They had come into the meadow where the snow battle was to be, and on
its slope, against the dark weft of the young birch-trees, there was a
mimic castle outlined in the masonry of white blocks quarried from the
drifts and built up in courses like rough blocks of marble. A decoration
of green from the pines that mixed with the birches had been suggested
rather than executed, and was perhaps the more effective for its
sketchiness.
“Yes, it’s really beautiful,” Miss Macroyd owned, and though she did not
join her cries to those of the other girls, who stood scattered about
admiring it, and laughing and chattering with the men whose applause,
of course, took the jocose form, there was no doubt but she admired it.
“What I can’t understand is how Mrs. Westangle got the notion of this.
There’s the soprano note in it, and some woman must have given it to
her.”
“Not contralto, possibly?” Verrian asked.
“I insist upon the soprano,” she said.
But he did not notice what she said. His eyes were following a figure
which seemed to be escaping up through the birches behind the snow
castle and ploughing its way through the drifts; in front of the
structure they had been levelled to make an easier battle-field. He
knew that it was Miss Shirley, and he inferred that she had been in the
castle directing the farm--hands building it, and now, being caught by
the premature arrival of the contesting forces, had fled before them
and left her subordinates to finish the work. He felt, with a throe of
helpless sympathy, that she was undertaking too much. It was hazardous
enough to attempt the practice of her novel profession under the best of
circumstances, but to keep herself in abeyance so far as not to be known
at all in it, and, at the same time, to give way to her interest in it
to the extent of coming out, with her infirmly established health, into
that wintry weather, and superintending the preparations for the first
folly she had planned, was a risk altogether too great for her.
“Who in the world,” Miss Macroyd suddenly demanded, “is the person
floundering about in the birch woods?”
“Perhaps the soprano,” Verrian returned, hardily.
Bushwick detached himself from a group of girls near by and intercepted
any response from Miss Macroyd to Verrian by calling to her before he
came up, “Are you going to be one of the enemy, Miss Macroyd?”
“No, I think I will be neutral.” She added, “Is there going to be any
such thing as an umpire?”
“We hadn’t thought of that. There could be. The office could be created;
but, you know, it’s the post of danger.”
Verrian joined the group that Bushwick has left. He found a great
scepticism as to the combat, mixed with some admiration for the castle,
and he set himself to contest the prevalent feeling. What was the matter
with a snow-fight? he demanded. It would be great fun. Decidedly he was
going in for it. He revived the drooping sentiment in its favor, and
then, flown with his success, he went from group to group and couple
to couple, and animated all with his zeal, which came, he hardly knew
whence; what he pretended to the others was that they were rather bound
not to let Mrs. Westangle’s scheme fall through. Their doubts vanished
before him, and the terms of the battle were quickly arranged. He said
he had read of one of those mediaeval flower-fights, and he could tell
them how that was done. Where it would not fit into the snow-fight,
they could trust to inspiration; every real battle was the effect of
inspiration.
He came out, and some of the young women and most of the young men,
who had dimly known of him as a sort of celebrity, and suspected him of
being a prig, were reconciled, and accepted him for a nice fellow, and
became of his opinion as to the details of the amusement before them.
It was not very Homeric, when it came off, or very mediaeval, but it
was really lots of fun, or far more fun than one would have thought. The
storming of the castle was very sincere, and the fortress was honestly
defended. Miss Macroyd was made umpire, as she wished, and provided with
a large snowball to sit on at a safe distance; as she was chosen by
the men, the girls wanted to have an umpire of their own, who would be
really fair, and they voted Verrian into the office. But he refused,
partly because he did not care about being paired off with Miss Macroyd
so conspicuously, and partly because he wished to help the fight along.
Attacks were made and repelled, and there were feats of individual and
collective daring on the side of the defenders which were none the less
daring because the assailants stopped to cheer them, and to disable
themselves by laughing at the fury of the foe. A detachment of the
young men at last stormed the castle and so weakened its walls that they
toppled inward; then the defenders, to save themselves from being buried
under the avalanche, swarmed out into the open and made the entire force
of the enemy prisoners.
The men pretended that this was what might have been expected from the
beginning, but by this time the Berserker madness had possessed Miss
Macroyd, too; she left her throne of snow and came forward shouting that
it had been perfectly fair, and that the men had been really beaten,
and they had no right to pretend that they had given themselves up
purposely. The sex-partisanship, which is such a droll fact in women
when there is any question of their general opposition to men, possessed
them all, and they stood as, one girl for the reality of their triumph.
This did not prevent them from declaring that the men had behaved with
outrageous unfairness, and that the only one who fought with absolute
sincerity from first to last was Mr. Verrian.
Neither their unity of conviction concerning the general fact nor the
surprising deduction from it in Verrian’s case operated to make them
refuse the help of their captives in getting home. When they had bound
up their tumbled hair, in some cases, and repaired the ravages of
war among their feathers and furs and draperies, in other cases, they
accepted the hands of the late enemy at difficult points of the path.
But they ran forward when they neared the house, and they were prompt to
scream upon Mrs. Westangle that there never had been such a success or
such fun, and that they were almost dead, and soon as they had something
to eat they were going to bed and never going to get up again.
In the details which they were able to give at luncheon, they did
justice to Verrian’s noble part in the whole affair, which had saved the
day, not only in keeping them up to the work when they had got thinking
it couldn’t be carried through, but in giving the combat a validity
which it would not have had without him. They had to thank him, next
to Mrs. Westangle herself, whom they praised beyond any articulate
expression, for thinking up such a delightful thing. They wondered how
she could ever have thought of it--such a simple thing too; and they
were sure that when people heard of it they would all be wanting to have
snow battles.
Mrs. Westangle took her praises as passively, if not as modestly, as
Verrian received his. She made no show of disclaiming them, but she had
the art, invaluable in a woman who meant to go far in the line she had
chosen, of not seeming to have done anything, or of not caring whether
people liked it or not. Verrian asked himself, as he watched her
twittering back at those girls, and shedding equally their thanks and
praises from her impermeable plumage, how she would have behaved if Miss
Shirley’s attempt had been an entire failure. He decided that she would
have ignored the failure with the same impersonality as that with which
she now ignored the success. It appeared that in one point he did her
injustice, for when he went up to dress for dinner after the long stroll
he took towards night he found a note under his door, by which he must
infer that Mrs. Westangle had not kept the real facts of her triumph
from the mistress of the revels.
“DEAR MR. VERRIAN, I am not likely to see you, but I must
thank you.
“M. SHIRLEY.
“P. S. Don’t try to answer, please.”
Verrian liked, the note, he even liked the impulse which had dictated
it, and he understood the impulse; but he did not like getting the note.
If Miss Shirley meant business in taking up the line of life she had
professed to have entered upon seriously, she had better, in the case
of a young man whose acquaintance she had chanced to make, let her
gratitude wait. But when did a woman ever mean business, except in the
one great business?