Snow White 6

Snow White 6

CHAPTER V.

 

PHILLIPS; AND A STORY.

 

 

"Well, Mr. Ellery, here I am!"

 

The dwarf had come down from the tree, leaving the child asleep in the

tree-hollow, with Cousin Goldfinch to keep watch over her; now he was

sitting in the root-seat of the yellow birch, looking up at a man who

stood before him.

 

"Yes," said the dwarf; "here you are. Anything new? It isn't a month

since you came."

 

The man said it was more than a month. "I've brought the papers," he

said. "There are deeds to sign, and a lot of things to look over.

Hadn't we better come into the house, sir?"

 

"Presently!" said the dwarf, looking up at the tree. He was not

absolutely sure that the child was sound asleep, and if she waked

suddenly she might be frightened to find herself alone.

 

"You are not looking well, Phillips!" he remarked, easily.

 

"I'm not well, Mr. Ellery," said the man, with some heat. "I'm

worn out, sir, with all this business. How you can persist in such

foolishness passes my comprehension. Here are leases running out,

petitions coming in, bills and letters and--the office looks like the

dead letter office," he broke out, "and the clerks are over their heads

in work, and I am almost broke down, as I tell you, and you are--"

 

"By the way!" said the dwarf, settling himself comfortably, "where am

I, Phillips?"

 

"In Thibet!" replied the other, sulkily. "Hunting the wild ass."

 

"And a fine sport!" said the dwarf, musingly. "That shows invention,

Phillips. That really shows ingenuity, do you know? You grumble, my

good fellow, but you don't seem to realise what this is doing for

you. You have lived forty odd years without imagination; now you are

developing one; against your will, it is true, but the effect is no

less admirable. I admire you, Phillips; I do indeed."

 

He smiled up at the man, who regarded him gloomily, yet with a look of

affection.

 

"I wish you would give it up," he said, simply. "I wish to goodness

you would give it up, Mr. Ellery, and come home. A man like you living

this life--the life of an animal, sir--it's monstrous. Think of your

interests, think of your estate, of all the people who looked to you;

of--"

 

"By the way," said the dwarf again, "have you paid those legacies?"

 

"I know nothing about any legacies," replied the man, peevishly. "I'll

have nothing to do with any such talk as that. When I see you dead

and in your coffin, Mark Ellery, it'll be time enough to talk about

legacies."

 

"I don't like coffins!" murmured the dwarf, looking up at the black

hole in the great buttonwood tree. "I never intend--go on, Phillips.

You paid the money, did you say?"

 

"Yes, sir, I did; but I did not tell the old ladies you were dead,

because you were not, and I am not engaged to tell lies of that

description. Professional fiction I must use, since you drive me to it;

but lie to those old women I could not and did not!"

 

"No," said the dwarf, soothingly, "surely not; I could not expect that,

Phillips. And you told them that I was--"

 

"In Thibet," said the man. "Hunting the wild ass. I told you that

before."

 

"Precisely," said the dwarf. "Don't limit yourself too strictly,

Phillips. You might vary the place a little oftener than you do, and

find it more amusing. It would have impressed the old ladies more, for

instance, if you had said that I was in Mashonaland, converting the

wild ass--I mean the black man. The old ladies are well, I trust?"

 

"Pretty feeble, Mr. Ellery. They cried a good deal, and said you were

the best and--"

 

"Et cetera!" said the dwarf. "Suppose we skip that part, Phillips.

A--before I forget it, I want you to get me some things in town.

Let me see,"--he considered, and began to check off items on his

fingers. "A doll, the handsomest doll that can be found, with a trunk

full of clothes, or you might say two trunks, Phillips. And--some

picture-books, please, and a go-cart--no, I can make that myself. Well,

then, a toy dinner-set. You might get it in silver, if you find one;

and some bonbons, a lot of bonbons, say ten pounds or so. And--get me a

couple of new rugs, thick, soft ones, the best you can find; and--oh!

cushions; get a dozen or so cushions, satin and velvet; down pillows,

you understand. What's the matter?"

