"They are certainly formidable," I said, regaining my wits with an effort. "How still they sit! They look like statues of dogs. What are they, if not pets?"
"Guards." For a moment Mr. Wolfson's face lost its good humor. His lips drew back. Suddenly I could see a resemblance between the animals and their owner. He had a set of excellent teeth, large and white as- But that is folly, and I will not write it. He went on calmly, "We live in a remote district, my dears, and I am a poor helpless invalid. Loki and Fenris are my protection, and very effective protection they are."
"You-a helpless invalid?" I exclaimed. It was involuntary, and I blushed as soon as I had said it. But Mr. Wolfson seemed pleased. He laughed and dismissed the dogs with a small movement of his hand. They trotted back behind the desk and subsided. We did not see them again. But I did not forget them.
I do have a mild fear of dogs, but I thought I had learned to control it; half my public fear was for Ada's benefit, since she so loves to protect me from something. Evidently it is not all pretense! It is fortunate the animals are so well trained; beasts of their size and strength could do much damage. And what extraordinary names! Loki, I know, was an ancient Norse god. And not, if I recall, a very pleasant fellow. Fenris-that name is unfamiliar, but it must be Norse as well. I must look it up.
April 21
We have been exploring our new home and its surroundings.
Ada, with her love of animals, found her way to the stables the very first morning after our arrival. I am shamefully lazy in the mornings, so I did not follow until later, and when I came upon her, she had already acquired a mount and a cavalier.
We had little time in London for shopping and dressmaking. Our supply of mourning is limited. So Ada was wearing a sky-blue cloak and hood, lined with white fur, which framed her rosy face. She looked enchanting. The horse was a dainty brown mare which stood, already bridled and saddled, in the stableyard. The cavalier was obviously one of the grooms, from his rough clothing-a tall, dark boy with the slender bones of a horseman. His manner was perfectly correct as he helped Ada to mount, but as she turned her head to smile down at him in innocent (I think!) thanks, the wind blew one long golden curl across her cheek, and his whole frame stiffened in response. I could hardly blame him; but of course I advanced at once, feeling like an elderly duenna.
"Harriet, how late you are! Do hurry!"
"Slowly, slowly, Ada. I know your passion for animals, but have you Mr. Wolfson's permission to ride his horses?"
"Begging your pardon, miss, but Mr. Wolfson gave instructions that you ladies should ride whenever you like. Pamela here is gentled, and there'll be another mare for you."
I looked at the speaker. He was even younger than I had thought, not much older than Ada. His high cheekbones and dark skin seemed alien to Yorkshire, and this suggestion of foreign blood gave me an uneasy sense of kinship.
"What is your name?" I asked.
"David, miss."
"He is the second groom," Ada explained, "but he hopes to be first when old Adam retires."
"How nice," I said blankly. "David, is it safe for us to ride hereabouts?"
"Mr. Wolfson did say, miss, that I or one of the other boys was to go with you. But the horses are safe and gentle. Not that Miss Ada needs a gentle mount."
"She rides like a centaur," I said, smiling. "I am the one who needs the gentle mount."
I got her-a docile old mare named Fanny-and the three of us set out for an exploratory ride.
The abbey ruins are certainly the dominant feature of the landscape. They lie, I suppose, only a mile or two from the courtyard of the manor, and as we approached them I saw that they were much more extensive and better preserved than I had imagined. The walls of the church still stand, although the building is roofless, and one side of the cloisters is relatively intact. At the far end of this side there is a great block of rooms which looks almost habitable. At least the roof is still there, and the windows are solid. I wonder what this portion could have been. Dormitories for the monks, one would suppose, yet the tall tower at one end is more like part of a castle than a monastery.
I was fascinated by the ruins and wanted to ride over at once to explore. But David refused to go.
"They an't-aren't-safe in winter, miss. There's pits there and broken stone underfoot, all covered with snow and thin ice. When the ground's bare and you can see where you're stepping, then I'll take you."
He has an unexpectedly firm jaw, this young man. I might have persisted in spite of the jaw, but I saw the sense of what he said. The ruins will have to wait till summer.
April 27
The weather still continues clear and cold. I wish Ada were not so set on daily exercise; those long chilly rides freeze my bones and bore me to distraction. There is nothing to see but snow and barren trees. We have not even ventured as far as the nearest village, a small place called Middleham. It is three hours' ride, and David does not recommend going so far.
David's recommendations would fill a volume. Not that he is at any time disrespectful; indeed, I rather like him. But there is a quality about him, despite his youth and station, that makes one listen to his remarks and respect his judgment. We have seen a great deal of him, since Ada insists on spending most of her time in the stables, and -I have complete confidence in Ada, but-
It is so nebulous I feel foolish recording it. But I cannot forget that one look, the first morning they met. After all, e is a young man. And Ada is not only beautiful, but harming and friendly. I feel sure David is too intelligent to forget himself; he is ambitious and has asked us to correct his English, which is far better than the speech of his fellow servants. He-well, I may as well be honest in these pages. It is not David who worries me, but Ada. I do not have full confidence in her. Her very virtues-simplicity, candor, kindness-make her untrustworthy. She has an open, loving heart, and David is an extremely personable boy. They share an interest in animals-his is profound and intelligent-and always seem to find something to talk about; they chatter and chat during the whole ride, while I huddle on my saddle, trying to keep warm.
