THE FAIRY GODMOTHER
As she entered the long living-room, Nan found it deserted except for
the presence of Lady Gray, who sleepily stretched out her paws on the
broad window-sill where she was taking a nap, and winked one eye at
Nan. "Nobody here, at least nobody who counts, if you will excuse the
remark, Lady Gray," said Nan, "so I can try my song."
She went to the corner where the melodeon stood. It was piled high with
a variety of things; her mother's work-basket, Aunt Sarah's knitting,
a scrap-book, and some sheets of paper from which Nan was taking
cuttings, the twins' dolls, and a pile of books which she herself had
taken from the shelves. All these had to be removed before the song
could be tried.
The warm summer sunshine sifted in through the vines that covered
the western windows and disclosed the dinginess of the room. An
old-fashioned paper, discolored by time, covered the walls; its green
and gold had been pleasant to look upon in days gone by, but now it
was patched and streaked. Upon the floor was a worn carpet; handsome
old mahogany furniture which had lost its polish gave a well-filled
appearance to the room, though the springs of the long sofa had been
greatly weakened by frequent jumpings upon them, so that the seat of
the sofa presented an uphill and down-dale surface, not rendered more
inviting by the neutral-toned, frayed upholstery.
A tall secretary with a beautifully leaded glass top had been chosen
by some yellow-jackets as a place for building purposes, and they were
droning about their mud-bedaubed residences along the edge of the
secretary's top.
A handsome centre-table with claw feet was littered with books and
magazines. A set of chairs in about the same condition as the sofa
evidenced that a constant use had been made of them. The shades at the
windows were in a more or less worn condition. Over the mantel hung a
portrait of a man in gray uniform, one hand on his sword. His eyes were
like Nan's.
Nan began industriously to pick out her tune by working the pedals
of the old melodeon vigorously, an operation which was followed by a
long-drawn wheezing complaint from somewhere in the interior of the
instrument. But Nan did not perceive any reason for amusement; she
carefully wrote down her notes one by one, saying aloud "_D_, _d_,
_f_, _a_,--I wish that note would sound. I think it must be _a--b_,
_a_,--I wonder if it is _a_; it comes so often, too, I ought to know.
Oh, dear, _e_ is out of order, too. Let me see, where was I? Oh, yes,
'blue his eyes,' it is eyes that ought to be _e_. I reckon I'll know
what it is anyhow, even if I don't get it exactly right. 'Blue his
eyes,'" she sang softly.
"Nannie," came a voice from the window, "do shut up that dreadful
wheezing thing; I want to take a nap."
Nan jumped up and closed the melodeon with a bang. Why was it that
Aunt Sarah always wanted to take a nap when she was "composing"? It
was always so. Aunt Sarah might go days and never think of napping in
the daytime, but let Nan but send forth one note and, if Aunt Sarah
were anywhere within hearing distance, there came the order to stop. "I
wish I could have it all to myself somewhere out of the way," she said.
"I'll ask mother if I may get Landy to take it over in one of the old
rooms, or up in the attic or somewhere so nobody will hear me."
Acting upon this idea she sought out her mother who was busy at her
sewing-machine. Mrs. Corner looked up brightly, though she did not
stop her work when Nan appeared. "Well, daughter?" she said.
"Oh, mother, mayn't I have the old melodeon all to myself somewhere;
over in the barn, or in one of the shut up rooms of the wing or in the
garret or somewhere so nobody can hear when I am playing?"
"Playing?" An amused pucker came around Mrs. Corner's eyes. "It is
truly playing that you do with it. I don't see how I can let you have
it, for it is so useful to pile things on in the living-room."
"But mother, a table would do just as well."
"If one had the table."
"I'm sure there must be one somewhere in the garret."
"None that is whole."
"There's one that is only a little rickety in the legs, and Landy could
mend that."
"Landy has no time for such things, at least, unless they are
absolutely necessary. He has all that he can do."
"Oh, but I do want it so very much. Aunt Sarah always wants to take a
nap the minute I begin to play and I always have to stop."
