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THE WERE-WOLF
by
CLEMENCE HOUSMAN
With Six Illustrations by Laurence Housman
1896
[Illustration: Holy Water]
TO THE DEAR MEMORY OF
E.W.P.
"YOU WILL THINK OF ME SOMETIMES,
MY DEAR?"
LIST OF PLATES
Holy Water
Rol's Worship
White Fell's Escape
The Race
The Finish
Sweyn's Finding
THE WERE-WOLF
The great farm hall was ablaze with the fire-light, and noisy with
laughter and talk and many-sounding work. None could be idle but
the very young and the very old: little Rol, who was hugging a
puppy, and old Trella, whose palsied hand fumbled over her
knitting. The early evening had closed in, and the farm-servants,
come from their outdoor work, had assembled in the ample hall,
which gave space for a score or more of workers. Several of the
men were engaged in carving, and to these were yielded the best
place and light; others made or repaired fishing-tackle and
harness, and a great seine net occupied three pairs of hands. Of
the women most were sorting and mixing eider feather and chopping
straw to add to it. Looms were there, though not in present use,
but three wheels whirred emulously, and the finest and swiftest
thread of the three ran between the fingers of the house-mistress.
Near her were some children, busy too, plaiting wicks for candles
and lamps. Each group of workers had a lamp in its centre, and
those farthest from the fire had live heat from two braziers
filled with glowing wood embers, replenished now and again from
the generous hearth. But the flicker of the great fire was
manifest to remotest corners, and prevailed beyond the limits of
the weaker lights.
Little Rol grew tired of his puppy, dropped it incontinently, and
made an onslaught on Tyr, the old wolf-hound, who basked dozing,
whimpering and twitching in his hunting dreams. Prone went Rol
beside Tyr, his young arms round the shaggy neck, his curls
against the black jowl. Tyr gave a perfunctory lick, and stretched
with a sleepy sigh. Rol growled and rolled and shoved invitingly,
but could only gain from the old dog placid toleration and a
half-observant blink. "Take that then!" said Rol, indignant at this
ignoring of his advances, and sent the puppy sprawling against the
dignity that disdained him as playmate. The dog took no notice,
and the child wandered off to find amusement elsewhere.
The baskets of white eider feathers caught his eye far off in a
distant corner. He slipped under the table, and crept along on
all-fours, the ordinary common-place custom of walking down a room
upright not being to his fancy. When close to the women he lay
still for a moment watching, with his elbows on the floor and his
chin in his palms. One of the women seeing him nodded and smiled,
and presently he crept out behind her skirts and passed, hardly
noticed, from one to another, till he found opportunity to possess
himself of a large handful of feathers. With these he traversed
the length of the room, under the table again, and emerged near
the spinners. At the feet of the youngest he curled himself round,
sheltered by her knees from the observation of the others, and
disarmed her of interference by secretly displaying his handful
with a confiding smile. A dubious nod satisfied him, and presently
he started on the play he had devised. He took a tuft of the white
down, and gently shook it free of his fingers close to the whirl
of the wheel. The wind of the swift motion took it, spun it round
and round in widening circles, till it floated above like a slow
white moth. Little Rol's eyes danced, and the row of his small
teeth shone in a silent laugh of delight. Another and another of
the white tufts was sent whirling round like a winged thing in a
spider's web, and floating clear at last. Presently the handful
failed.
Rol sprawled forward to survey the room, and contemplate another
journey under the table. His shoulder, thrusting forward, checked
the wheel for an instant; he shifted hastily. The wheel flew on
with a jerk, and the thread snapped. "Naughty Rol!" said the girl.
The swiftest wheel stopped also, and the house-mistress, Rol's
aunt, leaned forward, and sighting the low curly head, gave a
warning against mischief, and sent him off to old Trella's corner.
Rol obeyed, and after a discreet period of obedience, sidled out
again down the length of the room farthest from his aunt's eye. As
he slipped in among the men, they looked up to see that their
tools might be, as far as possible, out of reach of Rol's hands,
and close to their own. Nevertheless, before long he managed to
secure a fine chisel and take off its point on the leg of the
table. The carver's strong objections to this disconcerted Rol,
who for five minutes thereafter effaced himself under the table.
During this seclusion he contemplated the many pairs of legs that
surrounded him, and almost shut out the light of the fire. How
very odd some of the legs were: some were curved where they should
be straight, some were straight where they should be curved, and,
as Rol said to himself, "they all seemed screwed on differently."
Some were tucked away modestly under the benches, others were
thrust far out under the table, encroaching on Rol's own
particular domain. He stretched out his own short legs and
regarded them critically, and, after comparison, favourably. Why
were not all legs made like his, or like _his_?
These legs approved by Rol were a little apart from the rest. He
crawled opposite and again made comparison. His face grew quite
solemn as he thought of the innumerable days to come before his
legs could be as long and strong. He hoped they would be just like
those, his models, as straight as to bone, as curved as to muscle.
