I wonder if, after all, she is regretting her hasty refusal. Julian would be a much better husband-kind, gentle, courteous-but what if she is drawn to Francis' vigorous strength without knowing it? She may yet reconsider.
I hope she does not. Julian is much more suitable. I do not trust Francis. A man who behaves as he does would be capable of anything. He might even beat her. Men who drink to excess often beat their wives, I believe.
Later
Francis is impossible!
I wonder how often I have written those words? And how many more times will I be driven to write them? The man surpasses himself; each time he commits some enormity, I think, "He cannot possibly do anything worse," and then-he does.
I went in to look at Ada a short time ago and found her asleep, looking as placid as a wax doll, with Pride and Prejudice lying flat across her lap, still opened at the first page. I decided to take a turn in the rose garden. The house was stuffy and warm; I needed fresh air.
Francis was in the rose garden.
I hadn't thought to ask Ada where and under what circumstances her first proposal of marriage had occurred. I didn't ask if it were romantic, gracefully phrased. Knowing Francis, I knew it would not be. But as soon as I saw him, I sensed that he must have spoken to her there, among the roses. It suggests more sensibility than I gave him credit for.
He was sitting astride one of the marble benches, his arms folded along its back and his chin resting on his wrist. I turned as soon as I saw him, prepared for headlong flight, but he was too quick for me.
"Cousin Harriet!" (I am learning to hate my name, as he pronounces it.) He unwound his long legs from under the bench and rose, coming toward me with one hand outstretched.
"Cousin Harriet, will you marry me?"
The emphasis on the "you" was unmistakable. I am always, I fear, too ready to prefer combat to retreat. I turned on him in a fury.
"Francis, you boor! What have you done to Ada?"
"Done?" His eyebrows went soaring up.
"She is up there in her room sobbing her heart out," I said indignantly-suppressing my memory of Ada's peaceful face as she slept. "You must have said something- done something-"
"Ada cries when she doesn't know what else to do," said Francis coolly. I stood stock-still in surprise. He was right. I had never thought of it.
"You don't believe me," he went on sadly. "No, wait. I must clear myself. I can't let such unjust suspicions cloud my impeccable reputation. Here, sit down. I'll run through the entire performance, and you shall judge whether or not I did it nicely."
The wretch took me by the shoulders and sat me down on the bench with a thud that jarred my teeth together. His hands went rapidly down my arms to my hands and captured them. At the same time he dropped heavily to one knee.
"Dearest Cousin Ada-I beg your pardon, Harriet-it cannot have escaped your attention that my warm regard for you has of late deepened into an emotion sweeter, warmer, than cousinly affection. Forgive me, in your modesty, if I offend-but I cannot control my heart any longer. Ada-Harriet-I love you! Will you make me the happiest man on earth by consenting to be my bride?"
He knelt staring up at me with wide eyes. I pulled my hands from his.
"Francis, don't be an idiot," I said irritably. "You didn't really say that."
"I did." He sat down beside me on the bench, his arm along its back, behind me. "Nothing in that that you could take exception to, was there? It doesn't seem to have been very effective, though. Perhaps I should have proceeded further."
He took me quite by surprise, but even if I had known what he was going to do, I doubt that I could have stopped him. One arm was already in position. It wrapped around my shoulders like a rope, his other arm encircled my waist, and before I realized what was happening, I was being thoroughly and efficiently kissed.
It was the first time, except for that boy at Mrs. Palmer's musicale in the conservatory. And he only kissed my cheek.
I can't possibly describe that kiss. I'm not sure I want to.
I liked it.
Liked it! Good heavens, what an inadequate phrase!
Grandmother was right. I must be a true child of my deplorable mother. I don't love Francis; I don't even approve of him! I must be-like that-about men in general, or I could never have responded so shamelessly to an impertinent embrace from a thoroughly despicable man who had just been refused by my cousin not an hour before!
It was that thought that brought me out of the glory. I couldn't breathe, but breathing seemed quite superfluous. My ribs were being crushed and the buttons on his coat were embedding themselves in my skin, but I didn't notice. Then I remembered Ada-and my ribs hurt, and I panted for breath, and I pulled myself away and sprang to my feet.
Francis came up with me, as if propelled by a spring. Even in my confusion I saw that he looked just as wildly startled as I felt, and a mean joy added itself to the other uncivilized emotions that raged within me. I took my time about what I did next. And he just stood glaring down at me, while I lifted my arm and drew it back, stepped carefully backward one step in order to get the proper force, and slapped him as hard as I could across the face.
The sound echoed through the peaceful garden like a pistol shot-and my hand dropped, numbed, to my mouth. It was like striking a rock. Francis wasn't even jarred. His mouth opened a bit, and his expression changed to one of intense concentration. He reached out for me.
For once in my life, common sense prevailed. I turned neatly out of the closing circle of his arms and walked away. He did not follow me.