Mrs. Corner smiled again. "I'm not surprised. Don't be unreasonable,
Nan. You know it is trying to hear any one wheeze out impossible tunes
with one finger, or make distracting discords which are agony to a
sensitive ear. You are getting too big to want to drum."
A lump arose in Nan's throat. She was shy of divulging her ambitions.
Her mother did not understand that she did not want to drum, but that
this was a serious matter. She would not explain, however, but she
hurried away with a sense of being aggrieved. Mary Lee and Phil were at
that moment deeply interested in watching a family of tadpoles which
were about to lose their tails. The two children kept them in an old
half-cask and spent many moments in bending over it. Jack and Jean were
playing house with paper-dolls in the orchard. No one wanted Nan and
she did want her music. She made one more attempt, returning slowly to
her mother's door. "If you only just knew, mother, how awfully much I
want it, you'd let me have it."
Her mother stopped stitching. "Poor little girl," she spoke
sympathetically, "I wish you could have lessons, and that I could
give you a good piano to practice on, for I do appreciate your
love of music, but dear, I don't see that your efforts on that old
worn-out melodeon will bring you the slightest reward; in fact, I
have heard it said that it is not well to allow a child to practice
on a poor instrument. Now, be reasonable, darling, and don't want
impossibilities. You know mother would give you your every heart's
desire if she could."
"I know," said Nan weakly as she turned again from the room. A sudden
inspiration had seized her, and her heart beat very fast as she made
her way back to the retreat in the pines and from there to the hollow
and on to the very threshold of the house at Uplands, the old Corner
place. She tried the door but it did not yield to her efforts. From
window to window she went making an effort to open each. To the side
door, the back door and around to the porch on the north side. There
were side lights to the door here, and, shading her eyes, Nan tried to
peer through into the dimness.
Nan thought she heard sounds within and felt a little scared, then
all at once she saw a form in black garments flit across the hall,
and with a suppressed scream she turned and fled, crashing through
the weeds and underbrush, leaping across the brook and reaching her
retreat frightened and wondering. There could be no mistake; some one
was certainly there. Was it flesh and blood presence or some ghostly
visitor? Uplands had the reputation of being haunted and Nan really
believed she had seen the ghost of her great-great-grandmother.
She sat quaking and yet half trying to make up her mind to return for
further investigation when a shadow fell across the spot where she sat,
and, looking up, she saw a strange little lady standing before her,
looking down at her wistfully. The lady was all in black and though her
face was young, and her cheeks showed softly pink, her hair was very
white. Nan had not seen her approach, and it appeared almost as if she
had dropped from the skies. "Who are you?" inquired the little lady.
"One of the four Corners," returned Nan with a sudden smile.
"Which one?"
"Nan."
"I was sure of it. And why were you trying to get into that house?" The
little lady nodded toward Uplands.
"Because it is my grandmother's and--and----" She glanced up shyly at
the stranger.
"Go on, please," said the lady, taking a seat on an end of Nan's
pretended piano. "Did you want anything in particular?"
There was something compelling in the lady's manner, and Nan replied,
"Yes, I did. I know I really ought not to have gone, for mother doesn't
like us even to cross the brook. She never actually forbids it, but
she looks distressed if she finds out that any of us have been over,
but I wanted awfully to see if I could get in and try to open the
piano. It seems so perfectly dreadful for it to stand there month after
month and year after year, no good to anybody, when I'd give my right
hand to have it."
"If you gave your right hand for it," said the lady, suddenly dimpling,
"you could only play bass, you know, and I don't believe you would care
for that."
Nan laughed. "No, I wouldn't. I like the fine high notes, though
sometimes I think the growling bass of the organ at church is
beautiful. It makes me think of what it says in the Psalter: 'The noise
of the seas, the noise of the waves, and the tumult of the people.'"
The lady nodded understandingly and was silently thoughtful for some
moments, then she said, "This is a nice little spot." She put her hand
upon Nan's improvised music-rack. "What is this for?" she asked.
Nan blushed. "It's just to hold up the music, you know. That's my piano
where you are sitting."
"Goodness!" cried the lady, jumping up. "How undignified of me to sit
on a piano. Please pardon me; I didn't know."
