Sons of the Wolf (9 page)

"Nay, nay, thee'll not speak, miss! Please, thee'll not do that-"

She darted forward; before I could stop her, she had dropped heavily to her knees and was pawing at my hand.

"Ah, miss, please, not-"

At first I was too shocked to speak. When I got my wits back, I tried to hush the ugly, pitiful babbling. Nothing moved her, no reassurance would touch her, except the words she wished to hear.

"All right. All right, I promise I won't tell him. Now be still."

She stopped at once, mopping at the tears that had reddened and streaked her face.

"Heaven's blessing on thee, miss."

"Were you really so afraid?" I demanded, incredulity overcoming my anger. "Does losing your position here mean so much to you?''

"Th' position?"

I realized then the unbridgeable gulf that separated me from these women. I knew what she thought, but I could not comprehend that she really believed it.

"What did you think he would do to you?" I demanded.

"Some harm," said Mrs. Bennett suddenly. "Some harm. Now, miss, you know I don't hold wi' superstition. And I'd ne'er ha' said a word to you maself. But since you've heard-it canna be denied, harm does come to them that thwart him or-"

"Then why are you here?" I turned on her, relieved to face a more sensible opponent. "If you fear him so, why do you live in his house?"

Her mouth tightened into a stubborn line.

"When he says 'Coom,' 't is safer to obey. And th' pay is high. I'm not afeard, miss; I'm a good Christian, I am, and evil shall not prevail against-"

"Be still!"

She shrank back from me.

"Thee swore thee wouldna tell!"

"I won't tell. But if I hear any more of such talk-if Miss Ada hears a single word-"

"Na, miss, she won't. We wouldna ha' spoken to you, only-"

I turned to go; the sight of Mrs. Bennett's stupid, self-righteous face was more infuriating than the mindless panic of the maids. I was at the door when a sudden thought struck me.

"But this-this fantastic notion is all over the district, I suppose. Even as far as Middleham. That was why Dodds gave me the plant-"

"Everyone knows," said Mary sullenly.

"And he has heard," I went on, pursuing my own unpleasant train of thought. "Mr. Wolfson knows what they think."

"He doesna' like to have to take notice of it," said Mrs. Bennett. "But, aye-he knows."

"And what does he say?"

"He says naught. He laughs."

I left then; I could bear no more. I am still angry, although the focus of my anger has changed; I keep seeing Elspeth, the younger maid, who did not say a word the entire time but remained crouching, clutching the table with white fingers, her eyes dazed and mindless. They are terrifying that child with their follies, inculcating all the witless hatreds and terrors that I believed were long gone from our modern society. It will be a wonder if they don't frighten her into a fit. And if Ada hears of this—

No, I do Ada an injustice. She would simply stare. Concrete, physical evil might frighten her, but she is too unimaginative and too sensible to be terrified by ancient tales. They are incredible!

These women-and half the North Riding as well-believe that poor Mr. Wolfson is in league with the Devil. They think that, like old Granny Price who turns herself into a hare, he can assume the shape of one of his hounds. (I wonder who is thought to inhabit the second dog!) In this shape he courses the countryside by night, attacking the property of people who have annoyed him; his injury is attributed to a wound inflicted on one of the diabolic werewolves. . . .

Good heavens, it looks even worse when it is actually written down! I could almost laugh, if it were not so bitterly unkind. So he does not "like to have to take notice" of these stories! I can well understand that. They would amuse him, his is too broad a mind to be angered by human folly; but he can hardly appear to condone such stuff.

As I had hoped, writing it all out has calmed me. I must try to have a talk with Elspeth, if I can penetrate that hard shell of Yorkshire dialect. It would be a pity if so young a girl should be corrupted.

June 4

Riding with Julian again today; he captivated Ada by racing with her and-more impressive-he won. I was terrified watching diem; the ground here seems dangerously uneven and pitted with holes. But Ada now admits that she misjudged her cousin, and I myself-Well, mere was an incident mat struck me.

We were sitting, as has become our custom, on a stone amid the abbey ruins, when one of the dogs appeared. That is a fitting word-one never hears them coming; they seem to materialize out of blue air.

It was the first time I had ever seen one of the beasts without his master (its master, I mean). Its looks were not alarming; it stood some distance off and regarded us with a rave, almost intelligent, expression. Julian snapped his fingers and called to it, and to my surprise it came to him, stepping sedately through the long grass and coming to a alt beside him. He caressed its rough head and scratched under its chin; and the great hairy thing lifted its jowls trifle as if it liked the caress. Ada ventured to pat it too; as before, it endured her touch but did not respond t all.

"How do you bewitch them, Cousin?" she asked, a little chagrined.

"No witchcraft." (Julian could not know how I shrank from that word!) "I have known them since they were pups. Poor brutes," he added, half to himself, "they receive little enough affection. They are treated like pieces of furniture. Small wonder they don't respond, even to so soft a touch. Try your wiles, Cousin Harriet." "Not I. I am fond of those five fingers." "They wouldn't hurt you. They are perfectly trained." "I know. I am surprised to see this one alone; I thought hey never left your father.''

Even as I spoke, I remembered the night I had seen them patrolling, but Julian's prompt, casual answer startled me. "He is probably somewhere about." "In the carriage?" I turned to look toward the distant road.

"No, he can get about in a fashion. It is difficult," said Julian, with a callousness that contrasted shockingly with his gentle fingers on the dog's jaw, "but he can walk if he wishes to."

Then he began talking about the old abbey, spinning a wonderful fantasy about the life of the monks in those days. He has a brilliant mind; it is a pity his father does not encourage him to use it.

David came out to take the horses when we returned to the stables. I was shocked by his appearance; he is thinner and looks ill. I must ask William about him.

