THE PLAN
“When did you land?” “Why didn’t you let us know?” “How long are you
going to stay?” “Did your father come too?” “Where’s Billy Potter?”
“How’s Dr. Pierce?” And “Oh how you’ve grown!”
Maida tried to answer them all; to hug each of the girls who were
hugging her all together; to hold out a hand to each of the three boys
who seemed all to shake both her hands at once; to manage to kiss Betsy
Hale, who hearing the name Maida shouted, vaguely recalled that there
had once been a Maida whom she loved; and who thereupon, hung tight to
one of her legs; to manage to kiss Delia Dore who had no remembrance
of Maida whatever but in imitation of Betsy, hung tight to the other
leg; and in addition to call to Molly and Timmie and Dorothy and Mabel
who remembered her perfectly and who danced like little wild Indians on
the outskirts of the crowd, yelling, “Maida’s come back! Maida’s come
back!” at the top of their lungs.
All this took much less time to happen than it has taken to describe,
and it was suddenly interrupted by the rapid opening of the door to the
Dore yard. A little old Irish woman with silvery hair and with a face
as wrinkled as a nut, came rushing out, her arms extended calling, “My
lamb’s come back! My lamb’s come back!”
Maida ran to her and hugged her ecstatically. “Oh, dear Granny Flynn!”
she said, “Dear, dear Granny Flynn!”
Then there appeared back of Granny Flynn, Mrs. Dore--Granny Flynn’s
daughter; Delia and Dicky Dore’s mother--who had to be met in the same
affectionate way. Mrs. Dore was a tall, brown, fresh-complexioned
woman. It was from her that Dicky inherited his brown coloring and
Delia her sparkling expression.
“I’d never know you for the same child,” Mrs. Dore said.
Of course the grown people claimed Maida’s attention first. They
showered her with questions and she answered them every one with all
her old-time courtesy and consideration. Was she well? Well! But look
at her! When did she land? She had landed the day before in New York;
had come on the midnight to Boston. Where was she living? At their
home on Beacon Street. Would she stay to lunch? Yes! Yes! _Yes!_ Her
father had said that if she were invited, she could spend the whole
rest of the day in Primrose Court; he would send the car for her late
in the afternoon. Where was she going after that? Her father would tell
them all this afternoon. He had some plans, but they weren’t worked
out yet. Would she be in Boston for a few days? Probably. Then, during
that time, wouldn’t she like to come back to her own rooms over MAIDA’S
LITTLE SHOP? _Would she?_ Oh goody, she could telephone her father to
bring her some clothes.... It went on and on until the older children
stood first on one foot and then on the other with impatience; and the
younger ones went back to their house-keeping game and their frequent
punishments.
But finally the curiosity of this group of grown-ups was satisfied and
the children claimed their prey. A clamorous group--every one of them
telling her some bit of news and all at once--they made the tour of the
Court. They called on Mrs. Lathrop, who mercifully forebore to ask more
than five minutes of questions; and on the Misses Allison, a pair of
middle-aged maiden ladies. Here the confusion doubled itself because
of the noisy screams of Tony the parrot.
Tony kept calling at the top of his croaking voice, “What’s this all
about?” Each of the children tried to tell him, but he was apparently
dissatisfied with their explanations; for he only called the louder and
with greater emphasis, “I _say_--_what_ is this all about?” Finally, in
despair he exclaimed, “Good-night, sweet dreams,” and subsided.
At length, the six of them--Maida, Rosie, Laura, Arthur, Dicky and
Harold--retired to the Lathrop lawn and plumped down on the grass. They
talked and talked and talked....
“How you have grown, Maida!” Rosie said first. “How tall you are and
strong-looking!” She would have added, “And how pretty!” if the boys
had not been there, but shyness kept her from making so personal a
comment in their presence.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking about you,” Maida laughed, “but
then you have all grown, Arthur particularly.” In her candid, friendly
way, she surveyed them, one after another. “You are taller too, Laura,
and I believe even your hair has grown.”
“It certainly has,” Laura admitted. Laura’s hair was extraordinarily
long and thick. It hung in two light-brown braids, very glossy, not a
hair out of place, to below Laura’s waist. At the tip of each braid was
a big pale blue bow.
“As for you, Rosie, you are still taller than I, I’m afraid.”
“Let’s measure,” Rosie answered springing to her feet.
The two girls stood shoulder to shoulder. Rosie, it proved, was a
little the taller. Maida continued to look at her after they had
resumed their places on the grass. “What a beauty she is,” she thought;
and she too was withheld by shyness and a sense of delicacy from making
this comment before the others.
Rosie was certainly handsome. Tall, active, proud-looking; great
black eyes lighted by stars; a mass of black hair breaking into high
waves and half curls; cheeks as smooth as satin and stained a deep
crimson--ivory-white, jet-black, coral-crimson--that was Rosie. Maida
had always called her Rose-Red.
“But the greatest change has come in Dicky and me,” Maida ended. “We
have both lost our lameness. You don’t limp, Dicky, and I don’t. Let’s
race to the gate and back.”
Dicky was on his feet in a minute. Arthur called, “One to make ready,
two for a show--” At the word, “_Go_” they were off. Dicky was more
active but Maida was taller. The race finished a tie.
The blood which Maida’s running brought to her cheeks painted roses
there; not the deep crimson roses which bloomed perpetually in Rosie’s
face but transient blossoms, delicately pink. And under that flush, her
face, a healthy ivory, looked well. Her big gray eyes were filled with
happiness and the torrent of her pale-gold feathery hair seemed to gush
from her head like living light.
