"I'm here," I said quickly; my voice was shrill with relief. "It is Harriet, Francis. I'll help you to the house."
I thought he didn't see me. He was glancing wildly around as if looking for something. But when I put out my hand to touch him, he snatched at my arm.
"Here, take my wrist in both hands and hold steady," he said.
I obeyed automatically, but when he pulled away from me, I let go his arm for fear of hurting him.
"God damn you," he said hotly, "hold on, don't let go. Pull."
"No-how can I? You must go to a physician-"
"I am a physician, remember? Hold on, damn you, and pull."
After that I didn't mind hurting him.
Not at first. When I saw his face whiten and the drops of perspiration break out on his brow, I almost let go. He saw my intention and opened his mouth in a wordless snarl, and I dug my fingers in tighter. I heard the sound when the bone went back into place. It made me feel ill; my fingers dropped their hold. Francis went staggering back, fetching up against the wall, and slowly slid down to I a sitting position. He sat there with his long limbs absurdly I extended before him, nursing his shoulder and swearing.
I knew by his language that he was better, and for the first time I had leisure to think over what had happened.
It frightened me half to death.
"Francis," I said, sidling closer to him. "Someone must have pushed those stones."
"Indeed?"
I paid no heed to his sarcasm; there were more serious matters on my mind.
"We must get away from here!"
"Give me a chance to catch my breath, can't you?"
"No, no, there isn't time! He may come back-he may try-"
"Not with you here." Nevertheless Francis got to his feet. He was still white around the mouth, and it was with some difficulty that he thrust his bad arm into the breast of his coat for support.
"I'm sorry," I said. "Do you want my scarf?"
"No. Thank you. Let's be off."
He found his horse, which was placidly cropping the grass outside, and mounted. The effort left him absolutely gray in the face, and I was furious when he insisted on inspecting the area behind the wall from which the stones had fallen. No one was there. The grass was too thick to retain footprints.
"Did not Julian tell you that the gypsies have been seen in the neighborhood?" I asked, as we rode toward the manor.
"No. But I knew."
"Then it was careless of you to go about alone."
"Why, in the devil's name?"
"Revenge-"
Francis snorted.
"Why?" he asked again.
"You thwarted their plot to kidnap Ada."
"Nonsense."
"But, Francis, if not the gypsies, who else could it have been?"
"Harriet-" He caught at my sleeve, halting his horse.
"What is it?"
We sat gazing at one another. The frowning intensity of his look set my heart pounding. I felt that I was on the brink of discovery, that in a moment he would tell me the truth about the mysteries that surrounded his actions.
"My father," he began.
"Oh, Francis, you are breaking his heart. Why can't you be kind to him?"
For a long time he sat without speaking, his face hard. Then he grimaced unattractively and let go of my arm.
"It's cold," he said flatly. "Why are we sitting here?"
I feel badly about it now, but I don't really see what I could have done; all the way back to the manor he made no sound or complaint. But when we were dismounting in the courtyard, he had no sooner set foot on the ground than he fell over in a heap. He would have struck his head quite badly had not David managed to break his fall. The servants got him to bed and I sent someone to Middleham for the doctor. They tell me he is resting comfortably now.
It is extremely farfetched to think that the gypsies had anything to do with this. Francis must have some private enemy. Or else it was an accident. The stones look solid, but, after all, they are very old. I saw no one and heard no one; the horse gave no warning, which it ought to have done at the sight of a stranger.
It must have been an accident. If not-then what I saw today was a deliberate attempt at murder.
October 1
The plot thickens, as the novelists say. Oh, it is trying to treat it lightly; what happened this evening is another source of discomfort.
It was Julian this time. He chose the rose garden too. I wonder if he knows that that was where Francis made his proposal?
Poor Ada is completely overcome. She wept when refused Francis; Julian left her in a state of hysteria.
The difference, I imagine, lies in the attitudes of two men. Francis really did not care. Julian, said Ada, was crushed. "He felt so miserable," she sobbed.
I feel miserable too. I had hoped- But then perhaps it is too soon. She is still in the grip of this silly infatuation of hers, and as long as David is about the place ... It is time I did something. If this goes on, Mr. W. is sure to hear it. I fancy he would approve of a marriage between Julian and Ada. But, gentle as he is, he might be unkind if he discovered that Ada has a fancy for one of his grooms. (It sounds quite ugly, phrased so, but that is how he will look at it, and really it is the truth!)
I can't go to Mr. Wolfson except as a last resort. I will speak with David first. With his abilities he surely can secure another post, and he must see-he must!-that he cannot stay here. I will be very kind but very firm.
Julian, too, might be encouraged by a bit of advice. I need not tell him to be gentle and patient, for he is always that. But perhaps he has given up hope entirely, and I cannot believe that he need do so yet.
