the young man absorbed in his painting did not see the child at first. she stood off watching him lay on deft strokes, but saying nothing until presently, as he backed off a little further than usual, he almost stumbled over her. “hallo!” he exclaimed, looking at her in surprise.
“oh, i beg your pardon,” said jack. “i didn’t mean to get in your way.”
“no consequence at all,” returned the young man. “you weren’t properly in my way, but when i get excited over my painting i generally prance all over the place regardless of anything or anybody.”
“you’re doing a lovely picture,” remarked jack sociably. “i’d get excited, too, if i could paint like that.”
“you would? well, i don’t know. i’m afraid i don’t think much of it myself. the sun is getting too high. i ought to have stopped an hour ago, but i was interested and didn’t. however, i must go now.”
[156]“i am afraid i interrupted you,” said jack anxiously.
“oh, no, you didn’t, or if you did you did me a good turn, for i am only doing the thing harm by keeping on. it was better before i did this last bit.” he began to scrape out a part of the foreground, then prepared to pack up his painting kit. “anyhow, it must be near dinner time from the looks of things,” he went on, “so i ought to get back.”
“oh, dear, yes, i suppose it is near dinner time,” jack responded. “can you tell me if i am on the right road to miss marshall’s camp?”
“you will be if you turn right about face.”
“oh, then the indian was right after all.”
“the indian? old john? he’s a pretty good sort. lives in a tent back there and makes baskets. has some queer sort of herb medicine he sells, a panacea for all ills; has ointments, too. if he told you the way you could rely upon its being right, for he knows the place like a book. comes up and pitches his tent every summer, sells his baskets and things.”
“have you seen any of the girls come up the lake?” jack asked after a moment.
“i saw some going down a while ago, toward the camp, you know. they paddle pretty well, those girls.”
[157]“my sister, nan, paddles very well, so does daniella scott.”
“are you staying at the camp?”
“yes, all of us are.”
“and you expect to get back for dinner? why, it’s three or four miles.”
“that’s what the indian said, and i’ve gone further since then. well, i shall miss my dinner, that’s all, and it will be the second time i’ve done that lately. however, the first time i had nothing at all to eat; this time i have.”
“oh, you brought your lunch along; a wise precaution when one is off for a tramp in the woods.”
“it’s only carrots and buns; not exactly a lunch, you know.”
“carrots and buns do make rather a peculiar combination. do you mean to say you eat the carrots raw as one does turnips sometimes?”
“i never eat them at all.”
“then why bring them at all? i am willing to concede that they might satisfy an eye for color, but i am sure i should never select them to ease the pangs of physical hunger unless there were nothing else.”
jack laughed. “i didn’t bring them for myself. i brought them to lure happy with. he is our mascot, a wild fawn that got hurt and that we took into camp and kept. he got[158] away last night and i started out to find him, so i brought the carrots and buns for him.”
“oh, i see. well, a wild fawn chase is as bad as a wild goose chase, you know, so i should give it up.”
“but if i don’t find him it will mean bad luck to the camp, for he is our mascot.”
“don’t you believe it will bring bad luck. why, i had a mascot once, a fox terrier, and all the time i had him i never sold a single picture, and the very day after he ran away i made a sale, so don’t you see it’s the having had a mascot, not the having it that brings the luck.” he spoke quite gravely, but looked up, with a twinkle in his eyes, from where he was strapping his easel together. jack observed then that he was quite good to look upon, with shining brown eyes, a humorous mouth and a well-shaped nose. “are you going to eat the carrots raw?” he asked as he straightened himself. “i am very curious on that point.”
“i shall not eat them at all; i’ll just eat the buns, although they are stale ones.”
“rather a poor dinner. i wonder if i couldn’t offer you something better. you have a long walk before you and if you don’t mind sharing a bachelor’s meal i’d be delighted to share it with you.”
jack was nothing if not unconventional and[159] the prospect of foregoing a solitary and rather unpalatable repast was a pleasant one, so she smiled her acquiescence.
