SILVA’S STORY
When Maida woke up the next morning, it was to the sound of a baby’s
crying. It was not however a sick cry; it was a sleepy cry. She glanced
swiftly at the clock; then jumped out of bed. Rosie was standing in the
doorway, Nesta, wearing one of Delia’s nightgowns, in her arms.
“You never woke me up, Rosie Brine,” Maida accused her friend.
“I tried to,” Rosie replied. “Honest I did. But you couldn’t seem to
wake up. And when I realized what a day you had yesterday and what a
day might be before you, I thought it would be better to let you sleep.
Laura and I got breakfast. We’ve given the baby her bath and I am now
taking her to bed.”
Maida kissed the little curly, dusky head. “She looks fine,” she said
approvingly. “I’m so glad I can give Silva such good news.”
“What time did you say you had to call there?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“It’s now half past eight,” Rosie said. “And here comes Laura with your
breakfast.”
As Rosie disappeared with her sleeping burden, Laura appeared at the
stairs carrying a tray.
“Hop back into bed, Maida Westabrook,” she said serenely. “You’re going
to have your breakfast in bed this morning--like a princess.”
Maida meekly hopped back as ordered and Laura placed the tray on the
bed in front of her. On it, the peel so divided that it looked like a
great golden-petaled flower, was an orange; a dish of oatmeal; an egg
in an egg cup; two pieces of toast; a small pitcher of milk; sugar.
Around the plate was wreathed nasturtiums, flowers and leaves.
“Oh how good it looks!” Maida said; and then after a few moments of
enthusiastic eating, “Oh, how good it _tastes_! How dainty you’ve made
this tray, Laura! I’m sure you’re going to be the best housekeeper
among us. You like housekeeping, don’t you?”
“I just love it,” Laura replied.
“I hate it.” Rosie who now reappeared in the doorway, declared
emphatically. “I wish you could buy blocks of dishes the way you buy
blocks of paper; so’s you could tear off a clean set for every meal;
then burn them up. I wish you could buy blocks of clothes just the same
way.”
“What a queer thing you are, Rosie!” Laura exclaimed. “I just love to
have pretty things, crocheted and knit and embroidered--dainty china
and glass--and keep everything neat and shining.”
Maida reflectively tapped the top of her egg; meditatively removed
the little bit of broken shell; absently salted and buttered it;
thoughtfully tasted it. “I don’t know what I like,” she declared after
a while, “I like to do anything--if I’m doing it with people I love.
But I just despise to do anything with people I don’t like.”
An hour later, Maida, one foot on the pedal of her bicycle was
accepting last orders in regard to marketing from Rosie and Laura;
giving equally hurried advice to them.
“Don’t forget to buy all the different kinds of berries you can find,”
Rosie said. “Berries make such an easy dessert.”
“And oh, if there are any tomatoes yet, order all you can find, Maida,”
Laura chimed in. “I can make so many things with tomatoes: tomato and
macaroni; tomato and crackers; stewed tomatoes and boiled tomatoes.”
“And don’t let the fire go out,” Maida replied, “and always have some
one near the telephone if anybody calls up. And remember, if the baby
doesn’t seem all right, telephone for the doctor at once. Get the
hospital on the telephone at nine o’clock and ask how Mrs. Dore is this
morning.” Then mounting her machine in a flash, Maida was off like a
bird.
“Who would ever have thought,” Rosie said looking after her, “that the
Maida Westabrook who first came to Primrose Court--so pale and thin and
lame--would ever grow into such a strong girl? Do you remember, Laura?”
“Of course I do. My mother didn’t think she was going to live.”
In the meantime, Maida was proceeding down the dewy trail, the prey to
some worry but with a gradually-growing, comfortable feeling that her
troubles were all over and that now things would go smoothly. She did
all the marketing that had been intrusted to her and was even able,
being the first on the spot, to secure a basket of early tomatoes for
Laura. As for berries--they were everywhere. Maida ordered, a little
recklessly, blueberries, blackberries, currants. It was ten o’clock
as she had agreed--Maida was a very prompt little girl, having been
brought up to promptness by a business-like father--ten o’clock to the
dot, when she walked up the Fosdick path and knocked on the door by
means of a big brass knocker.
