Nan put two and two together, and the answer came right.
She got out of bed, lit her lamp again and began to dress. She turned
her light down to a dim glimmer, however, for she did not want her aunt
to look out of the window of her bedroom on the other side of the parlor
and catch a glimpse of her light.
In the half darkness Nan made a quick toilet; and then, with her
raincoat on and hood over her head, she hesitated with her hand upon the
knob of the door.
“If I go through the parlor and out the side door, Aunt Kate will hear
me,” thought Nan. “That won't do at all.”
She looked at the further window. Outside the rain was pattering and
there was absolutely no light. In the pocket of her raincoat Nan had
slipped the electric torch she had brought from home, something of which
Aunt Kate cordially approved, and was always begging Uncle Henry to buy
one like it.
The pocket lamp showed her the fastenings of the screen. Tom had made
it to slide up out of the way when she wanted to open or close the sash.
And, as far as she could see, any one could open it from the outside as
easily as from the room itself.
“And that's just what she did,” decided Nan. “How foolish of me not to
think of it before.”
With this enigmatical observation Nan prepared to leave the room by this
very means. She was agile, and the sill of the window was only three
feet from the ground. It was through this opening that she had helped
Margaret Llewellen into her room on the first occasion that odd child
had visited her.
Nan jumped out, let the screen down softly, and hurried across the
unfenced yard to the road. She knew well enough when she reached the
public track, despite the darkness for the mirey clay stuck to her shoes
and made the walking difficult.
She flashed her lamp once, to get her bearings, and then set off down
the lane toward the swamp road. There was not a light in any house she
passed, not even in Mr. Fen Llewellen's cottage. “I guess Margaret's
fast asleep,” murmured Nan, as she passed swiftly on.
The rain beat down upon the girl steadily, and Nan found it shivery
out here in the dark and storm. However, her reason for coming, Nan
conceived, was a very serious one. This was no foolish escapade.
By showing her light now and then she managed to follow the dark lane
without stepping off into any of the deep puddles which lay beside the
path. She came, finally, to the spot where Rafe had met her and Tom with
his lantern that evening. Here stood the great tree with a big hollow in
it, Margaret Llewellen's favorite playhouse.
For a moment Nan hesitated. The place looked so dark and there might be
something alive in the hollow.
But she plucked up courage and flashed her lamp into it. The white ray
played about the floor of the hollow. The other Llewellen children dared
not come here, for Margaret punished them if they disturbed anything
belonging to her.
What Nan was looking for was not in sight. She stepped inside, and
raised the torch. The rotting wood had been neatly scooped out, and
where the aperture grew smaller at the top a wide shelf had been made by
the ingenious Margaret. Nan had never been in this hide-out before.
“It must be here! It must be here!” she kept telling herself, and stood
on her tiptoes to feel along the shelf, which was above her head.
Nan discovered nothing at first. She felt along the entire length of the
shelf again. Nothing!
“I know better!” she almost sobbed. “My dear, beautiful.”
She jumped up, feeling back on the shelf with her right hand. Her
fingers touched something, and it was not the rotting wood of the tree!
“It's there!” breathed the excited girl. She flashed her lamp around,
searching for something to stand upon. There in the corner was a roughly
made footstool.
In a moment Nan had the footstool set in position, and had stepped upon
it. Her hand darted to the back of the shelf. There was a long box, a
pasteboard box.
Nan dropped her lamp with a little scream of ecstasy, and of course the
light went out. But she had the long box clasped in her arms. She could
not wait to get home with it, but tumbled off the stool and sat down
upon it, picked up the torch, held it so the round spot-light gave her
illumination, and untied the string.
Off came the cover. She peeped within. The pink and white loveliness of
Beulah's wax features peered up at her.
In fifteen minutes Nan was back in her room, without being discovered by
anybody, and with the doll safely clasped in her arms. Indeed, she went
to bed a second time that night with her beloved playmate lying on the
pillow beside her, just as she had done when a little girl.
“I suppose I'm foolish,” she confessed to Aunt Kate the next morning
when she told her about it. “But I loved Beulah so much when I was
little that I can't forget her now. If I go to Lakeview Hall I'm going
to take her with me. I don't care what the other girls say!”
“You are faithful in your likes, child,” said Aunt Kate nodding. “'Tis a
good trait. But I'd like to lay that Marg'ret Llewellen across my knee,
for her capers.”
“And I didn't think she cared for dolls,” murmured Nan.