“i’ve a little shack a few rods further,” the young man told her. “my name is marcus wells, nota bene, the boys call me. i hail from new york, at least that is my present abode, though i am a native of new jersey. i am camping out for a season of summer sketching and just at present am lone and lorn, as my companion has taken it into his head to go off on a walking tour through the mountains. therefore, miss——” he paused. “i beg your pardon,” he said, flushing. “it doesn’t make any difference about the name. you are a damsel in distress. we will call you carrotina bunina, or, if you prefer it, diana piccola, little diana, as you seem to be a huntress. how is that?”
“oh, diana, please. i don’t like to be named after vegetables.” jack was quite ready for all this kind of nonsense; it was just the way nan carried on, she thought.
“well, my fair diana,” the young man continued, “don’t disturb me for a moment while i run over in my mind the contents of my larder.” he marched on silently for a few minutes, lips pursed up and frowning brow. “yes,” he said after a time, “i think we can make out. can you cook?”
[160]“a little.”
“on a chafing-dish? we have one. pinch generally does the cooking. i call him pinch because he is always saying, ‘just a pinch more of salt or of pepper’ or whatever it may be. he is very particular, is pinch, and is a dabster at cooking. if he were here we’d have some jim dandy pancakes, but as it is, our menu must be: eggs done in a chafing-dish, if you can do them, potted ham, chicken or tongue or sardines, canned baked beans, if you care for them, ginger ale or coffee, crackers and cheese, and for dessert your buns and marmalade. does that please the dainty palate of lady diana?”
“i think it’s fine,” responded jack. “i can do the eggs. i can scramble eggs very nicely, if you have butter.”
“oh, there’s butter and milk, too, if you need it. then let us his us to the lodge in the wilderness, for in sooth i feel a craving for sustenance, lady. this poor body of mine has long been denied food. yet, do not haste thee, sweet lady, or thy feet may become entangled in the wild waywardness of the grape which ambushes our way.”
he strode on, jack by his side, till presently through the trees she saw a log cabin.
“yonder is my poor dwelling which you will[161] presently honor with your fair presence,” said the artist. he tossed down his traps upon the ground outside, fitted a key in the lock and flung open the door. “enter, sweet lady,” he cried. “here i abide for a space. yonder are the rude implements of my craft; there the poor results of my labor. here i sleep upon this modest couch; there i warm my weary limbs before the open fire.”
“what a dear place,” exclaimed jack, looking around her.
“it is rather nice, isn’t it?” said her host dropping his high-flown language. “i got those old quilts from a farmhouse, and isn’t that a jolly lot of plates? same source. this pitcher i picked up away back in the mountains, real old helmit, you see, and the plates are wedgewood without doubt. the quilts make good portières, don’t you think? these rugs an old woman in one of the mountain villages did for me from rags she sewed herself, and the rest of the things pinch and i have picked up here and there. my studio is beyond the curtain. i’ll show you it presently. pinch and i built the cabin ourselves with a little local talent to help with the practical part. this is our third summer up here.”
“and don’t you love it?”
“i should say. well, rather. let us get[162] something to eat and then i’ll show you around.”
so in a few minutes they were merrily preparing the meal which was set forth on an old deal table in the most informal manner. jack’s scrambled eggs turned out excellently and her buns formed a necessary adjunct to the bread supply. she insisted upon washing the dishes in a very housewifely way, to the great glee of her entertainer. “great cæsar!” he said, “but you are a cracker-jack at doing things. lots of girls couldn’t, you know, not girls as young as you.”
“i’m thirteen,” returned jack with dignity.
“are you really? well, that isn’t antique exactly, yet you’re tall for your age, too.”
“jean, my twin sister, isn’t near so tall.”
“is jean at camp, too? how many of you are there?”
“we are four corners,” laughing to see the puzzled look. “my name is jacqueline corner, then there are my sister jean, mary lee and nan. you ought to see nan. she talks just that nice, funny way you do, and she is a darling. most people think mary lee prettier because she has light hair and nice little features, but nan has such eyes, like stars, and she has a face like april, so changeable; everything she feels she shows in her face, it is so expressive.[163] she is seventeen, nearly eighteen, and mary lee is just sixteen. is that your violin, and can you play? nan plays, oh, beautifully, on the piano.”
“it’s my violin, yes. shall i give you a tune? i nearly always play after dinner, but i seldom care for an audience.”
“i should love to hear you. won’t you please play for me?”
