THE SUNSET-TREE
Although the girls had plenty of time for play, Aunt Sarah saw to it
that they had no really idle moments. She was the most industrious of
persons herself and accomplished wonders which she explained by saying
her daily nap of half an hour so fortified her that she could do two
days' work in one by taking two rests in the twenty-four hours. She
was quick to perceive defects in young people and in a half sarcastic,
half humorous way, commented upon them. Upon Jean, such remarks had
little effect; they angered Jack, slightly annoyed Mary Lee, but they
hurt Nan to the quick, she being the most sensitive of them all. Proud
and romantic, high-spirited and impatient, she was often thrown from a
pinnacle of eager expectation into the depths of a present discomfort.
It was on such occasions that she fled to her nook in the pines which
she had finally named "Place o' Pines." Here she would often solace
herself by writing to her mother whom she missed, perhaps, more than
any of the others did. Reports coming from Mrs. Corner were on the
whole favorable. "If I can stay long enough," she wrote, "the doctors
give me every hope of entire recovery."
It was one afternoon when Aunt Sarah had been particularly exacting
that Nan fled to Place o' Pines. She had not been there for some
time, having been occupied in too many ways to have many moods. This,
however, had been a particularly horrid day. In the first place she had
come down late to breakfast and Aunt Sarah had said: "Good-afternoon,"
when she entered the dining-room. That made all the others giggle and
she felt so small. She needn't have been late, of course, but while she
was putting on her shoes and stockings she thought of a new tune and
had been humming it over so as not to lose the air, and, as she sat
there dreaming, the time slipped away.
Then of course, Mary Lee might have seen that she was in a bad humor
and should not have teased her about dawdling, making her answer
sharply.
"You old sharp corner," Mary Lee then had said.
"You're a Corner yourself as much as I am," Nan had retorted. "You're
an angle; you're an angle worm," was Mary Lee's triumphant reply. And
then Randolph had shouted with laughter. Nan's cheeks reddened as she
remembered his mirth. She hated to be laughed at, especially by boys,
and by older boys worst of all. She didn't mind Ashby and Phil so much,
for they were younger, but she did very much mind Randolph's laughter,
so she had taken to her heels and had not spoken to any of them since.
She hoped they would let her alone and that she would be safe in her
hiding-place till supper-time.
It was two months since her mother had left home and longer since she
had parted from her Aunt Helen. As she came through the orchard to
where the pines stood sombrely green, she saw a charred space just
outside her tiny grove. The boys had evidently been there roasting
potatoes, for there were skins and corn-husks scattered about.
"Oh, dear," sighed Nan, "if they have found out my darling grove, I
shall never have any more peace." But, apparently, the boys had not
entered the charmed castle, for as Nan crept through the underbrush
she saw that all was as she had left it, only a bit of white paper
fluttered from the music rack to which it was fastened by a pin.
"They have been here after all," she exclaimed, "and have found me out.
I suppose that is some foolish note they have left." She took the paper
to the edge of the grove where it was lighter and read:
"Come, come, come,
Come to the sunset-tree.
The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.
"Come at ten o'clock to-morrow by command of your
"FAIRY GODMOTHER.
"_October 14._"
Surprised and pleased, Nan's first thought was "I must go tell mother."
Then with a rush came the recollection of her mother's absence. She was
the only one who knew the secret. Her Aunt Helen had returned. Had she
come alone?
Nan looked across the little brook toward Uplands. The house seemed as
silent and deserted as in the weeks and months past. Slipping the paper
into her blouse, she determined to go and reconnoitre.
The house looked grim and uninviting. Nan wondered if ever it had
seemed otherwise, if ever the doors had been thrown open and from the
windows had looked smiling faces, her Aunt Nancy's, her Aunt Helen's,
her father's. The stick-tights and jimson weed held her with detaining
hands as she ran back through the unmown lawn. They seemed like unseen
fingers from fairies under a spell. Nan wondered at what mystic word
the doors of this haunted dwelling would fly open to her.
