night-dress, as Marcella had stated. She let down the latch of the door,
so as to make no noise, went to a pail of water, and washed her face and
hands, and then slipped into the bed where my father lay.
We all three trembled, we hardly knew why, but we resolved to watch the
next night: we did so--and not only on the ensuing night, but on many
others, and always at about the same hour, would our mother-in-law rise
from her bed, and leave the cottage--and after she was gone, we
invariably heard the growl of a wolf under our window, and always saw
her, on her return, wash herself before she retired to bed. We observed,
also, that she seldom sat down to meals, and that when she did, she
appeared to eat with dislike; but when the meat was taken down, to be
prepared for dinner, she would often furtively put a raw piece into her
mouth.
My brother Cæsar was a courageous boy; he did not like to speak to my
father until he knew more. He resolved that he would follow her out, and
ascertain what she did. Marcella and I endeavoured to dissuade him from
this project; but he would not be controlled, and, the very next night
he lay down in his clothes, and as soon as our mother-in-law had left
the cottage, he jumped up, took down my father's gun, and followed her.
You may imagine in what a state of suspense Marcella and I remained,
during his absence. After a few minutes, we heard the report of a gun.
It did not awaken my father, and we lay trembling with anxiety. In a
minute afterwards we saw our mother-in-law enter the cottage--her dress
was bloody. I put my hand to Marcella's mouth to prevent her crying out,
although I was myself in great alarm. Our mother-in-law approached my
father's bed, looked to see if he was asleep, and then went to the
chimney, and blew up the embers into a blaze.
"Who is there?" said my father, waking up.
"Lie still, dearest," replied my mother-in-law, "it is only me; I have
lighted the fire to warm some water; I am not quite well."
My father turned round and was soon asleep; but we watched our
mother-in-law. She changed her linen, and threw the garments she had
worn into the fire; and we then perceived that her right leg was
bleeding profusely, as if from a gun-shot wound. She bandaged it up,
and then dressing herself, remained before the fire until the break of
day.
Poor little Marcella, her heart beat quick as she pressed me to her
side--so indeed did mine. Where was our brother, Cæsar? How did my
mother-in-law receive the wound unless from his gun? At last my father
rose, and then, for the first time I spoke, saying, "Father, where is my
brother, Cæsar?"
"Your brother!" exclaimed he, "why, where can he be?"
"Merciful Heaven! I thought as I lay very restless last night," observed
our mother-in-law, "that I heard somebody open the latch of the door;
and, dear me, husband, what has become of your gun?"
My father cast his eyes up above the chimney, and perceived that his gun
was missing. For a moment he looked perplexed, then seizing a broad axe,
he went out of the cottage without saying another word.
He did not remain away from us long: in a few minutes he returned,
bearing in his arms the mangled body of my poor brother; he laid it
down, and covered up his face.
My mother-in-law rose up, and looked at the body, while Marcella and I
threw ourselves by its side wailing and sobbing bitterly.
"Go to bed again, children," said she sharply. "Husband," continued she,
"your boy must have taken the gun down to shoot a wolf, and the animal
has been too powerful for him. Poor boy! He has paid dearly for his
rashness."
My father made no reply; I wished to speak--to tell all--but Marcella,
who perceived my intention, held me by the arm, and looked at me so
imploringly, that I desisted.
My father, therefore, was left in his error; but Marcella and I,
although we could not comprehend it, were conscious that our
mother-in-law was in some way connected with my brother's death.
That day my father went out and dug a grave, and when he laid the body
in the earth, he piled up stones over it, so that the wolves should not
be able to dig it up. The shock of this catastrophe was to my poor
father very severe; for several days he never went to the chase,
although at times he would utter bitter anathemas and vengeance against
the wolves.
But during this time of mourning on his part, my mother-in-law's
nocturnal wanderings continued with the same regularity as before.
At last, my father took down his gun, to repair to the forest; but he
soon returned, and appeared much annoyed.
"Would you believe it, Christina, that the wolves--perdition to the
whole race--have actually contrived to dig up the body of my poor boy,
and now there is nothing left of him but his bones?"
"Indeed!" replied my mother-in-law. Marcella looked at me, and I saw in
her intelligent eye all she would have uttered.
