TWILIGHT
“I think that Silva Burle was just horrid!” Rosie burst out suddenly.
“Just horrid!” she repeated with an enraged accent. “I never took such
a dislike to a girl in my life. I just simply despise her!”
The three little girls were in the rose garden. It was just after
luncheon and Granny Flynn had said they must do something in the way of
quiet exercise, before they went to swim in the Magic Mirror. They had
decided to decorate the house with flowers.
“She was rather horrid, wasn’t she?” Maida agreed absently. “So was her
brother.”
“You expect boys to have bad manners,” Laura commented scathingly, “but
a girl ought to behave herself better than that. She made me so mad I
wanted to stick my tongue out at her.”
“I wanted to box her ears,” announced Rosie fiercely.
“She seemed to take such a dislike to us--just on sight!” Maida went
on. “I don’t understand it. We didn’t do anything to her. We--”
“Why we’d never even seen her before,” Rosie interrupted in a crescendo
of irritation.
“She acted as though,” Maida went straight on, “she was afraid of us
for some reason, as though she thought we were going to do--” She
paused--“well I don’t know what,” she concluded.
“I hope we never see the disagreeable thing again,” Laura said.
“We probably will,” Maida declared. “We’ll be going to the gypsy camp
all the time, but of course she won’t come to the Little House.”
“If she does,” Rosie threatened, “I’ll tell her to go home.”
Rosie looked cross and she was cross. Ever since the return from the
gypsy camp her tempestuous brows had not smoothed out their knots. Her
eyes alternately burned and flashed and her cheeks were like red roses
on fire.
Characteristically--because she wore red whenever she could--Rosie had
gathered only the crimson roses. She held a great bunch of them now,
and she stood stripping them of their thorns. Laura’s roses were pink;
Maida’s yellow.
“I should think this would be enough,” Maida suggested in a moment.
“Let’s put them in the vases.”
“Shall we mix them all together?” Rosie asked. “One color to each room
is really prettier. Just think how lovely the living room will be with
these great red roses everywhere.”
“Rosie, you shall decide where the flowers go to-day, and the next time
Laura, and the next time me. That’s the only fair way,” Maida declared.
Indoors, Maida took them to the long closet lined with shelves, lighted
by one window and furnished with a small sink, a table and three
chairs, which she called the Flower Closet. On the shelves were vases
and bowls of all colors and sizes; some high and slender; some squatty
and low; of glass and china. For a few minutes conversation languished.
The three little girls were all busy making their selection from
these receptacles; cutting away too long stems and too heavy foliage;
removing thorns.
Rosie as usual--her movements were always as swift as
lightning--finished her work first. She came into the living room
where Maida and Laura--the result of Laura’s idea--were trying bunches
of yellow roses in low jars against bunches of pink ones in high ones.
“I wish I could get that Silva Burle out of my mind,” Rosie burst out
with a sudden return of her irritation. “I keep thinking of her and I
get so mad I’d just like to--”
“Granny says we can go down to the Pond now,” Arthur called suddenly,
popping in the door. “We boys have been lugging the three canoes down
to the Magic Mirror and believe me it’s some hot work. Granny says that
we must put on our bathing suits here to-day.”
Boys and girls raced to their rooms. In a surprisingly brief time they
were back again in bathing suits and bathing shoes; the girls with
rubber caps in brilliant colors.
“Granny says, as Dicky’s the only one that can’t swim, we must all
promise to look after him,” Arthur added warningly on their way to the
Pond.
“I can look after myself,” Dicky remarked huffily.
“I’m only telling you what Granny said,” Arthur stated. Apparently
Granny had put other responsibilities on him because he went on. “I
know you swim in deep water, Rosie, because I’ve seen you, and you too
Harold. But how about you Laura?”
“Well--I’ll show you,” Laura promised caustically.
“You’ll have to,” Arthur told her, “before I’ll let you go over your
head.” He turned to Maida. “How about you?”
“I’m not a fast swimmer nor a strong one,” Maida declared, “but I am
quite accustomed to deep water. I used to go over the side of the yacht
with father every morning in the Mediterranean, and I can swim forever
without getting tired out.”
“All right,” Arthur said. And then, “All in that’s going in!” he
shouted suddenly as the jetty came in sight. He burst into a run and
the file of children raced after him. Over into the water they went in
five tempestuous dives. Only Dicky remained watching them. They came
up almost simultaneously. Arthur and Harold, as a matter of natatorial
compliment, threw into each other’s faces the mud and weeds they had
brought up in their hands. Then they all struck for the middle of the
Pond. They swam with varying degrees of speed--Arthur first as became
his superior size and strength, his superior skill at all things.
Curiously enough Laura, who cut through the water like a thrown knife,
kept a close second to him. The others struggled behind, Maida always
in the rear.
They turned over and stared into the shining sky.
“Now tell us a story Maida!” Rosie said.
Maida began obediently. “Once upon a time,” she said to the
accompaniment of five pairs of hands beating the water, “there lived
a little girl by the name of Rosie. She was probably the naughtiest
little girl in the world--”
“How about Silva Burle?” Rosie interrupted quickly. “You forget her.”
“I’ll tell you what you _do_ forget,” Laura took it up, “poor Dicky
standing there all alone on the pier.”
“Gee,” was all Arthur said, but he turned and swam back, the rest
following him.
“I’m going to give you your first swimming lesson now,” Arthur called
to the disconsolate figure watching them. Arthur swam in shore. He
commanded Dicky to wade into the pond up to his waist.
“Now,” he said, putting one hand under Dicky’s chin, “drop down slowly
until you’re lying flat on the water. I’ll hold you by the chin and by
your bathing suit in the back. Now listen! You’re to do exactly what I
tell you. You’ll think I’m going to drop you but I cross my throat I
won’t. But you see that you follow my directions.”
