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THE FOUR CORNERS
[Illustration: IT WAS A MOST DELECTABLE PIECE OF COOKERY WHEN IT WAS DONE]
The Corner Series
[Illustration]
THE FOUR CORNERS
by
AMY E. BLANCHARD
Philadelphia & London
George W. Jacobs & Company
[Illustration]
Copyright, 1906,
By George W. Jacobs & Company
Published August, 1906
All rights reserved
CONTENTS
I. A NEW SONG 9
II. THE FAIRY GODMOTHER 27
III. NAN'S SECRET 45
IV. A MOTHER'S SECRET 65
V. HOUSEWIFELY CARES 85
VI. CONCERNING JACK 105
VII. A TOURNAMENT WITH PETE 129
VIII. THE SUNSET-TREE 147
IX. IMPRISONMENT 165
X. THE RED CLOTH 183
XI. GRANDMOTHER 199
XII. NUTS 217
XIII. TROUBLE FINDS THEM 235
XIV. DANIELLA 253
XV. SACRIFICES 271
XVI. PARTY FROCKS 291
XVII. CHRISTMAS GIFTS 311
XVIII. AN EVENING OF MUSIC 333
XIX. FIRE! 353
XX. LOOKING AHEAD 371
ILLUSTRATIONS
It was a most delectable piece of cookery
when it was done _Frontispiece_
She seated herself before her log-piano
and began her song _Facing page_ 38
The Tournament " " 140
She gave a bound from Nan's arms " " 180
Such an oh-ing and ah-ing as came
from the four delighted girls " " 304
[Illustration: CHAPTER I
A NEW SONG]
CHAPTER I
A NEW SONG
The town itself was one that stood at the foot of Virginia's blue
mountains. The house where the Corners lived was on the edge of the
town, facing a street which ended at the front gate. At the side of
the garden another long street wound its way uphill and was called
the old County Road when it began to go down grade. The house was a
rambling old affair which had not been painted for some years and
was, therefore, of an indescribable hue. One wing was shut up, but
the remainder was made excellent use of by four lively girls, of whom
the eldest was Nancy Weston. She was variously known as Nan, Nance or
Nannie, though she greatly preferred Nannette and sometimes stealthily
signed herself so. When she was, as her Cousin Phil expressed it, "on
the bias," he often delighted to tease her by calling her Sharp Corner,
but her Aunt Sarah often declared that West Corner suited her perfectly
since from that quarter sprang up the briskest, as well as the most
agreeable, of breezes.
Next to Nan came Mary Lee. She was always called by both names as is a
Virginia custom. After Mary Lee came Jacqueline, or Jack as she was
called, and her twin sister, Jean. Mary Lee was very unlike Nan, and
though there was less than two years difference in their ages, she
seemed the older of the two. She was less impetuous, more quiet and
reserved, though more self-absorbed and less thoughtful for others.
Neither was she so original as Nan and generally followed some one's
lead, most frequently that of her Cousin Phil Lewis who was her special
comrade, for Mary Lee adored open-air sports, especially boyish ones.
Nan liked these intermittently, though when she did enter into them she
was liable to be more daring and impetuous than her sister.
Phil lived scarce a block away and, since the confines of his own
dooryard were limited, he preferred to spend much of his time within
the larger range of his cousins' three acres. He and Mary Lee were
about the same age and had many tastes in common; both were devoted
to animals, and had a tendency to fads over which they became very
enthusiastic for the time being. Phil was a wiry, dark, little fellow
quite Mary Lee's opposite, she being fair-haired and blue-eyed with a
slow drawl in speaking. Nan spoke more nervously when she was excited,
though she, too, spoke with a lingering accent upon certain words.
Nan's eyes were sometimes a grayish blue, sometimes almost a hazel,
and at times showed the color of deep and tranquil pools of water, an
indescribable hue. Their expression changed as did their color and
when languidly drooped under their long dark lashes, seemed those of
a sentimental romantic maid, but, when in moments of excitement, Nan
opened them wide, they glowed like two stars. Her eyes were Nan's best
feature. She did not possess a straight nose like Mary Lee's nor such
a rosebud of a mouth, but her flashing smile showed even, white little
teeth, and the oval of her face was perfect.
The twins were much alike in coloring and feature, but in expression
were so different that even the most casual observer could not fail
to distinguish Jack from Jean. They had blue eyes like Mary Lee but
were dark-haired like Nan. Jack was, as Aunt Sarah Dent expressed it,
"a pickle." She had a dreamy pathetic countenance and wore a saintly
expression when she was plotting her worst mischief. At her best she
was angelic; at her worst she was impish, and just how she would
eventually turn out no one could foretell.
Jean was a sweet-tempered, affectionate child, gentle and obedient.