"A wolf growls under our window every night, father," said I.
"Aye, indeed?--why did you not tell me, boy?--wake me the next time you
hear it."
I saw my mother-in-law turn away; her eyes flashed fire, and she gnashed
her teeth.
My father went out again, and covered up with a larger pile of stones
the little remnants of my poor brother which the wolves had spared. Such
was the first act of the tragedy.
The spring now came on: the snow disappeared, and we were permitted to
leave the cottage; but never would I quit, for one moment, my dear
little sister, to whom, since the death of my brother, I was more
ardently attached than ever; indeed I was afraid to leave her alone with
my mother-in-law, who appeared to have a particular pleasure in
ill-treating the child. My father was now employed upon his little farm,
and I was able to render him some assistance.
Marcella used to sit by us while we were at work, leaving my
mother-in-law alone in the cottage. I ought to observe that, as the
spring advanced, so did my mother decrease her nocturnal rambles, and
that we never heard the growl of the wolf under the window after I had
spoken of it to my father.
One day, when my father and I were in the field, Marcella being with us,
my mother-in-law came out, saying that she was going into the forest, to
collect some herbs my father wanted, and that Marcella must go to the
cottage and watch the dinner. Marcella went, and my mother-in-law soon
disappeared in the forest, taking a direction quite contrary to that in
which the cottage stood, and leaving my father and I, as it were,
between her and Marcella.
About an hour afterwards we were startled by shrieks from the cottage,
evidently the shrieks of little Marcella. "Marcella has burnt herself,
father," said I, throwing down my spade. My father threw down his, and
we both hastened to the cottage. Before we could gain the door, out
darted a large white wolf, which fled with the utmost celerity. My
father had no weapon; he rushed into the cottage, and there saw poor
little Marcella expiring; her body was dreadfully mangled, and the blood
pouring from it had formed a large pool on the cottage floor. My
father's first intention had been to seize his gun and pursue, but he
was checked by this horrid spectacle; he knelt down by his dying child,
and burst into tears: Marcella could just look kindly on us for a few
seconds, and then her eyes were closed in death.
My father and I were still hanging over my poor sister's body, when my
mother-in-law came in. At the dreadful sight she expressed much concern,
but she did not appear to recoil from the sight of blood, as most women
do.
"Poor child!" said she, "it must have been that great white wolf which
passed me just now, and frightened me so--she's quite dead, Krantz."
"I know it--I know it!" cried my father in agony.
I thought my father would never recover from the effects of this second
tragedy: he mourned bitterly over the body of his sweet child, and for
several days would not consign it to its grave, although frequently
requested by my mother-in-law to do so. At last he yielded, and dug a
grave for her close by that of my poor brother, and took every
precaution that the wolves should not violate her remains.
I was now really miserable, as I lay alone in the bed which I had
formerly shared with my brother and sister. I could not help thinking
that my mother-in-law was implicated in both their deaths, although I
could not account for the manner; but I no longer felt afraid of her: my
little heart was full of hatred and revenge.
The night after my sister had been buried, as I lay awake, I perceived
my mother-in-law get up and go out of the cottage. I waited for some
time, then dressed myself, and looked out through the door, which I
half-opened. The moon shone bright, and I could see the spot where my
brother and my sister had been buried; and what was my horror, when I
perceived my mother-in-law busily removing the stones from Marcella's
grave.
She was in her white night-dress, and the moon shone full upon her. She
was digging with her hands, and throwing away the stones behind her with
all the ferocity of a wild beast. It was some time before I could
collect my senses and decide what I should do. At last, I perceived that
she had arrived at the body, and raised it up to the side of the grave.
I could bear it no longer; I ran to my father and awoke him.
"Father! father!" cried I, "dress yourself, and get your gun."
"What!" cried my father, "the wolves are there, are they?"
He jumped out of bed, threw on his clothes, and in his anxiety did not
appear to perceive the absence of his wife. As soon as he was ready, I
opened the door, he went out, and I followed him.
