Sons of the Wolf (16 page)

Visitor: "It will cost you dear."

Mr. W.: "Devil take you, I know that. The young fool won't suffer, I assure you."

Visitor: "But how do you propose-"

Mr. W.: "That's my affair. Now get out and do my bidding."

The visitor emerged, without further parley, catching me standing there in the middle of the hall. He seemed taken aback at the sight of me, but recovered himself at once and passed me with a slight bow. He was tall and fashionably dressed, but the sidelong glance he shot at me gave him an appearance of shiftiness which, I feel sure, is undeserved.

I went on to the library and transacted my business. Mr. W. was his usual smiling self. Naturally I made no reference to the snatch of conversation I had inadvertently overheard, though I was mildly curious. Apparently Mr. W. holds some poor young man's note for a sum of money and is willing to give him additional time to pay it, even at the risk of losing the whole. How like him that is!

The second conversation destroyed all the pleasant glow the first one gave me.

My household tasks certainly afford me ample scope for prying, if I were so inclined. I may need to wear heavier shoes; my thin house slippers are too quiet. I was in an upstairs corridor later this morning, going to Julian's room to make sure that Agatha (that most unsuitable name!) had cleaned it properly. She is improved, but still far from perfect. I assuredly did not expect to find Julian indoors at that hour, for I had seen him at breakfast dressed to got out.

His door was not ajar. I heard what I heard because both men were shouting at the top of their lungs.

They had been talking for some time, for the first sentence I heard was obviously in reference to a previous statement. I wish desperately that I had come five minutes I earlier and heard the remark which prompted such a m lent reaction from Julian:

"You can't do it! I won't let you do that!"

Yes, the passionate shout was Julian's normally gentle voice. I recognized the answering voice more readily.

"And how do you propose to stop me?"

The ensuing silence rang with tension. I braced myself I for another shout from Julian; but when he finally spoke, it was in a lower voice. Even though my ear was by then (I may as well admit it) flat up against the door, I heard only the words "not alone." To this Francis replied with a series of exclamations which I need not repeat; they expressed extreme annoyance, to put it mildly. He added loudly, "I've given you fair warning, Julian. You're a sniveling, degenerate coward, but you are my brother."

Luckily his walk is as noisy as his voice. I heard him coming, even across the soft carpet that covers Julian's floor, and I knew I had less than a minute in which to hide myself. The corridor was long, its only furnishing a small table with a vase of flowers on top; my only hope lay in one of me adjoining rooms. As Francis' feet thudded toward the door, I seized the handle of the next door, flung it open, and darted inside, closing me door in me same movement.

I had forgotten, in my panic, that the brothers had rooms side by side.

It was Howard mat told me I was in Francis' chamber -from the frying pan into me fire indeed! The skull sat on top of a pile of books on Francis' bureau. I was in no mood to appreciate Howard, though his white teeth gleamed in a grotesque but not unfriendly smile. All I could think of was what Francis would say if he found me here.

Julian's door opened and crashed shut. I looked wildly about the room. Could I pretend that I had looked in to inspect Agatha's cleaning? I could, but that would not spare me Francis' sarcasm, and I could imagine only too clearly the tenor of his comments. I thought of hiding. There was ample room for me in the big wardrobe or under the bed. But what if he spent several hours in his chamber? What if he found me, with my nose in the dust (Agatha does not always dust under beds) or buried in one of his shirts? Imagination quailed at the thought.

Then I realized that the danger was over. The footsteps passed the door without pausing.

I waited several minutes before venturing out and fled, with undignified speed, back to my own room.

Julian's speech-or threat-might have referred to any nefarious scheme of his brother's. Francis is capable of almost anything, and I know little of his private affairs.

Then why do I have the feeling that they were talking about Ada?

I suppose I have not been able to dismiss my suspicion of Francis' involvement in the gypsy episode. And I have no proof of that.

But something is wrong. I can feel it, like the heaviness of the air before a thunderstorm-a hot, breathless oppression, a tension of the nerves. It is not new; I have felt it before and set it down to temporary depression. But it is not my nerves. It is external, in the house and the air around it. This house, which seemed like a haven, has become a source of infection. What has happened to change it?

One change is obvious. Francis came home.

September 10

Alas for my poor diary. I really must reform my writing habits. Events have occurred, but they are not of the sort one wants to record. There is no doubt about it, the atmosphere grows increasingly uneasy, and I am not the only one to feel it.

Ada's unhappiness is understandable. She has tried; I will give her credit for that. We went once to visit David-a proper, formal call from the ladies of the house to a faithful servant who is ill. The encounter was not pleasant. The easy, though respectful, camaraderie among the three of us was gone. David lay propped up in his bed. He looked at me occasionally but never gazed directly at Ada. And she, who normally bubbles with talk when she is in congenial company, said hardly a word.

David is back at his duties now. He still wears a picturesque white bandage, which only adds to his romantic looks. He lost weight during his illness and is pitifully thin. He spends a good deal of time with the wild stallion, Satan; I overheard one of the other grooms saying that he has done wonders with the beast but goes about it so recklessly that he is sure to have his neck broken yet.

I don't know how long this can continue. Even with David's hours in the pasture with Satan, he and Ada see each other almost daily. It would be better for both of them if they were apart. But I can't bring myself to tell Mr. Wolfson of the difficulty. Wise as he is, he would never understand; he would be angry, and the poor young things have had enough misery without that.

When Mr. W. first heard of the gypsy attack, he was furious. I have seldom seen him so angry. He swore all sorts of dire revenge against him, meaning, I suppose, the leader of the group. I was surprised when I heard from one of the maids that the gypsies had been sent on their way-abruptly and in disgrace, but with no legal action being taken. When I asked him about it, Mr. Wolfson shrugged ruefully.

