ocean?"
"Are you going there, then?"
"That is my intention."
"Then, are you going to tell her about me? Will she care to know?" Nan paused before she saidhesitatingly, "Would it make her very mad if I sent a kiss to her?"
"Dear child, no. It would make her very glad, and would help to ease her sad heart, I am sure."
"Then I'll do it. Take this, please." Nan pressed a hearty kiss on the lady's lips. "Then," she added: "I must tell mother, you know."
"Of course. You may tell her day after to-morrow that you met your godmother."
"My fairy godmother."
"As you like. Now you must run along. Good-bye till we meet again. One more kiss, Nannie, for your Aunt Helen."
"Oh, yes, I always forget her. I was so little when I last saw her, you know. But I'll send her a kiss if you want me to. Good-bye, dear fairy godmother. Ask the queen of the fairies to send you this way soon again."
The candle-lighted room, the little white-haired figure, the shrouded portrait all seemed unreal as Nan stepped out again into the bright sunlight. She longed to tell her mother all about it, but she reflected that the secret was not all her own and determined to be silent till the time was up. Only one question did she ask and the answer almost made her betray herself. "Mother," she said when hermother came to say good-night, "who was my godmother?"
"Your Aunt Helen," was the reply.
Nan sat straight up in bed her eyes wide with surprise. "Why, why," she stammered, but she immediately nestled down again.
"Did you never know that?" asked her mother.
"If I did I forgot," replied Nan, and she lay awake for a long time thinking of the strangeness of the morning's experience. She could scarcely wait till the time rolled around and brought her to the day when she could tell her mother the story of her secret meeting. It seemed to her that since the day before yesterday her mental self had grown prodigiously. Mary Lee, a year and a half younger seemed now such a child, although heretofore she had been considered the more mature. Once in a while the two had discussed their grandmother and the Corner family, but Mary Lee was not greatly interested in the subject and had concluded the conversation by saying: "I don't care a picayune where she is or what she thinks. She has never done anything for me and she might as well be out of the world as in it, as far as we are concerned. I'm never going to bother my head about her, and I don't see why you want to, Nan."
This crushing indifference satisfied Nan that Mary Lee was not to be confided in when the silent house at Uplands, like a magnet, drew Nan toward it, and she was rather glad that she did not want to tell any one but her mother, for had a sympathetic spirit been ready to hear the secret would have been hard to keep.
When the eventful day came she followed Mrs. Corner from dining-room to pantry and from pantry to kitchen waiting for a chance to give her confidence. "When shall you be through, mother?" she asked. "It seems as if you had so much more than usual to do this morning."
"No more, than always," returned her mother. "Why are you so impatiently following me up, Nan? What is it? Can't you tell me now?"
Nan glanced at Mitty and the washerwoman who were eating their breakfast. "It's a secret," she said in a low tone, "a very important secret."
Mrs. Corner smiled. Nan's secrets were not usually of great importance except in her own estimation. "Well, I shall be in my room as soon as I give out the meal and sugar; you can come to me then, if you can't tell me here. Suppose you pass the time away in looking up Jack. It is about time she was getting into mischief again. She always chooses Monday morning for some sort of escapade;I suppose keeping bottled up over Sunday is too much for her."
"I'll go see where she is," agreed Nan. "She won't be painting the fence this time, I know."
Jack was discovered before a tub in the wash house. In the absence of Ginny, the washerwoman, at breakfast, she had seized the opportunity of taking her place and was about to plunge her best muslin frock into the water with the stockings and underwear when Nan came upon her. "Jacqueline Corner, what are you up to now?" cried Nan, snatching the frock from her.
"I'm just helping Ginny to wash," replied Jack with her usual air of injured innocence when discovered under such circumstances.
"You were just helping Landy when you wasted the paint and ruined your blue frock," said Nan sarcastically. "Walk yourself right out of here. Ginny is perfectly capable of doing the washing without your assistance. Besides that lawn frock doesn't go in with black stockings; a pretty mess you'd make of it. Ginny won't thank you for mixing up her wash when she's sorted it all out. Try your energies upon something you know about, young lady."
Jack flung herself away. "You're always saying I mustn't do this and I mustn't do that," she complained."You're a regular old cross-patch. You're not my mother to order me around."
"Mother sent me to see after you, so there," returned Nan. "I'm next to mother, too, for I'm next oldest. Where's Jean?"