In a few minutes Dicky was paddling frantically, his eyes almost
bulging out of his head, his lips pursed together; his waving arms and
kicking feet beating the water almost to a lather. “Breathe the way
you always do!” Arthur was shouting. “You poor fish, open your mouth.
Suppose you do swallow some water. It won’t hurt you. Haven’t you ever
drunk any water in your life? Don’t kick up and down. Make your legs go
the way a frog’s does. Don’t go so _fast_. Now I’ll count for you. One!
Two! Three! Four! Breathe, you poor prune! How do you expect you’re
going to swim without any breath in your body?”
The others paddled about, adding their jeers or suggestions; but at
times they frequently deserted for a longer swim. Laura displayed a
number of water tricks--she was as graceful in her swimming as in her
dancing and for a short dash she could go fast. She dove forward,
sideways, and backwards. She sat upright in the water. She turned over
and over in a somersault. Her strength was nothing to that of Rosie’s
however, who seemed never to tire of any physical exercise.
“That will be enough for to-day, Dicky,” Arthur decided finally. “Now
put on these water wings and practice the way I’ve been telling you.
Breathe the way you always do and don’t go too fast. Don’t go into deep
water yet. If the wings should fall off or bust--”
“Burst!” corrected Rosie promptly.
“Collapse,” Arthur substituted with unexpected elegance, “you’ll sink
like a stone.”
“I’ll stay near the shore,” Dicky promised docilely. “You bet,” he
added, “I don’t want to make a hole in the water.”
Shaking off his pedagogical duties, Arthur set off alone for the
middle of the Pond, swimming with the long powerful strokes which
characterized him, his head almost under water.
“What a stroke he has!” Maida commented admiringly. “I’d give anything
if I could cut through the water like that. Why--why who’s that?”
Two heads appeared bobbing on the water at the other side of the
lake. No one of the children had seen anybody emerge from the woods.
The strangers must have come around the curve. The heads came forward
straight towards the middle of the lake. Arthur had reached his goal;
was floating placidly, his arms folded at the back of his neck.
Involuntarily, the other children stood silent and watched. Nearer the
two heads came to Arthur--nearer and nearer. One of them had thick
tossed black hair; the other lighter hair, satiny as the inside of a
nut where the sun caught it on the top of the head; wet and dark as
strings of seaweed in the neck.
“It’s Silva and Tyma Burle,” Rosie exclaimed suddenly. “Oh how they can
swim!”
The two young gypsies had drawn near enough to Arthur for the children
to measure their progress.
“I never saw a girl swim like that,” Laura said with a touch of envy.
“She swims just like a boy.”
Arthur, his ears sunk below the level of the water, had apparently
heard nothing. But now suddenly he threw himself on his side and
paddling just enough to keep afloat, watched the approaching pair in
amazement.
On the Burles came, their eyes fixed on Arthur, their expressions quite
non-committal. Arthur waited.
Suddenly a terrible thing happened! Silva threw up her hands and
screamed. Tyma, a little in advance, turned and swam to her rescue, but
once he had reached his sister’s side she caught him about the neck. It
was all over in a second. The two sank together. The children on the
jetty shrieked. Maida burst into tears. Harold started out at once for
the fatal spot. Rosie made as though to follow him.
“Don’t Rosie,” Laura said with sudden coolness. “You’ll only be in the
way.”
In the meantime, Arthur swam instantly for the spot where brother and
sister had disappeared. He dived at once; staying under the water for
what, to the frightened group on shore, seemed an incredible time. But
he came up; filled his lungs with air; dived again. For the third time
he appeared on the surface. For the third time he dived.
Suddenly many rods away on the top of the water appeared two
heads--Silva’s and Tyma’s. Simultaneously Arthur came up gasping
for air. The Burles managed to wave a hand; broke into high jeering
laughter; then swam rapidly towards the other shore. By this time,
Harold had reached Arthur’s side. Together they started after the
practical jokers but both the boys were spent with their first long
swim of the year. After a while, they turned and rejoined their friends
on the shore.
“Can you beat that?” Arthur demanded. His face had taken on the black
look that rage, with him, always developed. Rosie’s eyes darted
lightnings. Maida had stopped crying and her eyes had changed too. Not
glowering like Rosie’s, they had grown suddenly dark. Laura looked
stupefied. Dicky had turned white. Great shadows jumped out under his
eyes.
“That was the most dreadful thing I ever saw in my life,” Maida
asserted in a voice, almost a whisper. “You might have drowned, Arthur.”
“I’ll get even with them for that,” Arthur said in a quiet voice. “You
wait.”
“I don’t blame you,” Rosie declared. “I’m so mad I don’t know what I
wouldn’t do.”
“I don’t believe they’re worth taking any notice of,” Laura decided
contemptuously, “gypsies like that. Why don’t you tell their aunt,
Maida?”
“I’d like to,” Maida answered, “but I guess I won’t. I like Aunt Save
too much.”
“Anyway,” Harold pointed out, “it isn’t anything that concerns them.
It’s all between us children.”
“No, I wouldn’t want any grown people to get mixed up in this at all,”
Arthur said. “I wouldn’t say anything about it to Granny Flynn or Mrs.
Dore. It’ll only worry them and nobody’s the worse for it. We didn’t do
anything to be ashamed of anyway.”
“Ashamed of!” Rosie echoed stormily. “You were only trying to save
their lives.”
“No,” Maida agreed, “I won’t say anything about it. I think you’re
right Arthur.”
The Burles had reached the opposite shore by this time. Before they
disappeared into the woods, they raised their voices in a long derisive
shout.
As Arthur listened his face grew blacker and blacker. “Do all the
yelling you want!” he called, “I’ll get even with you, my fine young
gypsies!”