Sons of the Wolf

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Sons of the Wolf Page 6

by Barbara Michaels


  "Ma grandsire was groom to tha grandmother."

  "Oh, I see."

  Another facial contortion followed, worse than the previous ones. I became convinced that the man was subject to fits and was about to shout for help, when, abruptly, he plunged his hand into his pocket, extracted some object, and thrust it at me. I recoiled a few steps.

  "Take un," he said in a hoarse whisper, and with an air of such terrified conspiracy that I glanced involuntarily over my shoulder to see who might be spying on us. There was not another living thing in sight, not even a rabbit or a fly.

  "Take un," Dodds repeated, wriggling his fingers.

  The object lay on his horny palm, almost lost in the vast plain of it. It was a sprig of dried foliage, carefully folded in a bit of cloth.

  I took the sprig. It was surely harmless and, at that instant, I was afraid Dodds was not.

  When it was in my grasp, his massive shoulders relaxed. He nodded with dour satisfaction.

  "Aye, take un and keep un abaht thee. At night, too. Most particalar at night."

  I was naturally agog with curiosity, but he gave me no chance to question him; he lifted me down into the moat and propelled me up the farther bank so quickly I had no breath to use for speech. Then he ambled on ahead of me as fast as he could go.

  When we reached the inn, Mr. Wolfson was already in the carriage, impatient to be off. He threw Dodds a coin and tugged at the reins, all in the same moment. Big clumsy man that he is, Dodds moved his hand awkwardly and missed the coin entirely. He was still staring down at the dirt trying to locate it when we drove away.

  This is a mercilessly long entry. No wonder my fingers are stiff. Perhaps I will become an authoress, like the lady who published that scandalous book under a man's name. Now that I think of it, she lived in Yorkshire, with her sisters. I must ask Mr. Wolfson about her. The idea is attractive. If I could live by my pen, I could be independent of Ada's charity-or that of some unknown gentleman. I will try writing some little sketches and make my diary entries more novel-like. Not that there will be much to write about; we have no such wild adventures as that poor governess who fell in love with a married man.

  Mr. Wolfson said very little on the journey home, except to ask how I had enjoyed my visit to the castle. He seemed amused by my description of Dodds's strange behavior. I meant to show him the little withered plant, but when I looked in the pocket of my skirt I couldn't find it. I suppose I must have dropped it somewhere.

  Once a hare bounded across the road in front of the carriage. One of the dogs sat up. He did not bark, but I was rather touched by this sign of-caninity, would one say? Poor creatures, I am getting quite accustomed to them now. I wonder how they exercise those great limbs, shut up all day in the house with their master.

  I have yawned four times in the last minute. It is time for bed.

  Midnight

  The mystery of the dogs' exercise is solved. I have seen them at it.

  Tonight was one of my bad nights. I have them, rarely, after a day of unusual fatigue or mental stimulation, and today was full of both. Long after Ada lay breathing deeply-one can hardly use the word "snoring" of such a gentle girl-I lay flat on my back, staring up at the canopy of my bed.

  Finally I got up and walked about the room trying to tire myself. It didn't help; I was already tired. After what seemed like hours, I was aching with fatigue and no nearer to sleep, so I went into Ada's room to look for her sleeping drops. She bought the laudanum months ago, just because it was fashionable and because Grandmother would have disapproved. She, of all healthy souls, has no need for such aids to sleep.

  Ada's is one of the large front rooms overlooking the entrance to the house, whereas my own windows face the courtyard and stables. She is a creature of light and air; her curtains were flung wide apart and the moonlight spilled in like water overflowing a bowl. I went to the window and looked out.

  The moon was full-small at this season, but perfect as a polished silver shilling. Under its light the landscape was an etching in black and white; the shadows of the trees, the tiny branches of shrubs, were as sharp as if they had been outlined by the finest pointed pen. At first nothing stirred to break the illusion of a drawing. Then something walked out from behind a tree toward the steps of the manor.

  It was one of the dogs-I can't tell them apart, even now. Its gray coat seemed shaggier than usual; with its pointed nose and pricked ears it looked like nothing on earth except a wolf, but it was as big as a yearling calf. As I watched, scarcely breathing, it stopped and lifted its head toward the window, almost as if it could see me. That was nonsense and I knew it, but I shrank back behind the draperies, clutching them with damp hands. By some trick of the light the beast's eyes looked luminously green-the only spots of color in that gray-hued landscape. Another shadow moved; the second dog came out to join the first. For a long time they both stood staring fixedly at the window where I crouched. Then they wheeled together, like sentries, and walked slowly in step across the front of the house, disappearing behind the far wing.

  Of course the poor creatures must get exercise somehow. Many great houses have such watchdogs; they come of a breed which is famous for its devotion to mankind. ... I cannot imagine why I am so afraid of them!

  I will not take the laudanum after all. They say it causes fantastic dreams and visions; heaven knows mine are wild enough already!

  May 21

  Imagine my surprise when I found on Ada's dressing table this morning a sprig of the same dried plant which Dodds had given me in Middleham! At least I think it was the same plant; it was dried and brown, but the little withered flowers might once have been yellow.

