WARLOCK O’ GLENWARLOCK, page 17
Lady Joan and Cosmo had been all over the house, and were now sitting in the drawing-room, silent in the firelight. Lady Joan did not yet find Cosmo much of a companion, though she liked to have him beside her, and would have felt the dreariness more penetrating without him. But to Cosmo her presence was an experience as marvellous and lovely as it was new and strange. He had never save in his dreams before been with one who influenced him with beauty; and never one of his dreams came up to the dream — like reality that now folded him about with bliss. For he sat, an isolating winter stretched miles and miles around him, in the old paradise of his mother’s drawing-room, in the glorious twilight of a peat and wood fire, the shadows flickering about at their own wild will over all the magic room, at the feet of a lady, whose eyes were black as the night, but alive with a radiance such as no sun could kindle, whose hand was like warm snow, whose garments were lovely as the clouds that clothe a sunset, and who inhabited an atmosphere of evanescent odours that were themselves dreams from a region beyond the stars, while the darkness that danced with the firelight played all sorts of variations on the theme of her beauty.
How long he had sat lost in the dream-haunted gorgeous silence he did not know, when suddenly he bethought himself that he ought to be doing something to serve or amuse, or at least interest the heavenly visitant. Strangers and angels must be entertained, nor must the shadow of loneliness fall upon them. Now to that end he knew one thing always good, always at hand, and specially fitting the time.
“Shall I tell you a story, my lady?” he said, looking up to her from the low stool on which he had taken his place at her feet.
“Yes, if you please,” she answered, finding herself in a shoal of sad thoughts, and willing to let them drift.
“Then I will try. But I am sorry I cannot tell it so well as
Grizzie told it me. Her old-fashioned way suits the story. And then
I must make English of it for your ladyship, and that goes still
worse with it.”
Alas! alas! the speech of every succeeding generation is a falling away from the pith and pathos of the preceding. Speech gains in scope, but loses in intensity.
“There was once a girl in the Highlands,” began Cosmo, “ — not very far from here it was, who was very beautiful, so that every young man in the neighbourhood fell in love with her. She was as good as she was beautiful, and of course would not let more than one be her lover, and said no to every one else; and if after that they would go on loving her, she could not help it. She was the daughter of a sheep — farmer, who had a great many sheep that fed about over the hills, and she helped her father to look after them, and was as good and obedient as any lamb of his flock. And her name was Mary. Her other name I do not know.
“Now her father had a young shepherd, only a year or two older than Mary, and he of course was in love with her as well as the rest, and more in love with her than any of them, because he was the most to be trusted of all in that country-side. He was very strong and very handsome, and a good shepherd. He was out on the hills all day, from morning to night, seeing that the sheep did their duty, and ate the best grass, so as to give plenty of good wool, and good mutton when it was wanted. — That’s the way Grizzie tells the story, my lady, though not so that you would understand her. — When any of the lambs were weakly or ill, they were brought home for Mary to nurse, and that was how the young shepherd came to know Mary, and Mary to know him. And so it came to pass that they grew fond of each other, and saw each other as often as they could; and Mary promised, if her father would let her, she would marry Alister. But her father was too well-off to show favour to a poor shepherd lad, for his heart had got so full of his money that there was not room enough for the blood in it. If Alister had had land and sheep like himself, he would have had no objection to giving him Mary; but a poor son-in-law, however good he might be, would make him feel poor, whereas a rich son-in-law, if he were nothing but an old miser, would make him feel rich! He told Alister, therefore, that he had nothing to say to him, and he and Mary must have nothing to say to each other. Mary felt obliged to do what her father told her, but in her heart she did not give up Alister, and felt sure Alister did not give up her, for he was a brave and honest youth.