Imagine his horror, when (unprepared as he was for such a sight) he
beheld, as he advanced towards the grave, not a wolf, but his wife, in
her night-dress, on her hands and knees, crouching by the body of my
sister, and tearing off large pieces of the flesh, and devouring them
with all the avidity of a wolf. She was too busy to be aware of our
approach. My father dropped his gun, his hair stood on end; so did mine;
he breathed heavily, and then his breath for a time stopped. I picked up
the gun and put it into his hand. Suddenly he appeared as if
concentrated rage had restored him to double vigour; he levelled his
piece, fired, and with a loud shriek, down fell the wretch whom he had
fostered in his bosom.
"God of Heaven!" cried my father, sinking down upon the earth in a
swoon, as soon as he had discharged his gun.
I remained some time by his side before he recovered. "Where am I?" said
he, "what has happened?--Oh!--yes, yes! I recollect now. Heaven forgive
me!"
He rose and we walked up to the grave; what again was our astonishment
and horror to find that instead of the dead body of my mother-in-law,
as we expected, there was lying over the remains of my poor sister, a
large, white she wolf.
"The white wolf!" exclaimed my father, "the white wolf which decoyed me
into the forest--I see it all now--I have dealt with the spirits of the
Hartz Mountains."
For some time my father remained in silence and deep thought. He then
carefully lifted up the body of my sister, replaced it in the grave, and
covered it over as before, having struck the head of the dead animal
with the heel of his boot, and raving like a madman. He walked back to
the cottage, shut the door, and threw himself on the bed; I did the
same, for I was in a stupor of amazement.
Early in the morning we were both roused by a loud knocking at the door,
and in rushed the hunter Wilfred.
"My daughter!--man--my daughter!--where is my daughter!" cried he in a
rage.
"Where the wretch, the fiend, should be, I trust," replied my father,
starting up and displaying equal choler; "where she should be--in
hell!--Leave this cottage or you may fare worse."
"Ha-ha!" replied the hunter, "would you harm a potent spirit of the
Hartz Mountains? Poor mortal, who must needs wed a were wolf."
"Out, demon! I defy thee and thy power."
"Yet shall you feel it; remember your oath--your solemn oath--never to
raise your hand against her to harm her."
"I made no compact with evil spirits."
"You did; and if you failed in your vow, you were to meet the vengeance
of the spirits. Your children were to perish by the vulture, the
wolf----"
"Out, out, demon!"
"And their bones blanch in the wilderness. Ha!-ha!"
My father, frantic with rage, seized his axe, and raised it over
Wilfred's head to strike.
"All this I swear," continued the huntsman, mockingly.
The axe descended; but it passed through the form of the hunter, and my
father lost his balance, and fell heavily on the floor.
"Mortal!" said the hunter, striding over my father's body, "we have
power over those only who have committed murder. You have been guilty of
a double murder--you shall pay the penalty attached to your marriage
vow. Two of your children are gone; the third is yet to follow--and
follow them he will, for your oath is registered. Go--it were kindness
to kill thee--your punishment is--that you live!"
THE WITHERED ARM
THOMAS HARDY
_A Lorn Milkmaid_
It was an eighty-cow dairy, and the troop of milkers, regular and
supernumerary, were all at work; for, though the time of year was as yet
but early April, the feed lay entirely in water-meadows, and the cows
were "in full pail." The hour was about six in the evening, and
three-fourths of the large, red, rectangular animals having been
finished off, there was opportunity for a little conversation.
"He do bring home his bride tomorrow, I hear. They've come as far as
Anglebury today."
The voice seemed to proceed from the belly of the cow called Cherry, but
the speaker was a milking-woman, whose face was buried in the flank of
that motionless beast.
"Hav' anybody seen her?" said another.
There was a negative response from the first. "Though they say she's a
rosy-cheeked, tisty-tosty little body enough," she added; and as the
milkmaid spoke she turned her face so that she could glance past her
cow's tail to the other side of the barton, where a thin, fading woman
of thirty milked somewhat apart from the rest.
"Years younger than he, they say," continued the second, with also a
glance of reflectiveness in the same direction.
Nothing more was said publicly about Farmer Lodge's wedding, but the
first woman murmured under her cow to her next neighbour, "'Tis hard for
_she_," signifying the thin worn milkmaid aforesaid.
"O no," said the second. "He ha'n't spoke to Rhoda Brook for years."