  When I asked Ada where it had come from, she looked bewildered.

  "Ah, I remember," she said at last. "Elspeth gave it to me."

  Elspeth is our maid-a hearty, pretty girl who seems constantly in danger of bursting her stays. She is really a parlormaid of sorts, but she makes up in willingness and good humor what she lacks in the finer skills of the boudoir. Since she overcame her first shyness, she talks constantly; but I confess with shame that, since I can't understand her easily, I simply don't listen.

  Ada, her brow puckered, had returned to her sewing. She was trying to mend a rent in a cashmere shawl. Of course this was properly Elspeth's work, but Elspeth's sewing is of the coarse-hemming variety. Not that Ada and I are any more skilled. I have consistently and ostentatiously ignored dear Grandmother's ebony workbox; if I had had any inclination toward needlework, that hateful gift would have destroyed it forever.

  "Why did Elspeth give it to you?" I persisted.

  "Oh-I don't know. She said it was for good luck or good health or some such thing."

  "For goodness' sake, Ada, do listen to me! When did she give it to you?"

  Ada gave a little shriek.

  "Now I've stuck myself," she said reproachfully. "How you do fuss, Harriet! Let me think. It was yesterday-no, Thursday-oh, me, I can't remember."

  She put her pricked finger in her mouth and looked at me wistfully. I laughed and stroked her hair.

  "Can you remember anything about it?"

  "Well ... I had given her that gown-you know, the pink muslin that is too large for me. She liked it very much. Later she came back with the flower-she called it a flower, but it is not very pretty, is it? At any rate, she said I must always keep it by me. Why is this important, Harriet?"

  "It is not important, I suppose. I was curious."

  "Some Yorkshire superstition, no doubt," said Ada placidly. "Perhaps if I place it under my pillow, I will dream of my future husband." She giggled and then sighed. "Oh, dear. I shall never mend this properly. My fingers are all thumbs."

  "Let me try-although my efforts are not apt to be much better. Ada, you need some new frocks-and probably another shawl, when I finish running this one. We had so little time for shopping in London. ..."

  "It would be fun to shop." Ada's face brightened. "Just to visit a large town would be a change. W
e see no one here."

  "I'll speak to Mr. Wolfson. Perhaps he will take us to York."

  I could not help thinking, as I walked back down the corridor, that she was right. We have no visitors, except for Mr. •Wolfson's occasional business acquaintances, and he does not entertain them socially. Of course the Abbey is isolated; in all our rides I have not seen another house. But surely there must be some neighbors? We are not accustomed to society-Grandmother's friends having been elderly ladies and gentlemen-but Mr. Wolfson's abilities and position ought to command a wide circle of acquaintances. I suppose the explanation is to be found in Mr. Wolfson's affliction. I can see him fending off would-be sympathizers with savage remarks and contempt. Julian certainly seems to find life at the manor dull. He is frequently absent on visits to friends. But none of his friends ever come here.

  May 22

  I spoke with Mr. Wolfson today about a journey to York. To my surprise-for he has acquiesced to almost every whim either of us has expressed-he was not agreeable to the idea. As he pointed out, he cannot travel easily, and there is no one else suitable to chaperone Ada and myself in the shops and inns.

  I thought of arguing with him. He can travel quite well when he wishes to-witness our trip to Middleham-but I suspect it is a case of "will not" rather than "cannot." He does not like to display his handicap to the world. I can hardly blame him, and yet it does seem as if some arrangement could be made. Ada and I can hardly spend the rest of our lives here.

  He did say, however, that if we would make up a list of what we wanted, he would have William purchase the things for us on his next trip; he visits York monthly to buy commodities which cannot be procured locally. A typically masculine suggestion, I thought angrily.

  "A typically masculine suggestion," said Mr. Wolfson, grinning-there is really no other word for that white-toothed smile of his. I thought I was used to his mind-reading abilities, but this time I literally and actually started. His smile widened.

  "Now, Harriet, your face is as easy to read as print; you have neither the experience nor the character for dissimulation. You were thinking that it is absurd to expect a butler to choose dress materials for a pair of young ladies, weren't you? But you will discover that William can do anything. Tell him color and type of fabric and he will astound you with his taste. We can find someone in Middleham to make the garments up for you."

  "Yes, sir," I said.

  "I know-you will miss the fun of choosing the things yourselves. That isn't fair. But just now . . . perhaps later we can manage a shopping expedition. By the way, you will not, I hope, be buying more black? It does not suit either of you."

  "It seems hardly proper to abandon mourning so soon."

  "If anyone criticizes you, say that I ordered it." He gave me another wide white grin. "Cultivate eccentricity, Harriet, and tell society to go to-blazes. It's much more fun than being conventional."

  "It's not very amusing," I said crossly, rising to go, "when there is no one to tell to go to blazes."

  He was laughing as I swept out of the room.

