Till the gay beams of morning illumined the skies,
And gay as the morning did Ronald arise.
With hawks and with hounds, to the forest, rode he:
—‘Trallira! trallara! from Janet I’m free!
Trallira! trallara! my old love, adieu!
Trallira! trallara! I’ll get me anew!’—
But while he thus caroll’d in bachelor’s pride,
A damsel appear’d by the rivulet’s side:
He rein’d in his courser, and soon was aware,
That never was damsel more comely and fair.
He felt at her sight, what no words can impart;
She gave him a look, and he proffer’d his heart:
Her air, while she listen’d, was modest and bland:
She gave him a smile, and he proffer’d his hand.
Lord Ronald was handsome, Lord Ronald was young,
And soon on his bosom sweet Ellinor hung;
And soon to St Christopher’s chapel they ride,
And soon does Lord Ronald call Ellen his bride.
Days, weeks, and months fly.—‘Ding-a-ding! ding-a-ding!’—
Hark! hark! in the air how the castle-bells ring!
—‘And why do the castle-bells ring in the air?’—
Sweet Ellen hath born to Lord Ronald an heir.
Days, weeks, and months fly.—‘Ding-a-ding; ding-a-ding!’—
Again, hark! how gaily the castle-bells ring!
—‘Why again do the castle-bells carol so gay?’—
A daughter is born to Lord Ronald to-day.
But see’st thou yon herald so swift hither bend?
Lord Ronald is summon’d his king to defend:
And see’st thou the tears of sweet Ellinor flow?
Lord Ronald has left her to combat the foe.
Where slumber her babies, her steps are address’d;
She presses in anguish her son to her breast;
Nor ceases she Annabel’s cradle to rock,
Till—‘one!’—is proclaim’d by the loud castle-clock.
Her blood, why she knows not, runs cold at the sound!
She raises her head; she looks fearfully round!
And lo! near the hearth, by a cauldron’s blue light,
She sees the tall form of a female in white!
The female with horror sweet Ellen beholds:
Still closer her son to her bosom she folds;
And cold tears of terror bedew her pale cheeks,
While, nearer approaching, the Spectre thus speaks.—
—‘The Grim White Woman, who haunts yon wood,
The Grim White Woman, who feasts on blood,
Since now he has number’d twelve months and a day,
Claims the heart of your son, and is come for her prey.’—
—‘Oh! Grim White Woman, my baby now spare!
I’ll give you these diamonds so precious and fair!’—
—‘Though fair be those diamonds, though precious they be,
The blood of thy babe is more precious to me!’—
—‘Oh! Grim White Woman, now let my child live!
This cross of red rubies in guerdon I’ll give!’—
—‘Though red be the flames from those rubies which dart,
More red is the blood of thy little child’s heart.’—
To soften the dæmon no pleading prevails;
The baby she wounds with her long crooked nails:
She tears from his bosom the heart as her prey!
‘ ’Tis mine!’—shriek’d the Spectre, and vanish’d away.
The foe is defeated, and ended the strife,
And Ronald speeds home to his children and wife.
Alas! on his castle a black banner flies,
And tears trickle fast from his fair lady’s eyes.
