MISS PINCH
“Miss Pinch has come. I saw her to-day.” Jack gave the information.
“How do you know?” asked Jo.
“I saw her this afternoon with Mr. Wells. She has a new hat; it’s
trimmed with poppies. Mr. Pinch and the other girl were there, too. The
other girl’s hat is trimmed with lilacs.”
“Their name isn’t Pinch,” corrected Nan sedately, looking up from her
book.
“What is it then?”
“It is Romaine, and the young lady’s name is Miss Mabel Romaine.”
“I don’t care; I shall call them Pinch; it’s good enough for such
up-eyebrow people.”
Jo laughed. “What an expression. Tell us about the encounter, Jack.”
“Well, I was getting out of the canoe, there opposite Three Rocks, and
they came along the path. Mr. Wells called, ‘Hallo, Jack!’ and I said,
‘Hallo!’ He stood still and was coming over to talk to me, but the
others walked on with their eyebrows stretched up into the middle of
their foreheads, so he only said, ‘How’s everybody?’ and I said, ‘Very
well, thank you,’ then he overtook the others and they went on up the
lake path.”
“Humph! Not a very thrilling encounter,” asserted Jo. “I suppose that’s
the last of Mr. Wells for us. He’ll tag these newcomers all the time.
Your nose is out of joint, Nan.”
Nan’s eyebrows went up quite as disdainfully as ever Miss Romaine’s
could. “I’m sure,” she replied haughtily, “we got along perfectly well
before we knew Mr. Wells, and I don’t see but that we can continue to
do so.” Yet in her heart of hearts she was conscious of a feeling of
bitter jealousy, and if she had been alone the tears would have risen
to her eyes.
“The proper spirit, my dear; hear your Aunt Jo tell you. We’ve plenty
of good all around friends; we don’t want any of the summer sunshine,
fair weather, take-you-when-I-can’t-get-any-one-else kind.”
“It strikes me,” spoke up Mary Lee, “that if you all were so deadly
indifferent as you try to appear, you would not make such a to-do about
it. For my part, I think you are a little unjust to Mr. Wells.”
“And why?” Nan asked with still the “up-eyebrow” manner.
“Because so far he has shown no sign of neglecting us, and I am sure
you wouldn’t expect him to give up his friends on our account. Suppose
the case were reversed, and some of our best friends, like Charlotte
and Carter and Phil Lewis, were to come, would we turn a cold shoulder
on them because we happened to have met Mr. Wells?”
“But suppose they were scornful of our friends and refused to meet
them, would we countenance it? and wouldn’t we tell them to go to
Halifax if they couldn’t join the crowd?” Jo was speaking.
“Not if they were staying with us, were our guests, so to speak, and
the crowd happened to be two or three miles away. Besides I don’t see
that we have given them a chance to prove their intentions. They have
only just come. You couldn’t expect them to rush off to see us the
first thing.”
“That’s so,” Jo conceded. “Well, we’ll give them a chance before we
condemn them utterly, won’t we, Nan?”
“Oh, of course. I dare say Mary Lee is right,” Nan admitted. She
was glad that her sister’s cooler judgment had set the matter in a
different light. It was certainly not to be expected that the young man
should have appeared the very day that his friends had come, nor that
Dr. Paul should have done so either, for as Mr. Wells’ guest he was
bound to show courtesy to these friends of his. “There’s one person who
won’t go back on us, I’ll venture to say,” she spoke her thought aloud,
“and that is Dr. Paul.”
“Oh, we can count on him just as surely as we can count on the sun’s
rising every morning,” Jo agreed with Nan, “and we’ll pump him to find
out how things are going on up there.”
“You old gossip,” laughed Mary Lee.
But in spite of Nan’s brave front, as the days went by and there was no
sign of either Mr. Wells or his friends, her heart misgave her. She was
in a dozen moods in the course of a day. He had not forgotten them, but
was in the toils of an imperious creature whose demands he must yield
to on account of her brother. He had forgotten and she was pensive and
hugged a fancy for dying of a broken heart. He was angry because she
and her friends had not called upon his friends. Well, what could he
expect? Surely it was not their place to make overtures. He was hurt
because Place o’ Pines was avoided and there were no more afternoon
teas. Ought they to go as if nothing had happened? She dreamed of a
meeting in the woods when he would tell her of a fretful and spoiled
girl to whom he had to be polite rather than subject himself to
reproaches and maybe tears, of a meeting at the little point opposite
Three Rocks when he, sad and feeling himself misunderstood, would bring
his violin that he might pour out his woes in music. She would be there
to hear, would suddenly appear while he was playing the Swan Song, and
he would say, “I knew you would come. My heart drew yours. We are twin
souls.” Then she would take from her bosom the little needle-case and
say, “This will tell you that I have been thinking of you,” and he
would take it and place it next his heart, at the same time showing her
a withered flower she had once worn or a note she had written and which
he had treasured all these days.
