Stories of Enchantment 7

Stories of Enchantment 7

Soon an excited group were hurrying toward the hills, and presently the

torches revealed a sad sight. The first to come into view was their

young lord, crouching on the ground, with the dog’s head clasped in his

arms; Bran’s throat had been torn and mangled, and he had been thrust

through with a spear. Patrick was wounded and torn in many places; blood

was flowing down his face and throat, and his tears were falling on the

dog’s head. Not far away lay Lady Eileen, quite dead. Very beautiful and

placid she looked, as if sleeping; but on her throat were marks of great

teeth.

 

“Take up my lady and bear her to the castle,” said Patrick; “as for

Bran, you must bury him here.”

 

“Nay, child, he is only a dead dog,” said the old nurse, fussily. But

she was met by a stern command to be quiet.

 

“Do as I bid you,” he said to the servants, and then added, “The good

dog went mad, and attacked my lady. I could not save her. Let my father

know this, should I die;” and then the boy fell backward, fainting.

 

To the father it was a sad home-coming when, a few days later, he

returned from war,—his beautiful young wife lying cold and dead in the

chapel; his son very ill, calling always for Bran to save him from some

deadly peril.

 

Greatly the household marvelled how their lady came to be out in the

mist and the storm, alone on the hills; but Fingal, the huntsman, sought

his two gossips, the nurse and the harper, and told this tale of the

day’s hunt.

 

“We had followed the wolves all day, and several had been killed. But

there was one gray wolf, who seemed the leader of the pack. This one my

lord singled out, and followed from valley to valley. Bran would not

pursue it, but slunk and cowered after his master, whining pitifully.

All day we followed it, until, late in the gloaming, it had headed

toward the castle; and we pressed it hard. It finally turned at bay,

and, springing at my lord’s throat, it brought him to the ground. Bran

was lagging behind, and I was urging him forward. When he heard my

lord’s cries, the dog flew at the wolf. The beast then turned on the

dog, and as I ran to help to spear it, I saw—” here the huntsman’s voice

sank into a whisper—“I saw no wolf, but my lady, tearing and rending the

dog, while Bran’s teeth were buried in her throat.

 

“‘Separate them! save them!’ cried my lord; and I, not knowing what else

to do, watched my chance and thrust the dog through the body. He sank

without a groan, relaxing his grasp on my lady’s throat. My lord gave a

cry of despair, and my lady, hearing it, crept over to him and

whispering, ‘Forgive; I could not help it,’ sank dead at his feet. But

Lord Patrick passed her by, and threw himself down by the dog; while I,

half distraught, came home for help.”

 

Then said the nurse, “See that you hold your tongue, man, for if this

story come to the ears of my lord, your body will want a head.”

 

But from that time forth the Lady Eileen was spoken of as “The Wolf

Lady,” and in time, the grim name of the “Wolf’s Castle” clung to her

old home.

 

In the years that came and passed, Patrick became chief in his father’s

place; and then a cairn was raised over the body of the faithful dog.

 

 

Max awoke to find the fire out; shivered, and sprang to his feet. “What

a strange dream!” he said.

 

 

 

 

VI.

THE CORN FAIRY.

 

 

Little Theo sat up in bed and looked out of the window. “It’s going to

be a nice day; the little girl will be in the corn. We will play all day

long. I must hurry; she doesn’t like to wait.”

 

Presently, her breakfast eaten and her little tasks all finished, she

was running as fast as her feet would carry her toward the wide fields

of Indian corn. In a few moments the great blades were rustling above

her head. They formed green arches, down whose long vistas the little

girl eagerly peered. Soon, with a satisfied laugh, she ran with

outstretched hands down the corn rows, and her voice came back

chattering, laughing, asking and answering questions.

 

Theo’s mother had often heard her speak of the little girl, or young

lady, or old lady, who played or talked with her in the cornfield; but

being a very busy woman, and having little time to give the child, she

did not pay much attention. If she heeded at all, she thought some

neighbor or her children had met the little girl while passing through

the cornfield. To-day her attention had been aroused, and she began to

wonder who it was that Theo was so eager to meet.

 

So when Theo ran down to the cornfield, her mother followed closely. She

saw her disappear in the corn, and marking the place, hurried after. She

could hear the child’s voice close at hand, and another’s, that sounded

sometimes like a human voice, and again like the wind sighing in the

corn. After a short search, she saw at a distance her little daughter.