Once in a while it seemed as if she felt it a duty to be naughty, but
the naughtiness was always as if it were a pretense, and was more of a
bluster than an exhibition of actual original sin. "There is no mistake
that Jack is full of the old Adam," Aunt Sarah was wont to declare,
"but Jean always acts to me as if she wasn't quite sure that she ought
to be human."
Nan was overflowing with sentiment, a lover of music, books, and
pictures, yet liking nothing better than to whirl in and help in
domestic emergencies. She had much inventive and mechanical talent
which most of the others lacked. She was usually the sunniest and most
sweet-tempered of persons, but had her moody days when she "flocked by
herself," and liked to brood upon sombre subjects or weave lugubrious
ballads which she set to melancholy tunes. These moody moments occurred
but seldom and were generally the outcome of hurt feelings after
some teasing bout with one of her sisters or some contrite condition
following a deserved lecture from her mother or her Aunt Sarah.
Aunt Sarah Dent often came to make long stays with the family after the
death of the children's father. A small life insurance and the little
place at the end of the street was about all that was left to their
mother. Aunt Sarah had a modest income of her own which she cheerfully
added to the family exchequer and, therefore, her coming usually meant
some added comforts, so they managed fairly well. A woman came in to
wash and clean, but the rest of the work was done by the family with
the assistance of a half-grown colored girl, and an old negro man,
Landy by name. It was supposed that his name in its beginning had been
Philander, but he had forgotten and no one else knew. He was a little
bent, dried-up old darky, but was tough and wiry and could accomplish
more than many younger ones of his color, whom he scorned openly.
Add to the family an old mule named Pete, a handsome Angora cat called
Lady Gray, and a mongrel dog whose name was Trouble, and you have its
membership.
It was one afternoon in late summer that Nan, having been called Sharp
Corner more times than her temper would amiably permit, had gone to
a haunt much favored by herself. This was at the extreme edge of the
place, a little nook where the orchard ended and a few stunted pines
lapped over into the next field. The field had not been cultivated for
some time and was overgrown with weeds and a young growth of pine and
fir trees. It was rather a desolate spot, for the nearest house was
hidden in summer by a thick grove, and the slope of the hill prevented
the road from being seen from this point.
Creeping through the rail fence Nan felt that she had placed herself
outside trammeling conditions and made her way to where a fallen log,
covered with moss, invited her. This was Nan's piano. She seated
herself upon a pile of sticks and stones which she had heaped up before
the log. In front of her she had constructed a sort of rack, using
a bit of wood which she had nailed to the log. Against the rack she
placed a newspaper clipping which she secured from blowing away by
means of a pin. After a few graceful sweeps of her hands up and down
the pretended key-board, she wailed forth to a silent accompaniment:
[Music:
A lone-ly child goes wand'ring by,
Blue his eyes as sum-mer's sky,
On his lash-es tear-drops lie,
For his feet tread the dust-y av-e-nue,
Wea-ri-ly the whole day through
Home-less he and or-phaned too
Lit-tle Ja-mie.]
There was more of the song but Nan sang the first stanza over and over
again. At the close of the performance her eyes were full of tears and
her voice vibrated with emotion as she quavered forth: "Little Jamie."
A flock of crows in the field beyond rose from the stubbly undergrowth
with solemn caws and sailed off to the grove beyond. The birds of
ill-omen exactly suited Nan's mood. She took an ├Žsthetic delight in
their presence. They seemed to be applauding her. She went to the
other side of the log and lay down upon the dry pine needles, her head
against the log and her eyes fixed upon the blue sky. Her thoughts
were with the verses she had cut from a country newspaper. She thought
they were delightful, and her fancy brought before her an orphan boy
tattered and torn but beautiful as a dream. She felt all the enthusiasm
of a true composer as she hummed over the tune she had made.
"I will publish it some day," she said. "The next time everybody is
busy and out of the sitting-room, I will try to write it so I will not
forget it. I think, myself, that it is lovely and I ought to get a
great deal of money for it, enough to buy a piano."
The possession of a piano was Nan's dearest wish. The only musical
instrument of which the family could boast was an old wheezy melodeon
which stood in the sitting-room. It skipped notes once in a while,
especially in its middle range, and was at once a source of pleasure
and disappointment to Nan. Her Aunt Sarah declared that it drove her
wild to hear Nan try to pick out tunes on it, so the girl usually had
to be sure of having the place to herself before she dared to make
attempts at music. Feeble little attempts these were, for she knew
scarce anything beyond the mere rudiments. But to a great love of
music she added a true ear, a good memory, and boundless ambition and
perseverance.
"It will be autumn soon," Nan went on to herself, her thoughts still
wandering in a vague dream. "I think I like autumn best of all seasons.