This was the sweetest dream of all, and once she went with beating
heart to the point, but she saw him passing in a canoe with Miss
Romaine and returned in a meekly sad frame of mind. Of course he
preferred the other. Why should he not? A gay and beautiful creature
with such a lovely name, Mabel Romaine. What a contrast to plain Nancy
Corner, a tall unstylish creature, a schoolgirl who had never learned
coquetries and blandishments. What could Nan expect? She would not die
of a broken heart, oh, no, but she would be true forever to this high
ideal, and when she was an old woman they two would meet. He would send
for her on his death-bed and would say, “Ah, yes, ah, yes, if I had
only known that I was marrying a butterfly I would not to-day be the
lonely and loveless old man I now am.” Yes, that would be it, and she
would say, very softly, “You have never been loveless, Marcus,” and
then he would whisper, “Too late, too late! I sinned against my best
self, for I have not been a success. I did not deserve so sweet and
pure a love as yours, Nancy. I bequeath to you my grandson.”
Nan was really quite happy when she had built up this romance, and
thought of how she would love the little Marcus Wells--an orphan he
would be--and she would always have him for her very own. He would call
her Grandma Nancy and they would live together in a fine old family
mansion with a garden.
But as it is the unexpected which so often happens, she did meet the
young man when she was not looking for him, at least she passed him
and Miss Romaine in her canoe. “Good-evening,” he called out gaily.
“Haven’t seen you for an age. I’m coming over with the doctor some
evening.”
Nan’s only reply was, “Good-evening,” but she heard his companion
ask, “Who’s that, Marcus?” and, because it was so still on the water
that sound carried readily, she heard him reply, “Oh, one of those
little schoolgirls down at the camp. Nice child, but awfully young and
inexperienced.”
So she was only a “nice child,” in the same category as Jack or Jean.
This was a bitter knowledge and she felt more unhappy than at any
time until she glided off into a new dream. She was young, but she
would grow older, become a wonderful musician who could bring tears to
the eyes of all who heard her play, and some day he would be in her
audience,--it would be in London,--and he would be humble and mute
before her. She would be dressed magnificently and would wear flashing
jewels. People would crowd around her and he would come up and say,
“Don’t you remember me, Miss Corner?” and she would remember but she
would say with a distant smile, “I am afraid I do not remember,” and
then he would ask, “Don’t you remember we met one summer in Maine? Have
you forgotten Place o’ Pines?” and she would answer, “Now you recall
that, I have a faint remembrance of it, but it is so long ago and one
meets so many persons, you know. Did you play the flute, or was it the
banjo?” And he would frown and say, “I played the violin a little but I
am a painter,” and the reply would be, “Oh, yes, I remember you; Mr.
Romaine, isn’t it?” “No, Marcus Wells.”
“Oh, yes, and your friend was Mr. Romaine, that was it. Well, Mr.
Wells, I am quite pleased to have seen you after all these years. I
beg your pardon, Marquis, but did you say the Duchess was waiting for
me?” Then she would sail away, leaving him feeling very small and
insignificant. This little drama was quite as agreeable in its way as
any of the others.
True to her purpose, Jo managed to get from Dr. Paul some account of
what was going on at Place o’ Pines. The doctor never failed to appear
every day, alleging as fifth wheel to a coach he was never missed from
Place o’ Pines. He had lengthened his stay at the entreaties of the
girls, as well as of the older ladies.
“What do they do with themselves up there?” Jo asked.
“Oh, various things. Take long walks, have supper on the rocks,
afternoon tea at the studio. Miss Romaine goes off sketching with Marc
in the morning, Miss Vanderver and Pinch take a row on the lake, or she
sits for him while he makes pencil sketches. Sometimes I am pressed
into service for an illustration, but they generally quite approve of
my absence, I should judge, although Marc will not allow me to mention
leaving for another week.”
“Does Miss Romaine sketch?” asked Nan with a little hesitancy at
appearing to have any interest at all in the young woman.
