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 water-color 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?"
"Never."
"Touching ..." Again he was silent, and hope slowed my racing heart to something like its normal rate.
"No," he said abruptly.
"Francis-"
"No. If I don't take you now, I'll never do it. It will be too late. I've given myself away; you won't let me near you another time. ..."
He was holding me, with his careless strength, several inches off the ground. I could not even stand on my own feet; I could only lean helplessly against his breast, pinioned by
his great long arms. The change in his voice, now humorless and shaking with pent fury, told me that I had lost all hope of reasoning with him. I could only conclude that he was mad.
"Harriet."
I started, looking up, trying to see his face more clearly in the darkness. There had been another change in his voice-one that set my heart pounding anew.
"Harriet, come with me. I can't drag you screaming- and I don't want to hurt you. Come with me. I promise you won't regret it. I'll explain everything-"
His lips were on my cheek, moving clumsily. I could smell the strong reek of spirits on his breath. I was completely helpless; I could not move even my head, for it was pressed against his shoulder. Knowing it was useless to resist, I resigned myself. . . .
At least that is how I ought to have behaved. What It we women are!
Mind, I am not ashamed of how I felt. Despite Grandmother's horrid hints, I cannot believe that it is wrong respond to the touch of the man one loves. But I do love Francis-I loathe him. That is what I am ashamed the object of my feelings, not the feelings themselves.
I did object-a trifle.
"Francis, don't- Give me time-"
"No time," he said, against my ear. "Now or never, He won't let me. He'll stop me somehow-"
"I'll stop you," said another voice in melodramatic accents. "Now."
I could hardly see him except as a darker shadow, but it had to be Julian. Who else would come to look for me when night fell and I did not return?
"That will be enough, Brother," said Julian coldly. "Harriet-you are not hurt?"
Still suspended from Francis' grasp, I managed to squeak a reassuring negative. Under my breath I hissed, "Let me go at once, Francis!"
I could almost hear him thinking. He would have made two of Julian, but he could hardly attack his brother without releasing me. And I would immediately run screaming for help. He reached the only possible conclusion at the same moment I did.
"I beg your pardon, Harriet," he exclaimed, setting me down on the ground. "Dear me-I fear you misunderstood my little joke. My sense of humor-"
"Is abominable," I said, between my teeth. "And I do not-"
"You don't what?" inquired Francis politely.
"I-nothing."
Francis was trading, quite unscrupulously, on my reluctance to cause trouble. How much Julian had heard I do not yet know, but he could not have seen very much-it was too dark. Yet the younger brother's waiting silence was as sharp as a shout. If I had wept or shouted accusations, heaven knows what he might have done. If Francis were attacked, he would fight back; in his present frame of mind, which I knew only too well, he might do the slighter man serious harm.
I went toward Julian with unhurried steps-but my knees were shaking.
"Thank you, Julian," I said calmly. "Let's go back to the house, shall we?"
I left my rescuer in the hall, where the light was dim; I did not want him to see me clearly. But when I inspected my image in the glass in my room I was surprised to see how few signs there were of those terrible moments. There was a small cut on my lip, but it was on the inside so did not show. It was not until I undressed for bed-which I did at once, being weak with reaction-that I saw the bruises on my upper arms. Luckily they are in places which are not normally visible. I will have to take care to keep Ada out while I am dressing.
What shall I do?
September 22
I shall do nothing. Perhaps I am the one who is mad. Could it really have been only one of Francis' "jokes"?
When I met him this morning at breakfast, he looked me straight in the eye and greeted me as if he had absolutely no recollection of his insane behavior.
I cannot fathom what is happening here. Perhaps all I can do is try to forget it.
September 26
Today was our first intimation that summer is over. The weather has been clear and warm, unseasonably so for this part of the country, I understand. But when I woke this morning, it was to gray skies and a keen wind that whipped the yellowing leaves off the trees. The day suited my mood. I wish some spiritual wind would come and blow away the dead leaves that clutter my brain!