 

The man whom he called Phillips was looking at him in a kind of terror

that sent the dwarf into a sudden fit of laughter. He gave way to it

for a few minutes, then restrained himself, and wiped his eyes with

a fine handkerchief, like the one he had given the child. "Phillips,

you certainly have the gift of amusing," he murmured. "I am not mad,

my dear man; never was saner in my life, I assure you. Observe my

eye; feel my pulse; do. You see I am calm, if only you wouldn't make

me laugh too much. Far calmer than you are, Phillips. Now we'll come

in and go over the papers. First, though,"--he glanced up at the tree

again, and seemed to listen, but all was silent, save for the piping

and trilling that was seldom still,--"first, is there any news? I

don't mean politics. I won't hear a word of politics, you know. I

mean--any--any news among--people I used to know?"

 

The man brightened visibly; then seemed to search his mind. "Mr. Tenby

is dead, sir; left half a million. You can have that place now for a

song, if you want to invest. Old Mrs. Vivian had a stroke the other

day, and isn't expected to live. She'll be worth--"

 

The dwarf made a movement of impatience. "Old people!" he said.

"Why shouldn't they die? Who cares whether they die or live, except

themselves and their heirs? Are there no--young people--left in the

place?"

 

Phillips pondered. "No one that you'd be interested in, sir," he

said. "There's been a great to-do about a lost child, yesterday. Mr.

Valentine's little girl ran away from home, and can't be found. Wild

little thing, they say; given her governess no end of trouble. Parents

away from home. They're afraid the child has been kidnapped, but I

think it's likely she'll turn up; she has run away before, they say.

Pretty little girl, six years old; image of her mother. Mother was a

Miss--"

 

Here he stopped, for the dwarf turned upon him in a kind of fury and

bade him be still. "What do I care about people's children?" he said.

"You are an idle chatterer. Come and let me see this business, whatever

it is. Curse the whole of it, deed and house, land and letter! Come on,

I tell you, and when you have done, begone, and leave me in peace!"

 

* * * * *

 

When the child woke, she was at first too much surprised to speak. She

had forgotten things, for she had been sleeping hard, as children do in

their noonday naps; and she would naturally have opened her eyes upon

a pink nursery with gold trimmings. Instead, here she was in--what kind

of place? Around her, on all sides save one, were brown walls; walls

that felt soft and crumbly, and smelt queer; yet it was a pleasant

queerness. On the one side where they were not, she looked out into a

green sky; or perhaps--no, it wasn't a sky, it was woods, very thick

woods, and there was no ground at all. She was lying on something soft,

and partly it rustled, and partly it felt like thick cold velvet. Now

some of the rustling came alive, and two or three birds hopped down

from somewhere and sat on her foot and sang. At that the child laughed

aloud, instead of screaming, as she had just been beginning to think

she might; and then in a moment there was the dwarf, looking in at the

green entrance, smiling and nodding at her.

 

"Oh, you dear dwarf!" said the child. "I am glad to see you. I

forgotted where I was in this funny place. Isn't it a funny place,

dwarf? how did you get here? what made you know about it? why don't you

always live here all the time? what's that that's bright up there?"

 

Indeed, the hollow in the tree made a good-sized room enough, if a

person were not too big. The walls were pleasant to sight, touch, and

smell; their colours ran from deepest black-brown up to an orange so

rich and warm that it glowed like coals. When you touched the surface,

it crumbled a little, soft and sympathetic, as if it came away to

please you. The cushion of moss was thicker than any mattress ever

made by man; altogether, a delightful place--always supposing one to

be the right size. Now the dwarf and the child were exactly the right

size, and there seemed no reason why they should not live here all

their lives. This was evident to the child.

 

In one place, a natural shelf ran part way round the tree-wall; and on

this shelf lay something that glittered. "What is that that's bright?"

the child repeated. "Give it to me, please, dwarf!"

 

She stretched out her hand with an imperious gesture. The man took the

object down, but did not give it to her. "This," he said "is a key,

Snow-white."

 

"Huh!" said the child. "It looks like a pistol. What for a key is it

to? where did you get it? is there doors like Bluebeard? why don't you

tell me, dwarf?"

 

"Yes, it does look like a pistol," the man assented, weighing the object in his hand. "But it is a key, Snow-white, to--oh! all kinds of places. I don't know about the Bluebeard chamber; you see, I haven't used it yet. But it is the key of the fields, you understand."