Snow-White or, The House in the Wood

"Tweet-tweet," said the titmouse.

"Precisely," said the dwarf. "What next?"

Was he speaking to the bird, or was it merely that the sound of his own voice had grown friendly to him during these silent years? He went on.

"How if I waited still a little longer, and took a little pleasure before I go?

"But as in wailing
There's naught availing,
And death unfailing
Will strike the blow,
Then for that reason,
And for a season,
Let us be merry
Before we go!"

"Do you agree, Brother Titmouse? See now. She – they – went away and left their treasure. I did not send them away, did I? No fault of mine in that, at least. Fate – or something – call it God, if you like – brought the treasure to my door; have I no right to keep it, for a little, at least? The joy I might have! and I have not had too much, perhaps. They have each other. This is a solitary little creature, living in her fairy stories, left pretty much to nurse and governess; no mother touches to tell another kind of story. The Prince and Princess" – again his laugh sounded like a bark, the child would have said – "don't need her very much, if they can go off for two months and leave her, the little pearl, the little flower, the little piece of delight, alone with strangers. I could make her happy; I could fill her little hands full, full. She should have all the things that are waiting there shut up; those, and as many more, ten times over. We might have our play for a few weeks or a few months; and then, when she was tired – no, before she was tired, oh, surely before that! – I would give her back. Give her back! and how should I do that? there are several ways."

He moved his foot, tossing the bird up in the air. It fluttered, hovered a moment over his head, then settled on his wrist, and smoothed its feathers in absolute content.

"Well, brother, well," said Mark Ellery. "You like me pretty well, do you? You find me pleasant to live with? You think I could make a child happy?"

The titmouse flirted its tail and looked at him; it seemed a pity it could not smile; but it rubbed its bill against his hand, and he understood all it wanted to say.

"Several ways," the dwarf repeated. "I could simply take the child in my hand and go to them; hobble up the steps, – I hear their house is twice as fine as the one I built, – and stand at the door humbly, asking admission. 'Here is your child, madam; you left her to wander about uncared for, and she came to me. You took all else I had, take now this also, as a gift from the dwarf.' I think I could bring the trouble into her eyes, and the colour into her soft pale cheeks. If only she would not speak! if I should hear her speak —

"Or I might send for her to come to me. That would be the dramatic thing to do! Wait for her here, under the tree. It might be a time like this, the little one asleep up there.

"'I sent for you, madam, to ask if you had lost anything. Oh, I don't know how greatly you value it, – a child, a little girl, who wandered here some time ago. She was lost in the wood; it is a wonder she did not starve. She came to me barefoot and hungry, and I took her in. She is asleep now, up in her favourite chamber in yonder tree. It seems a pity to wake her; she sleeps very sweetly. Oh, I would gladly keep her, and I think it might not be difficult; at least, she has never tried to run away; but we are old neighbours, and I thought it right to let you know that she was here.'

"Then to wake the child, and bring her down, flushed with her lovely sleep, clinging with both arms round my neck – no horror of the hateful dwarf, no shrinking; the little velvet cheek pressed against my brown, rough face, the sweet eyes looking at me – me, Mark Ellery – with love in them. Yes, by Heaven, love; no lying here! Ah, yes, that would be the dramatic thing. The trouble is, I am not a dramatic figure; am I, Brother Titmouse?

"Well, then, there remains the third way, the easy, clear, blessed way, and I swear I believe I'll do it. Just let things take their own course; let fate – or God, if you like – have right of way, do the work without me. Why should I meddle? He is capable, surely? The child is here; very well, let them find her, since they lost her. Keep my jewel, treasure it, make much of it, till they search far enough afield. They are sure to do that. They will send out search-parties – very likely they are afoot now. It would be a pity, if they could not find this bit of forest, only a few miles from the town. Private property, belonging to the eccentric dwarf millionaire who threw over his life, and went abroad seven years ago? that will not hinder them from searching it. When I hear them coming, call my lamb, fill her hands with trinkets, – Phillips can get me trinkets, – kiss her good-bye, push her into their arms. 'Lost child? surely! here she is. How should I know whose child it was, living so retired? Take her! make my apologies to the parents for saving her life, and feeding and caring for her these days, or weeks.'

"Then, when she is gone, and the house empty again, and dark – how dark it will be! – why, then, the key of the fields!"

He whistled softly to the titmouse, which ruffled and cheeped in answer; then glanced upward at the tree, and repeated, "The key of the fields!"

It was days since he had held it in his hands, his favourite toy, the smooth shining thing he had played with so long. He had been afraid the child might get hold of it, so had left it untouched on its shelf. He missed the habit that had grown upon him of taking it out every day, holding it in his hand, polishing it, pressing the cold circle of the barrel against his temple, and fancying how it would be. How often – he could not tell how often! – he had said, "It shall be to-day!" and had set things in decent order and looked forward to his journey. But always he had decided to wait a little, and again a little; till the young birds were fledged, till they were flown, till the autumn trees brightened, till the snow was gone and he could find the first mayflowers once more. The world was so fair, he still put off leaving it, since at any time he could go, since the key was in his hand, and rest under the crook of his finger.

