On this, her first visit to the island in the swamp, Nan said nothing
to old Toby Vanderwiller about the line dispute between her uncle and
Gedney Raffer, which the old lumberman was supposed to be able to settle
if he would.
Mrs. Vanderwiller insisted upon Toby's hitching up an old, broken-kneed
pony he owned, and taking her over the corduroy road to Pine Camp, where
she arrived before dark. To tell the truth, little Margaret Llewellen
was not the only person who thought it odd that Nan should want to go
to see the Vanderwillers in the heart of the tamarack swamp. Nan's uncle
and aunt and cousins considered their guest a little odd; but they made
no open comment when the girl arrived at home after her visit.
Nan was full of the wonders she had seen, commonplace enough to her
relatives who had lived all their lives in touch with the beautiful and
queer things of Nature as displayed in the Michigan Peninsula. Perhaps
none but Tom appreciated her ecstasy over crippled Corson Vanderwiller's
collection.
Rafe was inclined to poke good-natured fun at his young cousin for her
enthusiasm; but Tom showed an understanding that quite surprised Nan.
Despite his simplicity regarding some of the commonest things of the
great outside world, he showed that he was very observant of the things
about him.
“Oh, Tom was always like that,” scoffed Rafe, with ready laughter at his
slow brother. “He'd rather pick up a bug any day and put it through a
cross-examination, than smash it under the sole of his boot.”
“I don't think bugs were made to smash,” Tom said stoutly.
“Whew! What in thunder were they made for?” demanded the mocking Rafe.
“I don't think God Almighty made things alive just for us to make 'em
dead,” said Tom, clumsily, and blushing a deep red.
Rafe laughed again. Rafe had read much more in a desultory fashion than
Tom.
“Tom ought to be one of those Brahmas,” he said, chuckling. “They carry
a whisk broom to brush off any seat they may sit on before they sit
down, so's they sha'n't crush an ant, or any other crawling thing.
They're vegetarians, too, and won't take life in any form.”
“Now, Rafe!” exclaimed his mother, who was never quite sure when her
younger son was playing the fool. “You know that Brahmas are hens.
I've got some in my flock those big white and black, lazy fowls, with
feathers on their legs.”
Nan had to laugh at that as well as Rafe. “Brahma fowl, I guess, came
from Brahma, or maybe Brahmaputra, all right. But Rafe means Brahmans.
They're a religious people of India,” the girl from Tillbury said.
“And maybe they've got it right,” Tom said stubbornly. “Why should we
kill unnecessarily?”
Nan could have hugged him. At any rate, a new feeling for him was born
at that moment, and she applauded. Aunt Kate said:
“Tom always was soft-hearted,” and her big son became silent. She
might as well have called him “soft-headed”; but Nan began better to
appreciate Tom's worth from that time on.
Rafe remained in her eyes still the reckless, heroic figure he had
seemed when running over the logs the day of the timber drive. But
she began to confide in Tom after this evening of her return from the
tamarack swamp.
However, this is somewhat in advance of the story. The pleasant evening
passed as usual until bedtime came for Nan. She retired to her east
chamber, for the windows of which Tom had made screens to keep out the
night-flying insects. No matter how tired she was at night there was one
thing Nan Sherwood seldom forgot.
Possibly it was silly in a girl who was almost through her freshman year
at high school, but Nan brought out Beautiful Beulah and rocked her, and
hugged her, and crooned over her before she went to bed. She was such a
comfort!
So Nan, on this evening, went first of all to the closet and reached
down to draw out the box in which she had kept the doll hidden ever
since coming to Pine Camp.
It was not there!
At first Nan Sherwood could not believe this possible. She dropped on
her knees and scrambled over the floor of her closet, reaching under the
hanging skirts and frocks, her fear rising, second by second.
The box was not in its place. She arose and looked about her room
wildly. Of course, she had not left it anywhere else, that was out of
the question.
She could scarcely believe that any member of the family had been in her
room, much less would disturb anything that was hers. Not even Aunt Kate
came to the east chamber often. Nan had insisted upon taking care of
the room, and she swept and dusted and cleaned like the smart little
housewife she was. Aunt Kate had been content to let her have her way in
this.
Of course Nan never locked her door. But who would touch a thing
belonging to her? And her doll! Why, she was sure the family did not
even know she had such a possession.
Almost wildly the girl ran out of her chamber and into the sitting
room, where the family was still gathered around the evening lamp, Rafe
cleaning his shot-gun, Tom reading slowly the local paper, published at
the Forks, Aunt Kate mending, and Uncle Henry sitting at the open window
with his pipe.
“Oh, it's gone!” gasped Nan, as she burst into the room.
“What's gone?” asked Aunt Kate, and Uncle Henry added: “What's happened
to you, honey-bird?”
“My Beulah!” cried Nan, almost sobbing. “My Beulah, she's been taken!”
“My mercy, child!” cried Aunt Kate, jumping up. “Are you crazy?”
“Who's Beulah?” demanded Rafe, looking up from his gun and, Nan thought,
showing less surprise than the others.
“My Beulah doll,” said Nan, too troubled now to care whether the family
laughed at her or not. “My Beautiful Beulah. Somebody's played a trick.”
“A doll!” shouted Rafe, and burst into a chatter of laughter.
“Mercy me, child!” repeated Aunt Kate. “I didn't know you had a doll.”
“Got a baby rattle, too, Sissy?” chuckled Rafe. “And a ring to cut your
teeth on? My, my!”
“Stop that, Rafe!” commanded his father, sternly, while Tom flushed and
glared angrily at his brother.
“I didn't know you had a doll, Nannie,” said Mrs. Sherwood, rather
weakly. “Where'd you have it?”
“In my closet,” choked Nan. “She's a great, big, beautiful thing! I know
somebody must be playing a joke on me.”
“Nobody here, Nannie,” said Uncle Henry, with decision. “You may be sure
of that.” But he looked at Rafe sternly. That young man thought it the
better part of wisdom to say no more.
In broken sentences the girl told her innocent secret, and why she had
kept the doll hidden. Aunt Kate, after, all, seemed to understand.
“My poor dear!” she crooned, patting Nan's hand between her hard palms.
“We'll all look for the dolly. Surely it can't have been taken out of
the house.”
“And who'd even take it out of her closet?” demanded Tom, almost as
stern as his father.
“It surely didn't walk away of itself,” said Aunt Kate.
She took a small hand lamp and went with Nan to the east chamber. They
searched diligently, but to no good end, save to assure Nan that Beulah
had utterly disappeared.
As far as could be seen the screens at the windows of the bedroom had
not been disturbed. But who would come in from outside to steal Nan's
doll? Indeed, who would take it out of the closet, anyway? The girl
was almost sure that nobody had known she had it. It was strange, very
strange indeed.
Big girl that she was, Nan cried herself to sleep that night over the
mystery. The loss of Beulah seemed to snap the last bond that held her
to the little cottage in Amity street, where she had spent all her happy
childhood.