"I don't know and I don't care," returned Jack, sullenly.
"Who's a cross-patch now? Here comes Ginny; you'd better make tracks out of here."
Jack fled and Nan returned to the house to find her mother ready to sit down to her sewing. The girl carefully shut the door and then established herself on an ottoman near her mother. "What does my Aunt Helen look like?" she asked abruptly.
Her mother looked up in surprise. "That's the second time lately that you have asked me about your Aunt Helen. Why this sudden interest, Nannie?"
"I'll tell you presently. It's part of the secret."
"Oh, it is. Well then, Helen has dark hair and blue eyes, a fair skin and little hands and feet. She is quite small, not much taller than you."
"It all sounds right," said Nan reflectively, "except the hair. Is she quite old, mother?"
"She is younger than I."
"Oh, then, of course, it is some one else, only my little lady has a very young smile. Maybe she isn'tso awfully old. Could any one younger than you have real white hair, mother?"
"Why, yes, I have seen persons much younger whose hair had turned quite gray. Sometimes hair turns gray quite suddenly from illness or grief or trouble."
"Could Aunt Helen's hair be gray by this time?"
"It could be, though it was dark when I saw her last."
Nan pondered upon this and then said: "Well, anyhow, whoever it was, she told me I was to tell you that she was my godmother. Did I have two godmothers?"
"Yes, but I was one. What is all this about? Whom have you seen, and where did you see her?"
Nan launched forth into her story, her mother listening so attentively that her sewing lay untouched in her lap. When Nan had concluded, Mrs. Corner picked up her work again, but she was so agitated that she was unable to thread her needle.
"Who was she? Who was she?" queried Nan.
"Your Aunt Helen, without doubt."
"But I thought she was in Europe with my grandmother."
"So I thought. She evidently came over on some matter of business, leaving your grandmother there."
"Are you sorry I saw her, mother?" asked Nan, leaning her elbows on her mother's lap and looking up into her face. "I told her I ought not to go to Uplands because you don't like us to. Are you sorry I went? Are you angry, mother?"
"No, I think I am glad, Nannie."
"Then I am glad, but why didn't she come to see you when she was so near? Did she say mean horrid things, too? I can't imagine her doing anything hateful and mean."
A pained expression passed over Mrs. Corner's face. "What do you know about that sad time, Nannie? I have never mentioned it to you children."
"No, but Unc' Landy told me grandmother said bitter things. I know you didn't though."
Mrs. Corner sighed. "I said one thing, Nannie, that I have often regretted since, and it is because of it that your Aunt Helen did not let me know of her being here. It was in a moment of deep distress. I was hurt, indignant. I felt that I had been left desolate with insufficient means to support my children, and in the only interview I had with your grandmother I said, 'I hope I shall never again behold the face of one of the Corner family except the children of my beloved husband who bear his name.'"
"I don't blame you," said Nan, taking her mother's hand between her own. "They were horribly mean to go off with their money and not give you a penny. They ought at least to have let you live in the big house and use the piano."
Her mother smiled. "That is the way you look at it. Well, we get along somehow without them, thanks to Aunt Sarah. I am sorry I did not try to be more friendly to Helen. She was dominated by her mother and it was no doubt a choice between her and you children. She was very fond of you as a baby and she has not forgotten. Her mother's sadly jealous and envious spirit is what has made all the trouble."
"I was four years old when they went away," said Nan. "I don't remember them at all, though I remember dear daddy perfectly."
"Let's not talk of it any more," said Mrs. Corner.
"Aunt Helen said we might see each other again some day. Do you suppose they will come back and will be nice to us and let us go up there sometimes?"
"We cannot say. I do not look into the future to find such possibilities, Nannie. You must not build too many air-castles."
"Oh, but I like to," replied Nan. "It's lots of fun to do it and if they don't amount to anything I'vehad the fun of the building and nobody's hurt when they tumble down."
"In that case I suppose it doesn't make much difference, and when one is naturally a castle-builder it is hard to give up the habit."
"It isn't as bad as sucking one's fingers as Jean does, for it doesn't put my mouth out of shape; it only amuses me and I often forget my castles an hour after they are ten stories high. I suppose I am not to tell the children about Aunt Helen."
"I think I wouldn't yet."
"No," said Nan with a mature air. "I think it's best not. They mightn't understand. Besides, as she isn't a polywog nor a newly hatched bird, Mary Lee wouldn't be very much interested in her."
