Sons of the Wolf

by Barbara Michaels

  They gave me no warning at all; I was still standing there, with my ear not quite pressed against the panel, when the door flew open. Luckily it opens inward, or it would have sent me sprawling. Out came Howard's owner, in such a passion that he seemed not to notice me. I had a glimpse of Mr. Wolfson crouched down over the desk, and what I saw sent me flying down the hall after the other man, who, at that moment, seemed less terrifying. Thus I happened to be entering the hall from the corridor just as Julian came in from outside.

  He wore riding clothes, and Ada was with him. He was smiling down at her and she was laughing, apparently at some sally of his; she was hatless and the breeze from the open door lifted her curls so that they seemed to flash in the light.

  None of them saw me as I stood back in the shadows of the corridor, but I had a good view of the newcomer's expression. His eyes went from Ada's face to Julian's. He has none of the discipline his father has had to cultivate; his contempt for Julian and his instant admiration of Ada were plain to read.

  Poor Julian! The other man's sheer size and animal vitality seemed to shrivel him. But I had to admire the way he recovered from the initial shock. He straightened his slight form to its tallest and said quietly, "Hello, Francis."

  "Julian." Francis' glance dismissed his brother and lingered on Ada's interested face. "Don't bother to introduce us-Brother. I know this is Cousin Ada. Don't believe what you've heard of me, Cousin; I'm not so bad. In fact, I think we're going to be very good friends."

  I don't know how he did it, but somehow he and Ada were moving off toward the drawing room, her arm in his, and Julian was standing alone in the open doorway. Our eyes met. No words were necessary; we were allies at once. If he only knew what terrible things his brother had hinted . . . but I expect he does know. Francis is not the man to spare anyone's feelings.

  I foresee a long and unpleasant summer.

  Late that night

  I know now why Mr. Wolf son keeps to his chair. Poor man-poor man! I wish I had not seen what I saw, and yet it was bound to happen.

  I was unaccountably restless tonight. Long after Ada was asleep and dreaming I writhed and tossed in the big bed. The fire had died to red coals and the room was chilly; I slipped on a wool dressing gown and walked up and down the room trying to tire myself enough to sleep. I did think of the laudanum drops in my table drawer and got them out, but I have a foolish reluctance to take the stuff, even though it is so commonly used.

  A sound outside in the corridor drew me to the door. Only the idlest of curiosity moved me to open it; the hour was so late that I was surprised, I think, to find anyone else in the house out of bed. The corridor was dark except for the light of a single candle, and it wavered and shook so badly that the area seemed lighted by a lost streak of lightning.

  Mr. Wolf son was carrying the candle. He was walking down the corridor, on his way to his own room, and he-

  It was like a giant crab; that is all I can think of, horrible as it sounds. One leg must be much shorter than the other. He lurched from side to side, and the candle he held jerked up and down, shedding that poor, distorted light; yet he covered the ground very quickly. Above the twisted, warped limbs his magnificent head and torso looked like those of an antique statue being transported by clumsy porters. . . .

  I was so shocked that I committed the final, unforgivable error. Instead of withdrawing at once into my own room, I stood still, and as he opened his own door, he glanced back over his shoulder. He saw me.

  He too stood motionless for a long, long moment. Finally-oh, God, the horror and pathos of that movement!-he flung himself through his door and slammed it after him. How can I face him tomorrow? I will never speak of it unless he does. I will do everything I can to show him. . . . Sleep is impossible now. I will take the drops and I hope I do not dream. A crab. A giant crab . . .

  June 28

  Some people, they say, improve with acquaintance. Cousin Francis is not one of them.

  There are a few social errors which he has not yet committed-but then he has only been at home for a week!

  That week he has spent cultivating Ada. He treated her like a man with a new kitten or puppy-amused, patronizing, and quite infuriating. At least he infuriated me; Ada is impervious to anything short of direct insult. At first, I think, she was attracted to him. His vitality, crude as it is, naturally appeals to her vivacious spirit. But-alas for Francis' hopes-he fell, forever and irretrievably, when Ada discovered that he was but an indifferent horseman.

  I use that word "hopes" calculatingly, but I am not sure, upon consideration, that Francis really meant to court Ada seriously. She is pretty and rich, so any sensible young man might want to marry her, but there were times when I thought Francis' attentions were exaggerated, intended to irritate Julian rather than woo Ada.

  I have been very careful to accompany Ada wherever she goes. Not that I believe Francis would dare offend her here in his father's house, but he is really quite unpredictable. This afternoon she admitted after dinner that she was rather tired and would like to rest. After tucking her up, I wandered down to the drawing room and found Francis there alone. I would have retreated at once, but he saw me. He was seated before the small inlaid table where the chessmen are always set out, and he was toying absently with the black king. His face was unusually thoughtful.

  "Come in, Cousin," he invited, without rising. "Unless you're afraid of me."

