A FLOWER IN THE SNOW.
The winter, when it came, was hard for Marie. She had never known
severe weather before, and this season it was bitter cold. People
shook their heads, and said that old times had come again, and no
mistake. There was eager pride in the lowest mercury, and the man
whose thermometer registered thirty degrees below zero was happier than
he who could boast but of twenty-five. There was not so much snow as
in milder seasons, but the cold held without breaking, week after week:
clear weather; no wind, but the air taking the breath from the dryness
of it, and in the evening the haze hanging blue and low that tells of
intensest cold. As the snow fell, it remained. The drifts and hollows
never changed their shape, as in a soft or a windy season, but seemed
fixed as they were for all time. Across the road from Jacques De
Arthenay's house, a huge drift had been piled by the first snowstorm of
the winter. Nearly as high as the house it was, and its top combed
forward, like a wave ready to break; and in the blue hollow beneath the
curling crest was the likeness of a great face. A rock cropped out,
and ice had formed upon its surface, so that the snow fell away from
it. The explanation was simple enough; Jacques De Arthenay, coming and
going at his work, never so much as looked at it; but to Marie it was a
strange and a dreadful thing to see. Night and morning, in the cold
blue light of the winter moon and the bright hard glitter of the winter
sun, the face was always there, gazing in at her through the window,
seeing everything she did, perhaps--who could tell?--seeing everything
she thought. She changed her seat, and drew down the blind that faced
the drift; yet it had a strange fascination for her none the less, and
many times in the day she would go and peep through the blind, and
shiver, and then come away moaning in a little way that she had when
she was alone. It was pitiful to see how she shrank from the
cold,--the tender creature who seemed born to live and bloom with the
flowers, perhaps to wither with them. Sometimes it seemed to her as if
she could not bear it, as if she must run away and find the birds, and
the green and joyous things that she loved. The pines were always
green, it is true, in the little grove across the way; but it was a
solemn and gloomy green, to her child's mind,--she had not yet learned
to love the steadfast pines. Sometimes she would open the door with a
wild thought of flying out, of flying far away, as the birds did, and
rejoining them in southern countries where the sun was warm, and not a
fire that froze while it lighted one. So cold! so cold! But when she
stood thus, the little wild heart beating fiercely in her, the icy
blast would come and chill her into quiet again, and turn the blood
thick, so that it ran slower in her veins; and she would think of the
leagues and leagues of pitiless snow and ice that lay between her and
the birds, and would close the door again, and go back to her work with
that little weary moan.
Her husband was very kind in these days; oh, very kind and gentle. He
kept the dark moods to himself, if they came upon him, and tried even
to be gay, though he did not know how to set about it. If he had ever
known or looked at a child, this poor man, he would have done better;
but it was not a thing that he had ever thought of, and he did not yet
know that Marie was a child. Sometimes when she saw him looking at her
with the grave, loving, uncomprehending look that so often followed her
as she moved about, she would come to him and lay her head against his
shoulder, and remain quiet so for many minutes; but when he moved to
stroke her dark head, and say, "What is it, Mary? what troubles you?"
she could only say that it was cold, very cold, and then go away again
about her work.
Sometimes an anguish would seize him, when he saw how pale and thin she
grew, and he would send for the village doctor, and beg him to give her
some "stuff" that would make her plump and rosy again; but the good man
shook his head, and said she needed nothing, only care and
kindness,--kindness, he repeated, with some emphasis, after a glance at
De Arthenay's face, and good food. "Cheerfulness," he said, buttoning
up his fur coat under his chin,--"cheerfulness, Mr. De Arthenay, and
plenty of good things to eat. That's all she needs." And he went away
wondering whether the little creature would pull through the winter or
not.
And Jacques did not throw the food into the fire any more; he even
tried to think about it, and care about it. And he got out the
Farmer's Almanac,--yes, he did,--and tried reading the jokes aloud, to
see if they would amuse Mary; but they did not amuse her in the least,
or him either, so that was given up. And so the winter wore on.
It had to end sometime; even that winter could not last forever. The
iron grasp relaxed: fitfully at first, with grim clutches and snatches
at its prey, gripping it the closer because it knew the time was near
when all power would go, drop off like a garment, melt away like a
stream. The unchanging snow-forms began to shift, the keen outlines
wavered, grew indistinct, fell into ruin, as the sun grew warm again,
and sent down rays that were no longer like lances of diamond. The
glittering face in the hollow of the great drift lost its watchful
look, softened, grew dim and blurred; one morning it was gone. That
day Marie sang a little song, the first she had sung through all the
long, cruel season. She drew up the blind and gazed out; she wrapped a
shawl round her head and went and stood at the door, afraid of nothing
now, not even thinking of making those tiresome horns. She was aware
of something new in the air she breathed. It was still cold, but with
a difference; there was a breathing as of life, where all had been dry,
cold death. There was a sense of awakening everywhere; whispers seemed
to come and go in the tops of the pine-trees, telling of coming things,
of songs that would be sung in their branches, as they had been sung
before; of blossoms that would spring at their feet, brightening the
world with gold and white and crimson.
Life! life stirring and waking everywhere, in sky and earth; soft
clouds sweeping across the blue, softening its cold brightness,
dropping rain as they go; sap creeping through the ice-bound stems,
slowly at first, then running freely, bidding the tree awake and be at
its work, push out the velvet pouch that holds the yellow catkin, swell
and polish the pointed leaf-buds: life working silently under the
ground, brown seeds opening their leaves to make way for the tender
shoot that shall draw nourishment from them and push its way on and up
while they die content, their work being done; roots creeping here and
there, threading their way through the earth, softening, loosening,
sucking up moisture and sending it aloft to carry on the great
work,--life everywhere, pulsing in silent throbs, the heart-beats of
Nature; till at last the time is ripe, the miracle is prepared, and
"In green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins."
Marie too, the child-woman, standing in her doorway, felt the thrill of
new life; heard whispers of joy, but knew not what they meant; saw a
radiance in the air that was not all sunlight; was conscious of a
warmth at her heart which she had never known in her merriest days.
What did it all mean? Nay, she could not tell, she was not yet awake.
She thought of her friend, of the silent voice that had spoken so often
and so sweetly to her, and the desire grew strong upon her. If she
died for it, she must play once more on her violin.
There came a day in spring when the desire mastered the fear that was
in her. It was a perfect afternoon, the air a-lilt with bird-songs,
and full of the perfume of early flowers. Her husband was ploughing in
a distant field, and surely would not return for an hour or two; what
might one not do in an hour? She called her little friend, Petie, who
was hovering about the door, watching for her. Quickly, with
fluttering breath, she told him what she meant to do, bade him be brave
and fear nothing; locked the door, drew down the blinds, and closed the
heavy wooden shutters; turned to the four corners of the room, bowing
to each corner, as she muttered some words under her breath; and then,
catching the child's hand in hers, began swiftly and lightly to mount
the attic stairs.