"There was nothing to be done, my dear. The participants in the assault had disappeared, and the old woman swore that they had fled her anger as well as mine. You ought to have seen her, Harriet. It was as good as a play-she wept, knelt at my feet, shook her fists, and swore by all her heathen gods. She might even be telling the truth; it would be folly for her to antagonize me. And I can hardly punish the innocent along with the guilty."

Julian? He recovered quickly from his injury, but seems unusually silent and subdued, even for him. He has not spoken again of the matter which concerns me so, but he watches Ada with a new intensity. I think he is falling in love with her.

Francis is drinking steadily.

Several times a week he goes to Middleham and returns in the small hours. He keeps a bottle of spirits in his room; the maids gossip about it. I stay as far away from him as I can, and I must admit that he makes no effort to see me or Ada. If I were romantically inclined, I would think he is trying to drown his sorrows, but it would require a greater imagination than mine to attribute such motives to Francis. Day by day I keep expecting him to announce his departure; it is September, and he must be gone soon. I look forward to that event as to a deliverance from illness. Once he has left, we can settle back into our old comfortable ways.

September 15

Francis is still here. I begin to think he means to stay forever. If he does, we shall all go mad.

He had another terrible quarrel with his father today. There may have been other encounters that I did not hear, but this time their voices were audible all over the house. I had no desire to eavesdrop. I ran away. A conflict between those two has the elemental fury of a hurricane. He will kill his father if he goes on. Why doesn't Mr. Wolfson send him away?

Can he send him away?

September 18

An alarming bit of intelligence from Julian today. He says some of the gypsies are still in the neighborhood.

He mentioned it casually at dinner. (Francis was not present.) I could not hold back an exclamation of dismay.

"There is no cause for alarm," said Mr. Wolfson, with a terrible glare at poor Julian, who looked as if he would like to bite out his tongue. "Probably a tinker or solitary beggar."

"Oh, undoubtedly," said Julian, too enthusiastically. "The servants call any dark-skinned vagabond a gypsy."

Mr. Wolfson changed the subject, and I glanced uneasily at Ada. She did not seem alarmed; indeed, I wonder whether she even heard. She is so wrapped up in her misery that very little touches her.

September 21

This time he has gone too far! I must take action now.

But how?

I cannot go to his father. There would be an explosion which would shake the family to its foundations.

Tonight after dinner I went to walk in the gardens. I have not been out of doors after sunset for some time; I am still ridiculously nervous about the gypsies. But this evening the house seemed unusually oppressive. We had one of those ghastly dinners, with Francis glaring and making obscure remarks which kept his father and brother on the edges of their chairs. Ada sat in dumb misery, as she always does nowadays. William's eyes kept rolling nervously from Francis to Mr. W. It was frightful. Afterward I fled out of doors.

The air was balmy, with a soft breeze. In the west the last shades of sunset lingered, pale gold and mauve and rose below a vault of sky that deepened from clear watercolor blue to indigo. One bright star hung over the black shapes of the fir trees.

I walked up and down while the shadows thickened and the deep blue of night spread down the sky. Gradually my nerves relaxed. He will go soon, I thought. I am becoming unnecessarily perturbed. All this will pass.

My heart rose up and almost choked me when the shadowy figure of a man moved out from the shelter of the pines. The terror was so sudden, after the peace which had surrounded me, that it held my limbs motionless and froze my voice. Then I turned to flee and opened my mouth to shriek, but that moment of paralysis had lasted too long. The man reached me in one long leap. His arms enveloped me and his hand came down hard across my lips.

As soon as he touched me, I knew him. I went limp with relief for a moment-before I realized that now I had even more reason to be afraid. His hand had loosened its hold when I relaxed, but as I drew breath to scream, it tightened again. There was no air in my lungs or in my throat; I could not breathe; his grip crushed my ribs. I did not faint, though I lost all power to struggle; I felt myself being drawn, still held erect but helpless in his grasp, across the grass and into the darkness of the firs. I could not distinguish the blackness of approaching unconsciousness from the heavy shadows of the night.

He stood for a moment as if undecided. Then he started to lower me to the ground, and I discovered that I had not, after all, lost all capacity to struggle.

"Damn it," said Francis, in a slurred whisper, "if you go on like this, I shall have to hurt you."

I tried to say that he was already hurting me, but his fingers still blocked my voice. Hearing me gurgle, he lifted his hand a cautious inch.

"One scream and I'll put it back. Harder. Talk nicely now."

"You-you are intoxicated," I said stupidly. I was not going to scream; the air felt too good.

"Drunk, you mean. Shun euphemisms. But not drunk enough, more's the pity."

"Are you out of your senses?"

"Wish I were."

"Francis, what are you trying to do?"

"What the hell do you think-" His voice broke off. There was a silence that lasted for half a dozen heartbeats. (I could hear mine only too clearly, and they were abnormally quick.) Then Francis laughed.

"I'll be eternally damned. You would think-Well, it's a cursed fine idea. I had planned a quiet little talk, but that's not going to work, I can see that now. So I shall proceed to abduct you, my treasure. Fling you over my shoulder and carry you off to my lair. We can come back for Ada," he added.

"Ada? What on earth-"

Francis started to laugh again, so heartily that I could scarcely make out his next words.

"I'm something of a Turk, you see. Fond of variety."

"Francis-please- You don't know what you are doing. You are intox-drunk. Let me go, and I-I'll not tell anyone of this."

"Not my father?"

"Not of all people. It would hurt him so."

"Hurt him, eh? And you wouldn't want to do that?"