Chapter XX. NAN'S SECRET
But Margaret Llewellen declared she would not go with her!
"It's nasty in the Tam'rack swamp; and there's frogs and, and snakes.Ketch me! And as fur goin' ter see Tobe and his old woman, huh! They'reboth as ugly as sin."
"Why, Margaret!" exclaimed Nan, in horror. "How you talk!"
"Wal, it's so. I don't like old, wizzled-up folks, I don't, now I tellye!"
"That sounds awfully cruel," said Nan, soberly.
"Huh!" snorted Margaret, no other word would just express her manner ofshowing disgust. "There ain't no reason why I should go 'round makin'believe likin' them as I don't like. Dad useter take the hide off'n meand Bob for lyin'; an' then he'd stand an' palaver folks that he jestcouldn't scurce abide, fur I heard him say so. That's lyin', too ain'tit?"
"I, I don't believe it is right to criticize our parents," returned Nan,dodging the sharp girl's question.
"Mebbe yourn don't need criticizin'," responded Margaret, bluntly. "Mydad ain't no angel, you kin bet."
And it was a fact that the Llewellen family was a peculiar one, from"Gran'ther" down to Baby Bill, whom Margaret did not mind taking careof when he was not "all broke out with the rash on his face." The girl'sdislike for any countenance that was not of the smoothest, or skin ofthe softest texture, seemed strange indeed.
Margaret's mother was dead. She had five brothers and sisters ofassorted ages, up to 'Lonzo, who was sixteen and worked in the woodslike Nan's cousins.
Aunt Matilda kept house for the motherless brood, and for Gran'ther andMr. Fen Llewellen. They lived in a most haphazard fashion, for, althoughthey were not really poor, the children never seemed to have any decentclothing to wear; and if, by chance, they got a new garment, somethingalways happened to it as, for instance, the taking of Margaret's newgingham by Bob as a dress for old Beagle.
As the Llewellens were close neighbors of the Sherwoods, Nan saw muchof Margaret. The local school closed soon after the visitor had cometo Pine Camp, and Nan had little opportunity of getting acquaintedwith other girls, save at the church service, which was held in theschoolhouse only every other Sunday. There was no Sunday School at PineCamp, even for the very youngest of the children.
Nan talked to Aunt Kate about that. Aunt Kate was the verykindest-hearted woman that ever lived; but she had little initiativeherself about anything outside her own house. "Goodness knows, I'd liketo see the kiddies gathered together on Sunday afternoon and taught goodthings," she signed; "but lawsy, Nan! I'm not the one to do it. I'm notgood enough myself."
"Didn't you teach Tom and Rafe, and--and--" Nan stopped. She had almostmentioned the two older boys of her aunt's, whom she had heard weredestroyed in the Pale Lick fire. Aunt Kate did not notice, for she wenton to say:
"Why--yes; I taught Tom and Rafe to say their prayers, and I hope theysay 'em now, big as they are. And we often read the Bible. It's a greatcomfort, the main part of it. I never did take to the 'begats,' though."
"But couldn't we," suggested Nan, "interest other people and gather thechildren together on Sundays? Perhaps the old gentleman who comes hereto preach every fortnight might help."
"Elder Posey's not here but three hours or so, any time. Just longenough to give us the word and grab a bite at somebody's house. Poor oldman! He attends three meetings each Sunday, all different, and lives ona farm at Wingate weekdays where he has to work and support his family.
"He doesn't get but fifty dollars a year from each church, it's notmaking him a millionaire very fast," pursued Aunt Kate, with a softlittle laugh. "Poor old man! I wish we could pay him more; but PineCamp's not rich."
"You all seem to have enough and to spare, Auntie," said Nan, who was anobservant girl for her age. "Nobody here is really poor."
"Not unless he's right down lazy," said her aunt, vigorously.
"Then I should think they'd build a proper church and give a ministersome more money, so that he could afford to have a Sunday School aswell."
"Lawsy me, Nan!" exclaimed her aunt. "The men here in Pine Camp haven'tbeen woke up to such things. They hate to spend that fifty dollars forElder Posey, they'd get a cheaper man if there were such. There's neverbeen much out of the common happen here at Pine Camp. It takes troubleand destruction to wake folks up to their Christian duty in these woods.Now, at Pale Lick they've got a church-----"
She stopped suddenly, and her face paled, while the ugly scar on herneck seemed to glow; but that may have been only in contrast. Aunt Kateturned away her head, and finally arose and went into her own room andclosed the door. Nan dared not continue the subject when the good womancame out again, and the talk of a Sunday School for Pine Camp, for thetime being, was ended.
