第 十 章 · SNOWBOUND

. SNOWBOUND

Twelfth-night had come and gone, and life next morning seemed a trifle

flat and purposeless. But yester-eve and the mummers were here! They had

come striding into the old kitchen, powdering the red brick floor with

snow from their barbaric bedizenments; and stamping, and crossing, and

declaiming, till all was whirl and riot and shout. Harold was frankly

afraid: unabashed, he buried himself in the cook's ample bosom. Edward

feigned a manly superiority to illusion, and greeted these awful

apparitions familiarly, as Dick and Harry and Joe. As for me, I was too

big to run, too rapt to resist the magic and surprise. Whence came

these outlanders, breaking in on us with song and ordered masque and

a terrible clashing of wooden swords? And after these, what strange

visitants might we not look for any quiet night, when the chestnuts

popped in the ashes, and the old ghost stories drew the awe-stricken

circle close? Old Merlin, perhaps, “all furred in black sheep-skins,

and a russet gown, with a bow and arrows, and bearing wild geese in his

hand!” Or stately Ogier the Dane, recalled from Faery, asking his way

to the land that once had need of him! Or even, on some white night,

the Snow-Queen herself, with a chime of sleigh-bells and the patter of

reindeers' feet, with sudden halt at the door flung wide, while aloft

the Northern Lights went shaking attendant spears among the quiet stars!

This morning, house-bound by the relentless, indefatigable snow, I was

feeling the reaction Edward, on the contrary, being violently stage

struck on this his first introduction to the real Drama, was striding up

and down the floor, proclaiming “Here be I, King Gearge the Third,” in a

strong Berkshire accent. Harold, accustomed, as the youngest, to lonely

antics and to sports that asked no sympathy, was absorbed in “clubmen”:

a performance consisting in a measured progress round the room

arm-in-arm with an imaginary companion of reverend years, with

occasional halts at imaginary clubs, where--imaginary steps being

leisurely ascended--imaginary papers were glanced at, imaginary scandal

was discussed with elderly shakings of the head, and--regrettable to

say--imaginary glasses were lifted lipwards. Heaven only knows how the

germ of this dreary pastime first found way into his small-boyish

being. It was his own invention, and he was proportionately proud of

it. Meanwhile, Charlotte and I, crouched in the window-seat, watched,

spell-stricken, the whirl and eddy and drive of the innumerable

snow-flakes, wrapping our cheery little world in an uncanny uniform,

ghastly in line and hue.

Charlotte was sadly out of spirits. Having “countered” Miss Smedley at

breakfast, during some argument or other, by an apt quotation from

her favourite classic (the Fairy Book) she had been gently but firmly

informed that no such things as fairies ever really existed. “Do you

mean to say it's all lies?” asked Charlotte, bluntly. Miss Smedley

deprecated the use of any such unladylike words in any connection at

all. “These stories had their origin, my dear,” she explained, “in a

mistaken anthropomorphism in the interpretation of nature. But though we

are now too well informed to fall into similar errors, there are still

many beautiful lessons to be learned from these myths--”

“But how can you learn anything,” persisted Charlotte, “from what

doesn't exist?” And she left the table defiant, howbeit depressed.

“Don't you mind HER,” I said, consolingly; “how can she know anything

about it? Why, she can't even throw a stone properly!”

“Edward says they're all rot, too,” replied Charlotte, doubtfully.

“Edward says everything's rot,” I explained, “now he thinks he's going

into the Army. If a thing's in a book it MUST be true, so that settles

it!”

Charlotte looked almost reassured. The room was quieter now, for Edward

had got the dragon down and was boring holes in him with a purring

sound Harold was ascending the steps of the Athenaeum with a jaunty

air--suggestive rather of the Junior Carlton. Outside, the tall

elm-tops were hardly to be seen through the feathery storm. “The sky's

a-falling,” quoted Charlotte, softly; “I must go and tell the king.”