The whole thing is ridiculous, of course. Now that I have written out my suspicions, I can see that. I will martyr myself to frozen fingers and noses, and keep a proper chaperone's eye upon them. That is all I can do and I probably don't need to do that. If I hadn't formed a habit of worrying about Ada, I would never have thought of this.
To turn to pleasanter topics: our guardian, Mr. Wolfson. I call him guardian, since it is hard to think of a familial term that describes him without sounding like a French exercise book. The son of my grandmother's half brother! Does that make him my half great-uncle? "Cousin" is certainly simpler; I will ask if I may call him that. In law, probably, there is no relationship at all.
We have not seen much of our cousin-guardian; despite his handicap he is a very busy man. I suppose the management of this vast estate and of his fortune takes a good deal of time. Occasionally he has visitors from London and York on business matters. Once or twice, though, we have dined with him.
It is a curious performance, dining with Mr. Wolfson. On the first occasion William showed us to the room; we found a handsome apartment, brightly lighted; the table shone with the finest of crystal and silver and china. But no one else was there. William seated us, in his usual frigid silence. I would have thought that we were to dine alone, except that there was another place laid at the head of the long table. Our own seats were to the right and left hand of the master's place-except that the master was not present, nor was there even a chair at that place.
I had only time to exchange an inquiring glance with Ada before William marched to the folding doors at the other end of the room and threw them open. In came Mr. Wolfson, chair and all. Stalking behind him, like a pair of peculiar footmen, walked the dogs. I was torn between laughter, fear, and-pity.
Yet once our cousin had taken his place the strangeness disappeared. His invalid's chair is of just the proper height; he might have been se
ated in an ordinary dining chair. The dogs subsided, out of sight. One hardly remembered that they were there, especially after Mr. Wolfson began to speak.
He is a brilliant conversationalist. Although he confesses to having little taste for music or drawing, he is widely read. At first that struck me as incongruous. As he sat there, very handsome in evening dress, his hand seemed too large and muscular to play with anything so fragile as a wineglass. He looked the perfect country gentleman, and that breed is not notorious for serious pursuits. The breadth of his shoulders and chest is that of a man of action rather than thought. It was with a shock of real surprise that I remembered the invalid chair and realized why an active, restless mind must, perforce, have turned to books.
I fear the conversation became a dialogue. Ada reads very little, and she does enjoy her food; she is happy as a listener, so I never try to bring her into a general discussion. But gradually Mr. Wolfson seemed to become aware of her silence. More and more often his eye turned away from me, and I could see by his look that he was much mused by the contrast between Ada's dainty form and matures and her well-bred but determined intake of nourishment. He deftly made the talk more general, and then asked Ada point-blank how she had been amusing herself. She at once thanked him for his courtesy in providing us with the means to ride.
"I admire your hardiness," he said with a smile. "Have you really been riding in such cold?"
Ada nodded; then her attention was distracted by an apple tart which the footman placed before her, so I answered.
"Ada will ride anything on four legs and in a hurricane. Her bravado is justified only by the results-she has never been thrown or run away with."
Mr. Wolfson's face sobered.
"Very well, but I do beg you to be careful, Cousin Ada. Overconfidence can be dangerous; you are, after all, only a slight young girl. When I spoke to Adam about your riding, it was only as part of the general arrangements I made for your coming. I had no notion that you would venture out so soon."
"You are very kind to be so concerned," Ada said placidly. "But you needn't worry, Cousin, truly. David goes with us everywhere."
"David? Ah, yes, the gypsy boy. He accompanies you?"
"By your orders, Cousin," I said. And then, seeing his expression, I added anxiously, "Is it not by your orders?"
"No." The word was softly, almost pensively, pronounced.
"But then-"
"David is an excellent servant," Mr. Wolf son said carelessly; there was, however, a slight emphasis on the last word. "He was following the spirit, if not the letter, of my instructions."
"Is he really a gypsy?" Ada asked.
"His mother was a member of the band which comes every summer to camp in the east meadow. They have their regular paths, you know, like animals-which they greatly resemble in their filth and freedom from moral and legal restraints.''
"And his father?"
"The son of a prosperous tenant of mine. You wrinkle your pretty nose, Ada; do you find the thought of such a match distasteful? So you should. But some of these gypsy wenches have a kind of charm. ..."
He caught my eye and at once he stopped speaking, while the half-smile on his lips smoothed out into an expression of proper gravity. But I am sure there was a slight droop to his left lid, the slightest suggestion of a wink, as he addressed Ada.
