Of course it was Julian-with his love of the little luxuries that made life worth living, his "gentlemanly" disinclination for honest labor, his fear of his dominating father, even his sympathy for those abominable hounds. Everything had pointed to him; everything I knew about Francis should have absolved him. After the incident with David, after watching the sure, gentle surgeon's hands at work, I should have known that he would never refuse to assist an injured man. Julian had not been injured; he had been pretending, just as he would have pretended, later, to come to Ada's rescue. No doubt he had some scheme in mind to persuade her that marriage with him was the only way of escaping from the gypsies' plot.
With his pleasant, meaningless smile Julian extended one hand to me. I hesitated, but not for long. A struggle would have been degrading and useless.
I put Francis' limp hand on his breast and rearranged the blankets. It was an act any humane woman might have performed, yet Julian's smile widened, and I knew with a stab of terror that I had made a dangerous mistake. How long he had been standing there I did not know, but if he realized the truth . . .
Well, if it was done, it was done, and any decent person would have said what I said next.
"Let me stay here, Julian. He needs care. The room is not even heated. He will die if you don't-"
"It is chilly, isn't it?" said Julian cheerfully. "No place for you, Cousin-with your nasty headache."
He laughed. I stopped several feet away from him, contemplating seriously one of the plans I had already discarded as impossible. It would have been a great satisfaction to claw at his face.
He saw my intention-I was making no serious effort to conceal it-and he straightened. As his right hand came into view, I saw that he was holding his riding crop.
"Why, Cousin, how badly you think of me." Julian's eyes followed mine; with an ostentatious gesture he dropped the whip and showed me his empty hands. "I won't hurt you, Harriet, even if you fly at me. I shall simply enfold you in a firm but painless embrace. Come, do fly at me. It might be fun."
"Julian. For the last time, let me do what I can for your brother. I won't fly at you or try to run away. I'll do anything you say."
"Would you?" He stared at me speculatively, his smile no longer pleasant. "We'll discuss that possibility later, Cousin. Just now, you have a long wait. You shall be comfortable whether you want to be or not.''
The peremptory hand was as white and well tended as a girl's, but I knew its strength. There was nothing to be gained by further speech; I had lost enough ground as it was. In a silence I hoped was contemptuous I went toward him. At the last moment he moved aside and I swept through the doorway, my head high and my heart aching.
What a feeble figure of speech that is! It was not my heart that ached, but an area lower down-and it was not I so much an ache as a churning sickness.
Sickness or ache, it is a weakening sensation. Yet I was alert for any possible chance of escape. There was none. He never touched me, but I could almost feel his breath on the back of my head, so closely did he follow me, giving directions in a casual voice: "To the right . . . now up those stairs ..."
We were inside the buildings all the way. It was dark; he knew the path and I did riot; the only doors we passed were closed, so that I could not tell which ones led outside and which led to other rooms. I have gone over it again and again in my mind, and even now I do not see how I could have eluded him. If he had stumbled, only once- but he is as sure on his feet as a cat. I had to go where he guided me-to the tower.
It does communicate with the cells. There is a door at the end of the corridor. It had been mended, the hinges oiled, the lock repaired. (How long, I wonder, has Wolfson planned this? And I smugly admiring him, like a calf frisking off to the slaughterer's block!)
The tower is old; it must have been here for centuries, long before the monks came and built their structures around it. The stairs are narrow and steep, cut into the thickness of the walls; at each floor there is a narrow landing, stone-paved, with one door giving onto it.
Julian gave me no time to study these doors or wonder what might lie behind them; he pressed me closely, knowing that I would scramble on hands and knees rather than let him touch me.
The worst thing about the trip through the dark corridor and the dim stairs was not Julian's presence. It was my growing sense that there were not two individuals there, but three. I felt another presence behind Julian; at times I could almost hear another set of feet padding noiselessly along in his wake. When I rose to my feet on the final landing, I found that my imagination had not deceived me. Julian was at my elbow, and when I turned, I saw a head come into view around the angle of the stairs. It was a shaggy gray head, with feral green eyes and a long muzzle. I turned blindly to the door which represented the only means of escape, and with a mocking parody of courtesy Julian flung it open and stood aside for me to enter.
I saw nothing of the room at first; it was only a space into which the dog, thank heaven, did not enter. The beast stood peering in through the doorway with a terrifying suggestion of intelligence more than animal. Julian dropped to one knee and the dog turned toward him; their heads were almost on a level, and Julian spoke, the dog's ears pricking as it listened.
Julian rose to his feet.
"You will find this place comfortable, I believe," he said, and I realized that the temperature of the room was warm. There was a bright fire on the hearth and a few rough sticks of furniture-even a bottle of wine and a covered dish on the table.
"I am afraid you will have to wait for some hours," Julian went on. "There is food here, and wine-eat and keep up your strength. I don't want to take advantage of you."
"You won't," I said.