A few moments later Sweyn of the long legs felt a small hand
caressing his foot, and looking down, met the upturned eyes of his
little cousin Rol. Lying on his back, still softly patting and
stroking the young man's foot, the child was quiet and happy for a
good while. He watched the movement of the strong deft hands, and
the shifting of the bright tools. Now and then, minute chips of
wood, puffed off by Sweyn, fell down upon his face. At last he
raised himself, very gently, lest a jog should wake impatience in
the carver, and crossing his own legs round Sweyn's ankle,
clasping with his arms too, laid his head against the knee. Such
act is evidence of a child's most wonderful hero-worship. Quite
content was Rol, and more than content when Sweyn paused a minute
to joke, and pat his head and pull his curls. Quiet he remained,
as long as quiescence is possible to limbs young as his. Sweyn
forgot he was near, hardly noticed when his leg was gently
released, and never saw the stealthy abstraction of one of his
tools.
[Illustration: Rol's Worship]
Ten minutes thereafter was a lamentable wail from low on the
floor, rising to the full pitch of Rol's healthy lungs; for his
hand was gashed across, and the copious bleeding terrified him.
Then was there soothing and comforting, washing and binding, and a
modicum of scolding, till the loud outcry sank into occasional
sobs, and the child, tear-stained and subdued, was returned to the
chimney-corner settle, where Trella nodded.
In the reaction after pain and fright, Rol found that the quiet of
that fire-lit corner was to his mind. Tyr, too, disdained him no
longer, but, roused by his sobs, showed all the concern and
sympathy that a dog can by licking and wistful watching. A little
shame weighed also upon his spirits. He wished he had not cried
quite so much. He remembered how once Sweyn had come home with his
arm torn down from the shoulder, and a dead bear; and how he had
never winced nor said a word, though his lips turned white with
pain. Poor little Rol gave another sighing sob over his own
faint-hearted shortcomings.
The light and motion of the great fire began to tell strange
stories to the child, and the wind in the chimney roared a
corroborative note now and then. The great black mouth of the
chimney, impending high over the hearth, received as into a
mysterious gulf murky coils of smoke and brightness of aspiring
sparks; and beyond, in the high darkness, were muttering and
wailing and strange doings, so that sometimes the smoke rushed
back in panic, and curled out and up to the roof, and condensed
itself to invisibility among the rafters. And then the wind would
rage after its lost prey, and rush round the house, rattling and
shrieking at window and door.
In a lull, after one such loud gust, Rol lifted his head in
surprise and listened. A lull had also come on the babel of talk,
and thus could be heard with strange distinctness a sound outside
the door--the sound of a child's voice, a child's hands. "Open,
open; let me in!" piped the little voice from low down, lower than
the handle, and the latch rattled as though a tiptoe child reached
up to it, and soft small knocks were struck. One near the door
sprang up and opened it. "No one is here," he said. Tyr lifted his
head and gave utterance to a howl, loud, prolonged, most dismal.
Sweyn, not able to believe that his ears had deceived him, got up
and went to the door. It was a dark night; the clouds were heavy
with snow, that had fallen fitfully when the wind lulled.
Untrodden snow lay up to the porch; there was no sight nor sound
of any human being. Sweyn strained his eyes far and near, only to
see dark sky, pure snow, and a line of black fir trees on a hill
brow, bowing down before the wind. "It must have been the wind,"
he said, and closed the door.
Many faces looked scared. The sound of a child's voice had been so
distinct--and the words "Open, open; let me in!" The wind might
creak the wood, or rattle the latch, but could not speak with a
child's voice, nor knock with the soft plain blows that a plump
fist gives. And the strange unusual howl of the wolf-hound was an
omen to be feared, be the rest what it might. Strange things were
said by one and another, till the rebuke of the house-mistress
quelled them into far-off whispers. For a time after there was
uneasiness, constraint, and silence; then the chill fear thawed by
degrees, and the babble of talk flowed on again.
Yet half-an-hour later a very slight noise outside the door
sufficed to arrest every hand, every tongue. Every head was
raised, every eye fixed in one direction. "It is Christian; he is
late," said Sweyn.
No, no; this is a feeble shuffle, not a young man's tread. With
the sound of uncertain feet came the hard tap-tap of a stick
against the door, and the high-pitched voice of eld, "Open, open;
let me in!" Again Tyr flung up his head in a long doleful howl.
Before the echo of the tapping stick and the high voice had fairly
died away, Sweyn had sprung across to the door and flung it wide.
"No one again," he said in a steady voice, though his eyes looked
startled as he stared out. He saw the lonely expanse of snow, the
clouds swagging low, and between the two the line of dark
fir-trees bowing in the wind. He closed the door without a word of
comment, and re-crossed the room.
A score of blanched faces were turned to him as though he must be
solver of the enigma. He could not be unconscious of this mute
eye-questioning, and it disturbed his resolute air of composure.
He hesitated, glanced towards his mother, the house-mistress, then
back at the frightened folk, and gravely, before them all, made
the sign of the cross. There was a flutter of hands as the sign
was repeated by all, and the dead silence was stirred as by a huge
sigh, for the held breath of many was freed as though the sign
gave magic relief.
Even the house-mistress was perturbed. She left her wheel and
crossed the room to her son, and spoke with him for a moment in a
low tone that none could overhear. But a moment later her voice
was high-pitched and loud, so that all might benefit by her rebuke
of the "heathen chatter" of one of the girls. Perhaps she essayed
to silence thus her own misgivings and forebodings.
No other voice dared speak now with its natural fulness. Low tones
made intermittent murmurs, and now and then silence drifted over
the whole room. The handling of tools was as noiseless as might
be, and suspended on the instant if the door rattled in a gust of
wind. After a time Sweyn left his work, joined the group nearest
the door, and loitered there on the pretence of giving advice and
help to the unskilful.
