Sons of the Wolf (19 page)

"I'm sorry you discovered the truth in this manner, Harriet," he said, before I could speak. "I meant to tell you myself. I forgot you would go to her immediately upon arising."

I sank down in the chair he indicated-my usual chair, next to the desk and within reach of his hand. That hand now caressed mine as it lay, trembling, upon my knee.

"Ada is perfectly well," he went on, going at once to the aspect of the situation that concerned me most. "She feels very sorry for herself, of course, but one of the maids is with her at all times, and we will take care that her health does not suffer in the slightest. You must agree, Harriet, that some form of confinement is necessary?"

"I don't see why-"

"Yes, you do; your tender heart is interfering with your considerable intelligence. In her present state of mind Ada is capable of any folly. Would you say that there is no danger of her eloping? I know, I know-you would guard her, be with her constantly. But you cannot sit up all night. Even if she is not contemplating such a scheme, she may try to communicate with that insolent boy. A sad, romantic love affair can be perpetuated interminably by means of hidden notes and secret meetings. Ada must come to her senses. She will do so more quickly if she is isolated from the source of the contamination."

"Yes, I see that," I murmured wretchedly. "But why cannot I see her?"

"Because she must realize that she is hurting all of us, not only herself, by her stubbornness. Why, Harriet, do you think I enjoy doing this? I love her as my own daughter-and I am doing precisely what I would do if a child of mine behaved in this way."

His voice was so kind; I think I could have controlled myself, except for that. I felt like a wretched little urchin as I sat sniveling and wiping my eyes on my sleeve since, for once, I had forgotten my handkerchief. Mr. Wolfson gave me his and completed my demoralization by raising my hand, kerchief and all, to his lips.

"Poor Harriet," he murmured softly. "Your unhappiness distresses me more than Ada's, because it is purely unselfish. It won't be long, my dearest girl. She will give in soon. And the moment she gives me her word, you shall have the key to her room.''

I fled from his sympathy as quickly as I would have fled from his anger. What the servants must have thought of me I cannot imagine, for I went stumbling up the stairs, blinded by tears, not caring who saw me. I have been in my room all day-listening. He did not ask me to promise not to speak with Ada, but I feel bound all the same-all the more because he did not ask. He is right, of course. He is always right. But at least I can stay here, near the door. Just in case.

October 15

Ada is still confined to her room. I never thought she would hold out so long.

I see her almost daily, from outside the house. She comes to the window and looks down, and I brave the now chill winds, sometimes walking up and down for an hour or more, to obtain that one glimpse of her. It is worth it to see her wave and smile. Agatha assures me that she is perfectly well. She seems to be eating. I prepare her trays myself and inspect them when they come out of her room.

Francis is still here. I hardly see him. He avoids me as I avoid him.

With Julian I have achieved a companionship of shared misery. He does love her; he has never said so directly, but his pale, strained looks and his restless wanderings about the house are sufficient testimony. Bad as I feel, I suppose that his sufferings must be even greater-for he knows that her present unhappiness comes from love of another man.

Surely this must end soon.

October 29

I accused poor Agatha today of eating part of Ada's meals, in order to keep me from fretting over her untouched trays. To such nonsense has worry driven me!

I never thought she could hold out so long.

Yesterday I asked Mr. Wolfson for permission to talk with Ada. I feel sure that I could make her see reason. He was kind but firm; he feels she is weakening-in purpose, not in health-and will soon give in, and that seeing me would only strengthen her resistance anew.

In this I think he is mistaken. After all, he cannot know her as I do. But I could hardly insist, especially when he himself is so obviously distressed by what he must do. He looks most unwell and has developed a nervous habit of fingering all the objects on his desk as he speaks.

When I left him, I said despondently, "I hope you are right. It is so hard to wait."

His agreement was quick and vigorous:

"Waiting is the hardest thing in the world."

The date must be wrong. It cannot be only two days since I wrote last. The calendar lies; it is winter here. The trees are leafless, bending under a chill wind. The sky is gray and bleak; there are flurries of snow, white against the sullen darkness of the firs.

I have been pacing the floor of this room for what seems like hours. I do not know what to do. Or rather, I know, but the performance of what must be done is almost beyond ray powers. I must wait, and waiting is the hardest thing in the world.

I turn to my diary in the hope that it can, as it has in the past, calm my nerves and strengthen my will. It seems an absurd occupation at a time like this. But there is nothing else I can do-not yet-and someday it may be important to have a record of the incredible things that have happened.

Incredible. Events are precisely that; I wonder why I am not, really, stunned by disbelief. Perhaps in some hidden part of my mind I saw this coming. Perhaps I know that it is not uniquely villainous but only too common. Are not a woman and her fortune the legitimate prey of any man who can take them?

Matters came to a crisis this afternoon. I have been so distressed about Ada; all these weeks, and no weakening of will, no sign of surrender. It was as if she were bewitched. I knew she was not the frail blossom she appears, but I feared that even her healthy constitution must be undermined by confinement and lack of the exercise on which she thrives. A breaking heart? I'm not sure I believe in that.

I have tried to see her, from a distance, at least once a day. Sometimes I have tapped cautiously at her door, just to hear an answering rap. The panels are so thick that nothing less than a shout could penetrate, so I didn't try to speak. This morning, when I tapped, there was no answer. I thought nothing of it. She might have been asleep. I suppose she has slept a great deal. There was little else for her to do.

I went for my morning walk as usual, along the front of the manor. Her curtains were open, but today there was no small face looking down at me, no hand waving a forlorn good morning. It is not the first time this has happened, so I don't know why I should have become uneasy. Perhaps instinct is stronger than reason.