"Of course not." Nan's eyes grew starlike. It was not only very
delightful but very exciting to meet one who so perfectly understood.
"You see," she went on, "all I have at home is a dreadful old melodeon
that skips notes and wheezes like our old Pete; he has the heaves, you
know."
"Poor old Pete," said the lady, with a tender retrospective look in her
eyes. "You have the melodeon, yes, and then?"
"Aunt Sarah always wants to take a nap the minute I begin to play, and
to-day," her voice dropped and she went nearer to her visitor, "I had
made a new tune and I did so want to write it down. I came out here
first and tried it; it sounded very well, I thought, but I had written
only a little of it when I had to shut the melodeon. Aunt Sarah always
does have such inconvenient times for taking naps," she sighed.
"Won't you let me hear your song, or your tune?" said the lady,
politely seating herself with an expectant air upon a stump further off.
Nan's cheeks grew redder. She did not like to seem ungracious to this
stranger who showed such an unusual interest in her performances
and yet her only audience heretofore had been the creatures of the
field and the air. "No one has ever heard it but the crows," she said
hesitatingly, then impulsively: "You won't laugh?"
"Indeed no, of course not," returned the lady with some real
indignation at such a suspicion.
Nan sat still long enough to screw up her courage to the active point,
and then drawing from her blouse a bit of paper, she seated herself
before her log-piano and began her song. The lady, with cheek in hand,
leaned forward and listened intently. Once there was a slight flicker
of amusement in her eyes, but for the most part her face was tenderly
serious. At the close of the song she said gently: "Thank you, dear. I
think that is a very sweet little air for one so young as you to think
of. May I see?" She extended her hand for Nan's half-written song. "How
will you finish it?" she asked.
"I don't know. I'll have to wait till Aunt Sarah goes out or goes away.
I hope I shall not forget it before then. I'll sing it over every day
and then maybe I won't forget."
The lady looked at her thoughtfully for a minute. "Can you keep a
secret?" she asked suddenly.
"Oh, yes. Why, nobody, not even Mary Lee, has an idea about this." She
waved her hand to include her music-room retreat.
"Then promise not to tell a soul."
"I promise." Nan's eyes grew eager.
[Illustration: SHE SEATED HERSELF BEFORE HER LOG PIANO AND BEGAN HER
SONG]
"I am your fairy godmother, and if you will meet me under the sunset
tree to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, I will conduct you to a place
where you can finish your song undisturbed, for I guarantee Aunt Sarah
will not be caught napping within hearing of you and the melodeon."
"Oh, how perfectly delicious," cried Nan, her imagination all afire.
"I'd love that. Where is the sunset tree? It is such a lovely name for
it."
The lady pointed to a huge oak just across the brook. "It is called
that because one can see the sunset so finely from there. Have you
never been up to look at the sun go down behind the hills? There is one
little notch between the mountains over there and at a certain season
of the year the sun drops right down into it."
"I have never seen it," said Nan, regretfully. "I wonder why no one
ever told me about it. I think sunset tree is such a lovely name and it
is just the spot for a trysting place. It would be a lovely secret, but
I never had a real important one from mother before. I shall have to
tell her about going up there; not right away, but some day. It always
comes out sooner or later and I would rather tell just mother, if you
don't mind."
"So you may. I'm glad you feel that way about it. Little girls should
never have secrets they cannot tell their mothers. In three days you
may tell her, if you think it would be right to keep silence that long."
"Oh, that will not be very long. I could keep the secret longer if you
said so."
"That will be long enough. Now, shut your eyes while you count one
hundred slowly or the queen of the fairies will not let me appear
again. The spell will be broken if you so much as peep, or if you do
not count aloud."
Nan closed her eyes very tight and began to count. She gave a little
interrupting gasp as she felt a light kiss on her cheek, but she kept
steadily on till she had reached the desired number. Then she opened
her eyes and looked around. There was no one in sight. The afternoon
sun was sinking behind the trees, and the cows were returning home
along the county road. With the weight of such a secret as she had
never before carried, Nan ran home in a happy tumult of excited
expectation. At the back of the house she came upon Mary Lee and Phil
still absorbed in their polywogs.