CHAPTER IV A MOTHER'S SECRET
The first days of autumn brought back school days. Aunt Sarah had gone to visit a nephew in lower Maryland, leaving behind her mementoes in the form of the coat of paint for the front fence, a new cover for the living-room table, and many stitches put in made-over garments for the children. She had further dispensed her bounty in a direction of which the children as yet knew nothing, and it was Nan who first heard of it from her mother.
Aunt Sarah's absence was felt in more ways than one. Mrs. Corner was her favorite niece. A tiny grave in the old churchyard marked the resting place of her namesake, Nan's elder sister, who was her mother's first-born and who lived but three short months. It may have been that Aunt Sarah's heart went out more tenderly toward her own sister's child because of this loss which was so heavy a grief to them both, but whether it was because of this bond between them or because they mutually loved and respected each other, it is true that any sacrifices which Miss Dent felt she could make she made forthe Corner family, and when she was with them no task was too heavy for her, and her wise counsel and helpful hands were greatly missed by Mrs. Corner.
It was just after Aunt Sarah's departure, and while school was still a novelty, that Nan, running in to tell her mother of the day's doings, noticed that Mrs. Corner was sewing not for one of the children but for herself. This was so unusual that Nan remarked it, and forgetting her school gossip exclaimed, "Why, mother, you are making a new frock! Where did you get it?"
Her mother dropped her work with a sigh. Nan noticed that the dear face was pale and sad. "Aunt Sarah gave it to me," was the answer. There was silence for a few moments after this, while Mrs. Corner went on with her work of measuring off the black breadths. "I have something to tell you, little daughter," she then said. "You had a secret to tell me a little while ago, and now I have one to tell you." She paused. "It isn't a happy secret, Nan," she went on, "but as you are my eldest and my staff to lean upon, you must try to help me bear it without rebelling."
Nan grew very sober. This was such a melancholy beginning that she feared what might follow, but being a young person who never thrust asideunpleasant things when she knew they must be met she said firmly, "Don't bother about me, mother; I'll be as brave as a lion."
The scissors snipped along the edges of the pattern while Mrs. Corner bent over her work. Presently she said, "It is this, Nannie: that I must leave you for awhile."
All sorts of notions flew to Nan's mind. Was her mother perhaps going to Europe to hunt up her Aunt Helen? Was she going to see Cousin Henry Dent in Maryland? "Oh, mother," she cried, "tell me quick. Where are you going?"
"I am going to the Adirondacks, Nannie."
"The Adirondacks?" Nan looked the surprise she felt. "Why in the world are you going there? You don't know any one up in those regions, do you?"
"No, and that makes it harder. I am going for my health, Nannie."
The blood forsook Nan's cheeks. She felt as if she were sinking down, down, and it took all her effort to check a rising sob. All she did, however, was to hold her nether lip closely between her teeth and to draw a quivering sigh. Then she gasped out: "Oh, mother, mother, it doesn't mean—it can't mean——"
"It doesn't mean anything very serious—yet,"said Mrs. Corner dropping her scissors and sitting down by Nan's side. "But the doctor says if I go now the tendency will probably be overcome. If I stay it may mean that the disease will get the better of me, and dear Aunt Sarah has made it possible for me to go. Only a few months, Nan, and Aunt Sarah will come and stay with you while I am away. Now, I want you to stand by Aunt Sarah. She has made, and will continue to make every sacrifice for your mother, and you must make sacrifices for her."
"Oh, I will," cried Nan. "I won't touch the melodeon, and I won't nag the others any more than I can help. Aunt Sarah is good. Oh, I know she is so good, but she isn't—she isn't—you." This time the tears would have their way and they began to course down Nan's cheeks though she sat up straight and tried to blink them away. "And—and"—she went on, "she doesn't—it's hard to make her understand things like it's not always being a waste of time to do what you like and all that."
"I know, but, dear, remember that persons are very likely to respond to what you expect of them, and you will find Aunt Sarah very sympathetic if you take her the right way."
Nan was not at all sure that she could find that right way but she did not say so. She only looked at her toes very mournfully and wondered if it hadhappened to be Aunt Helen instead of great-aunt Sarah who was to be left in charge whether she would have minded it so much.