“very well. suppose we make believe that you are really the lady diana piccola. i’ll dress you for the part. wait half a minute.” he disappeared behind the curtain and came out with a long green cloak, a white veil, a scarf and some dull red draperies. “found these in an old garret hereabouts. great find. gave a picture for them and think i got the best of the bargain,” he announced as he wound the red stuff around jack’s waist, made a train of the cloak, draped the scarf across her shoulders and pinned the veil on her head with a queer ornament. “there,” he exclaimed, “you look stunning. i’d like to paint you just so. sit there by the fireplace and i’ll play you a measure, fair lady diana.”
jack took the place assigned her, and presently the young man was watching her with half-closed eyes as he drew his bow softly across the strings of his violin.
[164]it was a pretty picture, the little room, whose walls were of chinked logs, the stone fireplace, the wooden settle, the high-backed chair in which sat the little lady with the sun streaming through the open door upon the dull red brocade of her petticoat, and touching the gleaming ornament above her forehead.
“by jinks, i’d like to paint it,” said the artist, all his soul stirred by the subject as he played a quaint old gavotte to the child whose innocent little face looked saintly under her veil.
the music was going on, rising and falling in tender cadence when some one approached the little cabin attracted by the strains. “who could be living in this queer little place?” thought nan who, finding that no one had seen jack since breakfast, started out in search of her. she had paddled up the lake almost to the point where the indian’s tent was pitched. this was as far as she and jack had ever gone. she had keenly scrutinized each little inlet and cove as she went past, but, seeing no sign of her sister, had concluded to go ashore and walk a little way through the woods. here she came upon the indian who gave her news of jack whom, he said, he had seen taking the path northward along the lake. and so it was that jack, listening to the music and dreamily gazing out the open door on the sunlit patches[165] between the trees, suddenly sprang to her feet.
“there’s nan,” she cried, and sprang out the door, her garments trailing after her all unheeded.
astonishment of the liveliest kind was on nan’s face as she saw, flying from the mysterious cabin, the figure of a mediæval princess. was she dreaming? was the music a spell? then her countenance partially cleared as she saw who it was. “jacqueline corner!” she cried. “what under the canopy of heaven are you up to now?”
“oh, nan, nan,” cried jack excitedly, “come in, do come in and see this darling place. you’ll just love it.” so nan, perfectly unconscious of entering bachelor’s quarters, followed her sister to where the artist, whose sense of humor was ever present, still played the violin, waiting to see how the situation would develop.
“mr. wells,” said jack in her best manner, “let me present you to my sister, miss nancy corner.”
the young man tucked the violin under his arm and came forward. “welcome to place o’ pines,” he said.
even as nan backed out the door her thoughts flew to her old haunt. how strange that the name she thought her own original invention[166] should be used away up here in maine. “oh, but,” she said as she hesitated upon the sill, “we mustn’t, you know. i—oh, jack—do get your things and come. mother doesn’t know where you are.”
“oh, nan, please just stay and see the studio,” begged jack.
“any one may visit a studio, i think,” said the young man, his eyes on nan’s flushed face and troubled eyes.
“oh, nan,” jack went on, “mr. wells has been so lovely. i went out to find happy—i didn’t, by the way—and i got turned around so i was coming in this direction instead of going toward camp. i saw an indian.”
“so did i,” nan interrupted.
“and did he tell you about me?”
“yes, and that is how i happened to find you.”
“well, he told me to go the other way and i didn’t believe him, so i was coming along and saw mr. wells painting and i asked him the way. then we got into conversation and he invited me to dinner. i didn’t have any, you know, except carrots and buns, and it was getting very late.”
“my sister has a propensity for flights like this,” said nan a little more genially, as she turned to mr. wells. “i am very much obliged to you for looking after her.”
[167]“oh, the pleasure was all mine,” he returned. “we’ve been pretending, and have had a fine time.”
“yes, we have been making believe i am a lady in distress,” jack informed her sister. “i am lady diana piccola. you didn’t say who you are. you must be sir somebody.” she turned to her host.
“sir nota bene, you remember,” he said with a smile and a bow and nan’s smile broadened.
