RESTORED TO LIFE.
So it came to pass that James Phillips, driving in painful state toward
the forest, met the third great surprise of his life. The first had
been when, as a child, he was snatched from the hands of the brutal
father whose lash still, whenever he thought of it, whistled its way
down on his cringing body. He often recalled that moment; the centring
of agony in one nerve and another of his tortured frame as the blows
fell, the setting of his teeth to keep the screams back because that
other should not have the pleasure of hearing him scream; then the
sudden flash, the cry, the little figure, no bigger than his own,
standing over him, ablaze with wrath, the hulking bully cowering
abject, the lash dropped and never raised again. Following this, the
years of kindness without intermission; the watching, befriending,
educating. Phillips was not a man of expression, or he would have said
that, if God Almighty created him, Mark Ellery made him. And always so
wise, so kind, with the light in his eyes, and the smile that people
would turn in the street to look after.
And on all this had come the second surprise. Suddenly, with no reason
given--or asked--the light gone out of his master's kind eyes, the
smile coming no more, though he would still laugh sometimes, a harsh,
unlovely laugh, in place of the mellow sound that used to warm the
heart like wine. Then--the life changed with the nature; the grave
cares, the beneficent responsibilities cast aside, the ceaseless flow
of cordial kindness checked, all business thrown into his own willing
but timid hands. The wandering life abroad, of which a few random
lines dropped now and then had told him; then the return, unguessed
by any save himself alone; the seclusion in the bit of lonely forest
that bordered the wide Ellery domain, the life--or death-in-life--for
to Phillips it seemed that his master might as well be nailed in his
coffin as living like this. So it had seemed, at least; but now, it
appeared that yet worse might be. At least the man, Mark Ellery, had
been there, alive and sane, however cruelly changed. But now, if
his mind were indeed failing, if some obscure and terrible disease
were depriving him of his faculties,--what would happen? what must
happen? So far he, Phillips, had simply obeyed every dictate, however
whimsical and fantastic. Here he was, for instance, the carriage
filled with things which for very shame and grief he had hidden in
boxes and baskets,--toys, cushions, frippery of every description. He
had bought them with a sinking heart; he could have wept over every
foolish prettiness, but he had bought sternly and faithfully, and
every article was the best of its kind. What did it mean? His best hope
was that some farmer's child, straying near the wood, had struck and
pleased his master's wandering fancy; his worst--but when he thought of
that, James Phillips straightened his shoulders, and a dark flush crept
over his sallow cheek.
To him, thus riding in state and misery, came, I say, the third great
surprise of his life. Suddenly the coachman uttered an exclamation, and
checked his horses. Now the coachman, like all Mark Ellery's servants,
was as near deaf and dumb as was possible for a man possessed of
all his faculties. Phillips raised his eyes, and beheld two figures
advancing along the road toward him. His master, Mark Ellery, walking
erect and joyful, as he used to walk, his eyes alight, his mouth
smiling the old glad way; and holding his hand, dancing and leaping
beside him, a child. No farmer's child, though its feet were bare, and
bare its curly head, and though the pink frock fluttered in torn folds
about it. The child who was now mourned as dead in the splendid house
where till now careless pleasure had reigned prodigal and supreme. The
child whose dainty hat, dripping and broken, but still half-filled with
flowers, had this very day been brought to the distracted woman who now
lay prone on her velvet couch, waking from one swoon only to shriek
and moan and shudder away into another,--for in most women the mother
nature wakes sooner or later, only sometimes it is too late. The child
for whose drowned body the search-parties were fathoming every black
pool and hidden depth in the stream that, flowing far through woodland
and meadow, had brought the flower-laden hat to the very gates of
the town, to the very feet of her father, as he rode out on his last
frantic search. The same child, not dead, not stolen or lost or mazed,
tripping and dancing and swinging by Mark Ellery's hand, talking and
chattering like any squirrel, while her curls blew in the May wind.
"They _is_ white! Mark, the horses is white, just the way you said.
Oh, I do love you! Who is that? is it a man? is he real? why like a
doll does he look wiz his eyes? does he wind up behind? what for is his
mouth open? can he speak?"
"No, he can't speak!" said the dwarf, laughing. "At least, he'd better
not. It isn't good for his health,--is it, Phillips? See, Snow-white,
the carriage has stopped now, and we will get in and go home to mamma.
Oh! yes, you do want to go, very much indeed; and she'll have brought
you something pretty from New York, I shouldn't wonder."
"Always she mostly sometimes does!" said the child. "But I am coming
back here; very soon I am coming, Mark? both together we are coming
back to live parts of the times? because you know, Mark!"
"Yes, I know, Snow-white! Yes, if mamma--and papa--are willing, we will
come back now and then."
"Because the squirrels, you know, Mark!"
"Yes, I know."
"And the birds! do you think all day those crumbs will last them, do
you? do you think Cousin Goldfinch understood when you asplained to
him? do you think Simeon is lonely? _poor_ Simeon! why don't you speak
and tell me, Mark? _Mark!_"
"Well, Snow-white?"
"_The cow!_"
"What of her, my child?"
"Mark, who will milk her? you know--whisper!" She put her mouth to his
ear. "You know _real_ cows _has_ to be milked; and we said she was
real, both we did, Mark!"
"This man will milk her," said Mark, smiling at the speechless image
opposite him. "Did you ever milk a cow, Phillips?"
But Phillips did not speak, and the child said, openly, that he needed
winding up.
So they drove back to the town and through the streets, where people
started at sight of them, and stared after them, and whispered to one
another; to the splendid house where, above the marble steps, the white
ribbons waved on the door, with white roses above them to show that a
child was mourned as dead. The child wanted to know why the ribbons
were there, and whether it was a party, and a party for her; but for
once no one answered her. The carriage stopped, and she flung her arms
around Mark Ellery's neck, and clung tight.
"You will take me in, Mark?"
"Yes, Snow-white!"
"You will carry me up the steps, and into the house?"
"Yes, Snow-white."
"Because I love you! because I love you better as--"
"Hush, my child! hush, my little darling child!"
* * * * *
The white-faced butler tore down the ribbons and flung them behind him
as he opened the door. He could not speak, but he looked imploringly at
the stately gentleman who stood before him with the child in his arms.
"Yes," said Mark Ellery, "I am coming in, Barton. Take me to your
mistress."
* * * * *
James Phillips sat in the carriage outside, and faced the gathering
crowd. The rumour spread like wildfire; men and women came running with
eager questions, with wide incredulous eyes. Was it true? could it be
true? who had seen her? Here was James Phillips; what did Phillips say?
was the child found? was she alive? had Mark Ellery brought her back?
They surged and babbled about the carriage. Phillips, who had received
his instructions in a few quiet words, turned an impassive face to
the crowd. Yes, he said, it was true. Mr. Ellery had found the little
girl. Yes, she was alive and well, had no hurt of any kind. Yes, Mr.
Ellery had taken her into the house; he was in the house now. He had
come back; his own house was to be opened; he would be at the office
to-morrow.
"Where has he been?" cried several eager voices. For here was a fresh
wonder, almost as great as that of the dead restored to life. "Where
has Mark Ellery been, James Phillips?"
James Phillips searched his mind for a painful instant; groped for
some new light of imagination, but found none; could only make the old
answer that he had made so many times before:
"He has been in Thibet--hunting the wild ass!"