—‘Say, why on my castle a black banner flies,
And why trickle tears from my fair lady’s eyes?’—
—‘In your absence the Grim White Woman was here,
And dead is your son, whom you valued so dear.’—
Deep sorrow’d Lord Ronald; but soon for his grief,
He found in the arms of sweet Ellen relief:
Her kisses could peace to his bosom restore,
And the more he beheld her, he loved her the more;
Till it chanced, that one night, when the tempest was loud,
And strong gusts of wind rock’d the turrets so proud,
As Ronald lay sleeping he heard a voice cry,
—‘Dear father, arise, or your daughter must die!’—
He woke, gazed around, look’d below, look’d above;
—‘Why trembles my Ronald? what ails thee, my love?’—
—‘I dreamt, through the skies that I saw a hawk dart,
Pounce a little white pigeon, and tear out its heart.’—
—‘Oh hush thee, my husband; thy vision was vain.’—
Lord Ronald resign’d him to slumber again:
But soon the same voice, which had roused him before,
Cried—‘Father, arise, or your daughter’s no more!’—
He woke, gazed around, look’d below, look’d above;
—‘What fears now, my Ronald? what ails thee, my love?’—
—‘I dreamt that a tigress, with jaws open’d wide,
Had fasten’d her fangs in a little lamb’s side!’—
—‘Oh! hush thee, my husband; no tigress is here.’—
Again Ronald slept, and again in his ear
Soft murmur’d the voice,—‘Oh! be warn’d by your son;
Dear father, arise, for it soon will strike—“one!” ’—
‘Your wife, for a spell your affections to hold,
To the Grim White Woman her children hath sold;
E’en now is the Fiend at your babe’s chamber door;
Then father, arise, or your daughter’s no more!’—
From his couch starts Lord Ronald, in doubt and dismay,
He seeks for his wife—but his wife is away!
He gazes around, looks below, looks above;
Lo! there sits on his pillow a little white dove!
A mild lambent flame in its eyes seem’d to glow;
More pure was its plumage than still-falling snow,
Except where a scar could be seen on its side,
And three small drops of blood the white feathers had dyed.
—‘Explain, pretty pigeon, what art thou, explain?’—
—‘The soul of thy son, by the White Dæmon slain;
E’en now is the Fiend at your babe’s chamber door,
And thrice having warn’d you, I warn you no more!’—
The pigeon then vanish’d; and seizing his sword,
The way to his daughter Lord Ronald explored;
Distracted he sped to her chamber full fast,
And the clock it struck—‘one!’ as the threshold he past.
And straight near the hearth, by a cauldron’s blue light,
He saw the tall form of a female in white;
Ellen wept, to her heart while her baby she press’d,
Whom the Spectre approaching, thus fiercely address’d.
‘The Grim White Woman, who haunts yon wood,
The Grim White Woman, who feasts on blood,
Since now she has numbered twelve months and a day,
Claims the heart of your daughter, and comes for her prey!’
This said, she her nails in the child would have fix’d;
Sore struggled the mother; when, rushing betwixt,
Ronald struck at the Fiend with his ready drawn brand,
And, glancing aside, his blow lopp’d his wife’s hand!
Wild laughing, the Fiend caught the hand from the floor,
Releasing the babe, kiss’d the wound, drank the gore;
A little jet ring from the finger then drew,
Thrice shriek’d a loud shriek, and was borne from their view!
Lord Ronald, while
horror still bristled his hair,
To Ellen now turn’d;—but no Ellen was there!
And lo! in her place, his surprise to complete,
Lay Janet, all cover’d with blood, at his feet!
—‘Yes, traitor, ’tis Janet!’—she cried;—‘at my sight
No more will your heart swell with love and delight;
That little jet ring was the cause of your flame,
And that little jet ring from the Forest-Fiend came.
‘It endow’d me with beauty, your heart to regain;
It fix’d your affections, so wavering and vain;
But the spell is dissolved, and your eyes speak my fate,
My falsehood is clear, and as clear is your hate.
‘But what caused my falsehood?—your falsehood alone;
What voice said—“be guilty?”—seducer, your own!
You vow’d truth for ever, the oath I believed,
And had you not deceived me, I had not deceived.
‘Remember my joy, when affection you swore!
Remember my pangs, when your passion was o’er!
A curse, in my rage, on your children was thrown,
And alas! wretched mother, that curse struck my own!’—
And here her strength fail’d her!—the sad one to save
In vain the Leech labour’d; three days did she rave;
Death came on the fourth, and restored her to peace,
Nor long did Lord Ronald survive her decease.
Despair fills his heart! he no longer can bear
His castle, for Ellen no longer is there:
From Scotland he hastens, all comfort disdains,
And soon his bones whiten on Palestine’s plains.