"No mother could have had my interests more at heart," continued Mrs. Corner. "Think how she has toiled and sacrificed herself for me, and it is entirely due to her that I am able to go, for not only has she provided the money for my journey, an expensive one, but she has thought of a way to pay my board while I am away, and it is just here, Nan, that I shall have to depend upon you to stand by Aunt Sarah. Cousin Tom Gordon's two boys are to board here and go to school. They want to prepare for the University and it seems a godsend that they are coming this year, for it will make my going away possible. Of course this is a new element. Two boys coming into a family will make new conditions and you must consider that Aunt Sarah is very unselfishly and devotedly undertaking a greater responsibility than we have any right to ask of her. So, Nan, try to play the part of peacemaker always. Be the sweetener of tart speeches; be the sunshine that drives away the clouds. Aunt Sarah loves you and appreciates you, though she has a little crisp way which your over-sensitiveness finds harsh. Never mind that. Be patient and wise and sweet, so will you help your mother and bring her back speedily."
"I'll try, oh, I'll try," said Nan. This was a secret indeed. What plans! What changes! "When do the boys come, and when do you go?" she asked.
"I go next week. Aunt Sarah will try to be here before I leave and before the boys arrive. They expect to get here on the fifteenth."
"Such a little while; such a little while." Nan caught her mother's hand and covered it with kisses. "And when shall you be back?" she asked.
"That I cannot say. It will depend upon what the doctors say."
Nan sat holding her mother's hand against her cheek. It would be their first separation and it would be a hard one. Every now and then the tears gushed to her eyes, though she tried to force them back. "Are you going to tell the others why you are going?" she asked.
"No," returned Mrs. Corner slowly. "I think we will not tell them just why." Thatwegave Nan a sense of partnership in these schemes. It elevated her to a place beside her mother and Aunt Sarah. She was their confidante and it behooved her to adjust her shoulder to a certain burden of responsibility.
"Tell me about the boys," she said. "Are they nice boys?"
"I hope so. If they are not you must try to make them so. Their names are Randolph and Ashby. Randolph is a year older than you and Ashby a year younger."
"Where will they sleep?" asked Nan, coming down to practical things.
"They can have the room Aunt Sarah always occupies and she can sleep in my room with Jean and Jack."
"Will she like that? Couldn't Mary Lee and I go into your room and let the boys have ours? Your room is so big and with two double beds in it we could do very well. Aunt Sarah always likes that southwest room and it would be warmer in winter."
Mrs. Corner looked pleased at this evidence of consideration. "I am sure that would be a much more comfortable plan for all but you and Mary Lee. It would be some trouble to move all your belongings. I thought the other way would be more convenient; still, if you don't mind——"
"Oh, no, we won't let ourselves mind," said Nan; then, a little shamefacedly, "besides, it would seem more like being near you to sleep in your bed."
Her mother gave the hand that held hers a little squeeze. "Now, I must go on with my work,"she said. "I shall have to get this done before I go."
"Can't I help?" asked Nan eagerly.
"Not on this, I'm afraid."
"Then I'll do the other things that you do. I'll go see if Mitty has everything out for supper." She picked up the key basket but paused before leaving the room. "May I tell Mary Lee and the twins about the boys coming and your going if I don't tell why?"
"Yes, I shall be glad if you would." And Nan flew to assume the important office of giving information which would cause a sensation.
She found Mary Lee placidly nursing a decrepit duck which had fallen into the slop barrel, showing in her pursuit of dainties an eagerness which did not accord with her age. Having been rescued and well washed by Mary Lee, she was now lying in that young person's lap rolled in an old bit of horse blanket, her restless eyes alone giving evidence of her uncurbed ambition.
"Come here, Mary Lee, I have a mighty big piece of news to tell you," cried Nan. "I'm going to tell you first."
"You come here," said Mary Lee. "I can't put the duck down till she gets dry."
"How ridiculous! As if a duck cared whethershe was wet or dry," said Nan, going up and giving the duck a friendly poke, eliciting a remonstrative "Quack!"
"You'd care if you had fallen into a slop barrel and had to be dipped out in a bucket and lathered all over and rinsed off," said Mary Lee.
"I wouldn't be so foolish as to fall into a slop barrel in the first place. Ducks are such greedy things. I don't see how she got up there."
"She walked up a board like anybody," returned Mary Lee.
"Well, anywhere that she could swim would have done for her bath. It was silly to go through all that fuss of bathing her when she's just a duck that loves water like any other duck."