When the milking was done they washed their pails and hung them on a
many-forked stand made of the peeled limb of an oak-tree, set upright in
the earth, and resembling a colossal antlered horn. The majority then
dispersed in various directions homeward. The thin woman who had not
spoken was joined by a boy of twelve or thereabout, and the twain went
away up the field also.
Their course lay apart from that of the others, to a lonely spot high
above the water-meads, and not far from the border of Egdon Heath, whose
dark countenance was visible in the distance as they drew nigh to their
home.
"They've just been saying down in barton that your father brings his
young wife home from Anglebury tomorrow," the woman observed. "I shall
want to send you for a few things to market, and you'll be pretty sure
to meet 'em."
"Yes, mother," said the boy. "Is father married then?"
"Yes.... You can give her a look, and tell me what's she's like, if you
do see her."
"Yes, mother."
"If she's dark or fair, and if she's tall--as tall as I. And if she
seems like a woman who has ever worked for a living, or one that has
been always well off, and has never done anything, and shows marks of
the lady on her, as I expect she do."
"Yes."
They crept up the hill in the twilight, and entered the cottage. It was
built of mud-walls, the surface of which had been washed by many rains
into channels and depressions that left none of the original flat face
visible; while here and there in the thatch above a rafter showed like a
bone protruding through the skin.
She was kneeling down in the chimney-corner, before two pieces of turf
laid together with the heather inwards, blowing at the red-hot ashes
with her breath till the turves flamed. The radiance lit her pale cheek,
and made her dark eyes, that had once been handsome, seem handsome anew.
"Yes," she resumed, "see if she is dark or fair, and if you can, notice
if her hands be white; if not, see if they look as though she had ever
done housework, or are milker's hands like mine."
The boy again promised, inattentively this time, his mother not
observing that he was cutting a notch with his pocket-knife in the
beech-backed chair.
_The Young Wife_
The road from Anglebury to Holmstoke is in general level; but there is
one place where a sharp ascent breaks its monotony. Farmers
homeward-bound from the former market-town, who trot all the rest of the
way, walk their horses up this short incline.
The next evening, while the sun was yet bright, a handsome new gig, with
a lemon-coloured body and red wheels, was spinning westward along the
level highway at the heels of a powerful mare. The driver was a yeoman
in the prime of life, cleanly shaven like an actor, his face being toned
to that bluish-vermilion hue which so often graces a thriving farmer's
features when returning home after successful dealings in the town.
Beside him sat a woman, many years his junior--almost, indeed, a girl.
Her face too was fresh in colour, but it was of a totally different
quality--soft and evanescent, like the light under a heap of
rose-petals.
Few people travelled this way, for it was not a main road; and the long
white riband of gravel that stretched before them was empty, save of one
small scarce-moving speck, which presently resolved itself into the
figure of a boy, who was creeping on at a snail's pace, and continually
looking behind him--the heavy bundle he carried being some excuse for,
if not the reason of, his dilatoriness. When the bouncing gig-party
slowed at the bottom of the incline above mentioned, the pedestrian was
only a few yards in front. Supporting the large bundle by putting one
hand on his hip, he turned and looked straight at the farmer's wife as
though he would read her through and through, pacing along abreast of
the horse.
The low sun was full in her face, rendering every feature, shade, and
contour distinct, from the curve of her little nostril to the colour of
her eyes. The farmer, though he seemed annoyed at the boy's persistent
presence, did not order him to get out of the way; and thus the lad
preceded them, his hard gaze never leaving her, till they reached the
top of the ascent, when the farmer trotted on with relief in his
lineaments--having taken no outward notice of the boy whatever.
"How that poor lad stared at me!" said the young wife.
"Yes, dear; I saw that he did."
"He is one of the village, I suppose?"
"One of the neighbourhood. I think he lives with his mother a mile or
two off."
"He knows who we are, no doubt?"
"O yes. You must expect to be stared at just at first, my pretty
Gertrude."
"I do,--though I think the poor boy may have looked at us in the hope we
might relieve him of his heavy load, rather than from curiosity."
"O no," said her husband off-handedly. "These country lads will carry a
hundredweight once they get it on their backs; besides his pack had more
size than weight in it. Now, then, another mile and I shall be able to
show you our house in the distance--if it is not too dark before we get
there." The wheels spun round, and particles flew from their periphery
as before, till a white house of ample dimensions revealed itself, with
farm-buildings and ricks at the back.
