Part 3

And the rabbit, bowing again, made an eloquent speech, in which he said that although the evidence was very strong for and against the defendant, yet he would beg a postponement of a decision until the learned counsel had found the answer to an unimportant question, which was, What did Katie do?

The king answered that perhaps it might be as well; for although convinced in his own mind that Katie did, he was anxious to allow her every chance to re-establish her good character.

The queen declared that there was no use in having the trial at all, as, whatever it was she was accused of, Katie didn’t, didn’t, didn’t; and Titania was beginning to look vexed, when the rabbit, bowing again, asked if the queen had chosen any one to fill Katie’s place during her (he hoped) temporary absence.

The queen had not, for she said,—

“Katie is a changeling, and where may I find another mortal?”

The rabbit, bowing low with his paw on his heart, asked permission to tell Titania a story, and the queen sighed, and answered,—

“Yes, if it’s not very long.”

So the rabbit began:—

“There was once a boy, a mortal, who was out hunting. He had gone deep into the woods; night was coming fast; like all boys, he had a fear of the dark and lonely woods. He was walking very fast, and whistling (as mortals do to keep up their courage), when he heard a child crying; he listened, and then, thinking of wild animals, hurried on faster than ever. But the crying grew louder, and presently, right in his path under a huge linden tree, he found a little child, just able to walk alone, and to talk a little. It was unlike any child he had ever seen: brown hair, brown eyes, and brown skin. It was dressed in some strange silky material, and round its neck was a necklace of the claws of some wild animal.

“The boy picked the little one up and carried it home. It was handed over to the old colored woman who has charge of the little colored children on the plantation. The boy claimed the child as his slave, and named her Matilde, which usage has changed to Mateel.

“She has lived, but not thrived, on the coarse fare and rough usage accorded the other little ones. She was petted and noticed by the young master for a day or two, then forgotten for many more. As the years pass she will have great beauty. She has never had a friend but her young master.

“Your Majesty is generous and kind; would not the little maid take Katie’s place?”

Then the queen, springing to her feet, exclaimed:—

“No, she cannot take Katie’s place; no one can do that; but she shall have her own place in my train, close at my right hand. Where is the child; have you brought her to Fairyland?” And the rabbit said, “I have brought her, gracious queen.”

So Mateel was brought into the presence of the king and queen and their court, and the queen, touching her with her shining wand, changed her into a bonny brown fairy, with shining brown eyes, and a beautiful dress made of petals of the red rose; for she was among the maids of honor most dearly loved by Titania. But the question of Katie’s guilt or innocence is still unsettled; for on summer nights you will hear the fairy lawyers still declaring that “Katie did” and “Katie didn’t.”

V. BRAN, THE WOLF DOG.

On a high cliff overlooking the ocean, on the western coast of Ireland, stand the ruins of an old castle. The short grass grows on the floor of the great hall, and the wind sighs and howls through its broken walls, with a sound half human, half animal.

The peasants for generations have named it “The Wolf’s Castle.” Even long years ago, when it was tenanted by kindly folk and was running over with life and happiness, it had already earned its grim name.

Max had been out hunting. He had spent the day in the woods and fields, and now as night fell, dark and lowering, he hastened his steps. The first scattering drops of rain struck his face, and the wind was rising. It moaned and howled like the distant cry of a wolf; it made Max feel strangely nervous and frightened. “Frightened!”—he laughed at the thought. “A boy of twelve frightened by the wind!”

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.

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,—and that’s all.”

Theo ended with a sigh of relief that the story was told. The mother looked at the child long and curiously. “Well, I declare!” she said. But that night she said to Theo’s papa: “We must send Theo to school. The child’s head is filled with all sorts of nonsense; it’s time she was taught something sensible; and, if I were in your place, I would turn that cornfield into pasture-land, and invest in more cattle.”

“I have been thinking of that myself,” he answered.

By and by the mother asked, “John, was that cornfield ever used by the Indians as a burial place, or anything?”

“I don’t know,” he answered musingly. “I used to plow up arrow-heads, and pipe-bowls of red sandstone, when I first broke the prairie sod. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just because,” she answered.

VII. AT THE WAYSIDE CROSS.

There is a border land that lies just beyond this everyday life, but not within the bounds of dreamland. We call it, for want of a better name, “The land of fancy, or of waking dreams.”