June 10

I tried to talk with Elspeth today about-how can one phrase such an absurdity?-about the local superstitions concerning Mr. Wolfson. Yes, that sounds better than a bare statement of the facts.

I had not expected her to be responsive, but neither had I expected the abject terror she displayed at even an oblique reference to the subject. She was well-nigh incoherent. I sensed her main concern, however-mat Mr. Wolfson should find out that she had gossiped about him. I soothed her with some difficulty-and the gift of a little bead necklace-and sent her away. It is useless trying to combat primitive pagan beliefs with reason. I can only show her, by my own actions, that there is nothing to fear.

It was strange about the necklace. I sensed, somehow, that she regarded it more as an amulet than an ornament. Something belonging to me, who am in favor with me wizard? An object, therefore, which might ward off his antagonism? Good heavens, I am beginning to understand how she thinks, and that is almost as bad as thinking the way she does.

No, there is no danger of my falling into that error. Even if I were mad enough to believe in ghosts and fairies and werewolves, I would never regard Mr. Wolfson as capable of evil.

I was complaining, some days ago, that we see little company. William has returned, by the by, with the purchases from York. Mr. Wolfson was right, his taste is impeccable. There is one pink satin-but I digress. We have another new face among us now; yet, with female inconsistency, I could do without it.

I heard a chaise drive up this morning as I was brushing my hair. It was a beautiful summer day and Ada's windows were open, since she had already dressed and gone down. I also heard the sound of men's voices, but the words were unintelligible-only shouts and thuds, as if some heavy objects were being moved. Then the chaise drove away. The rough exclamations continued, until they were cut off by the crash of the front door as it slammed shut.

It made me realize how quiet the house usually is. Julian glides about like a shadow, and William, the perfect servant, has trained the others to step as lightly as he does. I don't believe I have ever heard that door slammed before.

Naturally I went down as soon as I had my hair up. As I came around the curve of the main stair, I saw a motley pile of luggage heaped helter-skelter on the hall carpet as if it had been thrown there. I hesitated, a trifle wary; then the door opened again and another parcel came flying in, to land with a crash on the top of the heap. A man followed it-in the door, not onto the heap-but I hardly noticed him. The last parcel had, not surprisingly, split at one end as it struck. Out of it rolled an object that almost sent me staggering down the remaining stairs. It was a human skull; it came to rest face (!) up, displaying a set of perfect ivory teeth.

I let out a gasp, or perhaps it was a shriek. The man who had just entered moved, in two heavy bounds, to the foot of the stairs and stood staring up at me. He seemed at first struck speechless at the sight. Then he glanced from my appalled face to the fleshless countenance on the floor and burst into a great roar of laughter.

I descended the remaining stairs with what dignity I could summon up-it was not much. I was trying to frame a scathing remark when this uncouth young man seized me by the waist, spun me up off my feet, and deposited me at the foot of the stairs next to the skull.

"Let go of me," I gasped, plucking at the fingers which held my waist. "How dare you?"

"A most unoriginal comment," said my captor reprovingly. "You seemed interested in Howard, so I brought you down to be introduced. Now, sweetheart, don't be a hypocrite; after Julian's remarkable habits you'll find my embrace like a breath of fresh air."

He pulled me out into the middle of the floor; and I do believe he was about to embrace me when he seemed to see me clearly for the first time, in the sunlight pouring through a side window. He stopped with his face only inches above mine, staring with such intensity that he might have been memorizing my features.

I gave him stare for stare; I am timid about dogs, but impertinent young men merely annoy me, even when they tower over me by a good twelve inches.

Like Julian, this man was fair; but compared with Julian's delicate features, his were coarse and unprepossessing. His nose jutted out like the prow of a ship and his brow ridges were heavy. The lips that were shaped into an odious smile were both full and wide; they displayed a set of teeth as heavy and white as those of poor Howard, down on the floor.

Then the smile faded and the brows drew together.

"By God," said this crude individual, "but you don't look like one of Julian's. You're too-too-" Words failed him; he waved one hand helplessly, and I tried to free myself from the remaining hand that still held my waist. The man tightened his grip absentmindedly, and I gasped with the pain of it. "No," he continued, still staring, "not Julian's. Then why-"

I have read of ugly looks, but I always took this for a figure of speech. It is not. The man's face altered like one of those skin-changers the ignorant servants had spoken of; it darkened and coarsened and flattened. He spoke in a harsh low voice:

"That verminous old-"

I am writing only for my own eyes here, but I really cannot copy that word. I'm not even sure what it means. But I knew enough to recognize the implications. I went first hot and then cold, and my outrage gave me the strength to wrench myself away from him.

"My name is Harriet Barton. I am Mr. Wolfson's ward, the granddaughter of his father's half sister. I intend to tell him what you have just suggested, and I hope he sets both his hounds on you!"

"Harriet," he repeated. His wits are very slow; it was a full minute before comprehension showed on those dull features. They gradually changed back into something which would not frighten a child. "Harriet. But you-Is Ada here too?"

"I am through talking to you. Ask Mr. Wolfson."

"I will." He turned on his heel and stamped off toward the library. The heavy pictures on the walls rattled in their frames as he passed.

I was left in the middle of the hall staring helplessly at Howard. (I wonder why the name seems so ridiculously

appropriate for that fleshless bit of mortality?) His grin was too like that of his owner; I had to repress an unladylike impulse to kick him clean across the room. By that time I had a pretty fair idea of the identity of the offensive young man; the reality was even worse than I had anticipated. I turned and looked down the hall. I couldn't see the library door, which was around a turn in the corridor, but I could hear echoes of significant sounds in the distance. I hesitated only a moment, not even long enough to give my conscience time to clear its throat.