“Of course Alister was always wanting to see Mary, and often he saw her when nobody, not even Mary herself, knew it. One day she was out rather late on the hill, and when the gloaming came down, sat wishing in her heart that out of it Alister would come, that she might see him, though she would not speak to him. She was sitting on a stone, Grizzie says, with the gloamin’ coming down like a gray frost about her; and by the time it grew to a black frost, out of it came some one running towards her.
“But it was not Alister; it was a farmer who wanted to marry her.
He was a big, strong man, rich and good-looking, though twice
Mary’s age. Her father was very friendly to him. But people said he
was a coward.
“Now just at that time, only it had not yet reached the glen, a terrible story was going about the country, of a beast in the hills, that went biting every living thing he could get at, and whatever he bit went raving-mad. He never ate any creature he attacked, never staid to kill it, but just came up with a rush, bit it, and was out of sight in a moment. It was generally in the twilight he came. He appeared — nobody ever saw from where — made his gnash, and was gone. There was great terror and dismay wherever the story was heard, so that people would hardly venture across their thresholds after sun-down, for terror lest the beast should dash out of the borders of the dark upon them, and leave his madness in them. Some’said it was a sheep-dog, but some who thought they had seen it, said it was too large for any collie, and was, they believed, a mad wolf; for though there are no wolves in Scotland now, my lady, there were at one time, and this is a very old story.”
Lady Joan gaped audibly.
“I am wearying you, my lady!” said Cosmo, penitently.
“No, no! dear boy,” answered Lady Joan, sorry, and a little ashamed. “It is only that I am very weary. I think the cold tires one.”
“I will tell you the rest another time,” said Cosmo cheerily. “You must lie down on the sofa, and I will cover you up warm.”
“No, no; please go on. Indeed I want to hear the rest of it.”
“Well,” resumed Cosmo, “the news of this wolf, or whatever it was, had come to the ears of the farmer for the first time that day at a fair, and he was hurrying home with his head and his heart and his heels full of it, when he saw Mary sitting on the white stone by the track, feeling as safe as if she were in paradise, and as sad as if she were in purgatory. — That’s how Grizzie tells it — I suppose because some of her people are papists. — But, for as much as he wanted to marry her, you could hardly say he was in love with her — could you, Lady Joan? — when I tell you that, instead of stopping and taking her and her sheep home, he hurried past her, crying out, ‘Gang hame, Mary. There’s a mad beast on the hill. Rin, rin — a’ ‘t ye can. Never min’ yer sheep.’ His last words came from the distance, for he never stayed a step while he spoke.
“Mary got up at once. But you may be sure, my lady, a girl like that was not going to leave her sheep where she dared not stop herself. She began to gather them together to take them out of harm’s way, and was just setting out with them for home, when a creature like a huge dog came bounding upon her out of the edge of the night. The same instant, up from behind a rock, a few yards away, jumped Alister, and made at the beast with his crook; and just as the wolf was upon Mary, for Alister was not near enough to get between the beast and her, he heaved a great blow at him, which would have knocked him down anyhow. But that instant Mary threw herself towards Alister, and his terrible blow came down upon her, and not upon the wolf, and she fell dead in his arms — that’s what Grizzie says — and away went the wolf, leaping and bounding, and never uttering a cry.
“What Alister did next, Grizzie never says — only that he came staggering up to her father’s door with dead Mary in his arms, carried her in, laid her on the bed, and went out again. They found the blow on on her head, and when they undressed her, they found also the bite of the wolf; and they soon guessed how it had been, and said it was well she had died so, for it was much better than going mad first: it was kind of Death, they said, to come and snatch her away out of the arms of Madness. But the farmer, because he hated Alister, and knew that Alister must have seen him running away, gave it out, that he himself was rushing to defend Mary, and that the blow that killed her was meant for him. Nobody however believed him.