If you bid me, fair damsels, my moral rehearse,
It is that young ladies ought never to curse;
For no one will think her well-bred, or polite,
Who devotes little babes to Grim Women in White.
THE TERROR ON TOBIT by Charles Birkin
Charles Lloyd Birkin (1907-1985) was an important figure in early 20th-century British horror fiction, editing over a dozen volumes in the Creeps series, published by Philip Allan in the 1930s. These books, with colorful, eye-catching dust jacket artwork and titles like Creeps (1932), Shudders (1933), and Monsters (1934), were the precursors of later horror series like the Pan Books of Horror Stories and featured tales by well-known horror writers of the day, including H. R. Wakefield, Tod Robbins, and Elliott O’Donnell, as well as contributions by Birkin himself. In 1936, Birkin collected his contributions to the Creeps volumes in Devils’ Spawn. He did not publish again until 1964, when he released – perhaps with the encouragement of the popular novelist Dennis Wheatley, who championed Birkin’s work – two volumes, The Kiss of Death and The Smell of Evil. Six more volumes would follow over the course of the decade, mostly consisting of contes cruels rather than supernatural tales. For Birkin, the cruelty of which human beings are capable was far more horrific than imaginary ghosts or goblins. As prolific horror editor Hugh Lamb wrote, Birkin’s stories ‘are not for the squeamish. Be warned, if you are at all sensitive, leave him well alone. He deals unflinchingly with such subjects as murder, rape, concentration camps, patricide, mutilation and torture.’ ‘The Terror on Tobit’, first published in Terrors (1933), is an exception: a wholesome, old-fashioned monster story. Two of Birkin’s collections are available from Valancourt.
‘I suppose you realise,’ said Daphne, ‘that in three more days we shall be back in London – for another year?’
‘You needn’t remind me of that . . . the last fortnight has simply flown,’ Anne replied, shutting her book with a snap. ‘And I for one have never enjoyed a holiday so much.’
The oil-lamp stood, squat and homely, on the plain table in the girls’ sitting-room. Outside, the warm August night crept close to the windows, only a slight breeze disturbing the checked curtains. The cottage was one of the dozen modest dwellings that comprised the village of St Mark’s on one of the smaller of the Scilly Islands – relics of that lost land of Lyonesse.
‘I hope that you’re glad I persuaded you to come?’ Daphne, vivid in her dark beauty, smiled at her friend.
‘Oh, Daphne, you know I am. It’s been absolutely heavenly!’
‘Better than Torquay?’
‘I’ve never liked anything better. I can’t say more than that, can I?’
There was a knock on the door, and Mrs Arraway, the mother of the fisherman who owned the cottage, came in for the supper tray. Anne turned to her. ‘That lobster was delicious. If you only knew how I hated the thought of going back to London.’
Mrs Arraway laughed. She was a pleasant, full-bosomed woman of the islands, where, with the exception of rare visits to Penzance, she had spent her whole life. ‘I shall be very sorry to lose you, missie. I hope as how you’ve been comfortable here?’
‘It’s been perfect,’ Daphne broke in. ‘But we’ve got a favour to ask you.’
Mrs Arraway raised her eyebrows, waiting for her to continue.
‘We wondered if Jean would row us over to Tobit to-morrow evening. We want to camp there for the night. It would be such a marvellous ending to our holiday. He could come back for us the next morning. Do you think he would?’
‘Well, miss, what do two young ladies like you want to do a thing like that for?’ Mrs Arraway was doubtful.
‘Because we want to sleep under the stars – on an uninhabited island. Could anything be more romantic? Oh it would be such fun! Please persuade Jean to take us.’
Mrs Arraway frowned. It was clear that the idea was distasteful to her. But what could one do? Girls were so self-willed nowadays.
‘Tobit isn’t healthy,’ she replied after a pause, ‘that is, not exactly. There’s no water on it anyway,’ she concluded triumphantly.
‘That’s all right. We can take what we want in a thermos. Please say yes, Mrs Arraway,’ Daphne implored.