"Suppose," Nan said to herself, "an ogre lived in that dark woods and
I was in his power." She gave a little self-reproachful sigh as she
reached the sunset-tree. "Mother would tell me that I was in the power
of an ogre, I suppose," she continued, sitting down on the gnarled
roots which stretched far along above soil. "Mother would say old ogre
Impatience and the bad fairy that makes me get to dreaming, had me in
their clutches. Maybe they have. I wish I could tell my fairy godmother
about it, and that she could give me a phial of precious liquid to
squeeze on the ogre's eyelids so he would go to sleep and never wake
up; and I wish she would give me a charm to change the fairy that makes
me dream into one that would make me jump right up and get dressed in
a jiffy. I wonder why it is I always love so to moon over my shoes and
stockings. All sorts of ideas come to me then. Perhaps if I did nothing
but put on shoes and stockings I'd some day have an idea come to me
that would be worth while." The whimsy of spending the rest of her
life in putting on shoes and stockings made her laugh.
The sunset was gorgeous gold and red over the top of the hill. Lakes
and mountains and turreted cities appeared in the sky. "The holy
city," said Nan, becoming grave. "That is where papa is. Now up go the
roses," she went on as pink clouds detached themselves and drifted
off overhead. "I'm sending you those roses, papa," she said. "Please
take them into heaven with you and I'll try to get rid of the ogre
Impatience and the Poppy fairy. Poppies put you to sleep they say,
so I'll call her that. To-morrow I'll stand on one foot to put on my
shoes and stockings, for if I sit down I am lost. I wish I knew, papa
darling, if you could look through those bright golden cracks in the
sky and could see me standing here under the sunset-tree."
She returned soberly home and deliberately sought out Mary Lee and the
boys whom she found practicing the double shuffle on the back porch.
"Where have you been?" asked Ran, pleasantly.
"In the enchanted woods," returned Nan, "but it was getting gruesome
there so I came away."
Ran laughed. He was getting used to these speeches from Nan, and rather
liked them.
"I can do it now," said Mary Lee eagerly. "I got Mitty to show me. See,
Nan." And she executed the step easily.
"I don't know that step, but I know another one," said Nan, glad to
perceive that her ill temper of the morning was forgotten, and being a
little ashamed of supposing that they would miss her much when she went
off alone.
The noise of their break-downs brought Aunt Sarah to the door. "What in
the world are you all doing?" she asked.
"Just doing some steps," replied Mary Lee, expertly executing her
double shuffle.
"You might have been better employed," returned Aunt Sarah. "It would
have been just as well, Mary Lee, if you had been giving some attention
to darning your stockings. There is a fine large hole in the knee of
one where you scraped it against a tree you were climbing, I suppose.
And, Nan, it wouldn't do any harm if you were to see where you left the
shirt-waist you took off this morning. We are not Japanese to hang up
things on the floor."
"I wish we were," answered Nan. "I'd like to wear kimonos and shoes
that slip up and down at the heel, and I'd not mind living in a house
made of paper screens."
"Poor protection they'd be to you," replied Aunt Sarah, "for you would
punch a hole in every one before a day was over."
Nan was not destructive and considered this an unjust imputation, so
she stalked off with her head in the air. She didn't believe but that
she had hung up the shirt-waist and that it had slipped down. Aunt
Sarah was so particular and was always dinging at her about leaving
bureau drawers and closet doors unclosed. When one is in a hurry, how
is it possible always to see that everything is just so?
She found the waist not on the floor of the closet, but by the chair
where she had laid her clothes the night before. There were some of
Jack's belongings, too, strewed around the room, but Mary Lee's and
Jean's were carefully put away. Nan hung up the waist and then sat down
by the window. Suppose the things in the big house at Uplands had been
allowed to lie around helter-skelter, she didn't believe it would look
so attractive as she imagined. This brought a new train of thought
which she carried out, leaning her arms on the sill, her chin resting
upon them till Aunt Sarah's entrance aroused her from her reverie.
"Up in the clouds, I suppose," she exclaimed. "You ought to live in
a balloon or a sky-scraper, Nan, you so seldom want to come down to
earth. I want you to find Jack and Jean and tell them to come in and
get ready for supper."
Nan departed on her errand, smiling to herself in the thought that she
had a secret from them all. She was out of sorts with everybody in the
house, but to-morrow would be the sunset-tree and Aunt Helen.