Meanwhile the boy had quickened his pace, and turning up a by-lane some
mile and half short of the white farmstead, ascended towards the leaner
pastures, and so on to the cottage of his mother.
She had reached home after her day's milking at the outlying dairy, and
was washing cabbage at the door-way in the declining light. "Hold up the
net a moment," she said, without preface, as the boy came up.
He flung down his bundle, held the edge of the cabbage-net, and as she
filled its meshes with the dripping leaves she went on, "Well, did you
see her?"
"Yes; quite plain."
"Is she ladylike?"
"Yes; and more. A lady complete."
"Is she young?"
"Well, she's growed up, and her ways be quite a woman's."
"Of course. What colour is her hair and face?"
"Her hair is lightish, and her face as comely as a live doll's."
"Her eyes, then, are not dark like mine?"
"No--of a bluish turn, and her mouth is very nice and red; and when she
smiles, her teeth show white."
"Is she tall?" said the woman sharply.
"I couldn't see. She was sitting down."
"Then do you go to Holmstoke church tomorrow morning: she's sure to be
there. Go early and notice her walking in, and come home and tell me if
she's taller than I."
"Very well, mother. But why don't you go and see for yourself?"
"I go to see her! I wouldn't look up at her if she were to pass my
window this instant. She was with Mr. Lodge, of course. What did he say
or do?"
"Just the same as usual."
"Took no notice of you?"
"None."
Next day the mother put a clean shirt on the boy, and started him off
for Holmstoke church. He reached the ancient little pile when the door
was just being opened, and he was the first to enter. Taking his seat by
the front, he watched all the parishioners file in. The well-to-do
Farmer Lodge came nearly last; and his young wife, who accompanied him,
walked up the aisle with the shyness natural to a modest woman who had
appeared thus for the first time. As all other eyes were fixed upon her,
the youth's stare was not noticed now.
When he reached home his mother said, "Well?" before he had entered the
room.
"She is not tall. She is rather short," he replied.
"Ah!" said his mother, with satisfaction.
"But she's very pretty--very. In fact, she's lovely." The youthful
freshness of the yeoman's wife had evidently made an impression even on
the somewhat hard nature of the boy.
"That's all I want to hear," said his mother quickly. "Now, spread the
table-cloth. The hare you caught is very tender; but mind that nobody
catches you.--You've never told me what sort of hands she had."
"I have never seen 'em. She never took off her gloves."
"What did she wear this morning?"
"A white bonnet and a silver-coloured gown. It whewed and whistled so
loud when it rubbed against the pews that the lady coloured up more than
ever for very shame at the noise, and pulled it in to keep it from
touching; but when she pushed into her seat, it whewed more than ever.
Mr. Lodge, he seemed pleased, and his waistcoat stuck out, and his great
golden seals hung like a lord's; but she seemed to wish her noisy gown
anywhere but on her."
"Not she! However, that will do now."
These descriptions of the newly-married couple were continued from time
to time by the boy at his mother's request, after any chance encounter
he had had with them. But Rhoda Brook, though she might easily have seen
young Mrs. Lodge for herself by walking a couple of miles, would never
attempt an excursion towards the quarter where the farmhouse lay.
Neither did she, at the daily milking in the dairyman's yard on Lodge's
outlying second farm, ever speak on the subject of the recent marriage.
The dairyman, who rented the cows of Lodge and knew perfectly the tall
milkmaid's history, with manly kindliness always kept the gossip in the
cow-barton from annoying Rhoda. But the atmosphere thereabout was full
of the subject during the first days of Mrs. Lodge's arrival; and from
her boy's description and the casual words of the other milkers, Rhoda
Brook could raise a mental image of the unconscious Mrs. Lodge that was
realistic as a photograph.
_A Vision_
One night, two or three weeks after the bridal return, when the boy was
gone to bed, Rhoda sat a long time over the turf ashes that she had
raked out in front of her to extinguish them. She contemplated so
intently the new wife, as presented to her in her mind's eye over the
embers, that she forgot the lapse of time. At last, wearied with her
day's work, she too retired.