"Oh-that." Julian grinned; his resemblance to his father had never been stronger. "Harriet, I beg of you, don't judge me before you know all the facts. Oh, I am aware of what you are thinking and, on my word of honor, you are wrong about several important matters. Try to keep an open mind. No harm will come to you; your safety and happiness are the most important things in the world to me. Rest . . . have a glass of wine. . . . Before morning you will know the truth and then, I am sure, you will feel differently."
He had all his father's charm-the dangerous Wolfson charm, which could witch the fruit off the trees. Almost I believed him. Then I remembered Francis in the frigid little cell below. No facts, no truth could excuse neglect that might end in murder.
I had wit enough, though, to say nothing. Julian seemed satisfied. He started to close the door and then, as if struck by a sudden thought, opened it again.
"Since you are not a prisoner, the door will not be bolted." He waited for my reaction. But I knew him now; I betrayed no sign of hope for him to crush. "I'll leave Loki, of course," he went on. "Just outside the door. For your protection."
This time the door closed and remained closed. Just in time, too; I could not have kept my foot a moment longer. I sat down, just where I was, and shook-and cursed Julian. If he had locked the door, I might have found some way out. The dog is a more effective barrier than bolts and chains.
All this was hours ago-it feels like weeks. It is almost dusk. I have been over this room, stone by stone. It is roughly circular, with one window. The window is not barred, only blocked by wooden planks to keep out the cold. I think I might get through that window. There is only one difficulty. The window is forty feet above the ground.
The stones of the walls and the wood of the floor are set like iron. Those happy devices of Gothic fiction, the secret panel and the sliding door, are missing here-or if they exist, I cannot find them. There is no way out of this room except through the door. And the dog is outside the door.
For a while I tried to comfort myself by believing Julian. Perhaps I had leaped to conclusions; perhaps he was carrying on a plot of his own, in which his father had no part. Perhaps he was foiling his father instead of helping him. But I could not make myself believe it, much as I wanted to. There may be facts I do not know, but they can only be facts
that create a greater threat. The waiting is the worst. If they would only come! There is no way out of here for me; I can only resign myself to what they demand. The time drags so. I tied my hair up and brushed the dirt from my skirts and washed my hands-yes, there is even a basin of water here. Such concern for my comfort! It frightens me more than threats could do.
I am weak with fatigue and hunger as well as fear. I ought to sleep-but who could sleep? My body rebels against food. The slab of mutton and chunk of bread provided would hardly tempt a delicate appetite. I did pour out a glass of wine-and then I was afraid to drink it. Suppose the food and drink are drugged? I don't know what this would accomplish for them, but I can no longer fathom the twisted depths of this plot; I can only expect the worst and act on that assumption.
Is Ada here, in this same grim tower? There was no sound from any of the doors below, but Julian gave me no time to listen. I tried pounding on the floor here with the heel of my shoe; it made a hollow echo, ghastly to hear, but no sound came back to me. It proves nothing; the floors are thick.
The fire is dying. Shadows fill the room, shifting like dark fog. I crouch by the hearth, writing by the last glow of the red coals. The supply of fuel is almost gone. I shall not leave this room to replenish it. The door is neither locked nor barred, but the creature is still there, guarding the only way out. Sometimes it is quiet, and I delude myself into hope: Perhaps it has gone away. But I know it will never go away, not until he comes to relieve it of its charge. Whenever I approach the door, the sounds begin again-the dull, even thud of padded pacing-back and forth, back and forth. It was daylight when he left; it is dark night now. Soon he will return. And when he comes . . . I am sick with chagrin at my own naivete. How could I have been so blind-I, who prided myself on my superior knowledge of the world! Not a moment's doubt, not a quiver of that famed "woman's intuition" . . . Surely I must have seen some sign of the approaching terror, even if I did not recognize it for what it was. Surely, somewhere in the pages of this diary I must have recorded an event whose significance I failed to see. . . .
Later
The clues were there-when I looked for them. Easy to see now, but at the time-well, there is nothing more futile than regretting the past, unless it is railing at one's own stupidity.
What I was really searching for, I expect, was not a clue to what has happened so much as a guide as to what to do next-a magic spell or at least a casual reference to, let us say, an ancient tunnel from the tower to the moor which, by a strange coincidence, would start in this very room! A remark which I had forgotten but which now would lead to my salvation. . . . Unfortunately, life does not work that way. I am not so stupefied by fear that I wouldn't have remembered any hint of that sort immediately.
I found something totally unexpected in my investigations, but instead of being a key to freedom, it is a bigger, heavier bolt on the prison door. I have been sitting on the floor by the fire to read, partly for warmth, partly for light As I shifted position-these stones are hard!-something crackled in my skirt pocket. I praise my self-possession, but not until I actually reached into the pocket and pulled it out did I remember the letter I found in Wolfson's drawer- the letter addressed, against all reason, to me. Well, but a few other things have happened since then. . . .
I had an impression, at the time, that the handwriting was familiar. As I studied the superscription in the dim light of the dying fire, I knew whose hand it was, and a prickle of pure superstitious terror ran down my back. I was almost afraid to read the letter. It said-
But perhaps I had better copy it entire. If he finds it missing from the drawer, he will search for it, and, without doubt, he will find it. For several reasons I would like to retain a copy.