"What is your news?" asked Mary Lee, changing the subject. "I don't believe it's anything much. You always get so excited over trifles."
"I reckon you won't call this a trifle," replied Nan, "when I tell you that mother is going away for weeks and that Aunt Sarah is coming back to look after us, and that Randolph and Ashby Gordon are coming here to board all winter. I should think that was something to get excited over," she said triumphantly.
Mary Lee stared. "You're making it all up just to fool me."
"I'm not, either. What in the world would I want to do that for? It's true, every word of it. You can ask mother if it isn't."
"What's she going for?" asked Mary Lee.
"Oh, just because. Grown people have their reasons for doing things and we can't always be told them," replied Nan, with, it must be said, rather a condescending air.
"Do you know why?" asked her sister, determined upon getting to the heart of the matter.
"Maybe I do, and maybe I don't."
"If you do, I think you are downright mean not to tell me. I'm 'most as old as you, and she's my mother as much as she is yours."
These latter facts Nan could not deny, so she answered weakly, "Well, anyhow, I shan't tell."
Mary Lee was slow to wrath, but once aroused she did not hesitate to speak her worst. She deposited her roll of horse blanket upon the ground and the duck with satisfied quacks waddled forth from the encumbering folds, glad of her freedom. "You are altogether too high and mighty, Nancy Weston Corner," said Mary Lee, quite outraged by Nan's refusal. "You're a scurvy old pullet, so there!"
"I like your way of calling names," returned Nancontemptuously. "I should think any one could tell that you had been near a slop barrel; you talk like it."
Mary Lee did not wait for further words, but fled to her mother, Nan following, taking the shorter way and reaching her mother first. "I tried to tell Mary Lee without saying why," she began breathlessly, "and she called me a horrid name, so I don't know how it will turn out."
"I think we shall have to tell her," said Mrs. Corner. "I did not realize that it might be difficult for you."
"She's coming now," said Nan.
Mary Lee's footsteps were hastily approaching. She burst into the room with, "Mother, is it true that you are going away?"
"Yes, dear child."
"What for? Nan was so mean and wouldn't tell me."
"I didn't give Nan permission to tell you why I was going."
"She needn't have been so disagreeable about it though," said Mary Lee. "Why didn't she say that you told her not to tell?"
"You didn't give me a chance," put in Nan. "You called me a scurvy old pullet before I could explain."
"What a name, Mary Lee," said Mrs. Corner reprovingly. "Where did you hear it?"
"Phil says it."
"Don't say it again. If you lose your temper like that and cannot bridle your tongue, I am afraid your mother will have many sorry moments while she is away trying to regain her health."
In an instant Mary Lee was on her knees by her mother's side. "Are you ill, mother?" she asked anxiously.
"Not very, but I may be if I do not have a change of climate, so I am going to take a trip. I have hardly left this place for eight years and more. I shall come back trig as a trivet, Mary Lee, so don't be troubled about me."
Nan left her mother to explain matters further and sought the twins who were amicably swinging under a big tree. As she unfolded her news to them the point which at first seemed to be most important was the coming of the two boys. Jack objected to their arrival, Jean welcomed it, and straightway they began a discussion in the midst of which Nan left them. Her brain was buzzing with the many thoughts which her interview with her mother suggested. She determined to be zealous in good works, and immediately hunted up Mitty that she might see that all was going well in the kitchen.
Mitty had not much respect for one younger than herself and paid no attention when Nan entered, but kept on singing in a high shrill key:
"Whe-e-en Eve eat de apple,Whe-e-e-en Eve eat de apple,Whe-en Eve eat de apple,Lord, what a try-y-in' time."
"Whe-e-en Eve eat de apple,Whe-e-e-en Eve eat de apple,Whe-en Eve eat de apple,Lord, what a try-y-in' time."
"Mitty, have you everything out for supper?" asked Nan with her mother's manner.
Mitty rolled her eyes in Nan's direction, but vouchsafed no reply, continuing to sing in a little higher key:
"When she-e gabe de co' to Adam,Whe-en she gabe de co' to Adam,Whe-e-en she gabe de co' to Adam,Lord, what a try-y-yin' time."
"When she-e gabe de co' to Adam,Whe-en she gabe de co' to Adam,Whe-e-en she gabe de co' to Adam,Lord, what a try-y-yin' time."
"I want to know," repeated Nan severely, "if you have everything out for supper?"
