The Penny Dreadfuls MEGAPACK™ (206 page)

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.