A man's tread was heard outside in the porch. "Christian!" said
Sweyn and his mother simultaneously, he confidently, she
authoritatively, to set the checked wheels going again. But Tyr
flung up his head with an appalling howl.
"Open, open; let me in!"
It was a man's voice, and the door shook and rattled as a man's
strength beat against it. Sweyn could feel the planks quivering,
as on the instant his hand was upon the door, flinging it open, to
face the blank porch, and beyond only snow and sky, and firs
aslant in the wind.
He stood for a long minute with the open door in his hand. The
bitter wind swept in with its icy chill, but a deadlier chill of
fear came swifter, and seemed to freeze the beating of hearts.
Sweyn stepped back to snatch up a great bearskin cloak.
"Sweyn, where are you going?"
"No farther than the porch, mother," and he stepped out and closed
the door.
He wrapped himself in the heavy fur, and leaning against the most
sheltered wall of the porch, steeled his nerves to face the devil
and all his works. No sound of voices came from within; the most
distinct sound was the crackle and roar of the fire.
It was bitterly cold. His feet grew numb, but he forbore stamping
them into warmth lest the sound should strike panic within; nor
would he leave the porch, nor print a foot-mark on the untrodden
white that declared so absolutely how no human voices and hands
could have approached the door since snow fell two hours or more
ago. "When the wind drops there will be more snow," thought Sweyn.
For the best part of an hour he kept his watch, and saw no living
thing--heard no unwonted sound. "I will freeze here no longer," he
muttered, and re-entered.
One woman gave a half-suppressed scream as his hand was laid on
the latch, and then a gasp of relief as he came in. No one
questioned him, only his mother said, in a tone of forced
unconcern, "Could you not see Christian coming?" as though she
were made anxious only by the absence of her younger son. Hardly
had Sweyn stamped near to the fire than clear knocking was heard
at the door. Tyr leapt from the hearth, his eyes red as the fire,
his fangs showing white in the black jowl, his neck ridged and
bristling; and overleaping Rol, ramped at the door, barking
furiously.
Outside the door a clear mellow voice was calling. Tyr's bark made
the words undistinguishable.
No one offered to stir towards the door before Sweyn.
He stalked down the room resolutely, lifted the latch, and swung
back the door.
A white-robed woman glided in.
No wraith! Living--beautiful--young.
Tyr leapt upon her.
Lithely she baulked the sharp fangs with folds of her long fur
robe, and snatching from her girdle a small two-edged axe, whirled
it up for a blow of defence.
Sweyn caught the dog by the collar, and dragged him off yelling
and struggling.
The stranger stood in the doorway motionless, one foot set
forward, one arm flung up, till the house-mistress hurried down
the room; and Sweyn, relinquishing to others the furious Tyr,
turned again to close the door, and offer excuse for so fierce a
greeting. Then she lowered her arm, slung the axe in its place at
her waist, loosened the furs about her face, and shook over her
shoulders the long white robe--all as it were with the sway of one
movement.
She was a maiden, tall and very fair. The fashion of her dress was
strange, half masculine, yet not unwomanly. A fine fur tunic,
reaching but little below the knee, was all the skirt she wore;
below were the cross-bound shoes and leggings that a hunter wears.
A white fur cap was set low upon the brows, and from its edge
strips of fur fell lappet-wise about her shoulders; two of these
at her entrance had been drawn forward and crossed about her
throat, but now, loosened and thrust back, left unhidden long
plaits of fair hair that lay forward on shoulder and breast, down
to the ivory-studded girdle where the axe gleamed.
Sweyn and his mother led the stranger to the hearth without
question or sign of curiosity, till she voluntarily told her tale
of a long journey to distant kindred, a promised guide unmet, and
signals and landmarks mistaken.
"Alone!" exclaimed Sweyn in astonishment. "Have you journeyed thus
far, a hundred leagues, alone?"
She answered "Yes" with a little smile.
"Over the hills and the wastes! Why, the folk there are savage and
wild as beasts."
She dropped her hand upon her axe with a laugh of some scorn.
"I fear neither man nor beast; some few fear me." And then she
told strange tales of fierce attack and defence, and of the bold
free huntress life she had led.
Her words came a little slowly and deliberately, as though she
spoke in a scarce familiar tongue; now and then she hesitated, and
stopped in a phrase, as though for lack of some word.
She became the centre of a group of listeners. The interest she
excited dissipated, in some degree, the dread inspired by the
mysterious voices. There was nothing ominous about this young,
bright, fair reality, though her aspect was strange.
Little Rol crept near, staring at the stranger with all his might.
Unnoticed, he softly stroked and patted a corner of her soft white
robe that reached to the floor in ample folds. He laid his cheek
against it caressingly, and then edged up close to her knees.
"What is your name?" he asked.
The stranger's smile and ready answer, as she looked down, saved
Rol from the rebuke merited by his unmannerly question.
"My real name," she said, "would be uncouth to your ears and
tongue. The folk of this country have given me another name, and
from this" (she laid her hand on the fur robe) "they call me
'White Fell.'"
Little Rol repeated it to himself, stroking and patting as before.
"White Fell, White Fell."
