The four Corners in camp

by Amy Ella Blanchard

“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.