  Julian is back from one of his visits-this time to stay for a bit, he informed me. He seems sullen and out of sorts; my vanity would be hurt if I were that sort of young lady, for he does not seem to be at all fascinated by our society.

  May 29

  Wrong again! It is a good thing I am not setting myself up as a student of human nature, for I seem to be constantly mistaken about people. Julian is fascinated by our society; he has been cultivating us assiduously of late. It has made all the difference in our rather dull lives, for he can be absolutely charming. Even his pretended timidity on horseback is amusing, because he obviously is not so inept as everyone seems to think.

  It was a beautiful warm morning Tuesday, so we all went riding together. By "all" I mean Julian and Ada and myself. David had four horses saddled, but Julian told him carelessly that he need not accompany us. I was glad to see that Ada seemed not to notice nor care.

  We rode to the old abbey ruins and for the first time I had my fill of exploring them. The other two soon tired of this amusement and I left them sitting on a fallen stone, talking. After all, I did keep them in sight for almost the entire time.

  The ruined cloisters are quite lovely. Most of the ceiling has fallen in, but there are bits of the most beautiful vaulting still in place. The low building which still seems intact was, as I suspected, the dormitory of the monks. It was at this stage in my explorations that Ada deserted me. She took one look at the gaping black rectangle of the doorway, draped with cobwebs and framed by lichen-smeared stones, and shook her head decisively.

  "There will be spiders!" she warned me, as Julian led her off.

  There were spiders, and I own I am not very fond of them. But that was not what cut my inquiries short; it was the difficulty of exploring in near-absolute darkness. Only one wing of the monastery still survives; it consists of a long corridor, without windows, upon which the small cells open. The cells themselves have each one window, but these are small and barred and the openings are now almost covered by the rank weeds of what was once an inner courtyard. Since most of the cell doors remain in place-though sadly rotted-the light which struggles out into the corridor is dim indeed.

  I ventured into one cell, the one opposite the entrance to the corridor. The fragile-looking but invincible weeds had forced their way up between the stone blocks of the floor, almost obliterating that surface. On one wall I found a patch of plaster, with traces of faded color, but could make out nothing of the design. Popish and un-English as these establishments were, it makes one gnash one's teeth to think of the beauty so wantonly destroyed.

  Although I would never have owned it to Ada, I had no intention of exploring that corridor; it was festooned with cobwebs thick as curtains, and the darkness at either end seemed palpable enough to touch. I promised myself that I would come back one day with a lantern-and David. Julian is not the man to ruin his fine shirts and broadcloth with cobwebs, even to oblige a lady.

  The tower, which I had planned to investigate, proved also a disappointment. I simply could not gain entry to it at all. The door is a huge structure built of thick planks, which look fairly new. Though there was no visible bolt or lock, I pushed against it in vain. The tower is built right up against the dormitory and may connect with it; perhaps I may be able to enter from the corridor once the cobwebs are disposed of.

  When I turned back to Ada, I couldn't help stopping for a moment to admire the picture my two cousins made as they sat chatting. Ada's bright head was dazzling in the sunlight and her black-clad figure was as slim as a child's against the soft gray stone and green grass. Julian was sprawled at her feet, like an effigy of a young knight on a tombstone. He is a graceful creature and his profile-I had not noticed it before-has the true Wolfson look, long-nosed and clean-cut.

  As I joined them Julian was in the middle of a description of one of the young ladies at the house where he had been staying. It was malicious but witty; he "did" the simpering young miss, flirting as hard as she dares, to perfection. Ada laughed as much as I did. On the way back Julian showed off. He cleared a wall with such fine form that even Ada was impressed.

  May 30

  I am so angry I can hardly think, let alone write. But I must compose myself, and I have found this fat old diary a useful means to that end. Of all the stupid, unforgivable, malicious . . . !

  I have found out what the mysterious dried plant is. It is St.-John's-wort-Hypericum. I remember it now from a course in botany Ada and I once pursued. It is a common-enough plant, though I have not chanced to see any hereabouts. And it is used-

  I am still angry! The very thought of it makes my hand unsteady. Let me start from the beginning.

  I went down to the kitchens this morning to tell Mrs. Bennett about some change in the menu. Ada had expressed a desire for another apple tart, and f had forgotten to tell the cook earlier. I have a blister on my heel from my exploring yesterday, so I was wearing soft-soled slipp
ers. The kitchen door, at the end of a long flagstoned corridor, stood open for coolness after the morning baking. Inside they were talking as hard as they could-Mrs. Bennett, Elspeth and Mary, one of the other maids. They did not hear me approaching. I was just outside the door when I caught a phrase that held me transfixed. My subsequent eavesdropping, though in poor taste, was unavoidable; I literally could not move for astonishment.

  The phrase was:

  "He killed one of Abel's sheep last night."

  "He," mind you-not "it." I never for a moment thought that they were speaking of an animal.

  The voice was Elspeth's. Mrs. Bennett replied (I translate from the broad Yorkshire, which I have come to understand better):

  "Aye, it was th' full moon last night."

  "It was Abel's telling un that he couldna coom for th' sowing till Moonday."

 

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