My dear Harriet,
If my instructions are followed-which they will be-you will receive this six months after my death. That will allow time for the first part of my scheme to mature.
Take in your hands the ebony workbox I left you in my will. You will not have used it more than you can help, but now remove the topmost drawer in which the thread is kept. Underneath there is a partition of diin wood which separates the top from the bottom drawer. This partition is not fixed, as it appears to be. It opens by means of a button disguised as a nailhead, at the center back of the box. When you press down on the nailhead, you will hear a slight clicking sound. Then take hold of the strip of raised wood which runs down the partition from front to back, and lift. The partition will rise by approximately half an inch. Pull it out toward you.
In the narrow space beneath you will find my second will. It is quite in order and is dated two weeks after the first will. This, my sole valid testament, makes you the heiress to my fortune.
You may wonder, first, why I leave my money to you, and second, why I do so in such an unusual manner. I am not in the habit of explaining my actions, so I will say only that this seemed to me the best way of accomplishing my plans for my two granddaughters. Basically these plans mean they should marry, and marry well.
What do I mean by "well"? I mean that their husbands should be men of substance and position. The first requisite for a gentleman's bride is that she have money. Only in novels do handsome genteel noblemen wed young governesses or housemaids. For all her beauty Ada would find herself the wife of a struggling gentleman usher or curate if she were known to be penniless. I will not have this for my granddaughter, the descendant of a Queen of England. It will not take the men long to find Ada, and by now she should be settled, in theory if not in fact; decorum, of course, will postpone the actual marriage until after the time of mourning for me is past.
I would have waited for a year or even two, until Ada was actually married, but several considerations made me decide that you had better know the truth before that time. Ada may marry some profligate rake who will squander the money he believes to be his. Or you, with your passionate nature-which I have tried, unsuccessfully, to teach you to control-may contract yourself to some penniless fool, not knowing that you can do better. Or some other emergency may arise-I do not pretend to be omniscient.
You are not to make this will public until after Ada is married. This is an order. The money which I have left, while quite substantial in itself, is not enough, if divided between you, to attract a husband of high social standing. Therefore you shall have the use of it in turn. I can trust you to make proper provision for Ada and to soothe her husband by a settlement which, if not what he expected, will reconcile him to the inevitable. The rest is yours, and I know you will take care of it, if not quite in the way I have done, at least in a manner which will not disgrace the family. I have observed you closely for many years. I know you well, your failings as well as your potentialities. Despite the heritage from your wretched mother, which I deplore-but which, I flatter myself, I have suppressed as much as was possible-you have a great deal of myself in you.
I think you will not disregard my wishes even if, which is unlikely, they conflict with your own. If you I should do so, rest assured that I will know. I have always been a good church member, but I do not imagine that my character will change so much between this life and the next that I will forgive a deliberate violation of my orders. I remain,
Your affectionate grandmother,
FRANCES BARTON
So she did not hate me after all.
I can be glad of that now. I can almost smile at the grim s humor of that last paragraph. We went once to a seance at the home of one of Grandmother's friends. The ectoplasmic manifestations were obviously fabricated, yet I think I would be afraid to attend another such demonstration if I had deliberately foiled Grandmother's plans. One never knows. ... If anyone could break through that "veil" they talk of, it would be she-and she would leave the veil in tatters, too.
If the inhabitants of Heaven do concern themselves, in their saintly bliss, with the troubles of those they left behind, Grandmother must be in quite a state just now. She meant well by us. Arbitrary and autocratic as her plan was, marred by what I
can only regard as pride amounting to madness, it was at least designed for our good. I wonder what she would say if she knew that her well-intentioned scheme has destroyed me.
For this is the ultimate trap. Wolf son has read the letter; I found it already opened. This explains his hasty journey, to summon his confederate and explain the new development. It explains why I am now here, the object of such sinister concern. He knows that I, not Ada, am his designated prey.
I am trying very hard to be calm, but if my fingers were not clamped around this pen, I would be using them to tear at my face. It is almost diabolical, the way the whole affair has developed-almost as if some jeering Fate were taking every potential weapon and turning it against me. Even the timing of it . . .
At any other time I would have willingly changed places with Ada. I can imagine her agony of mind, loving another man, fearing convention and talk-and lacking what John Wolfson calls my "passionate nature." I could have confronted Wolfson and spat vulgarly in his face, as my mother would have done, and dared him to do his worst. He could not force me as he can force Ada. But he can force me through her.
If I refuse the marriage which will give Wolfson Grandmother's fortune ("A married woman has no property," says the law of benevolent England), he will simply destroy the second will and marry Ada to Julian. That plan will remain unaltered. The only difference is that, before, I could not save her. Now I can-by a simple Yes. It is her happiness against mine, one unspeakable marriage against another. Having the choice, I cannot condemn her to Julian's tender mercies.
Sons of the Wolf Page 18