July 16
Francis was at the breakfast table this morning when I came down. That is unusual, and I was at once on my guard, expecting a possible repetition of yesterday's impertinence, or at least some mocking reference to it.
He greeted me with calm, distant courtesy. No one could have objected to his words or his manner.
Unless I am mistaken, he had been drinking heavily last night. I am beginning to recognize the symptoms.
If he isn't going to mention the episode, I certainly will not. A dignified silence is, after all, the best thing.
July 17
Sometimes I really think Ada's emotions are quite shallow. She has completely forgotten her distress over Francis' proposal; when I referred to it today, she had to think for some moments before she realized what I meant.
I was concerned to discover whether she entertained any regrets. Although I haven't the faintest intention of telling her about my encounter with our cousin, I thought perhaps ... if she indicated any warmer feelings for him . . .
Well, there is evidently no necessity for telling the story now. Her affections are certainly not engaged. Not only did she refuse Francis, she informed him that she would not accept his brother either!
"Really, Ada," I remonstrated mildly, "there was no reason to refuse the entire family, en bloc."
"He asked me if I cared for anyone else," Ada said defensively. "That was natural, was it not? And Julian is the only possible person."
She is the strangest mixture of common sense and innocence! I keep forgetting how young she really is. (And I keep forgetting that I am only two years older. But I feel very elderly in Ada's presence.)
July 22
Mr. Wolfson called me into the library this afternoon. We talked of household matters for some time, but I could see that he was not really concerned with them. He is not looking well. A casual observer might not see a change in his well-cut features, but I noted the subtle signs of strain and the slight darkening of the skin under his eyes. He must not be sleeping well.
"Harriet," he said abruptly, cutting me off in the midst of a report about bed linen, "has Francis annoyed you in any way?"
For a moment I felt sure that the tete-a-tete in the rose garden was painted in bright colors across my forehead.
"Why, no," I said as casually as I could. "Not personally."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, he-he certainly is not a peaceful pe
rson to have about the house, is he? Mr. Wolfson-very well, Wolf- you mustn't let him distress you so. I'm sure he doesn't mean half the things he says."
He did not take offense at my frankness, but smiled at me most kindly.
"He has distressed me all his life," he admitted gravely. "No control, no direction . . . Heaven knows what he intends doing with himself."
"But he is studying medicine. Surely that argues purpose and determination."
"I don't know what he is doing in Edinburgh. It is a city which offers other occupations than medicine."
I hadn't even thought of that. Francis' profession was the only thing about him that had given him some stature in my eyes. Now I realized that, once again, I had been overly naive.
"Never mind," Mr. W. went on more briskly. "I just wanted to be sure he was behaving himself. He'll be returning to Edinburgh in September, Harriet. Just grit your teeth-if that is a proper gesture for a lady-and hold on till then."
I assured him again that I had no need of teeth-gritting, and he turned the conversation to pleasanter topics. We had one of our old discussions, a habit which has lapsed since Francis' arrival. He read me part of Buck's spirited defense of King Richard, and though I argued vigorously with the conclusions, it was more because he seemed to enjoy our debate than because I really disagreed. An hour passed before we noticed it, and I think we could have gone on but for William, who came in with the post. It must have contained bad news, for Mr. Wolfson's manner at once changed, and when I excused myself he let me go. I took Buck's book upstairs with me; I must read it over again when I am alone, for I can't possibly judge it impartially when it is being defended by Mr. W. He could persuade me that there was something to be said for Satan himself.
Perhaps there is, come to think of it. The only report we have on that affair comes from a biased source.
Blasphemy, Harriet, blasphemy!
August 1
I am still shaking-and it happened hours ago. To think I once complained of insufficient stimulus for literature! This will read, I fear, like a scene from one of the sillier novels for weak-minded ladies, and the plot is more farfetched than anything Miss Bronte (that is the name of the lady I was trying to recall) has ever imagined.
I try to make light of it now. But it was a very unpleasant experience, and the implications may be worse than unpleasant.
It began, casually enough, when I knocked on Ada's door this morning after breakfast. We have a new upstairs maid-Mary has taken herself off with, they say, a traveling tinker-and I was showing the girl her duties, one of which is to tidy Ada's room.
Ada's gay voice bade us enter. She was standing before the mirror adjusting her hat, which has a long plume, and she was humming. She can't carry a tune from A to B, but I didn't blame her for trying. The windows were wide open and the air that poured in was heavenly-aglow with golden light, perfumed by wild roses and thyme.
"I can't get the pin in," Ada said, frowning at her reflection. "Help me, Harriet, please."
I adjusted the pin, which was at the back, and couldn't resist stroking the springing golden curls.