“What people might think, was, however, a matter of little consequence to Alister, for from that day he never spoke to human being, never slept under a roof. He left his shepherding, and gave himself to the hunting of the mad wolf: such a creature should not be allowed to live, and he must do some good thing for Mary’s sake. Mary was so good, that any good thing done would be a thing done for her. So he followed and followed, hunting the horrible creature to destroy him. Some said he lived on his hate of the wolf, and never ate anything at all. But some of the people on the hills, when they heard he had been seen, set out of their doors at night milk and cakes; and in the morning, sometimes, they would be gone, and taken as if by a human being, and not an animal.
“By and by came a strange story abroad. For a certain old woman, whom some called a witch, and whom all allowed to have the second sight, told that, one night late, as she was coming home from her daughter’s house, she saw Alister lying in the heather, and another sitting with him; Alister she saw plainly with her first or bodily eyes; but with her second eyes, in which lay the second sight, she saw his head lying on a woman’s lap — and that woman was Mary, whom he had killed. He was fast asleep, and whether he knew what pillow he had, she could not tell; but she saw the woman as plainly as if with her bodily eyes, — only with the difference which there always was, she said, and which she did not know how to describe, between the things seen by the one pair of eyes, and the things seen by the other. She stood and regarded them for some time, but neither moved. It was in the twilight, and as it grew darker she could see Alister less and less clearly, but always Mary better and better — till at last the moon rose, and then she saw Alister again, and Mary no more. But, through the moonlight, three times she heard a little moan, half very glad, and half a little sad.
“Now the people had mostly a horror of Alister, and had shunned him — even those who did not believe him to blame for what he had done — because of his having killed a human being, one made like himself, and in the image of God; but when they heard the wise woman’s story, they began to feel differently towards Alister, and to look askance upon Mary’s father, whose unkindness had kept them asunder. They said now it had all come through him, and that God had sent the wolf to fetch Mary, that he might give her and Alister to each other in spite of him — for God had many a way of doing a thing, every one better than another.
“But that did not help Alister to find the wolf. The winter came, however, and that did help him, for the snow let him see the trail, and follow faster. The wonder was that the animal, being mad, lived so long; but some said that, although the wolf was mad, he was not mad in any ordinary way — if he had been, he would indeed have been dead long ago; he was a wolf into which an evil spirit had entered; and had he been a domestic animal, or one for the use of man, he would immediately have destroyed himself; but, being a wild and blood-thirsty animal, he went on very much like his natural self, without knowing what sort of a fellow-tenant he had with him in the house.
“At last, one morning in the month of December, when the snow lay heavy on the ground, some men came upon a track which they all agreed must be that of the wolf. They went and got their weapons, and set out in chase. They followed, and followed, and better than followed, and the trail led them high into the hills, wondering much at the huge bounds with which the beast had galloped up the steepest places. They concluded that Alister had been after him, and that the beast knew it, and had made for the most inaccessible spot he was acquainted with. They came at length to a point where a bare-foot human track joined that of the wolf for a little way, and after that they came upon it again and again. Up and up the mountain they went — sometimes losing the track from the great springs the wolf took — now across a great chasm which they had to go round the head of, now up the face of a rock too steep for the snow to lie upon, so that there was no print of his horrid feet.
“But at last, almost at the top of the mountain, they saw before them two dark spots in a little hollow, and when they reached it, there was the wolf, dead in a mass of frozen blood and trampled snow. It was a huge, gaunt, gray, meagre carcass, with the foam frozen about its jaws, and stabbed in many places, which showed the fight had been a close one. All the snow was beaten about, as if with many feet, which showed still more plainly what a tussle it had been. A little farther on lay Alister, as if asleep, stretched at full length, with his face to the sky. He had been dead for many hours, they thought, but the smile had not faded which his spirit left behind as it went. All about his body were the marks of the brute’s teeth — everywhere almost except on his face. That had been bespattered with blood, but it had been wiped away. His dirk was lying not far off, and his skene dhu close by his hand.