I'd like to write poetry about it. When I am a great musician, I will
write a piece of music and call it 'Autumn Whispers,' and it will sound
like the wind in the trees and the corn shocks. Then I will write
another and that will be called 'Autumn Secrets.' It will be about
golden sunshine and shining red leaves and little pools of water in the
hollows that look as if a piece of blue sky had dropped in them. I wish
I could write music that would be a picture and a poem, too; it would
be nice to have them all together. Trouble, where did you come from?
I know Phil is around somewhere," she exclaimed, suddenly, sitting
up very straight. "I don't want him to find me here. He has called me
'Sharp Corner' once too often to-day."
She jumped up and bending low, ran along the line of fence toward the
hollow which intervened between this and the next rise of ground.
Trouble stood still for a moment, uncertainly looking after her, then
he trotted off in an opposite direction.
Pursuing her way, Nan reached the small stream which ran through the
hollow. Ferns and mosses were here in abundance. Here and there a
cardinal flower flaunted its red banner. Low aground trailed the hedge
bindweed, and in the field beyond a slim spire of goldenrod showed
itself. This attracted Nan's notice. "I said it would be autumn soon,"
she said, "for there is the first goldenrod of the season. I must get
that piece for Aunt Sarah, though if she has an idea of where it came
from, she won't have it." She gave a hasty glance in the direction of
the house beyond sheltering trees as she gained the other side of the
brook to gather her ambitious spray of goldenrod, for that house set in
the grove of oaks belonged to Grandmother Corner, whose grandchildren
were strangers to her. The running brook was the barrier which they
seldom crossed and, when they did, it was secretly. The big buff house
was closed, the green shutters tightly fastened, the door boarded up
and the gate locked, for its owner was abroad. With her daughter Helen,
she had been in Europe ever since Nan could remember.
Sometimes Nan would push her way through the hedge which surrounded
the lawn, plunge through the long grass and stand staring up at the
silent house where her father had been born. Certain accounts given by
old Landy made her believe that it was of palatial magnificence and
she longed to see its interior. Once when the care-taker had made one
of his infrequent visits, one of the lower windows was opened, and Nan
who had long watched and waited for such an opportunity, tiptoed up to
peep in. At first she saw nothing but ghostly sheeted furniture and
pictures shrouded in muslin cases, bare floors and uncurtained windows.
She was about to creep away disappointed when she saw the man upon a
ladder uncovering a picture. It was of a stately lady in a velvet gown,
the slender fingers half hidden by costly lace, and Nan gazed with all
her eyes at the haughty face. Was it her grandmother's portrait, she
wondered. She watched till the man readjusted the covering and then she
crept away dreaming of a day when she might see the original of the
portrait and when she might be allowed to walk through those silent
rooms again restored to their former splendor.
On this afternoon, however, she did not go near the house, but followed
the stream for a short distance, crossed back again and came around the
other side of her own home garden where old Landy was at work, talking
to himself as was his wont.
"Reckon dese yer vines is done fo'. Clar 'em erway. No mo' beans on
'em. How co'n comin' on? Get a mess offen dis row by Sunday. Tomats
plenty. Melons gittin' good an' ripe." He stooped down to tap a large
melon with his bony knuckles. "She jest a bus'in' wid sweetness by
'nother week. Um, um, she fa'r make me dribble at de mouf to look at
huh."
"Who-o-o!" came a long-drawn owlish cry from behind him.
"Who dat?" cried Landy, pulling himself erect from his contemplation of
the melon. "Whicher one o' yuh chilluns is it? Hyar, yuh, Jack er Phil
er whomsoever yuh is, git outen fum behin' dat co'n brake. I sees yuh."
A suppressed giggle from Nan made known her whereabouts, and she arose
up from behind the tall tasseled corn. "You didn't see me or you
wouldn't have called me Phil or Jack, but you heard me, didn't you? Did
you think I was a real sure enough owl, Unc' Landy?"
"Humph! I knows ole hooty-owl better'n dat. I knows yuh is a huming
varmint."
"Oh, Unc' Landy! the idea of calling me a varmint. I am not one at all."
"Den wha' fo' yuh grubbin' roun' in de gyardin' stuff lak ole mole?" he
asked chuckling.
"Same reason you do; to see how it is getting on. When will the
watermelons be ready to eat? It seems to me they are very late this
year."
"Dey is late. I say dey is, but nex' week, ef de Lord sees fittin', we
bus' open dis one. She de fust to be pick. I layin' out to lif huh fum
huh sandy baid nex' Tuesday."
"And we'll have it for dinner. Oh, my! I wish it were ready now. Did
they used to have a watermelon patch over at Grandmother Corner's?
There isn't any now."
"How yuh so wise?"
"Oh, I've been all around the place. I know just where the garden used
to be."
"Yo' ma say yuh chilluns ain't to ha'nt de ole place."