"The less you know of such matters the better, little Cousin. Let us only say that the lad's mother was a pretty girl. David was brought up by his father's people, however; he is a proper dull Yorkshireman and has rejected his wilder heritage. He will eventually marry a pink-cheeked village maiden, and after a few generations the dark gypsy strain will disappear. A pity, in a way, for he is a handsome young animal. At least I imagine a woman would think so."
He lifted his glass, as if dismissing the subject, but I knew he was watching Ada closely over the edge of it. To my relief she failed to respond to the cue. She chattered on, praising David and the horses equally, and at last Mr. Wolfson's attention relaxed.
So Ada's heart is untouched. It was careless of Mr. Wolf son to tell that romantic story, though. Some girls might be moved by it.
May 4
Life is full of surprises-trite, but true. We have inherited not only a new guardian but a whole family. And to think that I never suspected it until today!
It has been pouring rain since last night-not just rain, a solid gray mass of water, which discouraged even Ada from her daily ride. She was napping this afternoon, but I am too restless to sleep in the daytime, so I decided to explore. Though new, this house is large and rambling. Today, with the clouds pressing on the very window panes, it was quite dark. I wandered up some back stairs near the library and found myself in the south wing. It is luxuriously carpeted; my feet made hardly any sound. Turning a corner suddenly, I came upon a man, a complete stranger, curled up on a window seat, reading a book and looking quite as if he belonged there.
I would have taken him for a ghost if I had not known that ghosts do not wear cravats, the latest in trousers, and pearl stickpins. But his presence startled me so that I stood stock-still gaping at him, until he looked up from his book. He was not surprised to see me; he rose, smiling, and extended his hand.
"You must be Cousin Harriet. A belated welcome to Abbey Manor, Cousin. I am Julian."
I shook his hand, no wiser than before, and let him lead me to the window seat.
"I do beg your pardon-I should know who you are-"
Again he smiled, and then I knew him. Mr. Wolfson's smile is brilliant, while Julian's is so melancholy in it charm that it makes me want to pat his head. But the resemblance was plain.
"I see. My father has not yet seen fit to acknowledge my existence. My apologies, Cousin. Did you take me for the ghost of Abbey Manor or merely for an impertinent stranger?"
"Why should you apologize? It seems to me rather-"
I had no business criticizing his father and my guardian. I stopped speaking, in some confusion. Happening then to see the title of the book he was holding, his finger still between the pages, I found a safe topic of conversation. It was a new work by Mr. Thackeray. Grandmother would never let us read Mr. Thackeray; she reveled in him herself, but she said his irony was not fit for young ladies. Of course I found her hidden volumes and read them all, so I was delighted to discover that Julian was also a reader. As we discussed Vanity Fair I had a chance to study him more closely. The resemblance to his father was not really so great. The coloring was the same-the silver-gilt hair and lashes, the long pale face, the blue eyes. But Julian's eyes are a lighter blue and his hair is almost flaxen. In all things he is a faint copy of his vigorous father. But his softer manner is appealing. We talked for hours; it was not until the failing light obscured book title and faces alike that I realized I must go back to Ada. Once again he made his needless apologies, and by this time we had become such friends that I let my unruly tongue run away with me.
"I can't understand why your father never mentioned you. He has been very busy, but still-"
"I assure you, my dear Cousin, it is not surprising. My father has been disappointed in both his sons, but my dreamy ways vex him most. He prefers to pretend I don't exist." My face must have expressed my feelings; Julian's attractive but melancholy smile curled his lips and he took my hand. "My dear Harriet, don't distress yourself. My father's jeers leave me unscathed. He allows me my books and my pianoforte and a few pencils for sketching; what lore could I ask? And now that you are here, I foresee many hours of shared enjoyment in these simple pleasures.''
"Yes. . . . Both his sons, you said?"
Julian laughed. It was a musical sound, but almost as ad as his smile.
"Poor Harriet! To have two such cousins thrust upon you! Yes, my brother Francis is a ruder edition of my father, just as I am a faded copy. He has the vigor I lack, but no refinement whatever."
"Where is he now?"
"In Edinburgh. Studying medicine, of all the ugly, distasteful subjects! How he can bear to touch, let
alone dissect- On this one subject my father and I agree. He wanted his eldest son and heir to be a gentleman, but something in Francis' nature seems to attract him to all hat is coarse and vulgar. And when Francis makes up his mind, he is, I assure you, impossible to reason with."
"I have always admired physicians," I said. "It seems to me the noblest of all callings-to heal broken bodies, soothe pain. ..."
"How beautifully you express yourself! If I thought that was Francis' reason- But there, perhaps it is. Who am I to judge my neighbor's motives, let alone those of my brother?"
He smiled again and it was all I could do to keep from putting my arms around him-in a purely maternal fashion- and telling him that everything would be all right. I do feel that physicians follow a noble profession; if I were a man, I might pursue it myself. But, on thinking over what Julian said, and-more important-what he omitted to say, I am glad it is he and not his brother who is living at the manor. Francis sounds a most unattractive person. We are to meet Julian again at dinner and will, I hope, see a great deal of him in future. He really is a charming young man.
Sons of the Wolf Page 3