Sons of the Wolf (11 page)

"I do beg your pardon, ladies, Father, Brother." The drawled tone puzzled me at first; then I understood, and in spite of my growing annoyance I almost laughed. It was an imitation-and not a very good one-of Julian's voice.

"Leave the room," said Mr. Wolfson.

"Now, Father, don't excite yourself. It isn't good for you." He shook an admonishing finger at his father's reddening face and let his gaze travel slowly around the table. Julian was in the chair Francis usually occupied, beside Ada. Francis shook his head.

"Unsporting, Brother," he murmured. "No sooner gone than forgotten, eh?"

For all his bulk he can move quickly when he chooses. This time his action left us all gasping. He picked up chair, Julian and all, and deposited them six feet back from the table. Then he picked up one of the empty chairs and sat down in it, next to Ada.

"William," he announced to the staring butler, "I see I am a bit late. I shall omit the soup, William. I shall have the beef, William, if you please."

It was dreadful; it was incredible. I put both hands over my face and shook-with laughter. I couldn't help it; the sight of Julian's face as he sat there up against the wall, holding a knife and a fork in his lifted hands, was too much for me.

Mr. Wolfson's voice sobered me at once. It almost lifted me out of my chair.

"Leave this room!" he shouted. "How dare you come here in such a condition-and before your cousins!"

I am a simpleton. It simply hadn't occurred to me. But then I have had little experience with such habits. I lowered my hands and stared at my elder cousin's flushed face with, I own, more interest than abhorrence.

He didn't look intoxicated. No, amend that-he didn't look as I had thought an intoxicated man should look. They staggered, I believed, and spoke incoherently. Francis' voice was peculiar but quite clear; he walked steadily. In fact, he behaved as he always does, except a little more so. Then a new idea struck me. Could he possibly-does he always . . .

Well! I thought and pressed my lips hard together to achieve a suitable look of disapproval.

Francis paid no attention to his father's bellow. He was smiling-rather fixedly, now that I noticed it-at Ada. Poor William, quite transfixed by the horror of it all, stood like a statue with a platter of beef poised on his hands, looking just like a hierophant making an offering.

William's face almost sent me off again, but then I caught sight of Mr. Wolfson and the situation lost all its humor.

In his fury he had tried to rise. He stood now half-crouched, clutching at the edge of the table with whitened hands. From where I sat I could see that the lap robe which was always carefully tucked about his lower limbs had slipped and fallen to the floor. I was on my feet at once.

"Francis," I said urgently, "you had better go to your room. William, help him. He is-unwell."

I would like to believe that my words turned the balance (always the little peacemaker, as Francis would say!). But I don't believe for a moment that Francis would be affected by any plea of mine. No, he simply realized that he had gone too far. He rose, knocking the chair over, swept Ada a graceful bow and me another, ignored William's proffered arm, and walked quickly out of the room.

Mr. Wolfson sat down with an audible gasp. His face was ashen as he reached for his wineglass. His other hand—

His other hand was groping futilely, under cover of the table, for his fallen lap robe.

A stab of-something-pierced me to the heart. The emotion couldn't have been pity; it was too sharp for that. I moved without thinking.

Kneeling at the side of his chair, I picked up the robe and draped it across his lap. My head was bowed; I presume that it, too, was below the level of the table, for his hand moved slowly and deliberately down the back of my hair in a caress as gentle as it was concealed.

"Thank you, Harriet," he said in his normal voice, and I rose and returned to my place.

Julian came back to the table, carrying his chair. We went on eating. But it could hardly be called a success, the rest of that meal.

I could forgive Francis almost everything else if he did not hurt his father so terribly.

July 8

The gypsies have arrived-the ones Mr. Wolfson mentioned as spending part of the summer on his estate. He told us of it tonight at dinner. Ada at once asked if we might see them.