A maid servant opened the door; but just behind appeared a white-haired
lady in a black silk and black silk mitts; a three-cornered bit of
black lace on her soft hair.
“You are Maida Westabrook,” she said smiling, “and you have come to see
our little invalid. She’s awake and waiting for you. If you will follow
me, I will take you to her.”
Maida followed Mrs. Fosdick up broad carpeted stairs and down a long
sunny hallway. At the very end, the old lady pushed open a door. Silva
was lying on a day couch, placed near a back window which overlooked
the garden. A light gayly-flowered down puff covered her. Silva looked
white but her strange amber-colored eyes seemed to hold a drop of fire.
“Good morning, Silva,” Maida said.
“Good morning,” Silva answered, but she used the words awkwardly, like
one who has not been accustomed to this morning greeting.
“I’m glad you are better,” Maida went on and then paused in a little
embarrassment. After an instant in which Silva said nothing she added,
“How did it happen?”
Mrs. Fosdick interrupted. “I am going to leave you little girls alone
to talk. I know you’ll have things to tell each other,” her kind old
eyes smiled understandingly, “that you don’t want grown-ups to hear.”
“Oh no,” Maida said involuntarily but this was only instinctive
politeness on her part. She very much desired to be alone with Silva.
Silva was apparently too honest to say anything. She waited until Mrs.
Fosdick’s footsteps were lost to hearing. Then she pulled herself
upright with a sudden jerk. “How’s Nesta?” she asked breathlessly.
“She’s all right. She slept all night long without waking once--except
when Rosie fed her at ten--and this morning she looks as sweet and
dainty as a rose-bud. Don’t worry about Nesta, Silva. She’s all right.
It’s you we’re worrying about.”
But this did not appear to interest Silva. “How did you find her?” she
demanded.
Maida told the story of her visit to the Moraine Land, not leaving out
a detail. Silva listened intently, her strange eyes unwinkingly fixed
on Maida’s face. “What time was this?” Silva asked.
Maida told her.
“Oh she only missed one feeding then,” Silva said in a tone of acute
relief. “You can just imagine,” she went on, “when I came out of the
faint enough to remember about the baby, how I felt. I tried to tell
them here about Nesta, but nobody would listen to me. They thought I
was raving and I can’t blame them for that of course. I begged them, I
screamed at them; then suddenly I thought of you--why I don’t know. But
somehow I knew I could trust you. I asked them to call you up or let me
call you up. But they wouldn’t. ‘There! There!’ they would say, ‘Lie
down and sleep! You’ll be all right in the morning.’ Oh what I went
through! I thought I was going crazy! And then I heard somebody using
the telephone in the hall. And when they left me to go down to dinner,
I crept out and called you up. Nobody heard me. They don’t know yet
that I telephoned. I told them last night that I knew you’d come this
morning.”
“It must have made you dizzy to stand up,” Maida said sympathetically.
“It did. At first I thought I couldn’t stand it. But I had to do it and
so I did. You are sure Nesta is all right?”
“_Sure!_” Maida reiterated, smiling. “But why didn’t you call up Aunt
Save?”
“She was at the Warneford Fair. They all went. Tyma went too. Aunt
Save’s telling fortunes. Tyma and I have been making baskets for a
month. He thought he could probably sell them all in three days. We
talked it all over. One of us had to go and the other to stay with the
baby and of course I was the one to stay with Nesta. Tyma won’t be back
until to-morrow.”
“But I don’t understand why Nesta was in the cave,” Maida declared in a
puzzled tone.
Silva closed her eyes for a moment and she sighed. It was a long sigh
and a weary one to come from a little girl’s lips.
“We’ve kept her there a month,” she said. “We stole her--Tyma and I.”