"Come see," cried Mary Lee, "they are too funny for anything, Nan. They
are the interestingest things I ever saw."
Nan went up to look. "What is so wonderful about polywogs?" she asked.
"You'd think yourself wonderful," said Phil indignantly, "if you could
change yourself from a swimming beast into a hopping one and be as
awfully amphibious as they are."
Nan laughed and drew her finger slowly through the water in the cask.
"They aren't half so wonderful as fairies," she said. "They can change
themselves into all sorts of things."
"Oh, pshaw! Everybody knows that there are no real fairies. These can
really change before your very eyes; we've watched them from day to
day, haven't we, Mary Lee?"
"Yes, we have," was the answer. "Nan always likes foolish make-believe
things, but we like the real ones."
"Fairy godmothers are real," Nan answered back over her shoulder as
she left the pair discussing the proper treatment of their present
pets. They paid no attention to her speech and she laughed to herself,
exulting in her secret. Before she reached the house she heard a wail
from the direction of the orchard, and perceived Jean sitting on the
ground under a tree. As Nan approached, she whimpered softly.
"What's the matter, kitten?" asked Nan.
"Jack was pretending I was a calf," said Jean, mournfully, "and she
hobbled me to the tree so I couldn't get to my mother, and now she's
gone off and I can't get the rope untied."
"Poor little calf, and the cows all coming home, too. Never mind, I'll
untie you. Where is Jack?"
"She was going for her cows, but I reckon she's done forgot it."
"Don't say done forgot; that sounds like Mitty and Unc' Landy."
Jean hung her head. She was used to these chidings from her eldest
sister. She had a curious babyish way of speaking, not being easily
able to make the sounds of _th_ or _qu_. "I know it isn't crite right,"
she said, "but I forget sometimes."
Nan put her arms around her. "Of course you do. We all forget some
things sometimes. Come with me and let us hunt up Jack. I'll venture to
say she's in some mischief."
She was not far wrong in her conjectures, for after a half hour's
diligent searching, Jack was found. She had discovered a can of white
paint, supplied by Aunt Sarah for the betterment of the front fence
which Landy had proudly commenced to adorn with a shining coat of
whiteness. He had been called away when he had made but little progress
and Jack had taken up the job with great glee. She was in the height of
her enjoyment, daubing on great masses of white which dribbled down
the palings wastefully. The child herself was smeared from hair ribbon
to shoe-strings and was a sight to behold.
"Jack Corner!" exclaimed Nan. "You dreadful child! Just look at you,
and, oh, dear, how you are wasting paint. It won't begin to be enough
to finish the fence the way you have been using it. Unc' Landy will
give you Jesse."
"Some one's always giving me Jesse," complained Jack. "You all keep
saying Unc' Landy has so much to do and I am only helping him."
"Pretty help, using up the paint and ruining your clothes. March
yourself straight into the house, miss." Nan took hold of Jack's
shoulder which was twitched away, and with a vicious fling of the
dripping brush directly at Nan, Jack turned and fled.
"She is the most trying child," said Nan, deftly dodging the brush,
though not without receiving some drops upon her frock. "I declare,
there isn't a day when she doesn't do something dreadful."
"She just fought she was helping," put in Jean, always ready to defend
her twin by imputing worthy motives to her performances.
"Maybe she did, but it's pretty poor help," said Nan, stooping to pick
a plantain leaf with which to wipe off the worst spots from her skirt.
"Aunt Sarah was so good as to buy the paint. I know she went without
something to do it, and now for Jack to do her so mean as to play this
scurvy trick is too bad. I'm all done out with Jack. It's lucky we
found her when we did or there wouldn't have been even as much paint as
there is. I must go tell Unc' Landy at once. Maybe he can scrape off
some of this before it dries. Help indeed! It gives him double work."
Her last words were spoken to thin air, for Jean had hurried off to
comfort Jack and Nan was left to break the news to Unc' Landy.
[Illustration: CHAPTER III
NAN'S SECRET]