But it was young Bob who betrayed the mysterious reason for his sister's
act.
“Huh!” he said, with a boy's disgust for such things. “Mag's crazy about
pretty faces, if they're smooth, an' pink. She peeked into that Sherwood
gal's room and seed her playin' doll; then she had ter have it for
herself 'cause it was so pretty and had a smooth face, not like the
kids' dolls that Aunt Matildy buyed.”
Poor little Margaret was greatly chagrined at the discovery of her
secret. She ran away into the woods whenever she saw Nan coming, for a
long time thereafter. It took weeks for the girl from Tillbury to regain
the half-wild girl's confidence again.
Nan was just as busy and happy as she could be, considering the
uncertain news from Scotland and Uncle Henry's unfortunate affair with
Gedney Raffer. She helped Aunt Kate with the housework early every
morning so that they might both hurry into the woods to pick berries.
Pine Camp was in the midst of a vast huckleberry country, and at the
Forks a cannery had been established. Beside, the Forks was a big
shipping centre for the fresh berries.
Uncle Henry bought crates and berry “cups,” and sometimes the whole
family picked all day long in the berry pasture, taking with them a cold
luncheon, and eating it picnic fashion.
It was great fun, Nan thought, despite the fact that she often came home
so wearied that her only desire was to drop into bed. But the best part
of it, the saving grace of all this toil, was the fact that she was
earning money for herself! Account was faithfully kept of every cup of
berries she picked, and, when Uncle Henry received his check from the
produce merchant to whom he shipped the berries, Nan was paid her share.
These welcome earnings she saved for a particular purpose, and for no
selfish one, you may be sure. Little Margaret Llewellen still ran from
her and Nan wished to win the child back; so she schemed to do this.
After all, there was something rather pitiful in the nature of the child
who so disliked any face that was “wizzled,” but loved those faces that
were fair and smooth.
Margaret only possessed a feeling that is quite common to humanity; she
being such a little savage, she openly expressed an emotion that many of
us have, but try to hide.
The Llewellen children picked berries, of course, as did most of the
other neighbors. Pine Camp was almost a “deserted village” during the
season when the sweet, blue fruit hung heavy on the bushes.
Sometimes the Sherwood party, and the Llewellens, would cross each
others' paths in the woods, or pastures; but little Margaret always
shrank into the background. If Nan tried to surprise her, the half wild
little thing would slip away into the deeper woods like one of its own
denizens.
Near the river one day Margaret had an experience that should have
taught her a lesson, however, regarding wandering alone in the forest.
And the adventure should, too, have taught the child not to shrink so
from an ugly face.
Nan had something very important to tell Margaret. Her savings had
amounted to quite a goodly sum and in the catalog of a mail-order
house she had found something of which she wished to secure Margaret's
opinion. The child, as usual, ran away when they met, and even Bob could
not bring her back.
“She's as obstinate as dad's old mu-el,” grunted the disgusted boy.
“Can't do a thing with her, Nan Sherwood.”
“I'll just get her myself!” declared Nan, laughing, and she started into
the thicker woods to circumvent Margaret. She did not follow the river
as the smaller girl had, but struck into the bush, intending to circle
around and head Margaret off.
She had not pushed her way through the clinging vines and brush for ten
minutes before she heard somebody else in the jungle. She thought it was
the little girl, at first; then she caught sight of a man's hat and knew
that Margaret did not wear a hat at all.
“Goodness! Who can that be?” thought Nan. She was a little nervous about
approaching strange people in the wood; although at this season there
was nothing to apprehend from stragglers, there were so many berry
pickers within call.
Nan did not seek to overtake the man, however, and would have kept on
in her original direction, had she not heard a cry and a splitting crash
toward the river bank. Some accident had happened, and when Nan heard
the scream repeated, she was sure that the voice was that of Margaret.
So she set off directly, on a run, tearing her dress and scratching her
hands and face, but paying no attention to either misfortune. She only
wanted to get to the scene of the accident and lend her aid, if it was
needed.
And it would have been needed if it had not been for the man whose hat
she had seen a few moments before. He made his passage through the bush
much quicker than could Nan, and when the latter reached an opening
where she could see the river, the stranger was just leaping into the
deep pool under the high bank.
It was plain to be seen what had happened. A sycamore overhung the
river and somebody had climbed out upon a small branch to reach a few
half-ripened grapes growing on a vine that ran up the tree.
The branch had split, drooping downward, and the adventurous
grape-gatherer had been cast into the water.