"I know and I don't haunt it; I just go there once in a while. I
haven't been for a long, long time. I don't see, anyhow, why we can't
go when it was father's home."
"Yuh nuvver sees yo' ma er yo' auntie cross de brook."
"No, but then----"
"Den wha' fo' yuh do what dey don' do?"
"I do lots of things which they don't do and they do lots of things I
don't do; that's no reason. When do you reckon my Grandmother Corner
will come back?"
"Das mo'n any huming know, I tell yuh, honey. She done taken huh
disagreeables an' huh hity-tyties long wid huh. Das all I kyar to know.
She want de yarth an' all dat derein is, das what she want; mebbe she
fin' it off yandah in dem quare countries, but she don't git back dem
ha'sh words she speak to yo' pa on his las' day. Dey a-follerin' huh
an' a gnawin' an' a clawin' at huh heart. She cyarnt git rid o' dem
wha'soevah she go, though she try to flee fum 'em."
The picture of her grandmother's fleeing from place to place pursued by
bitter words in the form of skeleton-like creatures who gnashed their
teeth and clawed with bony fingers took hold of Nan's imagination. Her
mother never mentioned Grandmother Corner's name, and from old Landy
Nan gleaned all that she knew of her. Heretofore, what had been told
her did not cause her to give much love to this unknown grandmother,
but now she began to feel rather sorry for her. "I wish you took care
of the big house," she said, "for then you could let me go in there to
see the pictures and beautiful things, and I could play on the piano."
"Humph! I say let you in. Ef it depen' upon ole Landy yuh ain' nuvver
go inside de do'. Nobody tell me go but onct. I ain't nuvver pass my
foot ovah de do'-sill agin whilst I lives on dis yarth."
While he talked Landy slashed away at the dead vines vindictively. As
he clawed at them with his lean black fingers he made Nan think of the
bitter words which pursued her grandmother. They must appear something
like Landy, only more bony and wicked-looking. Nan laughed at the
conceit.
"'Tain't nothin' to larf at," grumbled Landy. "Dese yer fambly q'urrels
is turrble things. Yo' pa know yo' gran'ma don't like be crossed 'bout
de proputty, but he feel lak he bleedged to say what he think, an' she
tu'n on him an' de las' word she uvver give mek him have de heart-ache.
Yo' ma ain' fergit dat, an' das fo' why she don' lak you chilluns to
go trespassin' on de ole place. Hit yo' gran'ma's an' she got full
an' plenty whilst yo' pa what oughter had his share done got nothin'
ter leave yuh-alls but dis little ole place. Das why I laks ter mek
hit smile an' see de melons grow plum big an' de co'n-fiel' lookin'
prosp'ous. Yo' gran'pa mean yo' pa to hev his shar' but de ole lady
hol' on to uvvry thing whilst she 'bove groun'. Nemmin', yuh-alls has
full an' plenty to eat. Ain' de tomats jest a-humpin' deyse'fs? Yo' ma
has pickles an' cans o' 'em fo' de whole wintah, dey so many."
"I like the little yellow ones best," remarked Nan, who was tired of
the old man's long monologue. He was given to reciting these bits
of family history to her though to no one outside the family itself
would he have breathed a word. "I think these make the very nicest
preserves," continued Nan, "and I like them raw, too. I always feel
as if I were eating golden fairy fruit only they aren't sweet like I
imagine fairy fruit would be." She stooped to gather a tiny red tomato
from the vines at her feet. They used to call these love-apples, Aunt
Sarah says, and they thought they were poisonous. "I am glad they found
out it wasn't so," she said, popping the red morsel into her mouth.
"What are you going to do now, Landy?"
"Gwine tek a tu'n at de fence." When Landy's other occupations did
not demand attention there was always the fence to turn to; something
upon which to exhaust his energies. It was patched and mended beyond
hope now, Mrs. Corner thought, and the repairs were creeping from the
side to the front, for Landy had frequently "borrowed from Peter to
pay Paul," and when a paling was missing from the front he had always
promptly supplied it from the sides, replacing it by a board, a post,
or whatever came handy, so that the two side fences presented a curious
style of building. White, green or gray boards took their place as
occasion required. Tops from empty boxes set forth some address in
staring black letters, a bit of wire fence was hitched to a cedar post
on one side and an old bed-slat on the other; but the fence served its
purpose to keep out wandering cattle from the garden which was Landy's
pride. And though Mrs. Corner sighed when she went that way, there was
no money to be spared for new fences so the old one was eked out from
year to year.
Leaving Landy to work upon the fence, Nan supplied herself with more
small tomatoes and went up to the house thinking of the grandmother
across seas and determining to curb her own tongue lest it lead her
into such trying ordeals as the being haunted by bitter words.
[Illustration: CHAPTER II
THE FAIRY GODMOTHER]