Snow-White or, The House in the Wood

The child clapped her hands and danced. "Is she saying 'hurrah'?" she cried. "Does she love you? do you love her? is she" – her voice dropped suddenly – "is she real, Mark?"

"Real, Snow-white? Why, see her walk! Did you think I wound her up? She's too big; and besides, I haven't been near her."

The child brushed these remarks aside with a wave. "Does she stay all the time a cow?" she whispered, putting her mouth close to the dwarf's ear. "Or does she turn at night into a princess?" She drew back and pointed a stern finger at him. "Tell me the troof, Mark!"

The dwarf was very humble. So far as he knew, he said, she was a real cow. She mooed like one, and she acted like one; moreover, he had bought her for one. "But you see," he added, "I don't stay here at night, so how can I tell?"

They both looked at the cow, who returned the stare with unaffected interest, but with no appearance of any hidden meaning in her calm brown gaze.

"I think," said the child, after a long, searching inspection, "I think – she's – only just a cow!"

"I think so, too," said the dwarf, in a tone of relief. "I'm glad, aren't you, Snow-white? I think it would be awkward to have a princess. Now I'll milk her, and you can frisk about and pick flowers."

The child frisked merrily for a time. She found a place where there were some brownish common-looking leaves; and stepping on them just to hear them crackle, there was a pink flush along the ground, and lo! a wonder of mayflowers. They lay with their rosy cheeks close against the moss, and seemed to laugh out at the child; and she laughed, too, and danced for joy, and put some of them in her hair. Then she picked more, and made a posy, and ran to stick it in the dwarf's coat. He looked lovely, she told him, with the pink flowers in his gray coat; she said she didn't care much if he never turned into anything; he was nice enough the way he was; and the dwarf said it was just as well, and he was glad to hear it.

"And you look so nice when you smile in your eyes like that, Mark! I think I'll kiss you now."

"I never kiss ladies when I am milking," said the dwarf. And then the child said he was a horrid old thing, and she wouldn't now, anyhow, and perhaps she wouldn't at all ever in her life, and anyhow not till she went to bed.

By and by she found a place where the ground was wet, near the edge of the pond, and she could go pat, pat with her feet, and make smooth, deep prints. This grew more and more pleasant the farther she went, till presently the water came lapping cool and clear over her feet. Yes, but just then a butterfly came, a bright yellow one, and she tried to catch it, and in trying tripped and fell her length in the pond. That was sad, indeed; and it was fortunate the milking was ended just at that time, for at first she meant to cry hard, and the only thing that stopped her was riding home on the dwarf's hump, dripping water all over his gray velvet clothes. He didn't care, he said, so long as she did not drip into the milk.

CHAPTER VII.

THE STORY

"I aspect, Mark," said the child, – "do you like better I call you Mark all the time than dwarf? then I will. I do really aspect you'll have to get me a clean dress to put on."

She held up her frock, and the dwarf looked at it anxiously. It was certainly very dirty. The front was entirely covered with mud, and matters had not been improved by her scrubbing it with leaves that she pulled off the trees as they came along.

"Dear me, Snow-white!" said the dwarf. "That is pretty bad, isn't it?"

"Yes," said the child; "it is too bad! You'll have to get me another. What kind will you get?"

"Well," said the dwarf, slowly; "you see – I hardly – wait a minute, Snow-white."

He went into the house, and the child waited cheerfully, sitting in the root-seat. Of course he would find a dress; he had all the other things, and most prob'ly likely there was a box that had dresses and things in it. She hoped it would be blue, because she was tired of this pink one. There might be a hat, too; when you had that kind of box, it was just as easy to have everything as only something; a pink velvet hat with white feathers, like the lady in the circus. The child sighed comfortably, and folded her hands, and watched the robins pulling up worms on the green.

But the dwarf went into the bedroom, and began pulling out drawers and opening chests with a perplexed air. Piles of handkerchiefs, socks, underwear, all of the finest and best; gray suits like the one he had on – but never a sign of a blue dress. He took down a dressing-gown from a peg, and looked it over anxiously; it was of brown velvet, soft and comfortable-looking, but it had evidently been lived in a good deal, and it smelt of smoke; no, that would never do. He hung it up again, and looked about him helplessly.

