Stories of Enchantment 6

Stories of Enchantment 6

And yet, listen! the patter of the rain (coming faster now) sounds on

the leaves like the stealthy tread of some animal.

 

“If it is a wolf, it is the ghost of one; for there are no wolves in

this country now,” thought Max. “How like a sigh from human lips the

wind sounds!”

 

“Home at last, I am thankful to say;” and Max ran swiftly round to the

back door. As he closed it, the wind gave a long-drawn wail, and he

almost fancied a hand strove to draw him back into the darkness.

 

“I think I need my supper,” thought he. “Fasting makes a fellow

light-headed.”

 

Entering the kitchen with exultant heart but studied indifference, he

threw his game down on the table before the admiring cook, and then

hastened to change his dress. Soon, over a good supper, he had forgotten

the uncanny night outside, though the wind still howled and the rain

beat against the window.

 

After supper Max went into the library. How cosy and comfortable it was,

with a fire in the grate, an easy-chair drawn in front of it, and the

shadows dancing over books and pictures!

 

“I’ll sit here in front of the fire and rest,” thought he. He sat there

mentally reviewing the day’s sport. “I need a good dog,” he said. “I

must have one. Why, what is that?” For there, lying in front of the

fire, basking in the heat, was an immense dog, with shaggy coat and

pointed ears. Max called to him:—

 

“Here, old fellow; here, Bran,—why, he knows his name. How did I come to

know it, I wonder!” For at the first call, the dog had raised his head

and beat his great tail upon the floor. At the mention of his name he

sprang to his feet, and came crouching and trembling with joy to lick

the hands and shoes of the lad.

 

“What is it then, good dog? Tell me your story, for I’m sure you have

one to tell,” coaxed Max.

 

Did he tell it, or did Max dream? For as the dog rested his head on the

boy’s knee and looked with liquid, loving eyes into his face, Max

glanced round the room and saw a strange transformation: the walls

widened, the ceiling rose to a greater height, and was crossed by great

black beams. On the walls hung shields, spears, great swords, and

numerous other articles of war and of the chase.

 

The polished grate had grown into an immense fireplace, and the floor

was covered with what Max supposed were rushes. But the people in the

room interested him most of all. On the opposite side of the fireplace,

in a great carven chair, sat a lady, young and very lovely,—her dress

some rich dark green material clasped at the throat and waist by heavy

golden clasps, her bare arms heavy with gold armlets, her long black

hair falling in shining waves around her, and her eyes,—the sea was in

them,—gray or dark blue, and in moments of anger flashing greenish

yellow like the eyes of some animal.

 

She sat with her elbow on the arm of her chair, her head resting on her

hand, looking into the fire and listening to the music of an ancient

harper, who sat in the background, softly striking the chords of his

harp.

 

The firelight, dancing over the room, caused strange shadows; and Max

fancied himself one of the shadows, for his chair was filled by a boy of

his own age, sitting just as he had been sitting, with the great dog’s

head on his knee; and notwithstanding his strange dress, Max started

with a feeling almost of terror, for the boy was his double; it was like

seeing himself in the glass.

 

A storm was raging around the castle, and above the soft music of the

harp could be heard the rush of the wind, and the roar of the ocean

dashing at the foot of the cliff.

 

The lady shivered and glanced round the room. “I wish your father were

home, Patrick. How glad I shall be when peace comes again.”

 

“I wish I were old enough to lead the clan to battle, then father could

remain with you.”

 

“What? become a dotard? Out upon you!” Her eyes flashed at the boy, and

the dog, raising his head, gave a low growl. “Why do you not have that

beast speared? You know I hate him,” said the lady.

 

“He was given to me (as you know) by the good fathers at the monastery.

They told me always to cherish Bran, for he would save me from demons,

as well as wolves. See the silver crosses on his collar. Nothing can

harm us while Bran is here.”

 

The lady cast a look of fear and hatred at the boy and the dog. “Be not

too sure,” she said. Springing to her feet, she walked back and forth

through the room. Her step was smooth and graceful; she made no sound on

the rushes as she walked.