"I has what I has," returned Mitty, breaking some splinters of wood across her knee.
"I wish you'd answer me properly," said Nan, impatiently.
"Yuh ain' de lady ob de house," returned Mitty, provokingly. "Yuh ain' but jest a little peepin' chick. Yuh ain' even fryin' size yet."
"I think when mother sends me with a message, it is your place to answer me," said Nan with her head in the air. "I will see if Unc' Landy can get you to tell me what mother wants to know." And she stalked out.
As Unc' Landy was Mitty's grandfather, and the only being of whom she stood in awe, this had its effect. "I tell yuh, Miss Nan, 'deed an' 'deed I will," cried Mitty, running after her and hastily enumerating the necessary articles to be given out from the pantry. "'Tain' no buttah, 'tain' no sugah, jest a little bit o' co'n meal. Oh, Miss Nan!"
But Nan had passed beyond hearing and was resolutely turning her steps toward Unc' Landy's quarters, a comfortable brick cabin which stood about fifty yards from the house. The old man was sitting before its door industriously mending a hoe-handle. It was not often that Nan complained of Mitty, for she, too, well knew the effect of such a course. Upon this occasion, however, she felt that her future authority depended upon establishing present relations and that it would never do to let Mitty know she had worsted the eldest daughter of the house. "Unc' Landy, I wish you'd speak to Mitty," said Nan. "She wouldn't tell me what to give out for supper and mother gave me the keys to attend to it for her; she's busy sewing."
Unc' Landy seized the hoe-handle upon which he was at work, and made an energetic progress toward the kitchen, catching the unlucky Mitty as she was about to flee. Brandishing his hoe-handle, he threateningly cried: "Wha' yo' mannahs? I teach yuh show yo' sassy ways to one of de fambly!"
Up went Mitty's arm to defend herself from the impending blow while she whimpered forth: "I done say 'tain' no buttah; 'tain' no sugah; the's a little bit o' meal; an' Miss Nan ain' hyah me."
"Ef I bus' yo' haid open den mebbe she kin hyah yuh nex' time," said Unc' Landy catching the girl's shoulder and beginning to bang her head against the door.
But here Nan, feeling that Mitty was scared into good behavior interfered. "That will do, Unc' Landy. If she told me, it is all right."
"She gwine speak loudah an' quickah nex' time," said Unc' Landy, shaking his hoe-handle at Mitty. "Yuh tell Miss Nan what she ast yuh, er I'll fetch Mr. Hoe ober hyah agin an' try both ends, so yuh see which yuh lak bes'." And he went off muttering about "dese yer no 'count young niggahs what so busy tryin' to be sma't dey ain' no time to larn sense."
The thoroughly humbled Mitty meekly answeredall Nan's questions and Nan felt that she was fortified with authority for some time to come.
Nan was always shocked and repelled by Unc' Landy's methods, and only in extreme cases was she willing to appeal to him. Such appeals, sometimes bringing swifter and more extreme punishment, so affected Nan as to make her avoid Unc' Landy for days. He was always so very tender and courteous to every member of the "fambly" that it seemed almost incredible that he should be so merciless to one of his own flesh and blood, but such was a common attitude of the older negroes toward the younger ones, and his was not an unusual case. When Mrs. Corner was on hand she never permitted the old man to exercise his rights toward Mitty, but once or twice when the girl had overstepped bounds in his presence, he had meted out punishment to her later on, so she feared him while she respected him, praising him lavishly to her boon companions.
"Gran'daddy got a pow'ful long ahm," she would say, "an' man, I say he swif' an' strong, mos' lak angel Gabr'el wid he swo'd an' trumpet. I mos' as feared o' gran'daddy as I is o' angel Gabr'el. Ef gran'daddy call me an' angel Gabr'el blow he trumpet at de same time I don' know which Ibleedged to min'. I specs I run a bilin' to gran'daddy fust."
Having established her position in the kitchen, Nan returned to her mother. Every moment seemed precious now, and that night after Mary Lee was asleep, Nan crept softly from her bed and laid herself down by her mother whose arms clasped her close, but who did not allow her to remain. "It is not well for you to sleep with me, dear," she said. "It will be better for us both if you go back to your own room." Nan obeyed, but it was an anxious hour that she spent before sleep visited her. The night hours brought her many forebodings, and she felt that her young spirit was stretching beyond the limits of childhood toward that larger and less happy region of womanhood.