Yes, I shall certainly speak to both of them. I feel quite encouraged. Some good may yet come out of all this.
October 2
When will I get over being such a childish, silly optimist? None of my schemes has succeeded. In fact, the situation is as bad as it could be. The fat is in the fire with a vengeance.
I had no chance to speak to David or Julian today. Ada kept me fully occupied. I have rarely seen her so distressed, and I had to sit by her holding her hand before she would fall asleep. Dusk had fallen, and I was preparing for dinner when the summons came.
William brought it. That is not unusual; Mr. Wolfson almost always sends him to me when he wishes to see me. But a summons at this time of day was out of the ordinary. And it was for Ada as well as myself.
I told William that Miss Ada was indisposed and would not go down. He nodded gravely; but five minutes later he was back, with the news that Mr. Wolfson insisted on seeing Ada. If she was not well enough to come to him, he would come to her.
I cannot even say that I had a premonition. Of course, with the love affairs of my poor cousins uppermost in my mind, I naturally wondered if Mr. Wolfson had gotten wind of what was going on. But common sense made me dismiss the idea. Julian might possibly report his proposal and Ada's refusal, but he would never be cruel enough to tell his father of Ada's fancy for David.
I told William to wait and went in to Ada. She woke at my touch and listened apathetically while I explained.
"Certainly I will go," she said, so I went and reported the result to William.
Ada never takes long to dress. Why should she, when she looks charming in anything she wears? Tonight she was totally disinterested in her appearance, so it was not long before we were ready to go down. As we approached the library, I confess I was curious. But I had no idea of how bad it was going to be.
Mr. Wolfson was, as usual, seated behind his desk. His manner told me nothing; he was pleasant and calm, and he gave Ada one of his most charming smiles as he inquired after her health.
Again as usual, it was some moments before I realized that Julian was also present. Why is he so colorless? If he would only assert himself more, his chance of winning Ada would be immeasurably improved. But then most men would fade into dullness beside his father's magnetic person.
Julian's expre
ssion gave me my first pang of alarm. He looked like a whipped dog. As I caught his eye, his brows lifted and his mouth moved as if forming words. He was trying to convey something, but the sense of it was too complex for miming. Then Mr. Wolfson spoke, and I turned my attention to him.
"I am sorry to hear, Ada, that you are unwell."
She murmured something without looking at him. She is generally inarticulate in his presence, and in her recent state of apathy she hardly speaks at all.
"I know something is troubling you," Mr. Wolfson went on. "It hurts me to think you would not confide in me. You know my desire is to make you happy, Ada. May I not help you?"
Still she would not or could not answer. I sat twisting my hands together in an agony of uncertainty. I was tempted-how I was tempted!-to speak. But I could not humiliate Ada by telling her secret. She had to do it herself, and I could not imagine how she could resist her guardian's tender but firm appeal.
Mr. Wolfson waited a moment. Then he said gently, "I am sure Harriet and Julian will understand if you wish to speak with me alone."
Ada roused at that, but in the wrong way. She shook her head violently and reached for my hand.
"Very well." Mr. Wolfson moved a paperweight on his desk. "Then I will proceed. You are almost eighteen, Ada. It is time you thought of marriage. I confess to a father's partiality; I had hoped you might learn to care for one of your cousins. Had you considered the matter at all?"
"No!" Ada exclaimed.
We were all startled by the violence of her tone, after her previous silence. She seemed startled herself; as soon as the word left her lips, she hung her head and squeezed my hand hard.
"Do you mean that you have not thought of it, or that you have decided against it?"
"Against..." She did not look at him. "Please, Cousin John ... I cannot ... I don't wish to marry now. . . ."
"Now or later, it is your decision. But you must consider, Ada, that I am not a young man, nor am I in the best of health. What is to become of you when I am gone? To be sure, your lawyers will look after your fortune, until you marry; but who will look after you? You will marry one day; it would relieve me inexpressibly to have you settled before I must-leave you."
There were tears in my eyes when he had finished. I looked at Ada, expecting to see her equally moved and more responsive. She sat like a stone and said nothing.
"I don't mean to press you, Ada," Mr. Wolfson went on, more firmly, "but I must know. Could you leam to care for one of your cousins?"
"No-no!"
Mr. Wolfson's face was no longer so kind. I could hardly blame him; he had been very patient, and she was as sullen as a small child.
"You force me to a most unpleasant task, Ada," he said.
He touched the bell on his desk, the one he used to I summon William. When the butler appeared, he said only, I "Fetch him in." By then I knew what was going to happen. I was not surprised to see David, hat in hand, propelled through the door by William's heavy hand.
Ada looked at him and quickly looked away. I could I have groaned aloud. That one look was as good as a I confession. Mr. Wolfson could not have missed it even if-as I no longer supposed-he had been unaware.