They sat and talked until luncheon and immediately after luncheon
gathered on the lawn and talked again. Maida still had questions to ask
and comments to make.
“You have all grown,” she said once, “but somehow I think the little
children have grown the most and Dorothy and Mabel more than anybody!
Their eyes still look like great blue marbles and their hair as though
it had been curled over a candlestick. Isn’t it marvelous how they
keep exactly the same height. Twins are magical creatures, aren’t
they? As for Betsy and Delia--they’re great big girls. I suppose Betsy
still runs away every chance she gets. On the whole I think Molly and
Timmie have changed the least. Does Timmie still fall into all the
‘pud-muddles?’ Molly still looks like a darling brown robin and Timmie
like a brown bogle. Don’t you remember I used to call them Robin and
Bogle.”
The children answered all her questions. Yes, Betsy still ran away. No,
Bogle had quieted down. He didn’t fall into “pud-muddles” any more. Of
course they had their questions to ask Maida about her year in Europe.
And she told them of her experiences in Italy, Switzerland, France,
and England. But though she answered them instantly, and with the
fullness of detail which had always been her characteristic, it seemed
at moments as though her mind were not all on what she was saying. Once
or twice, she even interrupted herself to start something which had
nothing to do with her subject. But apparently, both times, she thought
better of it and checked a tongue which obviously was yearning to speed
on in the interest of that unknown subject.
“There’s something you want to tell us Maida,” Dicky guessed shrewdly
once. “But you won’t let yourself.”
Maida blushed furiously but her eyes danced. She did not answer. Rosie,
thereupon, continued to watch her closely. “Maida Westabrook, you’re
almost bursting over something,” she said once; then as though with an
inspiration, “You’ve got a plan of some kind and I know it.”
Again Maida blushed and this time she laughed outright. “Wait and see!”
was all she said, however.
After they had talked themselves out, they showed Maida the accumulated
treasures of the last year. The wood-carving, which was Arthur’s
accomplishment and the paper-work which was Dicky’s, had improved
enormously. The beautiful box of tools that Mr. Westabrook had
presented to the one and the big box of paints that he had given the
other, were of course important factors in the improvement. Laura still
danced beautifully and she danced her latest dance for Maida--a Spanish
fandango. Harold was raising rabbits and he showed his entire family
to Maida. At the urge of all this work, Rosie, who hated the sight of
a needle, had taken in despair, to knitting. She could endure knitting
she told Maida because the work grew so fast. She herself said though
that the less said about the results of her labor, the better. And
Maida frankly agreed with her when she examined some of it.
After this the group returned to the yard for more talk.
Somehow they didn’t feel like playing games. Late in the afternoon,
they sprinkled the flower beds and hosed the lawn for Mrs. Lathrop.
Then as this made further sitting on the grass impossible, they retired
to the tiny Dore yard with its amusing little flower bed and its one
patch of grass. There was just about room for their group there. They
sat down. Again they asked Maida about her travels. But now Maida was
distinctly absent-minded. Suddenly in the midst of a description of
Pompeii, there sounded a long, faint far-away call of an automobile
horn. It broke, like a fire-rocket, into a flurry of star notes; then
dropped a long liquid jet of sound which, again like a fire-rocket,
dropped another shower of notes. The effect on Maida was electric. She
came upright, quivering.
“That’s father,” she said. “_Now_ I can tell you what I’ve been biting
my lips all the morning to keep back. I didn’t want to tell you until
he was here to talk to your fathers and mothers. But, oh, we’ve got
such a beautiful plan for the summer-- Oh it’s so wonderful that it
seems like a fairy tale.”
The long jet of sound lengthened ... came nearer....
“Father wants you all to come to spend the summer with us at Satuit.
He’s going to do the most beautiful thing you ever heard of in your
life. Just as he gave me Maida’s Little Shop, he is going to give me
Maida’s Little House. _He_ is going to live in the Big House where
he can have all the grown-up company he wants and _we_ are going to
live in the Little House. The Little House is so far away from the Big
House that nobody would ever guess we were there. Oh, but it’s all so
beautiful and there are so many things to tell about it that I don’t
know where to begin. For one thing he’s going to let us all help in--
We girls are to do our part in the--And the boys are to take care of
the-- Oh it is such a duck of a house! Built very near a great big pond
and not so very far off--the ocean. And there’s a wood and House Rock
and the Bosky Dingle ... and.... Oh, I don’t know how to tell you about
it....”
She stopped for breath.
The horn came nearer and nearer.
The five faces stared at her. For one astounded instant nobody could
speak.
“Oh Maida!” at last Rosie breathed. The two girls threw themselves upon
her; Arthur rose and then suddenly sat down again but Dicky kept quite
still his eyes full of stars. “I knew you’d have some plan, Maida,” he
said. Harold, unexpectedly, turned a somersault.
“I know I’m dreaming,” Laura almost whispered.
The horn stopped. A great gray car turned into Primrose Court. A
man, middle-aged, tall, massive and with a pronounced stoop to his
shoulders, stepped out. He turned a head, big and shaggy as a buffalo,
in the direction of Maida’s Little Shop. The piercing eyes, fierce and
keen as an eagle’s, seemed to penetrate its very walls. This was Jerome
Westabrook whom the world called, “Buffalo” Westabrook.
Maida dashed out of the yard, the children trailing her.
“Oh father, father, I’ve told them, I’ve told them! I couldn’t keep it
any longer after I heard the horn.”