Suddenly his brow cleared, and his eyes darkened. He laughed; not his usual melodious chuckle, but the short harsh note that the child compared to a bark.

"Why not?" he said. "It's all in the family!"

He opened a deep carved chest that stood in a corner; the smell that came from it was sweet and old, and seemed to belong to far countries. He hunted in the corners, and presently brought out a folded paper, soft and foreign looking. This he opened, and took out, and shook out, a shawl or scarf of Eastern silk, pale blue, covered with butterflies and birds in bright embroidery. He looked at it grimly for a moment; then he shut the chest, for the child was calling, "Mark! where are you?" and hastened out.

"Never I thought you were coming," said the child. "See at that robin, Mark. He ate all a worm five times as longer as him, and now he's trying to get away that other one's. I told him he mustn't, and he will. Isn't he a greedy?"

"He's the greediest robin on the place," said the dwarf. "I mean to put him on allowance some day. See here, Snow-white, I'm awfully sorry, but I can't find a dress for you."

The child opened great eyes at him. "Can't find one, Mark? Has you looked?"

"Yes, I have looked everywhere, but there really doesn't seem to be one, you know; so I thought, perhaps – "

"But not in all the boxes you've looked, Mark!" cried the child. "Why, you got everything, don't you 'member you did, for dinner?"

Yes; but that was different, the dwarf said. Dresses didn't come in china pots, nor in tin cans either. No, he didn't think it would be of any use to stamp his foot and say to bring a blue dress this minute. But, look here, wouldn't this do? Couldn't she wrap herself up in this, while he washed her dress?

He held up the gay thing, and at sight of it the child clasped her hands together and then flung them out, with a gesture that made him wince. But it was the most beautiful thing in the world, the child said. But it was better than dresses, ever and ever so much better, because there were no buttons. And she might dress up in it? That would be fun! Like the pictures she would be, in the Japanesy Book at home. Did ever he see the Japanesy book? But it was on the big table in the long parlour, and he could see it any time he went in, but any time, if his hands were clean. Always he had to show his hands, to make sure they were clean. And she would be like the pictures, and he was a very nice dwarf, and she loved him.

In a wonderfully short time the child was enveloped in the blue silk shawl, and sitting on the kitchen-table cross-legged like a small idol, watching the dwarf while he washed the dress. He was handy enough at the washing, and before long the pink frock was moderately clean (some of the stains would not come out, and could hardly be blamed for it), and was flapping in the wind on a low-hanging branch. Now, the child said to the dwarf, was the time for him to tell her a story. What story? Oh, a story about a dwarf, any of the dwarfs he used to know, only except the Yellow Dwarf, or the seven ones in the wood, or the one in "Snow-white and Rosy Red," because she knowed those herself.

The dwarf smiled, and then frowned; then he lighted his pipe and smoked for a time in silence, while the child waited with expectant eyes; then, after about a week, she thought, he began.

"Once upon a time – "

The child nodded, and drew a long breath of relief. She had not been sure that he would know the right way to tell a story, but he did, and it was all right.

"Once upon a time, Snow-white, there was a man – "

"Not a man! a dwarf!" cried the child.

"You are right!" said Mark Ellery. "I made a mistake, Snow-white. Not a man, – a dwarf! I'll begin again, if you like. Once upon a time there was a dwarf."

"That's right!" said the child. She drew the blue shawl around her, and sighed with pleasure. "Go on, Mark."

"The trouble is," he went on, "he – this dwarf – was born a man-thing, a man-child; it was not till his nurse dropped him that it was settled that he was to be a dwarf-thing, and never a man. That was unfortunate, you see, for he had some things born with him that a dwarf has no business with. What things? Oh, nothing much; a heart, and brains, and feelings; that kind of thing."

"Feelings? If you pinched him did it hurt, just like a man?"

"Just; you would have thought he was a man sometimes, if you had not seen him. The trouble was, his mother let him grow up thinking he was a man. She loved him very much, you see, and – she was a foolish woman. She taught him to think that the inside of a man was what mattered; and that if that were all right, – if he were clean and kind and right-minded, and perhaps neither a fool nor a coward, – people would not mind about the outside. He grew up thinking that."