“A little, I believe. She calls herself Marc’s pupil.”
“And Miss Vanderver?”
“Doesn’t do anything but listen to Pinch’s compliments. I believe
that is a sure thing, that affair. The young ladies have an ancient
great-aunt, or cousin or some one with them, but she never appears
except on rare occasions, Pinch being supposed to be sufficiently a
guardian angel for his sister and she for her friend. The aunt, a Mrs.
Shepherd, sits on the porch of the farmhouse and does knitting, I take
it, except when she is asleep or at meals.”
“Do you like the young ladies?” Mary Lee asked.
“Oh, yes. They are harmless, rather silly, but well versed in small
talk and the society column; you know the kind. I used to think Marc
had something in him over there in Munich, but Pinch is only playing at
being an artist, at best. It would be much better for Marc if he were
to chum up with some of the hard workers. He’ll lose the little grip he
has if he tries to follow Pinch’s lead. He maintains that he is doing
it for the sake of the acquaintance it will give him among the rich and
the great who will buy his pictures, but ‘I hae me doots.’”
Nan listened to all this with open ears, somewhat resentful that Dr.
Paul should impute such motives to her hero, and believing that he
underrated his friend. “It’s not very nice of him,” she told herself,
and the next time they were alone together she charged him with not
being a loyal friend, thereby considerably mystifying the doctor, for
he certainly had tried to be loyal to her, he considered. But because
of all this Nan in her heart hugged the delusion that the artist was a
much abused and misunderstood person who she could excuse for any of
these supposed shortcomings. Of course if Miss Romaine were his pupil
they had to go off in company, particularly if Mr. Romaine and Miss
Vanderver were interested in one another. A man had to be a little
politic when he wanted to succeed in a profession. Probably there was
no sentiment between them at all. And then back again came the dream of
a meeting on the point, the violin, the Swan Song, and all the rest of
it.
All this which went on inside of Nan’s brain was not guessed at by the
other girls, for Nan carefully guarded her thoughts and when at last
she finished the buttercups and the small case, it was put away out of
sight. If Mr. Wells ever asked for it he should have it; if not she
would keep it as a precious souvenir, with a daisy he had once worn in
his coat, and a slip of paper on which he had written his name and hers
once when they were playing a game together and he kept the score.
So the days went by, and though once in a while some mention was made
of Mr. Wells no one seemed very unhappy because of his absence. One
afternoon he did stop for a few minutes and Nan, in a contradiction
which she could not account for, flew to the woods and hid herself.
All that she learned later was that he had been there, had stayed a
few minutes, had asked after every one who did not happen to be on the
premises, and had gone away again.
“I suppose he went back to his Miss Pinch,” said Jack who quite
resented the disaffection of the friend she had been the first to
discover, and who had always been particularly chatty with her.
“I think he might have had the grace to bring Mr. Pinch, or whatever
his name is, to call,” said Jo.
“Oh, what in the world should he do that for? Very likely Mr. Romaine
thinks we are only a lot of children,” Mary Lee remarked. “He is no
chicken, you know; he must be at least twenty-five,” which to sixteen
seemed a veritable old bachelor.
“Oh, well, nobody wants him,” spoke up Ran.
“Here, too,” Hartley signified his endorsement of this speech. “I can’t
see why you girls should want an old dandy like that dancing around.”
“But Dr. Paul is older,” Jo rejoined.
“But he isn’t a dude; besides he is different anyway,” Ran averred.
“Let’s drop the old fossil and talk about something more interesting.
Who’s for a horseback ride?”
“A horseback ride? For pity’s sake, where can you get horses?” asked
Mary Lee.
“Hartley has discovered two which he thinks are possible and he is
going to take Daniella. He says she can ride like a breeze. Nan, if I
can get the horses, will you go? Ashby and I are going to see what we
can get. What about the rest of you?”
Jo didn’t ride, Effie only indifferently, so Mary Lee was the only
available companion for Ashby. She, as well as Nan, could ride “like a
breeze” as Ran expressed it.
After some difficulty the horses were secured and the party set out.
The boys had scoured the neighboring country, had been able to obtain
two old side saddles, and at Davis’s store a new one. The horses were
far from being high-bred steeds, but Daniella could ride anything,
Hartley declared, and was given the best looking nag. Nan did not mind
a trotting beast, Mary Lee was mounted upon an old white horse who had
a fair gait and the boys took what was left.