 

Presently there came a lull in the storm, and from somewhere back in the

hills came the howl of a wolf. The lady paused and listened, then

turning to the boy she said in a hurried manner, while her eyes sought

the floor: “I feel ill; I am going to my room. Let no one disturb me

to-morrow; if I need help I will call.” And as she turned to leave the

room, suddenly she paused. “Get you to bed, Patrick, chain up that dog,

and—you are the hope and pride of your father—I lay my commands on

you—do not hunt to-morrow.”

 

Then the lady was gone; but Bran was trembling and growling. “He heard

the wolves howl,” said Patrick to the harper. The old man looked into

the fire and was silent.

 

Presently Patrick arose, and bidding the harper good-night, went to his

room, closely followed at the heels by the great dog. To his surprise,

awaiting him in his room was the housekeeper, an ancient woman, who had

been his father’s nurse. She rose when Patrick entered, and came toward

him.

 

“My mind is troubled, child,” she said; “I must tell you my story.”

 

“What is it, nurse?”

 

“It is about my lady Eileen, your stepmother. May I speak?”

 

“Tell on,” said Patrick. “But remember, I will hear nothing against my

lady;” for he well knew that the nurse bore the young stepmother no good

will.

 

“Well, listen, child. You were not here when your father married my

lady. You had not left the monastery where your father placed you for

safety while he was beyond seas. I must tell you first how she came

here.

 

“Fingal, the huntsman, told me that one day, when your father was

hunting alone, he was followed all day by a wolf. It would lurk from one

hillock to another, but when he turned to pursue it, it would disappear.

Finally, at noon, when he sat down to rest, it came creeping and fawning

to his feet. He was tempted to spear it, but did not, out of surprise.

Presently it disappeared; but in the gloaming it returned, and followed

him clear to the gate of the castle. This my lord told to Fingal, and

greatly did he marvel. That same night,” whispered the nurse,

mysteriously, “came a call for help, and when the gate was opened, there

stood a beautiful woman (my lady Eileen) who told how she had lost her

way and her company as she journeyed to St. Hilda’s shrine. Your father

bade her enter, and she has abode here ever since; for soon he married

her, and she became our lady.”

 

“Well, well, nurse, I knew of her coming, and I know also that she was

no waif, but of a noble house and high lineage, as her coat of arms

bears witness,—a wolf couchant. But why explain all this to you? Right

glad am I that she came to gladden my father’s heart and brighten our

home.”

 

“Yes, child, but listen; this only brings me to my story. My lady has

strange spells of illness, and always after a wolf howls.” The boy

started impatiently, but the old dame, laying her hand on his arm,

compelled him to listen. “The last time it was moonlight. I was up in

the turret opposite her window; her lamp was lit, and I saw a strange

sight. My lady was springing with long leaps backward and forward over

the floor, and wringing her hands. Presently she went to her closet,

took from it a wolf’s skin, slipped it over her dress, and I do not know

how she got outside the walls, but I saw her presently speeding away

with long leaps toward the hills.”

 

“Nurse, nurse, are you crazy? It is my lady of whom you speak. Never let

me hear you breathe that story again. Think of my father’s wrath, should

this come to his ears.”

 

Still the old woman shook her head and mumbled in wrath, and speedily

betook herself away; while Patrick, laughing heartily at her foolish

story, went to bed. But all night above the roar of the storm could be

heard the howling of wolves.

 

The morning broke wild and gloomy; the castle seemed lonely and dreary

without the cheery presence of Lady Eileen. Patrick went once to her

door and knocked, but received no answer. Presently Fingal, the

huntsman, came in, armed for the chase. Bran followed close at his

heels. “Will my lord hunt to-day? The wolves were among the flocks last

night, the shepherds tell me.”

 

Patrick hesitated, remembering his lady’s commands, but he decided

finally to go. Soon he was ready, and issuing from the gates, he and

Fingal and the dog were lost in the mists that enveloped the hills.

 

Long did the household wait their return. Night was brooding: over the

castle when Fingal’s horn was heard at the gate. In answer to the

warder’s call his voice came sternly through the night: “Bring help, and

come quickly; my lady is dead.” To the grievous outcries and questions

that arose he would return no answer.