  I couldn't resist that challenge. I wonder if he knew it? I came in, with my nose in the air, took up a book, and sat down in a corner of the couch. It was an error. Francis immediately took a seat next to me.

  I realized again how big he is. When he looked down at me I felt as if I were being surveyed from the top of a mountain.

  "Where is Ada?" was his first question.

  "Resting," I said, looking intently at my book.

  "I'm glad to hear she sometimes tires. After that ride this morning I felt ready for a week in bed. Is she always so cursed energetic?"

  "I should think a strong young man could keep up with a fragile girl like Ada," I said crushingly.

  Francis refused to be crushed. He laughed and stretched out arms that looked like tree trunks.

  "Ada fragile? She looks so, I'll admit, but she has the energy of a monkey."

  "I'm sorry you find her so exhausting. You mustn't put yourself to so much effort being kind to her. I assure you, she can manage to exist without you."

  "Damn my eyes," said Francis admiringly, "that was straight through the liver. Withdraw your blade, Cousin, I give up. But be honest now, you aren't terribly keen on these active sports yourself."

  "I am just another fragile female."

  "While I am-what did you say?-a strong young man. Very true, Harriet darling. But I've been working like the very devil this winter and I need amusement. What the hell do you find to do with yourself in this tomb?"

  "I doubt if my amusements would entertain you," I said tartly, without removing my eyes from the page-of which I had not read a single word.

  "Probably not. I expect you don't even play chess."

  "Why shouldn't I play chess?" I demanded, looking up.

  His eyes were narrowed with laughter and I realized that he had been baiting me. They are brilliant blue eyes-very like his father's, except that the golden lashes are untarnished by time.

  "No reason at all," he said patronizingly. "Except that I thought it was considered too intellectual for young ladies."

  "I played often with Grandmother."

  "And lost-if the stories I hear of your grandmother are true."

  I bit my lip and Francis, grinning fiendishly, went on:

  "I'm just a stupid male, Harriet, surely you can defeat my plodding brain. Come, I'll give you a knight."

  "I'll give you one," I retorted, slamming my book shut with unnecessary vigor.

  "Make it even, then." He reached out with those long arms and lifted the whole table, setting it down before us without so much as shifting a pawn. "B
ut you may have white. That's the least I can do to prove my gallant manners."

  I took white, in silence. Fencing with him was like hurling rubber balls at a wall-the missiles bounced right back into my face.

  Grandmother used to tell me, frequently, that I would have made a passable chess player if I played with my brains instead of my emotions. I am rather reckless, but I expected Francis to be even more so. To my astonishment he proved a slow, calculating player. His caution increased my daring; after fifteen minutes of play, I cornered his queen and swept her off the board.

  "I am sorry," I murmured, lowering my eyes to conceal my triumph.

  "Don't apologize," Francis said, moving his king's pawn.

  I still don't comprehend how it happened. Three moves later and I was staring incredulously at the corner of the board where my poor beleaguered king huddled, quite defenseless.

  "Check," said Francis cheerfully, while I examined square after square in a vain search for a safe move. "And mate."

  I couldn't believe it. Francis leaned back in his chair and lighted a cigar. I continued to search for the nonexistent-a square which was not already covered, fore and aft, by one of his pieces.

  "You shouldn't have taken my queen," Francis said mildly. I think he went on to explain the subsequent moves, but I did not hear him; my ears were ringing with chagrin. I heard only the last sentence: "Always watch out for the black knight."

  If I had remained in the room I would have done, or said, something quite unladylike. As I swept out, I could hear him chuckling. And he didn't even ask my permission to smoke!

  July 2

  I wrote, a few days ago, that Francis had committed most of the social errors. Tonight he added another-the worst so far. It was a dreadful evening.

  Yet I must admit, it had its amusing moments.

  We have been dining with both cousins most evenings, except when Julian is absent or ailing. (I suspect that his illnesses arise from boredom or self-pity, but that is, after all, his own affair.) They have not really been pleasant dinners, for the enmity between the brothers is barely concealed; I constantly expect their animosity to flare in' open combat, and I would have excused myself from the' delightful meetings except that I hesitated to excite Ada's curiosity. Bless her, she is oblivious to atmosphere; it soothes my nerves to watch her placidly devouring mutton and gooseberry tart while a battle of innuendos and insults rages just above her head.

  This evening we met Julian in the drawing room as usual, but Francis was not there. When William announced dinner I asked after the missing brother. Julian only shrugged.

  "I've no idea."

  Nor any interest, I thought, watching him offer Ada his arm. Francis has been taking her in, usually with an odious grin at Julian, who is too wise to battle over such a trivial matter.

  Our first surprise-a pleasant one-came when we found Mr. Wolfson waiting for us at table. He has taken to being already seated when we come in; no doubt he prefers this to making a ceremonious entry in his chair. But this was the first time he has dined with us since Francis came home, and almost the first time I have seen him for some weeks. He made his apologies for that as we were being seated.