“_Stole_ her!” Maida echoed in a shocked tone. “Stole her! From whom?”
“From my father,” Silva answered and two big tears formed slowly in her
eyes. They hung on the end of her long lashes but they did not drop.
Maida handed Silva her handkerchief. Silva wiped the tears away. No
more came, and she went on with her story in a perfectly composed way.
“It’s a queer story to tell and--and I’m so ashamed. You see my
mother died last February when Nesta was about three months old.
After mother’s death, we had all the care of her--Tyma and I. It was
very hard because my father--” She stopped for an instant and seemed
to choke on what she was going to say. Then she went on steadily.
“My father began to get drunk--more and more-- But that wasn’t the
worst. He began to treat us badly--and I was always worried about
Nesta--sometimes I was afraid he’d hurt her-- Sometimes--” She stopped
and looked at Maida imploringly.
Maida nodded as though she understood.
“He was worse to Tyma though, and so Tyma ran away. He joined Aunt Save
and she told him to stay with them. One day he was exploring the woods
and he discovered that cave. Well things got worse and worse at home--
And-- And-- And then father told me he was going to be married again. I
didn’t like the--the one he was going to marry. I knew she didn’t mind
his drinking. She--used to drink too. She didn’t like me--nor Tyma--nor
Nesta. I could see that she didn’t want the care of Nesta. Tyma and I
could take care of ourselves, but I knew she would be cruel to Nesta.”
Silva paused; for this time it was Maida’s eyes that filled. Silva held
out Maida’s handkerchief and Maida took it; and wiped her tears away.
“Go on,” Maida said.
“Tyma came back one night very late. Father never knew he was there.
He threw pebbles against my window and I came out and talked to him.
He told me a plan. It was for us to run away and take Nesta with us
and keep her hidden in the cave. He said he’d take the baby first.
Then after a few days, I was to go to live with Aunt Save. You see if
I was to run away with the baby, father would know. But if the baby
was stolen while I was with him and when he thought Tyma was with Aunt
Save, he could not blame it onto either of us.”
“Oh Silva!” Maida gasped. “What a terrible thing to do-- I mean--” She
thought an instant. “What a terrible thing to _have_ to do! How could
you do it? I couldn’t.”
“You can do anything,” Silva said in a voice strangely stern in one so
young, “if you have to do it. So we planned it all very carefully.
Tyma went back to Aunt Save and then he returned a few nights later.
While I was in the field with father, he took the baby and went back
with her to Satuit; put her in the cave. He went by night and almost
always through the woods. Nobody saw him. When Aunt Save woke up the
next morning, Tyma was in his tent.”
“What did your father say?”
“He was wild. He thought at once it was Tyma and he went over to see
Aunt Save. Tyma was there, but of course there was no baby about. Aunt
Save said that Tyma had no baby with him and father knew that Aunt Save
wouldn’t lie to him. She asked father if he didn’t want me to come and
live with her as long as he was going to get married. Father said yes
and when he came back, he told me to go to Aunt Save. He gave me my car
fare and I went.”
“Didn’t he do anything more to find the baby?” Maida asked in a
horrified tone.
“Oh yes--he hunted everywhere--he talked about her all the time. And
then after ten days or so he told the police and there were articles in
the newspapers with his picture and Nesta’s--it didn’t look anything
like her. Reporters came to see him. But after a while nobody cared.
People don’t care what happens to gypsies.” Silva’s voice was bitter.
“Then he got married and as his wife didn’t want Nesta, he stopped
bothering about her.”
“And do you mean to tell me,” Maida said in an awed voice, “that you
kept the baby in the cave nearly two months?”