The fair face, and soft, beautiful dress pleased Rol. He knelt up,
with his eyes on her face and an air of uncertain determination,
like a robin's on a doorstep, and plumped his elbows into her lap
with a little gasp at his own audacity.
"Rol!" exclaimed his aunt; but, "Oh, let him!" said White Fell,
smiling and stroking his head; and Rol stayed.
He advanced farther, and panting at his own adventurousness in the
face of his aunt's authority, climbed up on to her knees. Her
welcoming arms hindered any protest. He nestled happily, fingering
the axe head, the ivory studs in her girdle, the ivory clasp at
her throat, the plaits of fair hair; rubbing his head against the
softness of her fur-clad shoulder, with a child's full confidence
in the kindness of beauty.
White Fell had not uncovered her head, only knotted the pendant
fur loosely behind her neck. Rol reached up his hand towards it,
whispering her name to himself, "White Fell, White Fell," then
slid his arms round her neck, and kissed her--once--twice. She
laughed delightedly, and kissed him again.
"The child plagues you?" said Sweyn.
"No, indeed," she answered, with an earnestness so intense as to
seem disproportionate to the occasion.
Rol settled himself again on her lap, and began to unwind the
bandage bound round his hand. He paused a little when he saw where
the blood had soaked through; then went on till his hand was bare
and the cut displayed, gaping and long, though only skin deep. He
held it up towards White Fell, desirous of her pity and sympathy.
At sight of it, and the blood-stained linen, she drew in her
breath suddenly, clasped Rol to her--hard, hard--till he began to
struggle. Her face was hidden behind the boy, so that none could
see its expression. It had lighted up with a most awful glee.
Afar, beyond the fir-grove, beyond the low hill behind, the absent
Christian was hastening his return. From daybreak he had been
afoot, carrying notice of a bear hunt to all the best hunters of
the farms and hamlets that lay within a radius of twelve miles.
Nevertheless, having been detained till a late hour, he now broke
into a run, going with a long smooth stride of apparent ease that
fast made the miles diminish.
He entered the midnight blackness of the fir-grove with scarcely
slackened pace, though the path was invisible; and passing through
into the open again, sighted the farm lying a furlong off down the
slope. Then he sprang out freely, and almost on the instant gave
one great sideways leap, and stood still. There in the snow was
the track of a great wolf.
His hand went to his knife, his only weapon. He stooped, knelt
down, to bring his eyes to the level of a beast, and peered about;
his teeth set, his heart beat a little harder than the pace of his
running insisted on. A solitary wolf, nearly always savage and of
large size, is a formidable beast that will not hesitate to attack
a single man. This wolf-track was the largest Christian had ever
seen, and, so far as he could judge, recently made. It led from
under the fir-trees down the slope. Well for him, he thought, was
the delay that had so vexed him before: well for him that he had
not passed through the dark fir-grove when that danger of jaws
lurked there. Going warily, he followed the track.
It led down the slope, across a broad ice-bound stream, along the
level beyond, making towards the farm. A less precise knowledge
had doubted, and guessed that here might have come straying big
Tyr or his like; but Christian was sure, knowing better than to
mistake between footmark of dog and wolf.
Straight on--straight on towards the farm.
Surprised and anxious grew Christian, that a prowling wolf should
dare so near. He drew his knife and pressed on, more hastily, more
keen-eyed. Oh that Tyr were with him!
Straight on, straight on, even to the very door, where the snow
failed. His heart seemed to give a great leap and then stop. There
the track _ended_.
Nothing lurked in the porch, and there was no sign of return. The
firs stood straight against the sky, the clouds lay low; for the
wind had fallen and a few snowflakes came drifting down. In a
horror of surprise, Christian stood dazed a moment: then he lifted
the latch and went in. His glance took in all the old familiar
forms and faces, and with them that of the stranger, fur-clad and
beautiful. The awful truth flashed upon him: he knew what she was.
Only a few were startled by the rattle of the latch as he entered.
The room was filled with bustle and movement, for it was the
supper hour, when all tools were laid aside, and trestles and
tables shifted. Christian had no knowledge of what he said and
did; he moved and spoke mechanically, half thinking that soon he
must wake from this horrible dream. Sweyn and his mother supposed
him to be cold and dead-tired, and spared all unnecessary
questions. And he found himself seated beside the hearth, opposite
that dreadful Thing that looked like a beautiful girl; watching
her every movement, curdling with horror to see her fondle the
child Rol.
Sweyn stood near them both, intent upon White Fell also; but how
differently! She seemed unconscious of the gaze of both--neither
aware of the chill dread in the eyes of Christian, nor of Sweyn's
warm admiration.
These two brothers, who were twins, contrasted greatly, despite
their striking likeness. They were alike in regular profile, fair
brown hair, and deep blue eyes; but Sweyn's features were perfect
as a young god's, while Christian's showed faulty details. Thus,
the line of his mouth was set too straight, the eyes shelved too
deeply back, and the contour of the face flowed in less generous
curves than Sweyn's. Their height was the same, but Christian was
too slender for perfect proportion, while Sweyn's well-knit frame,
broad shoulders, and muscular arms, made him pre-eminent for manly
beauty as well as for strength. As a hunter Sweyn was without
rival; as a fisher without rival. All the countryside acknowledged
him to be the best wrestler, rider, dancer, singer. Only in speed
could he be surpassed, and in that only by his younger brother.