No, that is not quite right. Ada was not much interested at first. It must have been I who suggested it-or perhaps Julian, I really can't remember. At any rate, the important thing, Mr. Wolfson consented readily. I confess I was a trifle surprised, considering his earlier comments on their habits. But he feels we will be well guarded with both our cousins in attendance-yes, Francis too. There has been an uneasy truce since that last ridiculous episode, and Francis volunteered to come with us. I don't think Julian was much pleased.

It is silly of me, but I am quite excited. I must be more desperate for society than I realized, so to anticipate seeing a band of dusty, disreputable Egyptians!

July 9

I am to marry a tall dark man and travel across the water and become quite rich!

How pleasant it would be if one could believe in such things-especially the last clause. I don't much fancy dark men, in fact. But I fear my fate is settled; a gypsy, as everyone knows, is part witch. Certainly the old hag who told my fortune this morning looks the part.

When we came down to breakfast this morning, we found that it had all been settled, somehow, the night before. We were to visit the gypsies at once, this very day. We set out as soon as the meal was over, I, by Mr. Wolfson's particular orders, ignoring my duties for one day. We let the horses take a leisurely pace, for the day was already growing warm. The north meadows are some distance away; for all his tolerance Mr. W. does not let the vagabonds too near his chicken houses and stables. During the ride, which must have taken us an hour, Julian amused us with predictions and imitations of the gypsies. Francis, slouched over his horse's neck, was his usual self; he is sullen and silent in the mornings.

The encampment is not in the meadow itself, but in the fringe of the patch of woods that stretches from the abbey ruins to the northern pastures. I can see why shelter from rain or sun would be desirable, for the gypsy wagons are cramped and ramshackle affairs.

From a distance the scene was colorful and picturesque-the gaily painted wagons, the horses cropping the grass the meadow, a tin kettle suspended over an open campfire and dark, strange people sprawled on the grass around Some of the men are a hard-looking lot; they might London thieves save for their dark skins and the occasional bright kerchief or golden earring. I suppose the women just as brutish, but they did look quite charming from distance, with their green and crimson and purple skirts, their strings of copper and gold ornaments, and long black hair. They seem to have extraordinarily white teeth, perhaps it is only the contrast against their brown faces. The children are as gay and shy as young puppies, and as alike as members of the same litter: black hair, sparkling black eyes, slim dark arms and legs barely covered by tattered garments. And over it all was a babble of sound-singing, cursing, shouting-in a strange tongue that flowed like music.

For a moment it gave me an uncomfortable feeling, H especially when one young urchin darted out from behind a tree and flashed me an impertinent white grin as he sought the safety of his mother's caravan. It has been a long time, but I remembered a hot, shadowy Roman street. Surely there was once a boy like that. . . .

The babble ceased as soon as we were seen. The brightly dressed figures stiffened and forty pairs of hard black eyes fixed themselves upon us, the intruders. Only for a moment, then they all relaxed, a woman laughed, a man's voice took up its song again. They returned to their previous occupations, but I sensed that they continued to watch us, slyly, from the corners of their eyes. They are a hunted people-deservedly, perhaps-but it is uncomfortable, that sensation of being watched, not by human eyes, but by the bright unwinking stare of an animal calculating the next move of the hunter.

How my fancies have led me on! I wasn't aware of having such thoughts at the time; I simply enjoyed the color and sound of it, and tried to ignore the dirt. Not the dirt of the ground which was their floor-that was unavoidable-but the gay wide skirts had not seen soap and water for too long a time, and the women's hair was oily looking.

When the old woman came down out of the caravan, the noise stopped again briefly. I knew at once she must be the queen or chief personage. Her caravan was bigger and more ornate than the others, but her manner alone would have told me her rank. She was bent with age, and one foot dragged as she came toward us, but she carried her head arrogantly.

She came up to where we sat, still on horseback, and curtsied four times, slowly and deliberately, to each of us in turn. I could see now how really old she was, though her hair had hardly a trace of gray. (I suppose it is artificially colored.) The bright black eyes peered out from a mass of wrinkles. They went at once to Ada's face and never left it. When she spoke, her voice was a harsh cackle.

