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 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?"
"Very much, little one; very, very much."
"Me too you. Good-night, Mark. I'm glad--you was--a dwarf, and--just
right--for me!"
Through the long night those tender arms held her. Her sweet head
rested on his shoulder; he never moved; he timed his breathing so that
it might come and go with hers, softly rising, softly falling, hour
after hour. Only toward morning, when the dawn chill came on, he laid
the lax limbs and heavy head on the bed, and covered them tenderly, and
sat and watched beside the bed till day. It was more than the child's
mother had ever done, but why should she do it, when the nurses were
always there?