All others Sweyn could distance fairly; but Christian could outrun
him easily. Ay, he could keep pace with Sweyn's most breathless
burst, and laugh and talk the while. Christian took little pride
in his fleetness of foot, counting a man's legs to be the least
worthy of his members. He had no envy of his brother's athletic
superiority, though to several feats he had made a moderate
second. He loved as only a twin can love--proud of all that Sweyn
did, content with all that Sweyn was; humbly content also that his
own great love should not be so exceedingly returned, since he
knew himself to be so far less love-worthy.
Christian dared not, in the midst of women and children, launch
the horror that he knew into words. He waited to consult his
brother; but Sweyn did not, or would not, notice the signal he
made, and kept his face always turned towards White Fell.
Christian drew away from the hearth, unable to remain passive with
that dread upon him.
"Where is Tyr?" he said suddenly. Then, catching sight of the dog
in a distant corner, "Why is he chained there?"
"He flew at the stranger," one answered.
Christian's eyes glowed. "Yes?" he said, interrogatively.
"He was within an ace of having his brain knocked out."
"Tyr?"
"Yes; she was nimbly up with that little axe she has at her waist.
It was well for old Tyr that his master throttled him off."
Christian went without a word to the corner where Tyr was chained.
The dog rose up to meet him, as piteous and indignant as a dumb
beast can be. He stroked the black head. "Good Tyr! brave dog!"
They knew, they only; and the man and the dumb dog had comfort of
each other.
Christian's eyes turned again towards White Fell: Tyr's also, and
he strained against the length of the chain. Christian's hand lay
on the dog's neck, and he felt it ridge and bristle with the
quivering of impotent fury. Then he began to quiver in like
manner, with a fury born of reason, not instinct; as impotent
morally as was Tyr physically. Oh! the woman's form that he dare
not touch! Anything but that, and he with Tyr would be free to
kill or be killed.
Then he returned to ask fresh questions.
"How long has the stranger been here?"
"She came about half-an-hour before you."
"Who opened the door to her?"
"Sweyn: no one else dared."
The tone of the answer was mysterious.
"Why?" queried Christian. "Has anything strange happened? Tell
me."
For answer he was told in a low undertone of the summons at the
door thrice repeated without human agency; and of Tyr's ominous
howls; and of Sweyn's fruitless watch outside.
Christian turned towards his brother in a torment of impatience
for a word apart. The board was spread, and Sweyn was leading
White Fell to the guest's place. This was more awful: she would
break bread with them under the roof-tree!
He started forward, and touching Sweyn's arm, whispered an urgent
entreaty. Sweyn stared, and shook his head in angry impatience.
Thereupon Christian would take no morsel of food.
His opportunity came at last. White Fell questioned of the
landmarks of the country, and of one Cairn Hill, which was an
appointed meeting-place at which she was due that night. The
house-mistress and Sweyn both exclaimed.
"It is three long miles away," said Sweyn; "with no place for
shelter but a wretched hut. Stay with us this night, and I will
show you the way to-morrow."
White Fell seemed to hesitate. "Three miles," she said; "then I
should be able to see or hear a signal."
"I will look out," said Sweyn; "then, if there be no signal, you
must not leave us."
He went to the door. Christian rose silently, and followed him
out.
"Sweyn, do you know what she is?"
Sweyn, surprised at the vehement grasp, and low hoarse voice, made
answer:
"She? Who? White Fell?"
"Yes."
"She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen."
"She is a Were-Wolf."
Sweyn burst out laughing. "Are you mad?" he asked.
"No; here, see for yourself."
Christian drew him out of the porch, pointing to the snow where
the footmarks had been. Had been, for now they were not. Snow was
falling fast, and every dint was blotted out.
"Well?" asked Sweyn.
"Had you come when I signed to you, you would have seen for
yourself."
"Seen what?"
"The footprints of a wolf leading up to the door; none leading
away."
It was impossible not to be startled by the tone alone, though it
was hardly above a whisper. Sweyn eyed his brother anxiously, but
in the darkness could make nothing of his face. Then he laid his
hands kindly and re-assuringly on Christian's shoulders and felt
how he was quivering with excitement and horror.
"One sees strange things," he said, "when the cold has got into
the brain behind the eyes; you came in cold and worn out."
"No," interrupted Christian. "I saw the track first on the brow of
the slope, and followed it down right here to the door. This is no
delusion."
Sweyn in his heart felt positive that it was. Christian was given
to day-dreams and strange fancies, though never had he been
possessed with so mad a notion before.
"Don't you believe me?" said Christian desperately. "You must. I
swear it is sane truth. Are you blind? Why, even Tyr knows."
"You will be clearer headed to-morrow after a night's rest. Then
come too, if you will, with White Fell, to the Hill Cairn; and if
you have doubts still, watch and follow, and see what footprints
she leaves."
Galled by Sweyn's evident contempt Christian turned abruptly to
the door. Sweyn caught him back.
"What now, Christian? What are you going to do?"
"You do not believe me; my mother shall."
Sweyn's grasp tightened. "You shall not tell her," he said
authoritatively.
Customarily Christian was so docile to his brother's mastery that
it was now a surprising thing when he wrenched himself free
vigorously, and said as determinedly as Sweyn, "She shall know!"
but Sweyn was nearer the door and would not let him pass.