“There is but one thing more — and I think that is just the thing that made me want to tell you the story. The men who found Alister declared when they came home, and ever after when they told the story — Grizzie says her grandmother used always to say so — that, when they lifted him to bring him away, they saw in the snow the mark of the body, deep — pressed, but only as far as the shoulders; there was no mark of his head whatever. And when they told this to the wise woman, she answered only,’Of coorse! of coorse! — Gien I had been wi’ ye, lads, I wad hae seen mair.’ When they pressed her to speak more plainly, she only shook her head, and muttered, ‘Dull — hertit gowks!’ — That’s all, my lady.”
In the kitchen, things were going on even more quietly than in the drawing-room. In front of the fire sat the English lord over his wine; Mistress Warlock sat in her arm-chair, knitting and dozing — between her evanescent naps wide awake, and ever and anon sliding her eyes from the stocking which did not need her attention to the guest who little desired it; the laird had taken his place at the other corner, and was reading the Journal of George Fox; and Grizzie was bustling about with less noise than she liked, and wishing heartily she were free of his lordship, that she might get on with her work. Scarcely a word was spoken.
It began to grow dark; the lid of the night was closing upon them ere half a summer-day would have been over. But it mattered little: the snow had stayed the work of the world. Grizzie put on the kettle for her mistress’s tea. The old lady turned her forty winks into four hundred, and slept outright, curtained in the shadows. All at once his lordship became alive to the fact that the day was gone, shifted uneasily in his chair, poured out a bumper of claret, drank it off hurriedly, and hitched his chair a little nearer to the fire. His hostess saw these movements with satisfaction: he had appeased her personal indignation, but her soul was not hospitable towards him, and the devil in her was gratified with the sight of his discomposure: she hankered after talion, not waited on penitence. Her eyes sought those of Grizzie.
“Gang to the door, Grizzie,” she said, “an’ see what the nicht’s like. I’m thinkin’ by the cry o’ the win’, it ‘ll be a wull mirk again. — What think ye, laird?”
Her son looked up from his book, where he had been beholding a large breadth of light on the spiritual sky, and answered, somewhat abstractedly, but with the gentle politeness he always showed her.
“I should not wonder if it came on to snow again!” Lord Mergwain shifted uneasily. Grizzie returned from her inspection of the weather.
“It’s black theroot, an’ dingin’ ‘oot, wi’ great thuds o’ win’,” she said, quite unaware as usual of the style of her utterance.
“God bless me!” murmured his lordship, “what an abominable country!”
“Had we not better go to the drawing-room, my lord?” said the laird. “I think, Grizzie,” he went on, “you must get supper early. — And, Grizzie,” he added, rising, “mind you bring Lady Joan a cup of tea — if your mistress will excuse her,” he concluded, with a glance to his mother.
Mistress Warlock was longing for a talk with Grizzie, and had no wish for Lady Joan’s presence at tea.
“An old woman is bare company for a young one, Cosmo,” she said.
His lordship sat as if he did not mean to move.
“Will you not come, Lord Mergwain?” said the laird. “We had better go before the night gets worse.”
“I will stay where I am.”
“Excuse me, my lord, that can hardly be. Come, I will carry your wine. You will finish your bottle more at your ease there, knowing you have not to move again.”
“The bottle is empty,” replied his lordship, gruffly, as if reproaching his host for not being aware of the fact, and having another at hand to follow.
“Then—” said the laird, and hesitated.
“Then you’ll fetch me another!” adjoined his lordship, as if answering an unpropounded question that ought not to be put. Seeing, however, that the laird stood in some hesitation still, he added definitively, “I don’t stir a peg without it. Get me another bottle — another MAGNUM, I mean, and I will go at once.”
Yet a moment the laird reflected. He said to himself that the wretched man had not had nearly so much to drink that day as he had the day before; that he was used to soaking, and a great diminution of his customary quantity might in its way be dangerous; and that anyhow it was not for him to order the regimen of a passing guest, to whom first of all he owed hospitality.
