Maida's little house

by Inez Haynes Gillmore

CHAPTER XV ARTHUR’S ADVENTURE

It was after eleven, a cloudless night and a beautiful one. A great white moon filled the sky with white light and covered the earth with a thin film of silver. The barn door opened slowly and noiselessly. Arthur emerged. Padding the grass as quickly as possible, he moved in the direction of the trail; turned into it. For a while he proceeded swiftly. But once out of hearing of the Little House he moved more slowly and without any efforts to deaden his footsteps. That his excursion had a purpose was apparent from the way that, without pause or stay of any kind, he made steadily forward. It was obvious that the Magic Mirror was his objective.

He dipped into the Bosky Dingle and there, perhaps because the air was so densely laden with flower perfumes, he stopped. Only for an instant however. After sniffing the air like some wild creature he went on. Presently he came out on the shore of the lake. Taking a key from his pocket, he opened the little boathouse in which, since the accident, the canoes were nightly locked; pulled one of them out; shoved it into the water. He seated himself in it and started to paddle across the pond.

Curiously enough, however, he did not strike straight across the Magic Mirror. He kept close to the edge as though afraid of observation; slipped whenever he could under overhanging boughs; took advantage of every bit of low-drooping bush. So stealthy and so silent was his progress indeed that from the middle of the lake he might not have been observed at all. This was however a slow method. It was nearly midnight when he reached the point about opposite the boathouse, which was apparently his objective. He stopped short of it, however; tied the canoe to a tree trunk, just where a half-broken bough concealed it completely; stepped lightly ashore. Apparently he had landed here before. There developed, under the moonlight, a little side trail which led in the direction of the main trail. He took it.

Now his movements were attended by much greater caution. He went slowly and he put his feet down with the utmost care even in the cleared portions of the trail. Wherever underbrush intervened, he took great care to skirt it or, with a long quiet leap or a prolonged straddle, to surmount it so that no sound came from the process. It was surprising, in a boy so lumbering and with feet and hands so large, with what delicacy he picked his way. Indeed, he moved with extraordinary speed and a surprising quiet.

A little distance up the trail, he turned again. This time, he took a path so little worn that nothing but a full moon would have revealed its existence. Arthur struck into it with the air of one who has been there before; followed it with a perfect confidence. At times, it ceased to be a path at all; merged with underbrush and low trees. But he must, on an earlier excursion, have blazed a pioneer way through those obstacles because each time he made without hesitation for the only spot which offered egress; emerged on the other side with the same quiet and dispatch. He went on and on, proceeding with a greatly increased swiftness but with no diminution of his caution.

After a while, he came into ordered country. Obviously he had struck the cleared land that, for so many acres, surrounded the Big House. Now he moved like a shadow but at a smart clip. He had the confident air of one familiar with the lay of the land. After a while, he struck a wide avenue of trees—Mr. Westabrook had taught him its French name, an allee. This was one of five, all beginning at the Big House and ending with a fountain or a statue. Arthur proceeded under the shade of the trees until he came out near the Big House. Then he swung himself up among the branches of a tree; found a comfortable crotch; seated himself, his back against the trunk. With a forked stick he parted the branches; watched.

The moon was riding high now and, as the night was still cloudless, it was pouring white fire over the earth. The great lawn in front of the Big House looked like silvered velvet. Half way down its length, like a jet of shredded crystal, the fountain still played into its white marble basin. Out of reach of its splashing flood, as though moored against its marble sides, four swans, great feathery heaps of snow, slept with their heads under their wings. As Arthur stared a faint perturbation stirred the air, as though somewhere at the side of the house—unseen by him—a motor pulsed to rest. Presently a high, slim dog—Arthur recognized it to be a Russian boar-hound; white, pointed nose, long tail—came sauntering across the lawn. He poked his nose into the basin of the fountain. One of the swans made a strange, low sleepy cry; moved aimlessly about for an instant, then came to rest and to sleep, apart from his companions. The hound moved into the shrubbery; returned to the lawn.

As though the swan’s call or the dog’s nosing had evoked it, one of the white peacocks emerged from the woods, spreading his tail with a superb gesture of pride and triumph. The long white hound considered the exhibition gravely. The peacock, consciously proud, sauntered over the velvet surface of the lawn for a while alone. Then a companion joined him and another. Finally, there were three great snowy sails floating with a majestic movement across the grass. The display ended as soon as it began. One of the trio suddenly returned to the treey shade; the other two immediately followed. The lawn was deserted by all except the fountain, which kept up untiringly its exquisite plaint. The boar-hound sped noiselessly towards the house.