Read Online THE WHITE WOLF by Franklin Gregory - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Franklin Gregory
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rabbit hop through the field of shocked corn and disappear. And if you were lucky, and quiet, you might come upon a woodchuck sitting on its haunches, its forepaws—almost like human hands—tightly clutching some tidbit.
Pierre looked for these things. Each Saturday afternoon he tramped or rode through the woods and fields. He was not negligent of the beauty of the scene. And more than once he drew to a halt and watched the gray squirrels playing tag among the branches of the swamp maples.
He was aware of the earthy perfumes, of the fresh smell of the wet grass along the stream banks, of the bitter exhilarating smell of burning leaves. The crackle of dry leaves underfoot and the distant baying of a dog were good things to hear. Yet, over and above all this, and even shadowing his obnoxious optimism, Pierre found his thoughts reverting again and again to Sara.
The change in her was now so definite. She had settled into a cycle. The nocturnal walks, once casual, were now nightly occurrences. They began shortly after dinner—a dinner at which she ate so little that Pierre wondered how she retained her strength.
The walks lasted longer than before. Often Pierre would be in bed when he heard her footsteps in the upper hall and the sound of her closing door. If, by some chance of a good book, he remained up until one or two in the morning, he might see her. But he was up and away the next day long before she was up. And Freda,, serving his breakfast on one occasion said:
“The Fraulein in the day sleeps. Is ill the Fraulein ?”
A man, Pierre thought, could have too good a nature. He should put it up to her: “You’ll have to change your ways, Sara. Your life’s become simply abnormal.-’ And yet each time he shrank from it.
He knew that she no longer went into the city. She had dropped completely from the social orbit in which she had moved. She did not trouble to reply to invitations. She issued none. Her work with the Junior League was history. And, finally, David stopped coming.
Pierre himself did not change the manner of his life. Twice a week, regularly, he remained in the city. One of these nights he spent at the club; the other, either at the Academy of Music or at the theater. Yet something of the flavor of other seasons was lacking.
Ahead of him, as he walked this afternoon, his prize flock of white ducks waddled in their military formation across the path. They seemed hurried. They seemed excited. But they kept their formation and they kept close together as if for protection. They waddled a few feet along the path and then they turned into the wood and disappeared.
A little farther on, Pierre stopped. White feathers littered the ground. Some of them bore crimson stains. To one side, between the open roots of a tree, he found a mangled duck. It was half eaten. In the soft earth, leading off into the tangled brush, he saw doglike footprints.
The prints were large. Immediately Pierre pictured Heinrich's big Newfoundland and he became angry. It was one thing about which Pierre, usually so easy going, was adamant. A dog must be either a good dog—or no good at all'.
He turned back along the path to look for Heinrich. The path led through the woods along the Neshaminy, crossed the creek on a narrow wooden bridge, and led up to the lawn.
He walked around to the back of the house and in through the kitchen door and into the expansive kitchen. Freda, at the large sink, was washing each of the thirty-two pieces of the small cream separator.
Pierre paused for a moment. To voice an angry word here was like breaking into a pleasing concerto. And Pierre was too sensitive to speak until he had absorbed the color: the strings of drying red peppers and the half dozen smoked hams hanging from the ceiling beams, the rows of apple jelly sparkling where the sun struck them, the Mason jars purple with grape juice, the small crock of rich yellow butter.
Finally:
Pierre looked for these things. Each Saturday afternoon he tramped or rode through the woods and fields. He was not negligent of the beauty of the scene. And more than once he drew to a halt and watched the gray squirrels playing tag among the branches of the swamp maples.
He was aware of the earthy perfumes, of the fresh smell of the wet grass along the stream banks, of the bitter exhilarating smell of burning leaves. The crackle of dry leaves underfoot and the distant baying of a dog were good things to hear. Yet, over and above all this, and even shadowing his obnoxious optimism, Pierre found his thoughts reverting again and again to Sara.
The change in her was now so definite. She had settled into a cycle. The nocturnal walks, once casual, were now nightly occurrences. They began shortly after dinner—a dinner at which she ate so little that Pierre wondered how she retained her strength.
The walks lasted longer than before. Often Pierre would be in bed when he heard her footsteps in the upper hall and the sound of her closing door. If, by some chance of a good book, he remained up until one or two in the morning, he might see her. But he was up and away the next day long before she was up. And Freda,, serving his breakfast on one occasion said:
“The Fraulein in the day sleeps. Is ill the Fraulein ?”
A man, Pierre thought, could have too good a nature. He should put it up to her: “You’ll have to change your ways, Sara. Your life’s become simply abnormal.-’ And yet each time he shrank from it.
He knew that she no longer went into the city. She had dropped completely from the social orbit in which she had moved. She did not trouble to reply to invitations. She issued none. Her work with the Junior League was history. And, finally, David stopped coming.
Pierre himself did not change the manner of his life. Twice a week, regularly, he remained in the city. One of these nights he spent at the club; the other, either at the Academy of Music or at the theater. Yet something of the flavor of other seasons was lacking.
Ahead of him, as he walked this afternoon, his prize flock of white ducks waddled in their military formation across the path. They seemed hurried. They seemed excited. But they kept their formation and they kept close together as if for protection. They waddled a few feet along the path and then they turned into the wood and disappeared.
A little farther on, Pierre stopped. White feathers littered the ground. Some of them bore crimson stains. To one side, between the open roots of a tree, he found a mangled duck. It was half eaten. In the soft earth, leading off into the tangled brush, he saw doglike footprints.
The prints were large. Immediately Pierre pictured Heinrich's big Newfoundland and he became angry. It was one thing about which Pierre, usually so easy going, was adamant. A dog must be either a good dog—or no good at all'.
He turned back along the path to look for Heinrich. The path led through the woods along the Neshaminy, crossed the creek on a narrow wooden bridge, and led up to the lawn.
He walked around to the back of the house and in through the kitchen door and into the expansive kitchen. Freda, at the large sink, was washing each of the thirty-two pieces of the small cream separator.
Pierre paused for a moment. To voice an angry word here was like breaking into a pleasing concerto. And Pierre was too sensitive to speak until he had absorbed the color: the strings of drying red peppers and the half dozen smoked hams hanging from the ceiling beams, the rows of apple jelly sparkling where the sun struck them, the Mason jars purple with grape juice, the small crock of rich yellow butter.
Finally:
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