"Good," he said calmly, as my incoherent voice stopped in the middle of a shout. "A sovereign remedy for hysterics, that one. I had thought better of you, Harriet. But I must confess I find your spirit more attractive than Ada's whining. Are you calm now, or shall we try another dose of the same?"
I shook my hair out of my eyes; it had completely escaped its pins and net and was falling in heavy masses over my shoulders.
"Let me up!"
"No, no, not yet. I'm afraid you might do me some harm."
"If I could . . ."
"You would, of course. Haven't you forgotten my little pets, Harriet?"
"Yes. No. I don't care about them."
He laughed-a queer, choked sound quite unlike his usual chuckle. I have never heard such a sound before; I pray I never will again, for I know, now, what it means. Even then I realized that something new and dangerous had entered the quiet room. I blinked frantically to clear my vision and looked up at his face.
Then I saw it-the face of the wolf. His lips were drawn back in a travesty of a smile, and the long white teeth seemed, impossibly, to have grown longer and sharper. There was no color in his blazing eyes. The old wives' tales had been correct when they whispered of him as a beast. But their poor imaginations had turned into a harmless fairy tale this reality which was worse, because it was true. I made no effort to resist when those abnormally developed arms and shoulders lifted me like a child, off the floor and into his embrace.
It was physically painful, but I hardly felt the force of the arms that held me or the rocklike muscle of his shoulder against the back of my head. Had he but known it, there was no need for duress; if he had taken his hands away, I would still have lain there across his knees, staring up into his face like a mesmerized madwoman. I saw the contours of his face quiver, as if in some internal struggle. I tried to close my eyes to shut out his distorted features, but they would not close, not even when the face came nearer and nearer, till at last it filled the whole of my vision.
I wonder how long it will be before I can remember that embrace without feeling it again, in every nerve of my body. . . .
But the worst . . .
I will write it! I must face the truth in order to fight it. The worst was that, though part of me cried out in dumb but violent protest against his embrace-another part did not. It was the conflict within myself that shook me most, disgust and repugnance warring with my own baser instincts. . . .
I must get away from here. Not only for Ada's sake, but for my own. No one can protect me from him; he can do whatever he wishes. And I know what he wants. When his lips left mine, leaving me gasping and limp, he made his intentions clear.
"Harriet," he said thickly. Then in a more normal voice: "Always you surprise me, my dear. Is it your Italian blood, perhaps? If I didn't know your grandmother so well, I could fancy that this was not your first experience. . . . What a pity you aren't the heiress, sweetheart; we could solve my problem without all this fuss. And I wouldn't let one of my feeble sons deputize for me, you may be sure of that."
Again he bent his head. I turned my face so that his lips only touched my cheek. His embrace had loosened; he held me with one arm while his free hand stroked my hair and face and throat. Perhaps it was the insulting sureness of his touch that roused me. I would prefer to think it was some lingering remnant of decency. I moved so quickly that his hands missed their grasp, and then I stood facing him from several feet away.
"You flatter yourself," I said, trying to keep my voice level. "I won't have you or one of your sons. Nor will Ada. You think me helpless. . . . But there are laws it this country for the protection of the helpless."
"Certainly," he said blandly. "All you need to do is find someone who can apply them. There may be a magistrate in Ripon, but probably York is the better place."
"Then I will go to York."
"On foot? Without money?" He laughed. "Why fight your own nature, Harriet? Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I have no experience of women, that I can't tell that you-"
"Stop it!" I retreated as he came out from behind the desk, his hands on the wheels of the chair. The movement gave me more courage; he could not pursue me that way, and his vanity would keep him from trying to walk.
"Wait a moment," I said. "Why must Ada marry Francis? Why can't we be reasonable? You don't need her money-"
"Ah, but I do. All this"-he waved a comprehensive hand around the richly furnished room-"all this is facade, my dear. My fortune is gone; my wife's dowry is spent-in fact, the funds of a certain young gentleman, for whom I have been acting as trustee, have also melted away. Since the estimable youth reaches his majority in a few months, it is not even a question of luxury or poverty for me, but one of prison or freedom. Do you think"-the words were a snarl-"that I'll let the whims of a silly girl stand between me and security? I must have Ada's money. When she marries-my son, it will be under my control."
The words were like a sharp knife severing the one strand of rope that had held me from falling into an abyss. His villainy was not the abstract, storybook affair it had seemed; it had a concrete, practical motive. There was no possible hope of his relenting.
At that moment I did not think of that or of plans of escape; I only knew that I must get away from him, away from the chill gleaming eyes and merciless hands, away from the invisible cord of unwilling sympathy that drew me to something I hated. With one sudden powerful movement of his arms he sent the chair rolling toward me, and I turned and fled, slamming the door behind me, holding my skirts high as I pounded along the corridor and up the stairs. I did not stop until I was in my own room with the door locked, and for a long time I crouched on the floor with my ear to the panel, waiting for sounds of pursuit.