This afternoon I tapped again. When there was no answer, I ventured to call her name-quite loudly. No answer, no sound. There was, I repeat, no reason for the sudden terror that gripped me. I certainly did not mink that any harm had come to her; the worst thing I imagined was that she had fallen ill and they h2d not wanted to tell me.

I applied my eye to the keyhole, as I have done before; as before, the hole was filled by the big iron key, on Ada's side of the door. Now I took a pen and pushed the key out. By then I had quite made up my mind that she was ill, dying. I pictured her lying pale and still in the big bed. I almost wish, now, that that picture had been true.

When the key fell, under my awkward but determined probing, it hit the uncarpeted floor inside with a crash that sounded like a rock falling. I expected someone to rush to the door.

No sound! No movement! I leaned back on my heels, afraid to apply my eye to the keyhole. I was sure, now, of what I would see.

And, after all, there was nothing. The bed was out of my line of vision. I saw only the front windows, the dressing table, a stretch of carpet, a chair. And I knew that my worst fears were justified. Something was seriously amiss.

The room was too tidy. Ada is not neat; her belongings strew every room she occupies, even briefly. Shawls, slippers, ribbons, little trinkets and ornaments . . . The dressing table was bare. Her brush, her mirror, her little bottle of scent, all were gone. The room was an unoccupied room, cleared and ready for the next tenant.

For a brief time I lost my head. Crying and shouting, I beat on the heavy panels with my hands. The obdurate silence that followed my violence was confirmation of my fears, if any had been needed. She would have heard my voice even if she had been sleeping. If she were ill, there ought to have been someone with her, someone who would have run to the door and bade me stop my rude noises.

After my first panic had spent itself, I tried more rational methods. It was useless to fish for the fallen key. The door (why had I not noticed it before?) was thick as a prison door, fitted as nicely as a secret panel. There was not the smallest crack at side or bottom.

I ran out into the hall, heedless of noise or staring eyes. The outer door to Ada's room was also locked; the key was missing. I dropped to my knees and applied my eye to this keyhole. Now I could see the bed. Empty-unoccupied-made up with counterpane and pillow cover, curtains neatly drawn back and tied.

I knelt there with closed eyes, my cheek pressed against the cold hard wood of the door. When I finally arose, my limbs were almost too weak to support me; I leaned against the wall like a feeble old woman.

I knew what I must do. I was afraid to do it. Not afraid of him-not then-but afraid of facing a truth which would war against everything I had come to believe. I hoped even then that there would be some explanation. But I must have known that nothing could explain this.

He was in the library. I stood outside the door pressing my hands together in an effort to stop their shaking. Whatever happened, I knew I must not seem afraid. That would have put me at an impossible disadvantage. My first knock was a pitiful effort, barely audible, like a servant's timid scratching. The thought of that comparison stiffened my courage somewhat. I raised my hand again and banged on the panels.

The familiar deep voice bade me "Come in." It was a shock to hear him sound so normal after finding that eloquently deserted room-even harder to see him look up with the warm smile that had so often welcomed me.

The smile faded when he saw me, rigid as a statue, white-faced and staring.

"What is it, Harriet? Are you ill, my dear?"

I had tried to think what I must say, tried to form in my mind tactful phrases which would convey my composure. But when I opened my mouth, a single blunt phrase came out:

"What have you done with Ada?"

If he had raged at me, I would have raged back. If he had put on a look of astounded innocence, I would have flown at him. Instead, he laughed. It left me shaken and foolish, feeling like a silly child.

"I might have known you would find out, despite my orders that you were not to communicate," he said calmly. "Come and sit down, Harriet. No-here, next to me. Pull the chair closer. I have a feeling that I must be able to touch you physically in order to reach you mentally, to make you understand. You must understand-nay, you will; we have been too closely attuned to one another for you to fail me now."

I did as he asked, for the last time. That strange mesmeric look compelled me as always; there was a sense of some invisible cord connecting us. My skirts brushed the arm of his chair as I took my seat.

"Ada is perfectly safe," my guardian continued in the same cool voice. "Even if you should think me capable of harming a woman, you must realize that her welfare is as important to me as it is to you. It was for her own good that I had to remove her from the house. You know how she has behaved. Not a sign of weakening or remorse or sense; she clings obdurately to her infatuation in a way I would have believed impossible for her."

"She loves him," I said, somewhat to my own surprise-I had not intended to speak.

"She does," said Mr. Wolfson dryly. "A child loves a bright shiny knife, but we do not put such a weapon into its infantile hands. You do agree, do you not, that it is preposterous to allow Ada's love-as you call it-to achieve any consummation?"

"Yes ... I suppose so . . ."

"Suppose?" The blue eyes blazed at me. "Would you welcome this gypsy's brat as your cousin? See an illiterate, ill-bred clod the husband of Ada, the master of her fortune and her person?" "Is it the fortune or the person that concerns you most?" "Both." He added, with a look that made me draw back, "If any person but yourself had asked me that question, I would have struck him. Harriet, Harriet-I want your intelligent, willing consent to what I have done. Show the sense I have always admired in you, and tell me you agree with my first premise."

The look, the smile, the compelling voice-I felt myself weakening.

"Of course I agree. She cannot marry him. But-" "Good, so far. Then will you admit the next logical step? That the best possible husband for Ada is one of her cousins?"

"I've thought of that too," I said wretchedly. "But she has refused them both. How can I agree to making Ada miserable? She is so young! There are other young men in the world, men whom she might come to love. ..."

He took my hands in his. I let them lie in his hard grasp too miserable and beaten to resist. His arguments were unanswerable. And I knew what he would say about my last feeble, feminine suggestion.