"But, Ada, where are you going? You promised not to ride without me. I am occupied just now, but if you will only wait an hour-"
"Wait? On such a heavenly morning? Come as soon as you can, dearest. I'll meet you at the abbey ruins. But I can't waste a moment of this."
It was in my mind to remonstrate, but I glanced at the maid, standing there with her arms piled high with household linen and her mouth wide open with interest in the doings of the gentry. So I said only, "You aren't riding alone?"
"No, no." Ada turned and gave my cheek a playful pinch. The maid's presence didn't bother her at all. "Don't turn into a fussy old lady, Harriet; you are too young and beautiful. How can you be sensible on such a day?"
She opened both arms, embracing the air, and twirled around the room in a waltz step. The little maid's eyes widened and she stared in delight. Ada circled me, dropped a curtsy, and added, "Julian is going with me."
"Oh. Well, then . . ." - "At the ruins, in an hour, dear Harriet."
The room seemed darker after she had gone.
It took me more than an hour after all, and the time seemed even longer because I had caught some of Ada's summer madness. I am not so old and wise that I am impervious to that! The maid-her name is Agatha, and her mother must have been in service in York or London to produce such an unsuitable name-did not know how to do the slightest thing. After I had told, and demonstrated, how to make a bed, sweep a floor, and dust, I was tired and would have preferred to enjoy the summer weather curled up in a pile of heather reading. But-but! We have grown very casual here-and rightly so, I deplore many of our worn-out conventions, especially the ones mat reduce women to the position of dull children-still, it is not proper for a young lady to spend so much time alone with an eligible young man. (Quotation: Mrs. Primm's Book of Manners, page 1.) So, with a sigh, I put on my riding habit. The heavy folds felt horridly hot and stuffy.
When I went down to the courtyard my temper was not improved by the sight of Francis, bent on the same errand as myself-although you would never have guessed it from his attire. He was dressed in his usual untidy fashion, without so much as a coat covering his wrinkled white shirt. His sleeves were rolled clear up above his elbows and his collar was open at the throat. All in all, he exposed an unseemly amount of tanned skin. In this day and age we are supposed to admire a pink-and-white complexion, but I confess I find this golden brown attractive-not on Francis particularly, although it does contrast strikingly with his fair hair and lashes, just in general. He looked like a day laborer instead of a gentleman. He also looked maddeningly cool and comfortable. I felt my collar choking me.
His eyes widened in exaggerated surprise at the sight of me, and he sprang up from the carriage block where he had sprawled himself.
"Cousin Harriet, as I live and breathe! What tears you from your household tasks so early?"
"I'm riding, of course," I said shortly, nodding at old Adam.
"How fortunate for me. I had anticipated a long, lonely ride."
"You may have it yet."
He came closer, looking down at me with his infuriating grin. In a lower voice he said, "Watch your language before the servants, my dear. Do you want half of the North Riding gossiping about our quarrels?"
"I can't imagine why you should care."
"Oh, I don't. I was only thinking of you. They have a proverb in these parts, you know: 'Hate is the cousin to love.' They'll have us betrothed if you don't stop berating me."
"Bah," I said. I had never imagined that people really said "Bah," but Francis would drive a saint to cliches.
"As a matter of fact," Francis went on coolly, "I am looking for Ada. Where has she gone? Do you know?"
I was half minded not to answer or to turn the question off with a sarcastic comment. But it was really absurd to continue sparring with him; I could be calm and reasonable even if he were not.
"She is out with Julian," I said. "I am meeting them at the ruins. Come if you like."
"With no chaperone? Will I be safe, Cousin?"
Really, he is impossible! I turned my back on him, biting back a hot retort. Adam had finished saddling a I roan and was putting the bridle on my little mare. His shaking old hands moved so slowly that I wanted to shout at him, but of course he can't help being old and infirm.
"Where is David this morning?" I asked him.
The old man muttered something, and Francis interpreted:
"His day off work, as they say. I suppose he is with his wild relatives, on the moor. Oh, yes, had you not heard? He made overtures to his grandmother and was amicably received. Touching, is it not?"
Almost as if he sensed my impatience, he stepped forward, and in a few moments his big hands had buckled the saddle girths. I swung up into the saddle, ignoring his proffered hand-a bit of childishness for which I was immediately sorry-and in silence we rode side by side out through the gate.
When we were out of Adam's hearing, Francis said, "I'm worried about David. Have you observed that he does not look well?"
"I had noticed," I said, glad to find a sensible topic of conversation, without overtones. "I can't imagine what is wrong with him."
"You can't?"
"No. What do you mean?"
"Nothing at all, nothing at all. Why must you always suspect me of innuendos?"
Not for the first time I wished that ladies were permitted to use those sharp, short words that gentlemen find so satisfactory for relieving their feelings. I know several, mostly learned from Francis. But I controlled myself magnificently, saying, in a mild voice, "I gave him a bottle of tonic last week. It does not seem to have helped."
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