“Ever since just after you children came to the Little House. We were
planning to steal Nesta when we saw you first. That’s why we had to
be so hateful to you-- We had to do everything we could to keep you
away from the cave. That’s why we acted so terribly that first day
when you were swimming in the lake and that’s why we broke your canoes
and that’s why we stole all your lunch the day of the picnic. That
day, Tyma was in the cave with the baby and I was bringing a bottle
of milk and a little doll for her. She was too little to play with a
doll, but I wanted her to have one. Rosie Brine caught sight of me. I
dodged around the bushes and got into the cave. I think she would have
thought she imagined me if I hadn’t dropped the doll. Tyma and I sat
there trembling.... And then we realized that you were going to eat
your lunches right near.... The baby was asleep; but we were frightened
to death for fear she would wake up and cry ... and then the idea
came to us to steal your lunches ... and ruin everything so you would
think tramps had been there.... And then the baby _did_ cry.... Oh how
frightened we were! Tyma and I clung to each other and the same idea
came to us both at once. I began to moan very loud. And so did Tyma.
And then you couldn’t trace the sound and it frightened you and you all
ran away. Tyma said you would never come back and you didn’t. That is,
except one night, when I saw Arthur Duncan.”
“I never heard or read anything like this,” Maida declared solemnly.
“How did you manage to take care of the baby--and bathe her and feed
her?”
“It was very hard,” Silva said simply. “Tyma and I took turns in
spending the night in the cave. Aunt Save never knew; for we waited
until everybody was asleep before we left the camp. I used to go once
in the morning to heat water and bathe her and once in the afternoon to
take her out in the sunlight. We made baskets all the time so that we
could buy milk. Getting the milk to her though without being seen--Oh
how we had to plan! I bought a little lamp and heated her milk over it.
And then I was so worried! I knew it was going to be very troublesome
in a little while because it was only a question of time before Nesta
would creep. Fortunately she was backward about everything--especially
walking. We planned to barricade the front of the cave. But what we
should do when winter came, we could not guess. And then we were so
bothered about clothes--” Silva stopped and cast her eyes downward.
“This is so hard to tell you!”
“Go on!” Maida urged.
“I broke into your house night before last, and stole some doll
clothes. That first day you came to visit Aunt Save, I heard you
talking with her about a doll you had as big as a baby, and how you
kept her clothes in a little hair-cloth trunk under your window in your
room. I watched the house until I found out which room was yours. There
was a great tree in front of it. And that night, when everybody had
gone to sleep, I climbed in your window and took all the doll clothes.
You see some nights were rainy and I was afraid she wouldn’t be warm
enough. Please excuse me if you can. I will give them all back.”
Maida was silent for an instant struggling with the situation too
complicated for her young mind.
“Of course,” she said at last in a tremulous voice, “stealing is always
wrong. I would have given you Lucy’s clothes if you had asked me for
them.”
“I didn’t know that you would,” Silva faltered. “And I didn’t dare tell
you about Nesta.”
“Of course I saw Lucy’s clothes in the cave,” Maida went on. Her eyes
were downcast. “Let’s not speak of it again. Very likely, I would have
done the same thing if I had been in your place-- Only I suppose I
wouldn’t have stolen the baby in the beginning.” She paused and then
added honestly, “But perhaps that’s only because I wouldn’t have had
the courage. What are you going to do now-- I mean when you get well?”
“I don’t know--” Silva answered drearily. “I’ll have to wait until
Tyma comes back. Everybody’ll know then. Aunt Save will make me write
to father that I have Nesta. He’ll take Nesta away from me and that
dreadful woman will have the care of her--”
And now Silva put her head in the hollow of her elbow and sobbed. But
they were not the sobs of a child. They were hard and tearless. They
shook Silva’s whole body. Maida rushed to her side. She put her arms
about Silva; kissed her again and again. “Don’t think of it any more,
Silva dear,” she begged. “I know it isn’t as bad as you fancy. Will you
let me tell my father about it? My father is a wonderful man. It is
almost as though he had magic power--like a genie. He’ll find some way
out for you, I’m sure. Will you let me tell him?”
It was some moments before Silva’s whispered “Yes” came from between
her racking sobs. But very soon thereafter she sat up. “Here comes
somebody,” she whispered. “Please don’t say anything about Nesta.”