“There’s lots more fun in this sort of thing, just for once,” said Ran,
“than in riding our own good steeds at home. This seems somehow to fit
the camp and other things. Do you remember, girls, how we used to go
riding up the mountain at home? Doesn’t it remind you of the old days?”
“Where are we going?” asked Hartley.
“Oh, up the mountain,” Mary Lee told him.
“Past Place o’ Pines?”
“We shall have to.”
“Then we’ll start ahead.” As Hartley had been the first to think of the
expedition he had been able to secure the best horses from a farmer in
the neighborhood. Daniella’s bay mare would not allow anything to pass
her and kept ahead persistently.
Ran’s gray had a habit of stopping suddenly as if to get breath, and
then of starting on again at a fast walk. Ashby’s old black would break
into a racking gallop at the smallest provocation so that no two could
keep the same gait and the laughter which the various mounts provoked
nearly prevented the riders from keeping their seats. Daniella, who had
learned to ride on her uncle’s ranch, and who had had Mr. Scott himself
for her teacher, was a very Amazon. “There isn’t any stunt she can’t
do,” said Hartley admiringly, “and she’s promised to try them all, from
standing up in her saddle to----”
“Jumping through a hoop,” put in Ran.
“Nonsense,” said Hartley disgustedly. “I didn’t mean circus tricks.”
“When we pass Place o’ Pines let’s go at full tilt,” suggested Mary Lee.
“If we can,” returned Ashby dubiously. “You go ahead, Mary Lee, and
don’t mind me. If I have to bring up the rear, why, I will.”
So those sitting in the studio over their tea were suddenly surprised
by the clatter of hoofs along the road and saw a cavalcade go dashing
by, a big bay in the lead and a gaunt black, lurching along in a
plough-horse gallop, bringing up the rear.
“Did you ever!” exclaimed Miss Romaine. “Who in the world are those?”
Mr. Wells looked after them with a little half wistful smile. “Some of
my friends from Camp Happiness, I judge.”
“But what a sorry looking set of beasts.”
[Illustration: A CAVALCADE WENT DASHING BY, A BIG BAY IN THE LEAD.]
“Best they could get, probably, and much better than none. How would
you like to try a ride some morning, Mabel?”
“I shouldn’t like it at all unless you can furnish a better mount than
any of those,” she said with an amused expression.
Marcus turned to his palette and for a few minutes worked thoughtfully
away. “The Ride of the Valkyries” rang in his head. He picked up his
violin and softly began to finger the strings, trying the cry of the
wish-maiden, and the splendid motif of the Ride. “It won’t do,” he said
putting down the violin. “One instrument can’t begin to do it.”
“Of course not,” returned Miss Romaine, setting down her teacup and
picking up her sketch-block. “I don’t see how you expected it. Come
over here, Marcus, and don’t waste your time over that stuff. Tell me
if this sky is right now that it is dry.”
“A little rose madder is what you want,” said the young man as he
looked from her water-color to the bit of lake she was trying to sketch.
In about an hour the cavalcade came back, but at a slower pace. Miss
Romaine had gone, and the artist stood by the roadside alone. “Take me
to Walhalla, oh, Brunhilde,” he cried as Nan came briskly trotting by.
“That is the place for heroes only,” she answered back and went on well
pleased with her retort. Young and inexperienced she might be, but she
knew her Wagner better than Mabel Romaine, she did not for a moment
doubt.
“Wasn’t it great?” said Ran as he lifted her down. “We must try it
again, Nan. I’ll speak for that mare Daniella had; I noticed her
single-foot wasn’t bad.”
“Oh, I’ll be glad to go any time,” returned Nan gathering up the skirt
she had improvised for the occasion. “It was great fun.”
“I enjoyed it, I can tell you,” Ran said with emphasis.
“And on a beast with such a gait?” laughed Nan.
“I wasn’t thinking about the beast. I was thinking about the company I
had; that made up for everything.”
“My, what a pretty speech,” replied Nan. “You’ll soon be as gallant as
Cousin Martin Boyd, if you keep on,” and with a little mocking smile
she ran to her tent. Her eyes were like stars. He did not forget. She
almost sang the words. Had not Siegfried been given a magic potion, and
did he not remember at last? “He called me Brunhilde,” she said over
and over to herself, “and so he does remember; he does not think I am a
child as he pretended. It was only pretense, I am sure.” So little food
did it take to nourish her fancies.
[Illustration: CHAPTER XVII
NAN HEARS]