"There has been scare enough for one night already. If this notion
of yours will keep, broach it to-morrow." Christian would not
yield.
"Women are so easily scared," pursued Sweyn, "and are ready to
believe any folly without shadow of proof. Be a man, Christian,
and fight this notion of a Were-Wolf by yourself."
"If you would believe me," began Christian.
"I believe you to be a fool," said Sweyn, losing patience.
"Another, who was not your brother, might believe you to be a
knave, and guess that you had transformed White Fell into a
Were-Wolf because she smiled more readily on me than on you."
The jest was not without foundation, for the grace of White Fell's
bright looks had been bestowed on him, on Christian never a whit.
Sweyn's coxcombery was always frank, and most forgiveable, and not
without fair colour.
"If you want an ally," continued Sweyn, "confide in old Trella.
Out of her stores of wisdom, if her memory holds good, she can
instruct you in the orthodox manner of tackling a Were-Wolf. If I
remember aright, you should watch the suspected person till
midnight, when the beast's form must be resumed, and retained ever
after if a human eye sees the change; or, better still, sprinkle
hands and feet with holy water, which is certain death. Oh! never
fear, but old Trella will be equal to the occasion."
Sweyn's contempt was no longer good-humoured; some touch of
irritation or resentment rose at this monstrous doubt of White
Fell. But Christian was too deeply distressed to take offence.
"You speak of them as old wives' tales; but if you had seen the
proof I have seen, you would be ready at least to wish them true,
if not also to put them to the test."
"Well," said Sweyn, with a laugh that had a little sneer in it,
"put them to the test! I will not object to that, if you will only
keep your notions to yourself. Now, Christian, give me your word
for silence, and we will freeze here no longer."
Christian remained silent.
Sweyn put his hands on his shoulders again and vainly tried to see
his face in the darkness.
"We have never quarrelled yet, Christian?"
"I have never quarrelled," returned the other, aware for the first
time that his dictatorial brother had sometimes offered occasion
for quarrel, had he been ready to take it.
"Well," said Sweyn emphatically, "if you speak against White Fell
to any other, as to-night you have spoken to me--we shall."
He delivered the words like an ultimatum, turned sharp round, and
re-entered the house. Christian, more fearful and wretched than
before, followed.
"Snow is falling fast: not a single light is to be seen."
White Fell's eyes passed over Christian without apparent notice,
and turned bright and shining upon Sweyn.
"Nor any signal to be heard?" she queried. "Did you not hear the
sound of a sea-horn?"
"I saw nothing, and heard nothing; and signal or no signal, the
heavy snow would keep you here perforce."
She smiled her thanks beautifully. And Christian's heart sank like
lead with a deadly foreboding, as he noted what a light was
kindled in Sweyn's eyes by her smile.
That night, when all others slept, Christian, the weariest of all,
watched outside the guest-chamber till midnight was past. No
sound, not the faintest, could be heard. Could the old tale be
true of the midnight change? What was on the other side of the
door, a woman or a beast? he would have given his right hand to
know. Instinctively he laid his hand on the latch, and drew it
softly, though believing that bolts fastened the inner side. The
door yielded to his hand; he stood on the threshold; a keen gust
of air cut at him; the window stood open; the room was empty.
So Christian could sleep with a somewhat lightened heart.
In the morning there was surprise and conjecture when White Fell's
absence was discovered. Christian held his peace. Not even to his
brother did he say how he knew that she had fled before midnight;
and Sweyn, though evidently greatly chagrined, seemed to disdain
reference to the subject of Christian's fears.
The elder brother alone joined the bear hunt; Christian found
pretext to stay behind. Sweyn, being out of humour, manifested his
contempt by uttering not a single expostulation.
All that day, and for many a day after, Christian would never go
out of sight of his home. Sweyn alone noticed how he manoeuvred for
this, and was clearly annoyed by it. White Fell's name was never
mentioned between them, though not seldom was it heard in general
talk. Hardly a day passed but little Rol asked when White Fell
would come again: pretty White Fell, who kissed like a snowflake.
And if Sweyn answered, Christian would be quite sure that the
light in his eyes, kindled by White Fell's smile, had not yet died
out.
Little Rol! Naughty, merry, fairhaired little Rol. A day came when
his feet raced over the threshold never to return; when his
chatter and laugh were heard no more; when tears of anguish were
wept by eyes that never would see his bright head again: never
again, living or dead.
He was seen at dusk for the last time, escaping from the house
with his puppy, in freakish rebellion against old Trella. Later,
when his absence had begun to cause anxiety, his puppy crept back
to the farm, cowed, whimpering and yelping, a pitiful, dumb lump
of terror, without intelligence or courage to guide the frightened
search.
Rol was never found, nor any trace of him. Where he had perished
was never known; how he had perished was known only by an awful
guess--a wild beast had devoured him.
Christian heard the conjecture "a wolf"; and a horrible certainty
flashed upon him that he knew what wolf it was. He tried to
declare what he knew, but Sweyn saw him start at the words with
white face and struggling lips; and, guessing his purpose, pulled
him back, and kept him silent, hardly, by his imperious grip and
wrathful eyes, and one low whisper.
That Christian should retain his most irrational suspicion against
beautiful White Fell was, to Sweyn, evidence of a weak obstinacy
of mind that would but thrive upon expostulation and argument. But
this evident intention to direct the passions of grief and anguish
to a hatred and fear of the fair stranger, such as his own, was
intolerable, and Sweyn set his will against it. Again Christian
yielded to his brother's stronger words and will, and against his
own judgment consented to silence.
