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?"