“Oh, Margaret!” screamed Nan, confident that it was the reckless child
that was in peril.
She hurried to the brink of the low bluff, from which the rescuer had
plunged. He had already seized the child (there was an eddy here under
the bank) and was striking out for the shore. Nan saw his wet face, with
the bedraggled hair clinging about it.
It was the awfully scarred face of Injun Pete; but to the excited Nan,
at that moment, it seemed one of the most beautiful faces she had ever
seen!
The Indian reached the bank, clung to a tough root, and lifted up the
gasping Margaret for Nan to reach. The girl took the child and scrambled
up the bank again; by the time she was at the top, Injun Pete was beside
her.
“She not hurt, Little missy,” said the man, in his soft voice, and
turning his face so that Nan should not see it. “She just scared.”
Margaret would not even cry. She was too plucky for that. When she got
her breath she croaked:
“Put me down, Nan Sherwood. I ain't no baby.”
“But you're a very wet child,” said Nan, laughing, yet on the verge of
tears herself. “You might have been drowned, you WOULD have been had it
not been for Mr. Indian Pete.”
“Ugh!” whispered Margaret. “I seen him when I come up out o' that nasty
water. I wanted to go down again.”
“Hush, Margaret!” cried Nan, sternly. “You must thank him.”
The man was just then moving away. He shook himself like a dog coming
out of the stream, and paid no further attention to his own wet
condition.
“Wait, please!” Nan called after him.
“She all right now,” said the Indian.
“But Margaret wants to thank you, don't you, Margaret?”
“Much obleeged,” said the little girl, bashfully. “You air all right,
you air.”
“That all right, that all right,” said the man, hurriedly. “No need to
thank me.”
“Yes, there is,” said Nan, insistently. “Come here, please. Margaret
wants to kiss you for saving her life.”
“Oh!” The word came out of Margaret's lips like an explosion. Nan stared
very sternly at her. “If you don't,” she said in a low tone, “I'll tell
your father all about how you came to fall into the river.”
Under this threat Margaret became amenable. She puckered up her lips
and stretched her arms out toward Indian Pete. The man stumbled back and
fell on his knees beside the two girls. Nan heard the hoarse sob in his
throat as he took little Margaret in his arms.
“Bless you! Bless you!” he murmured, receiving the kiss right upon his
scarred cheek. But Nan saw that Margaret's eyes were tightly closed as
she delivered the caress, per order!
The next moment the man with the scarred face had slipped away and
disappeared in the forest. They saw him no more.
However, just as soon as the catalog house could send it, Margaret
received a beautiful, pink-cheeked, and flaxen-haired Doll, not as fine
as Beulah, but beautiful enough to delight any reasonable child.
Nan had won back Margaret's confidence and affection.
Meanwhile the hot summer was fast passing. Nan heard from her chum, Bess
Harley, with commendable regularity; and no time did Bess write without
many references to Lakeview Hall.
Nan, advised by her former teacher in Tillbury, had brought her books to
Pine Camp, and had studied faithfully along the lines of the high school
work. She was sure she could pass quite as good an entrance examination
for Lakeview Hall as Bess could.
And at last good news came from Scotland:
“I am not quite ready to bring Momsey home,” Papa Sherwood wrote. “But
the matter of her fortune is at least partially settled. The claims of
the other relatives have been disallowed. Mr. Andrew Blake is prepared
to turn over to your Momsey a part of her wonderful fortune. The rest
will come later. She will tell you all about it herself.
“What I wish to say to you particularly in this letter,” pursued Mr.
Sherwood, “is, that arrangements have been made for you to attend
Lakeview Hall this coming semester. You will meet your friend, Elizabeth
Harley, in Chicago, and will go with her to the school. I am writing by
this mail to the principal of the Hall. Mr. Harley has made all other
necessary arrangements for you.”
“Oh!” cried Nan, clasping her hands. “It's too good to be true! It can't
be possible! I just know I'll wake up in a minute and find all this an
exciting dream, and that's all!”
But Nan was wrong on that point, as the reader will see if her further
adventures are followed in the next volume of the series, entitled, “Nan
Sherwood at Lakeview Hall, or, The Mystery of the Haunted Boathouse.”
While Nan was still intensely excited over this letter from Scotland,
Toby Vanderwiller drove up to the Sherwood house behind his broken-kneed
pony. This was the first time any of the Sherwoods had seen him since
the day of the big storm and the fire in the sawdust.