Repentance came before the new moon, the first of the year, was
old. White Fell came again, smiling as she entered, as though
assured of a glad and kindly welcome; and, in truth, there was
only one who saw again her fair face and strange white garb
without pleasure. Sweyn's face glowed with delight, while
Christian's grew pale and rigid as death. He had given his word to
keep silence; but he had not thought that she would dare to come
again. Silence was impossible, face to face with that Thing,
impossible. Irrepressibly he cried out:
"Where is Rol?"
Not a quiver disturbed White Fell's face. She heard, yet remained
bright and tranquil. Sweyn's eyes flashed round at his brother
dangerously. Among the women some tears fell at the poor child's
name; but none caught alarm from its sudden utterance, for the
thought of Rol rose naturally. Where was little Rol, who had
nestled in the stranger's arms, kissing her; and watched for her
since; and prattled of her daily?
Christian went out silently. One only thing there was that he
could do, and he must not delay. His horror overmastered any
curiosity to hear White Fell's smooth excuses and smiling
apologies for her strange and uncourteous departure; or her easy
tale of the circumstances of her return; or to watch her bearing
as she heard the sad tale of little Rol.
The swiftest runner of the country-side had started on his hardest
race: little less than three leagues and back, which he reckoned
to accomplish in two hours, though the night was moonless and the
way rugged. He rushed against the still cold air till it felt like
a wind upon his face. The dim homestead sank below the ridges at
his back, and fresh ridges of snowlands rose out of the obscure
horizon-level to drive past him as the stirless air drove, and
sink away behind into obscure level again. He took no conscious
heed of landmarks, not even when all sign of a path was gone under
depths of snow. His will was set to reach his goal with unexampled
speed; and thither by instinct his physical forces bore him,
without one definite thought to guide.
And the idle brain lay passive, inert, receiving into its vacancy
restless siftings of past sights and sounds: Rol, weeping,
laughing, playing, coiled in the arms of that dreadful Thing:
Tyr--O Tyr!--white fangs in the black jowl: the women who wept on
The foolish puppy, precious for the child's last touch: footprints
from pine wood to door: the smiling face among furs, of such
womanly beauty--smiling--smiling: and Sweyn's face.
"Sweyn, Sweyn, O Sweyn, my brother!"
Sweyn's angry laugh possessed his ear within the sound of the wind
of his speed; Sweyn's scorn assailed more quick and keen than the
biting cold at his throat. And yet he was unimpressed by any
thought of how Sweyn's anger and scorn would rise, if this errand
were known.
Sweyn was a sceptic. His utter disbelief in Christian's testimony
regarding the footprints was based upon positive scepticism. His
reason refused to bend in accepting the possibility of the
supernatural materialised. That a living beast could ever be other
than palpably bestial--pawed, toothed, shagged, and eared as such,
was to him incredible; far more that a human presence could be
transformed from its god-like aspect, upright, free-handed, with
brows, and speech, and laughter. The wild and fearful legends that
he had known from childhood and then believed, he regarded now as
built upon facts distorted, overlaid by imagination, and quickened
by superstition. Even the strange summons at the threshold, that
he himself had vainly answered, was, after the first shock of
surprise, rationally explained by him as malicious foolery on the
part of some clever trickster, who withheld the key to the enigma.
To the younger brother all life was a spiritual mystery, veiled
from his clear knowledge by the density of flesh. Since he knew
his own body to be linked to the complex and antagonistic forces
that constitute one soul, it seemed to him not impossibly strange
that one spiritual force should possess divers forms for widely
various manifestation. Nor, to him, was it great effort to believe
that as pure water washes away all natural foulness, so water,
holy by consecration, must needs cleanse God's world from that
supernatural evil Thing. Therefore, faster than ever man's foot
had covered those leagues, he sped under the dark, still night,
over the waste, trackless snow-ridges to the far-away church,
where salvation lay in the holy-water stoup at the door. His faith
was as firm as any that wrought miracles in days past, simple as a
child's wish, strong as a man's will.
He was hardly missed during these hours, every second of which was
by him fulfilled to its utmost extent by extremest effort that
sinews and nerves could attain. Within the homestead the while,
the easy moments went bright with words and looks of unwonted
animation, for the kindly, hospitable instincts of the inmates
were roused into cordial expression of welcome and interest by the
grace and beauty of the returned stranger.
But Sweyn was eager and earnest, with more than a host's courteous
warmth. The impression that at her first coming had charmed him,
that had lived since through memory, deepened now in her actual
presence. Sweyn, the matchless among men, acknowledged in this
fair White Fell a spirit high and bold as his own, and a frame so
firm and capable that only bulk was lacking for equal strength.
Yet the white skin was moulded most smoothly, without such
muscular swelling as made his might evident. Such love as his
frank self-love could concede was called forth by an ardent
admiration for this supreme stranger. More admiration than love
was in his passion, and therefore he was free from a lover's
hesitancy and delicate reserve and doubts. Frankly and boldly he
courted her favour by looks and tones, and an address that came of
natural ease, needless of skill by practice.