“so,” jack went on, “he dressed me up. don’t i look fine? and he was playing the violin to me as you came along.”
“a plain unvarnished tale, miss corner,” mr. wells asserted. “we have been playing, and i haven’t enjoyed myself so much in a coon’s age, as my friend paul woods would say.”
“paul woods? not dr. paul from virginia?” said nan.
“the same, and a dear old chap he is.”
“dear me! why, if you are a friend of his——” nan paused.
“you will think better of me, i hope.”
“any friend of dr. paul’s is a friend of ours. he is like a brother to us and has always been so good, to me in particular. i don’t know what i should have done without him in munich.”
“why, bless my soul, of course. i’ve heard him speak of the corners dozens of times.[168] how stupid of me. but one doesn’t readily associate munich or virginia with maine, does one?”
“not readily. you must let me thank you again for being good to jack, and—yes, i think we might take a peep at the studio, if you don’t mind.”
“i shall be charmed.” he drew aside the curtain for them and they entered a good-sized room with high windows toward the north. on a large easel stood an unfinished picture. there were queer firearms and bits of pottery scattered about; a spinning-wheel stood in one corner; a table littered with drawings and books was on one side; some queer old chairs held place elsewhere; a lot of canvases stood against the easel and a number of sketches were pinned on the wall. “here’s where we work sometimes,” mr. wells told them. “pinch goes in a little for illustration, but i am doing outdoor work, figures once in a while.”
nan looked interestedly at the pictures. they were delicate and tender in color yet showed a certain vigor and sincerity. “i like them,” she said simply.
“thank you; that’s more real praise than the exuberant gush one often gets,” the artist responded.
[169]nan turned and looked at him. there was something familiar in his voice and looks. where had she seen him before? suddenly it came to her like a flash. “why,” she exclaimed, “we have met before. jack, don’t you remember the day we went up the mountain and it rained so? we were caught in the downpour and took refuge in that little hut.” her eyes grew merry with the recollection.
“and you saved a starving man!” cried mr. wells. “oh, yes, yes, i remember your friend who offered the bacon and bread, but i was too abashed to give a glance to the rest of you. then, you see, miss nancy, heaven has permitted me to pay a part of my debt to your sister. would that my friend, pinch, were here!” he threw back his head and laughed. nan laughed, too. “weren’t we a sight?” he went on. “those silly girls would rig up that way to go forth into the wilderness. they’d been staying over at intervale, and came to this place for a day. one was pinch’s sister; the other a friend of hers. old pinch has gone back with them and that is why i am solus.”
“we were sights, too,” said nan.
“oh, but such sensible sights, so well equipped for a mountain climb. i felt like a very pariah in your midst i didn’t wonder that you fled from us.”
[170]nan remembered why they had fled but did not think it necessary to inform him.
“so you see,” continued mr. wells, “we are really old acquaintances, and altogether it is quite a heaven-arranged meeting. don’t you think i might call at your camp and ask your mother to allow miss jack to sit for me in this costume? i haven’t dared to mention it before, but i am wild to do a sketch of her, and i am sure your dr. paul will vouch for me.”
“i don’t know what mother will say, but it would do no harm to ask, i think,” nan replied after reflection. “and now we must surely be going. mother will be worried. she knows we do range off pretty much as we choose, but this time as jack was not with any of us she will not be satisfied till she sees her. thank you for letting us see your sketches. my canoe is just below here.”
so she and jack made their adieux and were soon paddling back to camp. “that was an adventure, sure enough,” declared nan as they neared the end of the journey, “but you mustn’t go off alone even to hunt mascots, jack. something dreadful might have happened. suppose there had been no cabin in the woods and you had been there alone when night came.”
“but i shouldn’t have been, for after a while[171] i would have discovered that i was going wrong. i should have known it as soon as the sun began to get over the mountains. i know the west should be on my right when i go south toward camp.”
“but all the same you might have lost your way before dark.”
but jack was not to be convinced. “at all events,” she said, “i should have found the indian’s tent and his wife would have taken me in for the night.”
“you don’t consider the state of mind we all would have been in when night came,” nan told her.
“no, i didn’t think of that,” jack confessed. “very well, i’ll not go off alone again, and anyhow we shall probably not have another mascot to lose.”