  "This is pleasant," he said, smiling. "I have been so preoccupied with business of late that I have had to forgo dining with you. I would apologize if I thought my absence caused you as much grief as it does me."

  His glance traveled around the table-rather deliberately, for there were not that many of us present, after all.

  "Where is Francis?"

  The ensuing silence, for some reason, was distinctly uncomfortable. Ada murmured something, and Julian said, "I don't know, sir."

  Mr. Wolfson's blue gaze turned to me. I smiled, shaking my head a little, and he grinned back at me.

  "Very well, I'll not make an issue of it, Harriet. William, Mr. Francis is delayed. We won't wait for him."

  We had proceeded to the meat course before Francis made his appearance.

  It was quite an entrance-precisely the sort I would have expected him to make. It reminded me of the day he arrived.

  The doors at the far end of the room burst open. One leaf hit the wall with a crash that must have knocked off bits of plaster. In the open doorway, silhouetted by the candles in the drawing room, stood Francis.

  He remained still for a moment, hands braced on either side of the doorframe, head tilted as if he were studying us. Then he came forward with a slow deliberate walk which was quite unlike his usual bounding stride. He was dressed respectably in a tweed suit and boots, but his hair was unkempt and his cravat askew. I wasn't happy, either, about the glitter in his eyes. But he bowed correctly enough to me, to Ada, to his father, to Julian-and then I realized that even the first bows had been exaggerated.

  "I do beg your pardon, ladies, Father, Brother." The drawled tone puzzled me at first; then I understood, and in spite of my growing annoyance I almost laughed. It was an imitation-and not a very good one-of Julian's voice.

  "Leave the room," said Mr. Wolfson.

  "Now, Father, don't excite yourself. It isn't good for you." He shook an admonishing finger at his father's reddening face and let his gaze travel slowly around the table. Julian was in the chair Francis usually occupied, beside Ada. Francis shook his head.

  "Unsporting, Brother," he murmured. "No sooner gone than forgotten, eh?"

  For all his bulk he can move quickly when he chooses. This time his action left us all gasping. He picked up chair, Julian and all, and deposited them six feet back from the table. Then he picked up one of the empty chairs and sat down in it, next to Ada.

  "William," he announced to the staring butler, "I see I am a bit late. I shall omit the soup, William. I shall have the beef, William, if you please."

  It was dreadful; it was incredible. I put both hands over my face and shook-with laughter. I couldn't help it; the sight of Julian's face as he sat there up against the wall, holding a knife and a fork in his lifted hands, was too much for me.

  Mr. Wolfson's voice sobered me at once. It almost lifted me out of my chair.

  "Leave this room!" he shouted. "How dare you come here in such a condition-and before your cousins!"

  I am a simpleton. It simply hadn't occurred to me. But then I have had little experience with such habits. I lowered my hands and stared at my elder cousin's flushed face with, I own, more interest than abhorrence.

  He didn't look intoxicated. No, amend that-he didn't look as I had thought an intoxicated man should look. They staggered, I believed, and spoke incoherently. Francis' voice was peculiar but quite clear; he walked steadily. In fact, he behaved as he always does, except a little more so. Then a new idea struck me. Could he possibly-does he always . . .

  Well! I thought and pressed my lips hard together to achieve a suitable look of disapproval.

  Francis paid no attention to his father's bellow. He was smiling-rather fixedly, now that I noticed it-at Ada. Poor William, quite transfixed by the horror of it all, stood like a statue with a platter of beef poised on his hands, looking just like a hierophant making an offering.

  William's face almost sent me off again, but then I caught sight of Mr. Wolfson and the situation lost all its humor.

  In his fury he had tried to rise. He stood now half-crouched, clutching at the edge of the table with whitened hands. From where I sat I could see that the lap robe which was always carefully tucked about his lower limbs had slipped and fallen to the floor. I was on my feet at once.

  "Francis," I said urgently, "you had better go to your room. William, help him. He is-unwell."

  I would like to believe that my words turned the balance (always the little peacemaker, as Francis would say!). But I don't believe for a moment that Francis would be affected by any plea of mine. No, he simply realized that he had gone too far. He rose, knocking the chair over, swept Ada a graceful bow and me another, ignored William's proffered arm, and walked quickly out of the room.

  Mr. Wolfson sat down with an audible gasp. Hi
s face was ashen as he reached for his wineglass. His other hand-

  His other hand was groping futilely, under cover of the table, for his fallen lap robe.

  A stab of-something-pierced me to the heart. The emotion couldn't have been pity; it was too sharp for that. I moved without thinking.

  Kneeling at the side of his chair, I picked up the robe and draped it across his lap. My head was bowed; I presume that it, too, was below the level of the table, for his hand moved slowly and deliberately down the back of my hair in a caress as gentle as it was concealed.

  "Thank you, Harriet," he said in his normal voice, and I rose and returned to my place.