It did not come. Of course he would not follow me. Why should he trouble himself? All he needed to do was wait, and no doubt his monstrous vanity convinced him that he would not wait long.
When at last I got unsteadily to my feet, I felt as if I had just arisen from a long illness. The lightening skies outside my window shocked my sight; it seemed incredible that my whole world had been overturned in such a short space of time, or that the sun could shine on such black villainy. The light drew me; I went to the window and sat down, staring out at the courtyard below.
The normalcy of the scene was a second shock. The horses were being exercised; old Adam had just come out of a stall with one of the grays that drew Mr. Wolfson's carriage. I thought of David and could have beaten my fists against the windowpane in frustrated fury. I had thought him not good enough for Ada!
Mr. Wolfson had said that David might try to communicate with Ada. Yes, but that was part of his lie, to convince me and keep me stupid and quiet a little longer. Perhaps the boy did try to reach Ada, but he cannot have succeeded. He would need a confederate among the servants, and I know only too well how much they fear their employer. I knew, also, that they could not help me. I would only betray myself if word of any such appeal reached Wolfson. He must think me cowed and frightened.
He would have me imprisoned too if he thought me capable of defying him.
In a sudden panic I flew to the door. Perhaps he had already locked me in! But, no-the key was on the inside. I withdrew the key-somehow I felt more secure with it in my hand-and went back to my seat at the window.
As I watched, William came out of the manor door into the courtyard. He went to Adam and stood talking, giving him directions of some sort, for the old man's head kept nodding. William. How much did he know of the secret affairs of Mr. Wolfson? He was his master's right-hand man, and yet I suspected that William was too clever to be mixed up in such a business. No, Mr. Wolfson would keep him unwitting if he could. Might I then appeal to William for help?
I looked at the man's stiff back and emotionless face and decided-no. William might believe me, but he would never admit it. Belief would involve him just as thoroughly as complicity, and he was not the man to be involved in what he would call "unpleasantness." And there w
as always the chance that he was Mr. Wolfson's tool, in which case an appeal would only betray me.
I could trust no one. It was an unpleasant truth, but one I had to face.
The knowledge should have cast me into utter despair. For some strange reason it had precisely the opposite effect. If I could trust no one, I must rely on myself.
So I turned to this diary, and, as I hoped, it has helped me settle my mind. I must get away from the manor. That is the first, the immediate step to be taken.
The first thing I will do after that is look for Ada. I think I know where she may be. There are not many places, near or far, where a girl may be kept an unwilling and protesting prisoner. Places where screams and cries for help cannot be heard . . .
I saw her yesterday morning. She has only been gone for one day-and night. But that is enough.
I must find her! Surely he cannot be with her every moment; there must be a chance to let her free. In my present mood I could even face him-Francis-big as he is, and fly at him with any weapon that came to hand, a rock, a stick!
But... if I cannot find her quickly, or if I cannot free her, then I must go on without her and get help. I, or we, will try to reach Middleham. If David is there-he has an aunt living in the village-he will take care of Ada. How gladly, now, would I entrust her to his hands!
For I see now the meanings of so many little incidents that I ignored or misinterpreted. The gypsies were not David's tools; they were Wolfson's. Dear heaven, he flung it in my face time and again, their dependence on him! David must have overheard some allusion to the plot while he was visiting the gypsy camp-and I wonder, now, whether his reconciliation with his kin might not have been prompted by suspicion. If so, he was not alone in his mistrust of Wolfson. To think that the whole countryside walked in darkest fear of him while I sat and simpered under his flattery! The landlord in Middleham and his timid daughter; old Dodds, shrinking even from the coin that had touched Wolfs hand . . . they were afraid, all of them-and rightly. Heaven knows what oppression and cruelty he has visited upon them.
So, even if we can reach Middleham, we may not find shelter. The whole village is terrorized; if Wolfson drove into the square and demanded his fleeing wards, we would probably be given up to him.
From that same square a coach leaves daily for York. I-we-must catch the coach. Surely in the great northern capital there must be someone to whom we can appeal for sanctuary. There must be some law in enlightened England against what he is planning!
Dear heaven, it is all so hopeless. . . . For the coach we must have money. I have none. For our escape we will need horses; we cannot walk that distance. And how am I to obtain mounts here, where every servant may be a spy? How am I even to leave the house unseen?
In the novels I have read-surreptitiously, through the lending library-the threatened heroines steal forth from the haunted castles by night. It seems to me a poor choice in any case: doors are locked and bolted, watchers arc alert, and any movement is conspicuous. In my case, nighttime is out of the question. There are the dogs.
So I must leave by daylight, the moment a suitable chance presents itself-now, today. I wish I could run this instant, straight out the door, down the road, through the gates. . . . But that would be folly. I will wait, for a time at least, in the hope that Mr. Wolfson may go out. Perhaps he will wish to call on his first victim, to see how matters are progressing. . . .