But when the child was gone, he would not stay behind alone. It would be different now; he must make haste to be gone on his journey – that is, if there were a journey! Some flight of the spirit from the crumpled, unsightly chrysalis, some waking in new, unthinkable conditions; unthinkable, not unimaginable. He had no knowledge that he might not see his mother's face, and feel her hand on his head. There was no proof against it. Then, if it might be, he would tell her all, as he had so often told her, alone here in the wood. How he had come near to what we call heaven, here on earth; how he had drunk the waters of hell, – six streams, were there? Styx, Acheron, Phlegethon, Lethe – only one never could get a taste of that! Scraps of school Latin ran together in his head; sleepy, was he? But as he was saying, he would tell his mother all – if she existed, if he should still exist; if —

Or on the other hand, if it should be rest simple, rest absolute, no sound or sight for ever, – why, then, – all the more should the key be turned, since then could be no question of right or wrong, sin or virtue, heaven or hell. Sleep! Meantime, he was alive, on a day like this! No one could think of shutting his eyes for ever, or of starting on a pilgrimage, – or a wild-goose chase, – on a day like this.

The sunlight of early May, softly brilliant, came sifting down through the branches of the great tree. The leaves rustled, and the sound was hardly rougher than if all the flocks that nestled in its deep, airy bowers should plume themselves at once. The birds slept their noonday sleep with the child; even the titmouse was gone now to his siesta; but other wildwood creatures came and went at their ease across the green, hardly even glancing at the familiar gray figure curled up at the foot of the tree. That was where he often sat. It seemed stupid, when there were branches to swing on, pleasant burrows under the forest-mould; since he even had his own nest, bigger than any fish-hawk's, up there in the tree itself; but it was his way. Brother Chipmunk, passing by on an errand, regarded him benignantly. He was a harmless monster, and often useful in the way of victual. If smoke came out of his mouth now and then, what did Brother Chipmunk care? That was the way the creature was made; the question of importance was, had he any nuts in his side-pouches?

The pretty creature ran up the man's leg, and sat on his knee, looking at him with bright, expectant eyes; but he met no friendly answering glance; the brown eyes were closed, the man was asleep. Yet, that was his kind of note, surely! Was he speaking? No; the sound came from above. Oh! listen, Brother Chipmunk; kind little forest brother, listen! and let the sound speak to you, and warn you to wake the slumbering figure here, ere it be too late, ere horror seize him, and despair take his heart for her own. What is that voice above? Wake, wake, Mark Ellery, if there be life in you!

A sleepy babble at first, the waking murmur of a happy child; then a call, "Mark! Mark, where are you?" Silence, and then a livelier prattle.

"I guess most prob'ly p'r'aps he's getting dinner; that's what he is. Well, then, I'll play a little till he comes; only there's noffin' here to play wiz. Oh! yes, there is Mark's silver key, what looks like a pistol. I believe it is a pistol, and he doesn't know, 'cause he's a dwarf. Dwarfs has swords and daggers and things; never a dwarf had a pistol, not even the yellow one. Well, Mark said I mustn't; well, of course, I won't, only just I'll take it down and see what it is. You see, that can't possumbly do any harm, just to look and see what it is; and if it is a pistol, then he ought not to have it there, 'cause they go off and kill people dead. And when they aren't loaded, in the newspapers all the same they kill people; and – just I can reach it if I stand on my tippy-toe-toes – my tippy-toe-toes – and – "

Mark Ellery woke. Woke, staggering to his feet, with a crack shattering his ears, with a cry ringing through his soul.

"Mark! Mark! it killed me!"

Then silence; and the man fell on his knees, and the pistol-smoke drifted down, and floated across his face like a passing soul.

Was it a heart-beat, was it a lifetime, before that silence was broken? The forest held its breath; its myriad leaves hung motionless; there was no movement save the drifting of that blue cloud, that was now almost gone, only the ragged edges of its veil melting away among the tree-trunks. Surely neither sound nor motion would come from that gray image kneeling under the tree, its hands locked together till the nails pierced the flesh, its eyes set and staring.

Is it Death they are staring at? Lo! this man has been playing with Death; toying, coquetting, dallying with him, month after month, sure of his own power, confident that his own hand held both scythe and hour-glass. Now Death has laughed, and reached behind him and taken his own. O God! can this thing be? God of terror and majesty, working thine awful will in steadfastness while we play and fret and strut under thy silent heavens – has he sinned enough for this, this terrible damnation? Is there no hope for him, now or hereafter through the ages?

But hark! oh, hark! O God, once more! God of mercy and tenderness; God who givest sight to the blind, and bringest the dead heart into life again – is this thy will, and has he won heaven so soon? What sound now from above? A bird, is it, waked from its sleep in fear? No! no bird ever sobbed in its throat; no bird ever cried through tears like this.

"Mark! I want you, Mark! Not killed I is, but I's frightened, and I want you, Mark, my Mark!"

When the child was going to bed that night the dwarf took her in his arms, and held her a long, long time, silent. Then he said: "Snow-white, I want you to say your prayer with me to-night."

"Wiz you, Mark? I thought never dwarfs said prayers."

"Kneel down with me here, Snow-white, little darling child. Hold hands with me – so! Now say after me the words I say."

And wondering, the child repeated after him:

"'Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there; if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea: even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me. Amen.'"

"Amen," said the child. "That's kind of a funny prayer, isn't it, Mark? I like that prayer. I think I'll have that for mine, 'stead of 'Now I lay me.' Mark!"

"Yes, Snow-white."

"Is you terrible glad I wasn't killed wiz that pistol key?"

"Yes, Snow-white; terrible glad!"

"Is you glad enough not to be cross wiz me 'cause I took it? 'cause I was naughty, 'cause you told me not."

"Yes, Snow-white."

"Not one single bit cross?"

"Not one single bit, my little darling child."

The child drew a long sigh of content, and put up her arms. "Here I want to go to sleep," she said. "Your lap is so nice, Mark; and your shoulder comes just right for my head. Is you comfy so, Mark?"

"Very comfy, Snow-white."

"Do you love me?"