She was promptly on hand at the trysting-place the next morning, though
finding some difficulty in getting there in time as it seemed that Aunt
Sarah had a hundred things for her to do. That she did not dream over
them goes without the saying, and Aunt Sarah congratulated herself upon
the seeming improvement under her reproofs. Promptly, as Nan appeared,
the little figure of her Aunt Helen was seen approaching her. She did
not wait for Nan to come up but ran toward her and clasped her in her
arms, and Nan gave her as close a hug. Her imagination was strongly
appealed to by this relative, so little known and who had chosen such
fascinating methods of becoming acquainted.
"You dear Aunt Helen," cried Nan, "where did you come from?"
"You know me then," said her aunt.
"Oh, yes. When I told mother, she guessed who you were."
"And she let you come to meet me to-day?" said Miss Helen, with a
strain of eagerness in her voice.
"She didn't know. She wasn't here to ask. She's gone away, you know."
"I didn't know. Tell me about it, please."
Nan poured forth her woes and fears concerning her mother.
"Oh, dear, oh, dear," sighed Miss Helen. "We didn't know. Oh, my dear."
"Do you think she may be very ill?" asked Nan her eyes wide with alarm.
"I hope not. I hope not." Her aunt spoke more cheerfully. "No doubt
she will get quite well where she is."
"She says she will if she can stay long enough."
"She must stay." Miss Helen spoke with decision. "Did she mind very
much, Nancy, that you met me?"
"Oh, no; she was glad. She said----" the girl hesitated.
"Go on, please." Miss Helen spoke pleadingly.
"She told me that she had said something that she regretted."
"And that was----" Miss Helen leaned forward eagerly and caught Nan's
hand in a tight clasp.
"That she never wanted to see any of the Corner family again," here Nan
hurried on. "It wasn't any wonder, was it, when she was in such trouble
and distress?"
"I never blamed her," murmured her aunt.
"She said she ought to have tried to be friendly to you and"--Nan
looked up shyly, "that you used to love me dearly."
"I've always loved you dearly," returned her aunt warmly, "and I hope
I always shall. Ah, my dear, you don't know what it is to have those
dreadful bitternesses come into a family. I loved you all, your father,
your mother, you children, but I loved my mother, too, and she needed
me, for I was all she had left, and--well, never mind now. I am so
very glad time has softened your mother's feeling, toward me at least,
and I am so sorry, so very sorry, that she is not well. Poor dear Jack,
it would have been a blow to him."
"Don't say that! Don't!" cried Nan. "It makes me feel as if I ought to
be scared and trembly about mother and I don't want to." She put her
head down in Miss Helen's lap and burst into tears.
"My dearest child," cried Miss Helen, "please don't cry. You make me so
miserable."
"I won't cry," said Nan lifting her head. "She is better, oh, she is,
Aunt Helen."
"I am sure of it, darling. Now, do you want to know what brings me
here?"
"I do indeed."
"I have crossed the ocean twice since I saw you. I took your kiss to
your grandmother all the way over with me, and oh, Nannie, dear, you
don't know how much it meant to her! The first tears I have seen her
shed for many a long day came to her eyes when I told her about you and
what you said. Then she was restless and unhappy until she decided that
nothing would do but she must see you. At first she urged me to send
for you or to come over and bring you back, but I could not leave her
and I doubted if you would be allowed to come. When she realized that,
for the first time in all these years, she expressed a desire to come
back to America. She has come to see you, Nannie. You won't refuse to
go to her, will you?"
Nannie's heart was beating fast. At last she was to see the beautiful
grandmother whose eyes followed her about from the portrait over the
mantel. "Oh, I want to see her," she said. "I can't ask mother, but I
know she would say yes; I know she would. Where is she, Aunt Helen? And
when can I see her?"
"She is coming home. She is coming here as soon as I can get the house
ready. She is with friends in Washington and I have engaged Martha
Jackson to come over to clean the house and with Henry Johnson's help
we shall soon have everything in order."
"I wish I could help," exclaimed Nan.
"Would you really like to?"
"I certainly would."
"Then you may. We'll go right over now for I promised Martha I'd come
back soon so she would know what to do next."
This prospect of helping at Uplands was one of sheer delight to Nan.
It was what gave her the greatest pleasure, and this opportunity of
becoming intimate with the furnishings of the house at Uplands was
beyond anything she had ever hoped for.