But what was she doing? Clasping in her arms a group of cornstalks, and

looking lovingly up among the green waving blades. But stay. Were they

cornstalks? It surely was a beautiful young woman, dressed in trailing

robes of green silk; her hair the color of corn silk, waving around her

face and neck.

 

The little girl playfully clasped her knees, while the lady, laughing,

bent over her, swaying and bending as corn does in the wind. “Am I

losing my senses, or am I bewitched?” wondered the mother. She was

tempted to call her child to her, and take her away from the field, but

she seemed so happy.

 

Presently Theo sprang away from the corn, and called back, “You cannot

catch me.” The wind suddenly blew the tossing corn-blades together. When

it lulled again, she saw her little girl running down the row, and close

in pursuit ran the young woman. No, stay. It was a child, following

closely after Theo. On they ran, laughing, calling, and presently they

came back, panting.

 

Theo flung herself down to rest in the shade of the corn, and so did the

little girl. But now, it was not a little girl, but an old woman who sat

there. Her face, half hidden by her hood, was wrinkled and yellow. She

had a long cloak, with the hood closely drawn over her head. Her

clothing was made of some material the color of cornhusks, and was

coarse and stiff.

 

Theo rested her elbow on the old woman’s knee, and looked up into her

face. “I almost think I like you best this way,” she said. “You make me

think of such comfortable things,—gathering nuts and apples, and of

pumpkin-pie, and—and—Christmas, and going to grandpa’s on Thanksgiving.”

The old woman nodded and sighed.

 

“Do you feel sad again?” Again she nodded.

 

“About the corn-husking?” A nod.

 

“But you know next summer will come, and you can begin all over again.”

 

Just here Theo’s mother thought, “I must stop this; the child is talking

either to a ghost or a witch. Theo,” she called, “come to me.”

 

The child sprang up from her seat and came to her mother, rubbing her

eyes.

 

“Now, mamma, you’ve frightened her away; she won’t come back again

to-day. She doesn’t like folks.”

 

“Theo, who in the world are you talking about; and why do you race up

and down the corn rows, laughing and chattering to yourself?”

 

“Well, I’ll tell you, mamma; but first let us go to the house; she might

not like to hear me.”

 

Soon after, they were seated in the cool shaded parlor. The mother took

the little girl on her lap. “Now, Theo, tell me,” she said. So the

little child began.

 

“Well, mamma, it began long ago, by me being so lonesome. I haven’t any

one to play with, and one day I was out in the cornfield when the corn

was just as high as me. And I spoke out loud, and I said, ‘Oh, dear,

what shall I do for some one to play with me? I shall go distracted’ (I

have heard you say that word, mamma)! And I said, ‘I wish a little girl

would grow out of those cornstalks;’ and just as I said that, the stalks

parted, and out stepped the nicest little girl. She was so pretty! She

had such curling brown hair, and blue eyes, and her dress was of green

silk; and when she laughed, her teeth looked like little grains of white

corn, and she was rubbing her eyes, as though she had just waked up. And

she knew me, mamma; she said, ‘Why, Theo, did you come to play with me?’

and pretty soon we were the best friends you ever saw. And every day we

played and played; only she never would tell me where she lived, and she

wouldn’t ever come home with me to play. But one day, when the corn had

grown way high above my head, and the roasting ears were getting ripe,

she changed all at once into such a pretty young lady. At first I cried,

for I didn’t want to lose my little girl; but the young lady was so

lovely, mamma, and she sang to me, and we talked; and so one day last

fall, when the cornstalks were turning yellow, I found my young lady had

changed into an old one. And I was afraid of her at first, she was so

bent over, and was queer looking. But I got real well acquainted with

her, and she told me stories about gathering nuts, and about squirrels

and birds, and oh, lots of things, and I just love her now!

 

“Well, I wanted to tell you, but you didn’t pay much ’tention when I

talked to you; so, when husking time came, my poor old lady wrung her

hands and cried, and told me good-bye, and I just couldn’t ’dure to see

her go, and my dear cornfield torn down, and I have felt so lonesome.

 

“Well, this summer, the little girl came back, when the corn was tall

enough for us to play in; and now we know each other so well that she

changes just for fun, from a little girl to a young lady, and then to an

old one; and she keeps me uneasy, mamma, for I never know just when she

will change. She told me once she was an Indian woman, and that she was

civilized now,—