"Let's be quick about this," said Mr. Wolfson, his lip curling. "Ada, you are suffering from one of the most distasteful infatuations I have ever encountered. I am dismissing this servant at once. But first I want him to tell you that he has never had the effrontery to think of you in the way in which you evidently think of him."
His eyes, glacially blue now, turned on David.
The boy looked like a cornered fox. His eyes shifted unattractively from side to side, and his fingers crushed his cap. Once out of his own milieu, thrust into that other world to which Ada belonged, he was graceless and ill at ease. I felt sure Mr. Wolfson had more or less bribed him to administer a quick, merciful coup de grace to Ada's folly, and for one hopeful moment I thought the sight of him must bring her to her senses.
Then Ada looked him full in the face-and the miracle happened. It supported every insipid poet who has ever written about love. The boy's shoulders straightened and his thin hands were still. His eyes met Ada's, and the air between them was almost luminous.
"I-I canna say that, sir, and speak th' truth. I wish I could, indeed, sir. I see 'twas wrong, and I'll be going away. I wouldna do her a hurt for a sure place in Heaven," he added, in a burst of eloquence. "I pray happiness for her, sir."
ft was the wrong thing to say, from any practical point of view. But as I saw Ada's face aglow with the first sign of animation it had shown for days-as I watched the answering glow light up David's young face-sentimental female that I am, I could have cheered.
In the ensuing silence the tap of Mr. Wolfson's fingers on the desk sounded like thunder.
"You wish her happiness, do you," he said in a mild voice; and suddenly, in a burst of fury: "You insolent young dog! You'll go, right enough-in disgrace, with no recommendation from me. If you show your face on my property again, I'll set the hounds on you! William, thrash this-this scoundrel and put him out the door. At once, do you hear me?"
With a cry of protest Ada rose to her feet. We were all standing now; even Mr. Wolfson had raised himself, supporting his weight on his muscular arms. If he had been able, I think he would have snatched up his stick and pummeled the groom personally.
I was just in time to capture Ada as she darted toward David, and he, discretion forgotten, was struggling ineffectually in William's huge embrace. It was a horrid, painful scene. The only ones who seemed unmoved were Julian, pale and silent in his corner, and William. The butler's face did not alter, not a single line. He lifted the boy as if he had been a puppy and propelled him out of the room. He was even able to use one arm to close the door.
The sound of its closing broke Ada's resistance. With a little gasp she slumped in my arms, and I lowered her to the floor. Mr. Wolfson sank back into his chair, panting; his face was an ugly red, and I feared he was about to suffer an attack. Julian's quiet voice seemed the most soothing sound I had ever heard.
"I'll take her to her room, shall I?"
I had thought the situation was as bad as it could be; I had forgotten that he is always about when trouble is brewing. The door opened and in walked Francis. I could smell the liquor on his breath from ten feet away.
He surveyed us all with owlish amusement, nodding his head gravely.
"Met the gladiators coming out when I came in," be announced. "Unsporting, Father-William would make two of him. And here's Ada in a faint. Must have been a pretty scene. Sorry I missed it. Give her to me, Harriet."
For once in his neglected life, Julian was before his brother. He bent and lifted Ada, not with Francis' ease, perhaps, but without strain.
"You are too late, Francis," he said quietly.
With an ostentatious shrug Francis moved to one side. I followed Julian as he bore Ada up the stairs and into ha room.
The tears and tantrums I had expected from her did not materialize. She is too still. Even as I write these lines I know she is lying awake, staring up at the bed canopy with eyes that do not see it. I wish she had never seen him. I wish it were a year from now. I wish-oh, I don't know what I do wish, except that we were happy again.
Next day
When I awoke this morning, my first thought was of Ada. It seemed heartless of me to have slept at all.
I was slightly surprised to see the connecting door, which I had left ajar, now closed. But that was nothing to my astonishment when, upon trying the handle, I found it would not turn.
I pounded on the door with my fist and shouted to Ada to open. I supposed, naturally, that she had locked me out. She had never done such a thing before, but grief can drive people to strange actions. . . .
As that thought passed through my mind, I grew sick with sudden fear. There was no sound from the next room. I dropped the handle and ran to the table, pulling out its drawer so hurriedly that it came out completely, spilling the contents onto
the floor. I dropped to my knees and began sorting through them. Weeks before I had put Ada's drops in that drawer.
The laudanum was there. Of course I never expected it would not be, but . . . ! I put the drops carefully into my reticule. From now on I would carry that bag with me wherever I went.
I went back to the door and lifted my hand to pound again. Then I heard a voice saying my name. It was not Ada's voice; I recognized the tones of the upper housemaid Agatha.
"Miss Harriet?"
"Who else? Let me in at once."
"I canna, miss. I doesn't dare."
Sons of the Wolf Page 14