The quotation suggested a fairy story, and I offered to read to

her, reaching out for the book. But the Wee Folk were under a cloud;

sceptical hints had embittered the chalice. So I was fain to fetch

Arthur--second favourite with Charlotte for his dames riding errant, and

an easy first with us boys for his spear-splintering crash of tourney

and hurtle against hopeless odds. Here again, however, I proved

unfortunate,--what ill-luck made the book open at the sorrowful history

of Balin and Balan? “And he vanished anon,” I read: “and so he heard

an horne blow, as it had been the death of a beast. 'That blast,' said

Balin, 'is blowen for me, for I am the prize, and yet am I not dead.'”

Charlotte began to cry: she knew the rest too well. I shut the book in

despair. Harold emerged from behind the arm-chair. He was sucking his

thumb (a thing which members of the Reform are seldom seen to do),

and he stared wide-eyed at his tear stained sister. Edward put off his

histrionics, and rushed up to her as the consoler--a new part for him.

“I know a jolly story,” he began. “Aunt Eliza told it me. It was when

she was somewhere over in that beastly abroad”--(he had once spent a

black month of misery at Dinan)--“and there was a fellow there who had

got two storks. And one stork died--it was the she-stork.” (“What did

it die of?” put in Harold.) “And the other stork was quite sorry, and

moped, and went on, and got very miserable. So they looked about and

found a duck, and introduced it to the stork. The duck was a drake, but

the stork didn't mind, and they loved each other and were as jolly

as could be. By and by another duck came along,--a real she-duck this

time,--and when the drake saw her he fell in love, and left the stork,

and went and proposed to the duck: for she was very beautiful. But the

poor stork who was left, he said nothing at all to anybody, but just

pined and pined and pined away, till one morning he was found quite

dead! But the ducks lived happily ever afterwards!”

This was Edward's idea of a jolly story! Down again went the corners of

poor Charlotte's mouth. Really Edward's stupid inability to see the real

point in anything was TOO annoying! It was always so. Years before, it

being necessary to prepare his youthful mind for a domestic event that

might lead to awkward questionings at a time when there was little

leisure to invent appropriate answers, it was delicately inquired of

him whether he would like to have a little brother, or perhaps a little

sister? He considered the matter carefully in all its bearings, and

finally declared for a Newfoundland pup. Any boy more “gleg at the

uptak” would have met his parents half-way, and eased their burden.

As it was, the matter had to be approached all over again from a fresh

standpoint. And now, while Charlotte turned away sniffingly, with a

hiccough that told of an overwrought soul, Edward, unconscious (like Sir

Isaac's Diamond) of the mischief he had done, wheeled round on Harold

with a shout.

“I want a live dragon,” he announced: “you've got to be my dragon!”

“Leave me go, will you?” squealed Harold, struggling stoutly. “I'm

playin' at something else. How can I be a dragon and belong to all the

clubs?”

“But wouldn't you like to be a nice scaly dragon, all green,” said

Edward, trying persuasion, “with a curly tail and red eyes, and

breathing real smoke and fire?”

Harold wavered an instant: Pall-Mall was still strong in him. The next

he was grovelling on the floor. No saurian ever swung a tail so scaly

and so curly as his. Clubland was a thousand years away. With horrific

pants he emitted smokiest smoke and fiercest fire.

“Now I want a Princess,” cried Edward, clutching Charlotte ecstatically;

“and YOU can be the doctor, and heal me from the dragon's deadly wound.”

Of all professions I held the sacred art of healing in worst horror and

contempt. Cataclysmal memories of purge and draught crowded thick on me,

and with Charlotte--who courted no barren honours--I made a break for

the door. Edward did likewise, and the hostile forces clashed together

on the mat, and for a brief space things were mixed and chaotic and

Arthurian. The silvery sound of the luncheon-bell restored an instant

peace, even in the teeth of clenched antagonisms like ours. The Holy

Grail itself, “sliding athwart a sunbeam,” never so effectually stilled

a riot of warring passions into sweet and quiet accord.