Nor was she a woman to be wooed otherwise. Tender whispers and
sighs would never gain her ear; but her eyes would brighten and
shine if she heard of a brave feat, and her prompt hand in
sympathy fall swiftly on the axe-haft and clasp it hard. That
movement ever fired Sweyn's admiration anew; he watched for it,
strove to elicit it, and glowed when it came. Wonderful and
beautiful was that wrist, slender and steel-strong; also the
smooth shapely hand, that curved so fast and firm, ready to deal
instant death.
Desiring to feel the pressure of these hands, this bold lover
schemed with palpable directness, proposing that she should hear
how their hunting songs were sung, with a chorus that signalled
hands to be clasped. So his splendid voice gave the verses, and,
as the chorus was taken up, he claimed her hands, and, even
through the easy grip, felt, as he desired, the strength that was
latent, and the vigour that quickened the very fingertips, as the
song fired her, and her voice was caught out of her by the
rhythmic swell, and rang clear on the top of the closing surge.
Afterwards she sang alone. For contrast, or in the pride of
swaying moods by her voice, she chose a mournful song that drifted
along in a minor chant, sad as a wind that dirges:
"Oh, let me go!
Around spin wreaths of snow;
The dark earth sleeps below.
"Far up the plain
Moans on a voice of pain:
'Where shall my babe be lain?'
"In my white breast
Lay the sweet life to rest!
Lay, where it can lie best!
"'Hush! hush its cries!
Dense night is on the skies:
Two stars are in thine eyes.'
"Come, babe, away!
But lie thou till dawn be grey,
Who must be dead by day.
"This cannot last;
But, ere the sickening blast,
All sorrow shall be past;
"And kings shall be
Low bending at thy knee,
Worshipping life from thee.
"For men long sore
To hope of what's before,--
To leave the things of yore.
"Mine, and not thine,
How deep their jewels shine!
Peace laps thy head, not mine."
Old Trella came tottering from her corner, shaken to additional
palsy by an aroused memory. She strained her dim eyes towards the
singer, and then bent her head, that the one ear yet sensible to
sound might avail of every note. At the close, groping forward,
she murmured with the high-pitched quaver of old age:
"So she sang, my Thora; my last and brightest. What is she like,
she whose voice is like my dead Thora's? Are her eyes blue?"
"Blue as the sky."
"So were my Thora's! Is her hair fair, and in plaits to the
waist?" "Even so," answered White Fell herself, and met the
advancing hands with her own, and guided them to corroborate her
words by touch.
"Like my dead Thora's," repeated the old woman; and then her
trembling hands rested on the fur-clad shoulders, and she bent
forward and kissed the smooth fair face that White Fell upturned,
nothing loth, to receive and return the caress.
So Christian saw them as he entered.
He stood a moment. After the starless darkness and the icy night
air, and the fierce silent two hours' race, his senses reeled on
sudden entrance into warmth, and light, and the cheery hum of
voices. A sudden unforeseen anguish assailed him, as now first he
entertained the possibility of being overmatched by her wiles and
her daring, if at the approach of pure death she should start up
at bay transformed to a terrible beast, and achieve a savage glut
at the last. He looked with horror and pity on the harmless,
helpless folk, so unwitting of outrage to their comfort and
security. The dreadful Thing in their midst, that was veiled from
their knowledge by womanly beauty, was a centre of pleasant
interest. There, before him, signally impressive, was poor old
Trella, weakest and feeblest of all, in fond nearness. And a
moment might bring about the revelation of a monstrous horror--a
ghastly, deadly danger, set loose and at bay, in a circle of girls
and women and careless defenceless men: so hideous and terrible a
thing as might crack the brain, or curdle the heart stone dead.
And he alone of the throng prepared!
[Illustration: White Fell's Escape]
For one breathing space he faltered, no longer than that, while
over him swept the agony of compunction that yet could not make
him surrender his purpose.
He alone? Nay, but Tyr also; and he crossed to the dumb sole
sharer of his knowledge.
So timeless is thought that a few seconds only lay between his
lifting of the latch and his loosening of Tyr's collar; but in
those few seconds succeeding his first glance, as lightning-swift
had been the impulses of others, their motion as quick and sure.
Sweyn's vigilant eye had darted upon him, and instantly his every
fibre was alert with hostile instinct; and, half divining, half
incredulous, of Christian's object in stooping to Tyr, he came
hastily, wary, wrathful, resolute to oppose the malice of his
wild-eyed brother.
But beyond Sweyn rose White Fell, blanching white as her furs, and
with eyes grown fierce and wild. She leapt down the room to the
door, whirling her long robe closely to her. "Hark!" she panted.
"The signal horn! Hark, I must go!" as she snatched at the latch
to be out and away.
For one precious moment Christian had hesitated on the
half-loosened collar; for, except the womanly form were exchanged
for the bestial, Tyr's jaws would gnash to rags his honour of
manhood. Then he heard her voice, and turned--too late.
As she tugged at the door, he sprang across grasping his flask,
but Sweyn dashed between, and caught him back irresistibly, so
that a most frantic effort only availed to wrench one arm free.
With that, on the impulse of sheer despair, he cast at her with
all his force. The door swung behind her, and the flask flew into
fragments against it. Then, as Sweyn's grasp slackened, and he met
the questioning astonishment of surrounding faces, with a hoarse
inarticulate cry: "God help us all!" he said. "She is a
Were-Wolf."