‘Well, I don’t know, I’m sure,’ the landlady answered. ‘I’ll tell you what I will do, miss. I’ll send Jean to you and you can see what he says – although I’m certain as how he’ll never consider such a mad-cap notion.’ She picked up the supper tray, and went out of the door, still muttering to herself.
Anne stood by the window looking into the night, with her hands parting the curtains. Against a sky of almost midnight blue, loomed the wild chaos of scarred and riven rocks. The fantastic rocks of the Scilly Isles, that had by day a different and more friendly appearance; calm and less harsh – bearded shaggily with moss and lichen.
‘I wonder why these islands have such an atmosphere of enchantment. I’ve never had the same impression anywhere else. They seem so sad – like gentle faded beauties, dreamily remembering past glories . . . and waiting for the end.’
Before Daphne could reply there was a quiet knock at the door.
‘I expect that is Jean. Daphne, we must persuade him to take us. It would be the most heavenly experience. Come in!’
Jean Arraway strode into the small parlour. He was in the middle twenties, and remarkably handsome, in a strange gipsy way that was unusual among the islanders – but his dark eyes had the faraway dreamy expression that is so often found among those whose mother is the sea.
‘Yes, missie?’
‘Jean! We want you to help us. Will you?’
‘What is it you want me to do, missie?’
‘Take us to Tobit to-morrow. We want to stay there for the night. And you can fetch us early on Friday morning. You will, won’t you?’ Anne smiled at him, exercising her not inconsiderable charm.
‘You can’t spend the night on Tobit, missie!’
‘Why not?’ Daphne asked.
‘It isn’t healthy.’
‘What do you mean – it isn’t healthy? Your mother used the same expression,’ Anne broke in impatiently.
Jean glanced at her strangely. It was obvious that he was ill at ease; and unwilling to elaborate his statement.
There was a short silence in the little room. The girls waited for him to continue.
‘It’s kind of difficult to explain,’ he said at last. ‘But things have happened there. . . .’
‘What sort of things?’ Daphne was interested.
‘Queer things.’
‘But I thought no one lived there?’
‘No one does. But people have gone there once or twice. There was an artist chap the year before last.’
‘And what happened to him?’
‘I don’t rightly know.’
‘Then, why all this mystery?’ Anne demanded.
‘You see, missie, he never came back. Kind of disappeared.’
‘But that’s impossible. Where could he have disappeared to?’
Jean shrugged his shoulders.
‘No one rightly knows. There’s mighty queer stories about Tobit. It’s not meant for us humans.’
‘What stories?’ This was thrilling.
‘Well, that artist chap wasn’t the only one what went. The year before, there was a lady. A writer I think she was. Insisted on staying there the night – same as you want to do.’
‘I don’t believe it. You’re just saying that to put us off. Anyway we’re going, if you take us or not – aren’t we, Anne?’
‘Certainly. A lot of ridiculous superstition.’
‘I shouldn’t if I was you, missie. You wouldn’t get none of the islanders to take you. It’s real bad. Tobit belongs to the sea, and the sea’s creatures.’
‘Don’t be absurd, Jean. Am I to understand that you refuse to take us?’
‘I’m sorry, missie.’
Fingering his belt, he avoided Anne’s eyes.
‘Then we’ll row ourselves over. And if we aren’t back by lunch-time on Friday you’ll know the Bogey’s got us – and can come over and look for us!’ Daphne laughed.
Jean made no reply. He stood there in an awkward silence as if wishing to add some further remonstrance; but realising the uselessness of any such action, contented himself by saying:
‘Good night, missies. Maybe in the morning you’ll have changed your minds.’
Left alone, Anne turned to her friend. ‘Did you ever hear anything so absurd? It’s just because Jean’s too lazy to take us – that’s all. We’ll still go – won’t we?’
‘Of course we will,’ Daphne replied. ‘I wouldn’t be put off by a string of lies like that. Although if there was any truth in them, it would be rather . . . curious, wouldn’t it?’
The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories Page 21