MAIDA’S FIND
Maida crept slowly out of her room; stole softly down the stairs; ran
quietly to a side entrance; opened the screen door gently; closed it
inaudibly; dashed down the trail to the Magic Mirror. She arrived at
the boathouse panting. But she did not wait to recover her breath.
Quickly she unlocked the door and pulled out one of the canoes, leaped
into it so swiftly that she almost upset it, paddled as rapidly as she
could towards the center of the lake.
It was an unusually hot day. And paddling was hot work. The water
looked tempting. Maida battled with a temptation, which she had never
known before, to jump overboard just as she was in her fresh clean
dress and take a long swim. But she knew that Granny Flynn would
disapprove of this and she relinquished her project with a tired sigh.
She did not stop paddling until she reached the other side of the lake.
Then she drew the canoe in close to the shore, under an overhanging
tree; lay down in it; stared vacantly up at the sky.
“I know what’s the matter with me,” she thought suddenly. “I’m tired. I
didn’t sleep well last night. I had a dreadful dream--Now what was that
dream? It was a nightmare really and it seemed to last so long. What
was it--Oh _what_ was it?”
She groped in her memory in the way one does to remember a haunting but
elusive dream. It was like trying, in pitch darkness, to pick out one
rag from scores of others in a rag bag. Then suddenly a ray of light
seemed to pierce that darkness and she put her hand on the right rag.
Very late, long after midnight indeed, it seemed to her that somebody
came into her room, that she half-waked; spoke. That somebody did not
answer and she fell asleep again. Yes, she remembered now, that that
somebody seemed to come in through the window. She fell asleep and yet
not entirely asleep.... That somebody moved about the room ... looked
at everything.... That somebody stopped near the little hair-cloth
trunk which contained Lucy’s clothes. After a while ... that somebody
went away ... through the window.... But all night long, a sense
of trouble and disturbance kept bringing Maida out of deep sleep to
ruffled wakefulness; then sent her back into a heavy and fatiguing
slumber.
Thinking this over and staring up at the blue sky, Maida drifted off to
sleep. She woke--it must have been nearly two hours later--perfectly
refreshed. But she did not go back immediately to the Little House.
Instead, the sight of a columbine in the woods made her determine
to land. She knew that Rosie particularly loved the columbines and
pursuing, half absently, the trail which went to the Moraine, she soon
gathered a great armful.
Maida became so absorbed in this pleasant duty of reparation that she
went further than she intended. In fact, it was with a real sense
of surprise--and a slight tingle of terror--that suddenly she found
herself at the approach to the Moraine itself. She had not been
there since the extraordinary day of the picnic and although she had
not let her mind dwell on the curious experience of that occasion,
she had by no means forgotten it. For a moment, she hesitated about
going further. And then she caught a glimpse, across the rust-brown
pine-needle-covered expanse, of a great clump of columbines faintly
nodding their delicate heads. Involuntarily Maida dashed across the
Moraine and picked them. More appeared beyond. She picked all these and
then just beyond, she caught sight of a tiny field of columbines. Maida
moved in their direction, plumped herself down in the midst of their
beautiful living carpet. It was cool there and quiet. The pines held
the sun out, although their needles were all filmed with iridescence;
but they let little glimpses of the sky through their branches. Some
strange wood insect burst into a long strident buzz.
Suddenly there came, as though from the very ground under her feet, a
long wailing cry.
Maida turned white. Her heart leaped so high that she felt with another
such impulse it would break through her chest. She jumped to her feet,
still clutching her flowers, raced across the Moraine into the path.
She had not gone very far before something stopped her; not an obstacle
but a thought. She had expected, remembering the day of the picnic,
that the voice would be joined by two others. This did not happen. That
first voice maintained its eerie call. The thought was, “That cry is
not the cry of anything frightening like a goblin or a wild animal, or
a tramp--it is the wail of a baby.”
Maida stood for a moment just where she had stopped. The cry began
again. Terror surged through Maida. But she clinched her hands and
made herself listen. Yes, that was what it was--the wail of a baby.
Could it be some little baby animal crying for its mother--a fawn
like Betsy’s or--and here Maida’s hair rose on her head again--a baby
bear? Her common sense immediately rejected this theory. There were no
bears in the woods. And if it were a baby deer, she would be ashamed
of being afraid of a baby deer when Betsy showed no fear. For another
interval she stood still fighting her cowardice. Then suddenly she
took her resolution in hand. “I’m going to find out _what_ it is,” she
said aloud. Perhaps she was assisted in this by the cessation of the
mysterious wail. Only for a moment however! Her resolution received
another weakening blow by the sudden resumption of the uncanny noise.
But she did not actually stop, she only faltered. For the farther she
walked across the Moraine, the more it sounded like the crying of--not
a baby animal--but a regular baby. Suddenly all Maida’s fear vanished
forever. “I am not afraid any more,” she said to herself. And she
wasn’t.
The hard thing was to discover where the cry came from. It seemed under
her feet. She plunged here, there, beyond--everywhere, looking up and
down but finding nothing. Then she began a more systematic search.
Starting with the very edge of the Moraine she took every rock as it
came along, searched around and over it, each clump of bushes, parted
them and walked through them. Still the cry kept up. Occasionally she
stopped to listen. “That baby’s sick,” she said once, and later, “I do
believe it’s hungry.”
Ahead, a big rock thrust out of the earth like an elephant sitting on
its haunches. At one side, two bushes grew at so acute an angle and
with branches so thickly leaved, that the great surface of the rock was
concealed. Maida parted them.
