"I want to tell you what happened," he began, after we had left the copse and were heading across the field.
"Don't talk until you feel stronger."
"Oh, I'll do well enough. Harriet, I may be laid up for a few days. I want you to promise to watch over Ada."
"Of course. I always do. But why-"
Julian's face was grave.
"Those men were, of course, from the gypsy camp. I recognized Tammas, the leader, and two of the others, if there could be any doubt. Don't you see what that means?"
"No-"
"This band has enjoyed my father's hospitality for years. They do not find a friendly welcome often, not with their thievish, filthy habits. They are not stupid; they know they can expect short shrift from him for molesting his ward, even if he were not inclined to punish them for injuring me. Why would they risk such unpleasantness?"
"Why, I suppose ransom ..."
Julian snorted, sounding for a moment just like his brother.
"Ransom, with half the population of Yorkshire on their trail? Not to mention my father . . . He's not-er-an easy man, Harriet. There isn't a peasant in the North Riding that would dare shelter them, and they know it. Think again."
The horses had gradually slowed as we forgot to guide them. Now they came to a halt, and I studied Julian's face in mounting worry. The subject was of grave concern to him. He stared back at me in bright-eyed intensity, forgetting the pain of his injured shoulder.
"Tell me, Julian."
"I had hoped you would arrive at the same conclusion. Perhaps I'm being absurd. ..." He shrugged. "They could, possibly, elude pursuit for a week. In that week they would have time to marry Ada to David and make sure the marriage was-er-consummated."
I felt as if I had been struck across the face.
"But-but your father would have any such marriage annulled and David imprisoned," I cried.
"If he could find them, yes. But suppose Ada were not a prisoner but a willing accomplice-''
"Oh, no, Julian!"
"She loves that lout. Didn't you see her face just now? I've seen it coming for weeks. The way he looks at her .. . Harriet, I'm not blaming her; she is young and foolish, easily led; in that lies the danger."
"She would not do such a thing!"
"Ah," he said, "you are not so sure, are you? I don't say that she would cold-bloodedly decide to elope. But if she had been carried off, if David came to her as she huddled in terror in some filthy gypsy caravan . . . Then, you see, with a simple disguise the two of them could elude pursuit indefinitely. And the old hag Marian could shrug her shoulders. 'A kidnapping? Ah, what a pity, but the men who took Ada were renegades; they have run away; we promise to punish them if they dare to return. The girl is not here-search, gentlemen, all you like.
"Ada could not live that way," I argued frantically. "Spend the rest of her life in a dirty gypsy camp?"
"She wouldn't have to," said Julian grimly. "In a year or so she could reappear, with her husband, and my father couldn't have the marriage annulled. It would be too late."
I understood what he was too delicate to say, and a wave of horror washed over me. I grasped desperately at the one mitigating fact.
"But it was David who rescued her! He was injured in trying to save her!"
"Trying-precisely. He did not succeed, did he? And what could be more romantic than a wounded hero? That would be the one sure way to win her confidence. He wasn't badly hurt-you heard Francis say so."
I sat in silence, my last hope demolished. Julian gave my horse a gentle slap on the flank. We rode on.
"I may be wrong," he said softly. "But watch Ada, Cousin."
As soon as I had seen Julian tucked comfortably into the carriage ready for the journey to Middleham, I went in search of Ada. She was in her room, sitting before the dressing table. She still wore the crumpled riding habit. Her poor little hat lay on the floor beside her, the plume bent beyond repair.
"Ada," I cried, "why didn't you call one of the maids to help you? You ought to be in bed after such a shocking experience."
"Francis says he will be all right," she said. "He opened his eyes and knew me."
"He-" I ought to have been more gentle, but this, coming on top of what Julian had just told me, frightened me out of what wits I normally possess. I fell on my knees beside her and shook her till her hair flew about her face.
"Ada, you are out of your senses! This boy is nothing to you! A servant . . . Has it not occurred to you that he may have planned the whole conspiracy?"
"He? David?" Her eyes focused on me. A spark lighted in the blue depths. It ought to have warned me, but I was too distraught to notice.
"Yes, David. Why would the gypsies risk Mr. Wolfson's anger?" And I went on to pour out Julian's theory, in almost the same words he had used. I never finished. Midway through, Ada turned from a frightened little kitten into a full-grown cat, spitting and ready for battle. She sprang up from her seat, knocking me over backward.
"How dare you!" she shouted. "How dare you say such things? When he is lying there injured because of me? When he risked his life to save me? Don't ever say such things to me again, Harriet, or I-I hate you! I hate you!"
Sprawled on the floor, supported by my elbows, I stared up at her in consternation. I had seen her angry once before, when she flew at a carter who was abusing a horse, but never like this. I hardly recognized her-and yet she still managed to look beautiful.
"Ada," I said weakly and at the sound of my voice her face crumpled and fell back into its soft pink-and-white contours. She flung herself down on the floor and put her arms around me, and for some time the two of us sat there holding one another and weeping, like two silly children.