I can't let myself think of that subject; it conjures up visions which make me boil with fear and fury; it weakens my will, which must be cool and calm. If he should leave the house my chances of escape increase one hundredfold. I might even venture to try for a mount-without which, let us admit, I stand little hope of reaching any place. When he is in the house, I feel-surrounded. As if there were a thousand eyes watching my every movement.
I will gather my few possessions together-a warm cloak, heavy shoes, my few jewels-and, of course, my diary. It would hardly do to have him find that! But first I am going to try to break into Ada's room. She may have money.
Later
Success! I am a successful burglar. That small venture has buoyed me up; it is a good omen.
It was very simple after all. I was stupid not to have thought of it before, but then there was usually someone with Ada who would have prevented my entry. The key to my door fits the connecting door between the two rooms. A sobering thought-other keys may fit my lock. I must leave here soon. It is growing late.
Something has just happened which gives me hope. I have been sitting here by Ada's front windows, hidden behind the curtains. It is an excellent vantage point which commands the entire front of the house and the drive. A few minutes ago a hired chaise rolled up and stopped before the steps. A man got out. He had the look of a lawyer's clerk or small broker. He was admitted at once and has presumably been closeted with Mr. Wolfson ever since. The chaise is waiting; that suggests that he plans to return soon to wherever he came from.
I was tempted at first to try to communicate with this man. But it was only an impulse, born of my realization that my plans of escape are almost futile. He would not believe a mad tale like mine, poured out in breathless haste. He may even be an accomplice of my guardian's. I must remember-I can trust no one.
The minutes drag by and race by-agonizingly slow when I think of my anxiety for Ada, frighteningly quick when I remember that I must be gone before dusk. If that chaise does not go soon . . .
I found Ada's pearls and three pounds in change. A help, but not enough for a good solid bribe. If I had fifty pounds and a horse, I would feel confident of success.
Most of her belongings are still here. Her gray merino dress is missing and her sable cloak; at least she is warmly dressed. I cannot tell what else is gone, perhaps some undergarments. . . .
Wait.
The visitor is coming out. He turns, hat in hand; he speaks to someone. . . . Yes, it is Wolfson himself, in his chair. He says-what? Good-bye, no doubt, for the visitor is getting into the chaise. It drives off, in a spurt of gravel. The York coach leaves Middleham at seven; perhaps that is where he is going.
Someone else has come out-William. Wolfson is speaking to him. Can it be? I hardly dare hope. . . . William goes back into the house, following his master. Now to the side windows in my own room.
I can hardly believe it, but it must be true-William has ordered out the master's coach. I see the ostlers harness the grays. I am back at the front window now . . . and here it comes, around the corner of the house.
He is here-Wolfson-still in his chair, dressed in caped cloak and tall hat. His gloved hands propel the chair forward; the groom lets down the ramp. . . .
The dogs are with him. I shrank back at the sight of them, almost as if I had been warned-for at that moment, just as he was about to get into the coach, Wolfson looked up, directly at this window. Those eyes of his! Hidden as I was by the curtains, it was all I could do not to drop to the floor and cower. At last he looked away; I am still breathing heavily.
He is off-in a hurry, too. I never saw him use the whip before, but the horses seem to know it well. Now is my chance-this moment-before my spirit fails me.
I wonder when-or if-I will write in this book again.
That night
It is settled now. Over-done-finished. There is that much consolation-the end of an effort which was always too great for me. I am, after all, "only a woman." And Ire-he seems, just now, more than a man.
The great escape began well enough. As I went down the stairs-boldly, cloaked and hooded as if for an afternoon stroll-I was still thinking about the money I needed so badly. With a leap of the pulse I realized that Wolfson's study was empty. He had money; I had seen it often, in a tin strongbox. Petty cash for household expenses, but enough for my purposes. The strongbox did not worry me, I felt I was capable of wrenching it open with my bare hands.
The poker sufficed; one strong blow and the hasp broke, displaying a heap of bank notes and silver. I gathered it up pell-mell, like a child sc
ooping sand in its fists, and thrust it into my reticule. For all my bravado I was nervous in that room-silent and serene with its shelves of mellowed old bindings and its smell of cigars and oiled leather; it still breathed of his presence and of the scene that had transpired there earlier that day.
I would have fled at once had it not occurred to me that I might delay discovery of my absence a little longer by leaving the room apparently undisturbed. A broken money box on the hearth could hardly escape even a servant's eye. I picked the box up and thrust it back into the drawer, and then I saw what else was in that drawer-concealed before by the box which had been on top of it.
It was a letter, long and stiff, with a blob of red sealing wax on it. But what stunned me was the fact that it bore my name-Miss Harriet Barton.
For one mad moment I thought that the epistle must be from Wolfson, that he had anticipated even this insane action and left a jeering note to tell me that all was in vain. I knew, at the same instant, that the handwriting was not his bold black scrawl; the cramped script looked familiar but not in that terrifying way. As I picked it up, I saw something else. The seal had been broken.
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