"Was he quite stupid?" the child asked. "He must have been, I think, Mark."

"Yes, he was very stupid, Snow-white."

"Because he might have looked in the glass, you know."

"Of course he might; he did now and then. But he thought that other women, other people, were like his mother, you see; and they weren't, that was all.

"He was very rich, this dwarf – "

The child's eyes brightened. The story had been rather stupid so far, but now things were going to begin.

Did he live in a gold house? she asked. Did he have chariots and crowns and treasure, bags and bags of treasure? was there a Princess in it? when was he going to tell her about her? why didn't he go on?

"I can't go on if you talk, Snow-white. He was rich, I say, and for that reason everybody made believe that he was a man, and treated him like one. Silly? yes, very silly. But he was stupid, as you say, and he thought it was all right; and everybody was kind, and his mother loved him; and so – he grew up."

"But he still stayed a dwarf?"

"Yes, still a dwarf."

"What like did he look? was he puffickly frightful, wiz great goggle eyes and a long twisty nose? was he green? You said once you was green, Mark, before you turned brown."

"Yes, he was rather green; not a bright green, you understand; just a dull, blind sort of green."

"Wiz goggle eyes?"

"N-no! I don't know that they goggled particularly, Snow-white. I hope not.

"Well, when he was grown up, – only he never grew up! – his mother died."

The child was trying hard to be good, but her patience gave out at last, the man was silent so long.

"What is the matter wiz you, Mark? I think this is a stupid story. Didn't anything happen to him at all? why do you bark?"

"Yes, things happened to him. This is a slow story, Snow-white, and you must have patience. You see, I never told it before, and the words don't come just as I want to have them."

The child nodded sympathetically, and promised to be patient; she knew how it was herself sometimes, when she tried to tell a story what she didn't know it very well. Didn't he know this one very well, perhaps? was there another he knowed better?

"No, no other I know half so well, little girl. His mother died, I say and then – then he met the Princess."

The child beamed again. "Was she beautiful as the day? did she live in a Nivory tower, and let her hair down out of the window? was there dragons? did the dwarf fall in love wiz her right off that minute he seed her?"

"The tower was brown," said the dwarf, "brown stone. No, she didn't let her hair down, and there were no dragons; quite the contrary, the door was always open – always open, and the way seemed clear. But she was beautiful, and he fell in love with her. Oh, yes! she had soft clear eyes, and soft pale cheeks, and soft dark hair; everything about her was soft and sweet and —

"Well, this dwarf fell in love with her, and wanted to marry her. Yes, as you say, they always do. For a long time, a very long time, he did not dare to think of its being possible that she could love him. He would have been content – content and thankful – just to be her friend, just to be allowed to see her now and then, and take her hand, and feel her smile through and through him like wine. But – her eyes were so soft – and she looked at him so – that he asked her – "

"Mark, what for do you keep stopping like that? never you must, when you are telling a story; always they go right on."

"What was I saying?" The dwarf looked at the child, with eyes that seemed not to see her, but something beyond her. "What was I saying, Snow-white?"

"He asked her would she marry him!" said the child, promptly. "And she said no indeed, she wouldn't do noffin of the kind, she was going to marry a beautiful Prince, wiz – "

"I beg your pardon, Snow-white; you are wrong this time. She said she would marry him. She looked at him with her soft eyes, and said she loved him. She said – the kind of things his mother had said; and the dwarf, being stupid, believed her."

The child bubbled over with laughter. "Wasn't he silly? but of course she didn't, Mark!"

"Of course not. But he thought she was going to; so he built a house, – well, we'll call it a palace if you like, Snow-white; perhaps it was as good as some palaces. At any rate, it was the best he could build. And he filled it full of things, – what kind of things? Oh, pictures and statues and draperies, and, – yes, silver and gold and jewels, any quantity of jewels; and he sent abroad for silks and satins and shawls, – "

"Like this what I've got on?"

"Very like it. He meant to have in the house everything that her heart could desire, so that when she wished for anything, he could say, 'Here it is, ready for you, my Beloved!'

