by Oscar Wilde
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 b
eautifully. 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 manœuvred 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.