There were hours when the girl from Tillbury was very lonely indeed.Writing to Bess and other girl friends in her old home town and penninglong letters on thin paper to Momsey and Papa Sherwood in Scotland, didnot fill all of these hours when Nan shut herself into that east room.
Sometimes she pulled down the paper shades and opened the clothes closetdoor, bringing out the long box she had hidden away there on the firstday she had come to Pine Camp. In that box, wrapped in soft tissuepaper, and dressed in the loveliest gown made by Momsey's own skillfulfingers, was the great doll that had been given to Nan on her tenthbirthday.
When girls went to high school, of course they were supposed to put awaydolls, together with other childish things. But Nan Sherwood never couldneglect her doll-babies and had often spent whole rainy days playingwith them in secret in the attic of the little house on Amity Street.
Her other dolls had been left, carefully wrapped and shielded from themice, at Tillbury; but Nan had been unable to leave Beautiful Beulahbehind. She packed her in the bottom of her trunk, unknown even toMomsey in the hurry of departure. She had not told a soul here at PineCamp that she possessed a doll; she knew the boys would make fun of herfor sure.
But she often sat behind the drawn shades nursing the big doll andcrooning softly to it as she swung back and forth in the springrocking-chair. Tom had oiled the springs for her so that it no longercreaked.
She did not confide even in Aunt Kate about the big doll. They were allvery kind to her; but Nan had a feeling that she ought to be grown uphere among her backwoods relatives. How could she ever face roguish Rafeif he knew she liked to "play dolls?"
Fearing that even Margaret would tell, Nan had never shown the woodsgirl Beautiful Beulah. Once she was afraid Margaret had come to thewindow to peep in when Nan had the doll out of her hiding place; but shewas not sure, and Nan hoped her secret was still inviolate. At least,Margaret never said a word about it.
Margaret's sisters had dolls made of corncobs, and rag babies withpainted faces like the one Margaret had thrown into the river anddrowned; but Margaret turned up her nose at them all. She never seemedto want to "play house" as do most girls of her age. She preferred torun wild, like a colt, with Bob in the woods and swamp.
Margaret did not wish to go into the swamp with Nan, however, on herfirst visit to Toby Vanderwiller's little farm. This was some weeksafter the log drives, and lumbering was over for the season. Uncle Henryand the boys, rather than be idle, were working every acre they owned,and Nan was more alone than she had ever been since coming to Pine Camp.
She had learned the way to Toby's place, the main trail through theswamp going right by the hummock on which the old man's farm wassituated. She knew there was a corduroy road most of the way--that is, aroad built of logs laid side by side directly over the miry ground. Savein very wet weather this road was passable for most vehicles.
The distance was but three miles, however, and Nan liked walking.Besides, nobody who has not seen a tamarack swamp in late spring orearly summer, can ever imagine how beautiful it is. Nan never missedhuman companionship when she was on the long walks she so often took inthe woods.
She had learned now that, despite her adventure with the lynx in thesnow-drifted hollow, there was scarcely any animal to fear about PineCamp.
Bears had not been seen for years; bobcats were very infrequentlymet with and usually ran like scared rabbits; foxes were of courseshy, and the nearest approach to a wolf in all that section was TobyVanderwiller's wolfhound that had once frightened Nan so greatly.
Hares, rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, and many, many birds, peopledthe forest and swamp. In sunken places where the green water stood andsteamed in the sun, turtles and frogs were plentiful; and occasionally asnake, as harmless as it was wicked looking, slid off a water-soaked logat Nan's approach and slipped under the oily surface of the pool.
On the day Nan walked to Toby's place the first time, she saw manywonders of plant life along the way, exotics clinging to rotten logsand stumps; fronds of delicate vines that she had never before heardof; ferns of exquisite beauty. And flashing over them, and sucking honeyfrom every cuplike flower, were shimmering humming-birds and marvelouslymarked butterflies.
The birds screamed or sang or chattered over the girl's head as shetripped along. Squirrels peeped at her, barked, and then whisked theirtails in rapid flight. Through the cool, dark depths where the forestmonarchs had been untouched by the woodsmen, great moths winged theirlazy flight. Nan knew not half of the creatures or the wonderful plantsshe saw.
There were sounds in the deeps of the swamplands that she did notrecognize, either. Some she supposed must be the voices of huge frogs;other notes were bird-calls that she had never heard before. Butsuddenly, as she approached a turn in the corduroy road, her ear wassmitten by a sound that she knew very well indeed.
It was a man's voice, and it was not a pleasant one. It caused Nan tohalt and look about for some place to hide until the owner of the voicewent by. She feared him because of his harsh tones, though she did not,at the moment, suspect who it was.
Then suddenly she heard plainly a single phrase: "I'd give money, I tellye, to see Hen Sherwood git his!"