"Harriet, dearest, darling, I am so sorry," mourned Ada. "How could I speak to you so, when I love you. . . . Forgive me, dearest Harriet. But-you didn't mean it, did you?"
"I-I don't know."
One great load had been lifted off my mind by Ada's reaction. She, at least, had no knowledge of any such plot.
Julian had not hinted at this, but he would have too much S. delicacy to do so to me.
"He would not do such a thing," whispered Ada, against my shoulder.
"I want to ask you something, Ada. Look at me."
She raised her head obediently, but, after all, there was no need to ask the question. As our eyes met, she began to blush. The color, an exquisite rose-pink, spread slowly up her throat over chin and cheeks, till it vanished into her hair. With a little sound, half gasp and half sob, she hid her face against my breast.
"Promise me one thing," I said, in the calmness of despair. "You would not leave me, Ada? You would not go away with anyone and not tell me?"
"No." The answer was muffled but prompt; I could not doubt its sincerity. "Harriet, darling, I'll never leave you. But-oh, dear, I am so unhappy!"
I held her in my arms stroking her tumbled hair, while she wept. She knew the truth, and knew its hard corollary that spelled death to her hopes before they had fully bloomed. And I knew I must crush those hopes, if she lacked courage to do so herself. I don't know which of us was more miserable.
I left her finally tucked up into bed, bathed and comfortable, her bruises tended. I wanted nothing more than to climb into my own bed and pull the covers over my head. But such escape was not for me. I sat down at my writing desk and began recording this day's events.
Now that I am out of Julian's presence I am not so sure that his theory is correct. He has a good deal of the Wolfson power of persuasion. Of course David loves Ada; I was willfully blind not to see how it has affected him. And she, thanks to the unfortunate events of today, has discovered that she returns his love. But that he could have planned such a fiendish thing-no, I cannot believe it any more than Ada could, and I lack her strong emotional faith in him. He is not an evil man. Surely I could not be mistaken about that.
Yet, still, the gypsies' unaccountable daring remains unexplained.
Oh, there is another possib
ility. I thought of it when I was holding Ada, trying to calm her sobs. There may well have been a plot, but David need not have been the villain.
I cannot forget the look on Francis' face as he sat in the half-shadows of the trees and stared out at Ada struggling with those abominable men, and at Julian, helpless and twisted in their hands. He knew. He was not surprised or horrified. He had expected something to happen. And how could he have known unless he had planned it?
But we did arrive in time, we did stop them.
Julian's cursed habit of argument has infected me. I can think of difficulties-and the explanations of them.
If Francis had meditated some harm to Ada, an excuse for his morning actions-an alibi, I believe they call it- would be useful. He took me with him as a witness. Good heavens, was he not waiting for me in the courtyard, lounging lazily about until I appeared?
He may have heard Ada arrange to meet me. In any case, it was important that I be kept from her until the deed was done, and at the same time I could serve as a witness to his own innocence. But his plan went astray. We arrived too soon. Perhaps Ada's struggles caught them all by surprise, for she can be a wildcat when she chooses; or perhaps Julian put up more of a struggle than they expected. That-yes, of course! If Francis blamed his brother for foiling his pretty plot, that would explain his cruel hostility toward Julian.
So we arrived at the wrong moment. And as Francis hesitated, not having decided quite what to do, he saw David approaching. The odds then were too great for his confederates-David and himself and Julian, not to mention Ada and myself-so he decided to play the hero himself.
Yes, it could have been that way. Francis hates brother. He may desire Ada, not for her charm sweetness-he is too coarse to appreciate those qualities -but simply and crudely for her money. When she fused him, he sought this means of winning her. His fat! would storm, but he would not be so quick to annul that marriage, and that difficulty was one of the stronger objections to David's part in such a plot.
Oh, God, I can't go on thinking this way! It is inexpressibly painful-as painful as Francis' brutal refusal t assist his injured brother. I don't know that anyone planned this, and I won't believe that they did. The gypsies we stupid. Men often are. They acted without thinking of I consequences. Men almost always do.
But I shan't take my eyes off Ada from now on.
August 19
I have not written in my diary for some time. I have not had the heart to do so. As I look back through these pages, I see that the whole summer has been a failure insofar as literature is concerned. And it surely has been a failure in other ways.
I overheard today not one but two conversations. I was not eavesdropping-I say that truthfully, for if I had been, I would admit it here. This just was my day for overhearing other people's affairs.
The first incident occurred this morning. Mr. W. was closeted in his library with a visitor who had arrived early from Middleham. I did not realize he had a guest. I came down the corridor, quite unsuspecting, to make one of my infrequent requests for additional household supplies.
The visitor was just leaving; he had opened the door and was standing with his hand on the knob. Thus it was that I happened to hear the final remarks that Mr. W. addressed to him, and his replies.
Mr. W.: "Nothing can be done yet. Extend the note till November."
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.
Sons of the Wolf Page 12