Through the long weeds the two made their way to spend the day in
uncovering furniture, unpacking boxes and setting things to rights
generally. During the process, Nan became confidential and revealed
more of her own character and of her home life than she could have done
in days of ordinary intercourse, so that Miss Helen came to know them
all through her: Jean's gentle sweetness, Jack's passionate outbursts
and mischievous pranks, Mary Lee's fondness for sports and her little
self-absorbed ways; even Aunt Sarah stood out on all the sharp outlines
of her peculiarities. Her unselfishness and her generosity were made
as visible as her sarcasms and tart speeches, so that Miss Helen often
smiled covertly at Nan's innocent revelations.
There was uncovered, too, the lack of means, the make-shifts and
goings without in some such speech as: "Dear me, I wonder if our old
sofa ever looked like that when its cover was fresh and new. It's just
no color now and mother has patched and darned it till it can't hold
together much longer, and the springs make such a funny squeak and go
way down when you sit on it. Jack has bounced all the spring out of
it, I reckon;" or, "we had a pretty pitcher something like that but
Jack broke it and now we have to use it in our room, for you know we
couldn't let the boys use a pitcher with a broken nose."
There were moments, too, when Nan spoke of the ogre Impatience and the
Poppy fairy, both of whom Miss Helen seemed to know all about, for she
fell in so readily with all Nan's fanciful ideas that the child felt
as if she had known her always, and often would fly at her impetuously
and give her a violent hug, frequently to the peril of some delicate
ornament or fragile dish which she might have in her hand.
As room after room was restored to its former condition, Nan breathed
a soft: "Oh, how lovely," but when the drawing room was revealed and
all the beautiful pictures were unveiled, she sat in the middle of the
floor and gazed around. All this she had longed to see and now she was
in the midst of it. "I have a right to be here, haven't I, Aunt Helen?"
she asked. "I really have a right. You invited me."
"Why, of course, Nan."
"I shall tell Aunt Sarah I had. She will say I sneaked in or stood
around till you had to ask me, but I didn't."
"Of course not, you silly little girl. Come now, I am half starved. Let
us go see what Martha has ready for us."
"Oh, I forgot about eating. I wonder what Aunt Sarah will say to my not
coming home."
"Will she be alarmed?"
"No, not that exactly, because sometimes I take my pocket full of
biscuits and stay out all day on Saturdays. I play I'm all sorts of
people and that I have all kinds of wonderful things to eat. Have I
ever had a meal in this house?"
"Many a time you have sat in your father's high-chair, and have banged
on the table with a spoon, and, later on, you had many a sly meal
with us when you would run off and I would catch you coming here. You
couldn't cross the brook but would stand on the other side and call to
me, 'Nenny, Nenny,' for that was as near Helen as you could get."
Nan sighed. "I really think I ought to go home. I could come back, I
think."
"And leave me to eat my luncheon alone?"
Nan hesitated. It didn't seem very kind to do that, so she overcame
her scruples and sat down to the meal Martha had prepared for them,
wondering what Aunt Sarah would say when she heard about it. She felt a
little startled when she stopped to consider possibilities. Aunt Sarah,
though tart of speech, seldom resorted to active punishment unless she
considered the limit had been overstepped, then she did not hesitate
to mete out supperless solitary confinement to the aggressor. "I don't
care," said Nan resolutely to herself, "I'm not going to be impolite to
Aunt Helen even if Aunt Sarah doesn't approve. She can punish me if she
wants to. I shall not mind going without my supper." In consequence she
ate a hearty luncheon, being hungry from exertion and, moreover, wisely
providing for future possible fasting.
It was a memorable day and when at last they left the house and Miss
Helen locked the door behind them she told Nan that she would hang
out from the second story window a red cloth as a signal when she had
returned from Washington, and that Nan was to come over after that as
soon as possible. She kissed the child good-bye and said, "I dreaded
coming back, Nannie dear, but now I am glad to come since I have seen
you."
So Nan went off with an exultant feeling in her heart. It was all like
a fairy tale; Aunt Helen the fairy godmother, her grandmother the queen
of the fairies. This was the enchanted castle and Nan was to be given
entrance to it. She ran down the hill, stopped at the sunset-tree to
look at the reddening sky, crossed the brook, and ran plump into Aunt
Sarah.
[Illustration: CHAPTER IX
IMPRISONMENT]