"Ah, the pretty lady," she said crooningly. "Have you come to old Marian to find what the future holds? Only joy for one so sweet and beautiful, only joy. Come down, pretty dear, and let Marian tell you the future."

Ada's face was a study. She had been prepared to pity the old woman; her enormous compassion flows out to the poor and injured, to the very young and the very old. But despite the gypsy's obsequious manner, she did not command pity.

Then Ada laughed and nodded. Without waiting for assistance she slipped down off the horse's back, leaving the reins dangling. One of the gypsy men stepped forward to take them. He passed quite close to Ada, staring at her boldly.

"Wait a moment, Cousin," said Julian, frowning.

"Why? This is why we came, is it not?"

"That's right, that's right." The gypsy woman chuckled. "Don't listen to the men, little lady, let them folio you. They'll follow, never fear. Come now, come into the caravan with Marian. The ball is there, the magic ball given me by the pharaohs long ago, the ball that tells what was and is and will be."

Julian laughed, his good humor apparently restored. But he was, I noticed, quick to join Ada.

"Lead on, Macduff," he said cheerfully. "Or, no-surely one of the witches, eh, Cousin Ada? Did you ever see a more hagridden countenance?"

Ada frowned at him warningly-she does hate to hurt even a beggar's feelings-but the old woman seemed not to mind. Her cackling laugh mingled with Julian's chuckle.

"That's right, a witch I am, one of the wisewomen who know the future. Come, lady, and you too, Master Julian. Don't you trust old Marian with your pretty mistress?"

They walked off together, making a very oddly assorted trio: Julian, half in jest, held the old woman's elbow and supported her limping steps. Then Francis, who had not moved, grunted and dismounted. He came to me and held up his hands, without speaking; in equal silence I let him lift me down. We followed the others toward the caravan.

It had a half door at the back, with a flight of steps leading up to it. Ada was already seated at a table, with the old woman seated across and Julian lounging behind her. The table was draped with a piece of draggled black velvet, and on it sat a ball of glass or crystal, foggy with dust and cracked along the side.

Marian was already studying the ball, one hand on either side of it, head bent. She looked up, frowning horribly, as I mounted the steps with Francis behind me.

"Come in, lady, come in. There's room, yes, room enough, beyond me. Squeeze past me here, so. That's right. Master Francis, you'd best stay there. You're too large for this little place."

Francis obeyed, leaning his elbows on the half door, while I pushed by the old woman and squeezed myself into a chair between her and Ada. The caravan was certainly small; it was just long enough for a person to lie down in and only half as wide. A heap of ragged blankets in a comer represented the old woman's bedding, now rolled up for me day. The table and chairs were the only furnishings, save for a few garments hung on hooks along one side and a corresponding row of pots, pans, and utensils on the other. Calico curtains of varied and hideous colors hung at both ends of the wagon and at the window; the latter curtains were purplish with a yellow flower, the ones at the door were blue-and-green checked. It was a sickeningly poor place, almost too poor. I had a sudden sense that it was deliberately designed to appear that way.

When I looked back at Marian she had already begun her trance, or whatever it is called. A ray of sunlight slanted through the high window above Ada, lighting her hair and holding a positive army of dust motes. It left Julian completely in shadow, but his pose, head tilted and arms folded, was so suggestive of amusement that I fancied I saw him smile. The old woman was also in shadow. Her dark, sharp profile might have been cut out of wood, but her hands, around the crystal, were in the heart of the beam of light. Every vein and tendon in them stood out; they were bird claws with nothing but skin stretched over the brittle bones. Yet in their clawed pose there was an unpleasant suggestion of strength.

Ada sat quietly, hands in her lap, looking at the old woman with the air of a well-bred child at a grown-up tea party. The interior of the cart was cool, being sheltered from the sun; yet the air seemed oppressively still. I could hear a fly droning away somewhere. The babble outside seemed lessened.