"Well, and so the dwarf worked away, and heaped up treasures, the regular dwarf way, and saw the Princess every day, and was happy; and she looked at him with her soft eyes, and told him she loved him; and so it came near the time of the wedding. Then – one day – "

"The Prince came!" cried the child, jumping up and down and clapping her hands. "I know! let me tell a little bit now, Mark. May I? Well, the Prince came, and he was tall and handsome, wiz golden hair and blue eyes, and he was ever and ever so much richer than the dwarf; and so the Princess falled in love wiz him the minute she seed him, and he falled in love wiz her, too; and he said, 'This is my Princess!' and she said, 'This is my Prince!' Isn't that the way, Mark?"

"Precisely!" said the dwarf. "I couldn't have told it better myself, Snow-white; perhaps not so well. The Prince was richer, and handsomer, and younger, and that settled it. It always does, doesn't it?"

"And then what became of the dwarf, Mark?"

"Oh! it doesn't matter what became of the dwarf, does it? He was only a dwarf, you know. The story always ends when the Prince and Princess are married. 'They lived happily ever after.' That's the end, don't you remember?"

The child reflected, with a puzzled look.

"Yes," she said, presently. "But you see, Mark, this is a different kind of story. That other kind is when you begin wiz the Princess, and tell all about her; and then the dwarf just comes in, and is puffickly horrid, and then the Prince comes, and so – but this story began wiz the dwarf, don't you see?"

"What difference does that make, Snow-white? nobody cares what becomes of a dwarf."

"But yes, but when it is his own story, Mark. But aren't you stupid? and besides, them all was horrid, and this was a nice dwarf. Was he like you, Mark?"

"A little – perhaps."

"Then he was very nice, and I love him. Like this." The child threw her arms around the dwarf, and gave him a strangling hug; then she drew back and looked at him.

"It seems," she said, "as if most likely p'r'aps I loved you better than Princes. Do you s'pose could I?"

The dwarf's eyes were very kind as he looked at her, but he shook his head, and loosed the little arms gently. "No, Snow-white," he said, "I don't believe you could. But as to this other dwarf, there isn't very much to tell. He gave her back her freedom, as they call it in the books, and then he shut up the fine house and went away."

"Where did he go?"

"Oh, he went everywhere, or pretty near it. He travelled, and saw strange places and people. But nothing mattered much to him, and at last he found that there was only one country he really cared to see, and that was the country that has never been discovered."

"Then how did he know it was there, Mark? but where was it? was it like 'East o' the Sun and West o' the Moon,' and old womans told him about it?"

"Yes, perhaps; at least, his mother used to tell him about it. But he never thought then – he didn't think much about it. But now he was tired, and nothing mattered, and so he thought he would go and see that country – if it were really there – and possibly he might find his mother, if the things she said were true. So – did I say his mother was dead? So I did! Oh, well, never mind that now. So he bought a key that would open the door of that country – yes, something like that thing I called a key – and then he came to a place – well, it was something like this place, Snow-white. He wanted to be quiet, you see, for some time, before he went away. He wanted to be alone, and think – think – gather up the threads and thoughts of his life and try to straighten them into something like an even skein. Then, if he were allowed, if there should be any possibility that he might take them with him, he could say to his mother – he could excuse himself – he could tell her – "

"Mark," said the child, "do you know what I think?"

The man started, and looked at her. "What you think, Snow-white?"

"Yes! I think you are talking puffick foolishness. I don't know one word what you are saying, and I don't believe do you either."

"No more I do, Snow-white. I think this is enough story, don't you? You see I was right, it didn't matter what became of the dwarf. Let us come out and feed the birds."

"Let's," said the child.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE KEY OF THE FIELDS

"The question before the court is, what next?"

It was Mark Ellery who spoke. He was sitting on the green at the foot of the buttonwood-tree. It was noon, and the birds were all quiet, save one confidential titmouse, who had come to make a call, and was perched on the tip of the dwarf's shoe, cocking his bright eye at him expressively.

"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 wailingThere's naught availing,And death unfailingWill strike the blow,Then for that reason,And for a season,Let us be merryBefore 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.