Maida's little house

by Inez Haynes Gillmore

Arthur’s first inclination was to call. But something within him warned him not to do that. Something just as imperative advised him to another course of action. He waited a moment or two to let Silva get far enough ahead, so that she could not possibly hear his footsteps. Then he followed her.

She walked with an extraordinary swiftness—so swiftly indeed that Arthur was put to it to keep up with her. However she had the advantage over him in that she knew the trail perfectly. Her feet stumbled over no obstacles; her arms hit no protruding branches; her face brushed against no scratchy twigs. She moved indeed as though it were day. Arthur was in a difficult situation. He must walk quickly to keep up with her; but if he walked too quickly she would certainly hear him.

Presently she came to the place in the trail where it turned at right angles on itself. Arthur, anticipating this, stopped in the shadow of a tree in the far side of the path. Silva turned swiftly. It happened that she did glance indifferently backwards over the way in which she had come. But she could not have seen Arthur; for she went on at the same composed high pace. But Arthur saw that she was carrying under her arm a bottle of milk.

Arthur quickened his cautious footsteps; came in his turn to the fork in the trail. There was Silva ahead, her white skirt fluttering on both sides of her vigorous walking, much as the white foam of the sea flutters away from the prow of the ship. She kept straight on and Arthur kept straight on. The moon dipped behind clouds and dove out of them; flashed her great blaze on the earth and shadowed it again. On and on they went, the stalker and the stalked. They were approaching the Moraine. Big stones began to lift out of the underbrush on either side. Some were like great tables, flat and smooth; comfortable and comforting. Others were perturbing—like huge monsters that had thrust themselves out of the earth, were resting on their front paws or their haunches even. Layers of rust-colored leaves—the leaves that had been for many years falling—lay between them. And now and then the moonlight caught on the rocks with a black glisten and on the leaves with a red gleam; for the dew was falling.

Arthur began to wonder what he should do. He somehow took it for granted that Silva was going to the Moraine; mainly because there seemed no other place for her to go; though for what purpose he could not guess. If for any reason she stopped there, he must soon become visible to her. Indeed there were only two courses for him to take: retreat by the path over which he had come or through the wood on either side. He could not make up his mind to turn back. If he took the second course, he would undoubtedly get lost. He would have to wait for daylight to find his way home and that, he recognized at once, would be stretching inexcusably the generous liberty which Mr. Westabrook had given him. He might call to Silva. But again something inside seemed to warn him not to make his presence known. He continued to follow the vigorous figure ahead.

As though she were approaching the end of her journey, Silva was hurrying faster and faster. Arthur hurried too. Silva broke into what was a half run. It would have been, Arthur felt, a complete run, if she were not carrying the bottle of milk so carefully. Arthur seethed with perplexity. Why was she speeding so? What could she possibly have to do at this spot and at this hour? What could require such urgent haste? Well, perhaps he would know in another moment.

And then suddenly strange things happened all at once.

Silva’s rapid progress had, as it apparently neared its object, become less careful. At any rate, an overhanging briar caught her hair; pulled her up sharply. In her first effort to extricate herself, Silva turned completely about; caught sight of Arthur’s figure a little way down the trail.

She started so convulsively that even Arthur could see it. Then with a swift wrench of her slender hand she tore her hair away; turned and ran like a deer in the direction of the Moraine.

Arthur ran too. And as he ran he called, “Don’t be afraid, Silva. It’s Arthur Duncan from the Little House. Don’t mind me! I won’t hurt you.”