When I went in to Ada I found her still abed. Her looks alarmed me, but she was cool to the touch and insisted she felt no pain, only weariness. This increasing apathy frightens me. If she would only speak to me of what troubles her! But she hugs her sorrow to her as if it were a kind of comfort.
I decided to go out; the house is becoming increasingly uncomfortable to me. We have heard no more of the gypsies, but they are only one of my worries. I decided to ride only as far as the ruins; the ruined cloisters would, I thought, restore some of my peace of mind.
The ride did me good-the first part of it, at least. The cold air seemed to blow some of the cobwebs from my mind, and I became more cheerful. Sooner or later Ada's absurd attachment would fade; soon Francis must leave for Edinburgh. Then Mr. Wolfson and I could resume our pleasant hours together, and perhaps Ada and Julian . . .
I was dreaming, happy and only half aware, as my mount picked its way daintily through the thick grass to the entrance of the court. It knew its way; this is my favorite ride.
The intelligent beast stopped in the gateway, and when I looked up, I saw that someone was there before me. Francis sat on a stone at the foot of the opposite wall. He was deep in thought and, since he faced away from me, it was no wonder that he did not see me.
His manner toward me of late had been impeccable- almost gentle, in fact. But I still had no intention of meeting him alone.
A movement among the grasses attracted my attention and that of Francis. He raised his head alertly but did not rise; perhaps, I thought, he is expecting someone. Then a patch of gray moved among the yellowing green of the weeds and one of the dogs came into view.
I really am not afraid of the dogs. I have been with them many times now, and I know they would never harm me. However, I feel no great affection for them!
I could not see Francis' face but his actions left no doubt as to his reaction to Fenris or Loki, whichever it was. As the dog came toward him, stepping slowly through the drying grass, he bent and picked up a stone.
"Get away, you brute," I heard him say.
The dog stopped. I suppose any animal can recognize a threat, particularly an animal as unpopular as this one. He has probably been stoned before. But there was an uncanny, almost human look on the shaggy thing's face as its eyes traveled from Francis' face to the stone in his hand. The fanged mouth opened wide and the red tongue lolled out. Some dogs look as if they are laughing when they do this. The wolf-dog seemed to sneer. It turned without haste and made its way off, through the doorway mat leads to the cells.
I was trying to think of a way of retreating without attracting Francis' attention when something else moved. And this movement froze my voice and my limbs.
The wall of the ancient courtyard is well preserved. In some places it is ten or twelve feet high. The stones are roughhewn compared with those of the church, and presumably they did not make such attractive building material, so they were left in place when the other buildings were looted. Only the vandalism of wind and weather has marred the courtyard walls, and though the old masonry is crumbled away in many spots, the very weight of the stones holds them firmly in place.
Now a section of stonework three or four stones wide, just above Francis' head, was beginning to move.
It happened very quickly. My vocal paralysis broke; I let out a shriek that brought Francis to his feet and whirled him about in my direction. I will never forget the look on his face when he saw me; heaven knows my own expression must have been wild enough. There was no time for comment or movement-the center stone was poised and ready to drop. One of my frenzied gestures must have told him the truth. He looked up-and me whole top of the wall seemed to collapse.
He moved with a speed I had never thought possible, throwing himself to one side in the only movement that could have saved him. But the movement was simultaneous with
the crash of the stones, and the dreadful thunder of their fall and the cloud of dust that rose where they struck momentarily blinded me. I fell off the horse-my newly acquired equestrian skills desert me completely in moments of stress-and ran toward the spot, expecting some indescribable horror.
I found him on the far side of the tumbled pile of rock. He was sitting on the ground. He glanced at me, and at first there was no recognition in his eyes. The shock, I thought; and thanked heaven that there seemed to be no mark of injury.
Then he struggled to his feet, steadying himself with one hand against the nearest block of stone, and I saw that his left arm hung at an odd angle from his shoulder.
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