Underneath there was no rocky surface. The bushes concealed a small low
opening to what looked like a cave. Was it a cave? Where did it lead?
How far? Would--and again Maida’s heart spun with terror--would she
confront an enraged mother bear if she entered it? But these questions
all died in Maida’s mind. For, emerging undisputedly from the cave,
came the fretful cry of a baby.
Without further question, Maida dropped to her hands and knees and
crawled into the opening. Crawled _down_ rather; for the entrance
sloped at first. Then, it began to grow level. The crying grew louder.
It was a big cave. The end was lost in shadow but in the light from the
entrance, Maida could see something lying, not far off, on a heap of
bed clothes. As she looked, a tiny hand came up and waved in the air.
Maida could not stand upright yet. But she hurried over to that tiny
hand. She was beginning to get the glimmer of a little white face.
It _was_ a baby.
The baby put up its hands to her. Maida lifted it from the ground
and made rapidly backwards to the cave opening. It was a lovely
baby--Maida decided that at once--a girl, getting towards a year old,
brown-complexioned with a thick shock of dark hair and big brown eyes.
For a moment, it looked at Maida in surprise and even in baby distrust;
then it began to cry. Its open mouth displayed four little white teeth.
Maida put the baby down on the soft grass in the shade of some bushes.
She returned to the cave. She found a candle there; some matches in an
iron box. She lighted the candle. There was one pile of baby clothes,
unironed though perfectly clean, but in tatters. Beside them was
another pile. Somehow these seemed familiar. Maida looked closely.
They were Lucy’s clothes.
Then--lightnings poured through Maida’s mind--It was not a
dream--Somebody had come into her room ... robbed her ... robbed little
Lucy.... But she must not think of that now, with a crying, perhaps a
starving baby on her hands. Further back was a bundle of hay, pressed
down as though somebody older slept there. There was a little alcohol
lamp and the materials for warming milk; milk bottles but no milk.
Maida returned to the baby, who had resumed its crying; took it into
her lap; rocked it.
What should she do? The baby must belong to somebody. But where was
that somebody? It was hungry now. She felt sure of that. It seemed to
her that she ought to take the baby home. And yet suppose the parent
should come back? Then she would be in the position of stealing a baby.
What should she do? She could not go off and leave it. Nor could she
stay indefinitely. She had not even told them at the Little House
where she was going. They would be worried about her. They would
think that, like Betsy, she was lost. Pretty soon they might send out
searching parties. How she regretted her pettishness of the morning.
And still if it had not been for that, she would not have come here;
would not have found the baby. What _should_ she do?
She put her hands over her eyes, as though shutting out the sight of
things made it easier to think. Perhaps it did. For suddenly it came to
her that the first thing to consider was the baby. Babies must not be
neglected. Babies must be fed. It was a serious matter for them to go
too long without their milk. Suddenly she pulled her little red morocco
diary from her pocket; tore out a page. With the little pencil that lay
in the loop of the diary she wrote:
I have taken your baby to my home--the Little House. It is at
the end of the trail just across the lake. I was afraid you had
deserted her and she would get sick and die. I am sorry if you are
worried, but you can have your baby at once by claiming her.
A phrase slipped from she knew not where into her mind. She concluded
with it: “and proving property.” She signed her own name and under it
wrote, “Daughter of Jerome Westabrook, financier.”
Her mind made up, Maida worked quickly. Holding the baby in her
arms, she walked swiftly down the trail to the canoe. Here a problem
presented itself.
She could not hold the baby in her arms, nor could she let the hot
sun of that hot August day pour on the little head. After a great
deal of difficulty and some maneuvering, she managed to stand up some
thickly-leaved branches so that they made a shade. She placed the baby
on one of the canoe cushions in its shadow; stepped into the canoe.
Never had Maida paddled so carefully or so well. On the other side,
she tethered the canoe; lifted the baby out. She had cried all the way
across the lake and was still crying fitfully.
“Somebody may come and break the canoe,” Maida surmised swiftly, “but I
can’t wait to put it away.” She hurried in the direction of the Little
House. “What a surprise I’ve got for them,” her thoughts ran. She was
toiling along slowly now, for by this time, the baby had grown heavy as
lead. Maida had to stop many times to rest her arms. Her back ached as
though it would break. “They’ll all want to keep this baby forever and
I wish we could.”
But the surprise was not all for the others, nor indeed much as
compared with their surprise for Maida. For as Maida neared the house,
Rosie came flying down the path. Maida saw that her face was white and
that great tears were pouring down her cheeks.
“Oh, Maida,” she sobbed, “where have you been? We’ve been looking
for you everywhere. A most terrible thing has happened. Poor Mrs.
Dore”--she burst for an instant into uncontrollable sobbing; then
composed herself, “--fell down the cellar stairs and broke her leg.
We’ve had a dreadful time--Where did you get that baby?”
“In a cave,” Maida answered faintly. “Will you carry her, Rosie, I’m so
tired. Go on quickly. Tell me all about it--”
Rosie took the baby into her expert arms; continued. “Well, Arthur
called up the Satuit doctor and he came with an ambulance and they’ve
taken her to the Satuit Center hospital. Granny Flynn had to go with
her--and we’re all alone. We’ll have to run the house ourselves until
Granny can get back. Poor Dicky feels dreadful and now we’ve got this
baby on our hands. Everything happens at once, doesn’t it? Gracious,
I’ll have to give this poor little thing something to eat right off.
That’s a hungry cry.”