The dark fantastic (11 page)

"She's trying to get on the good side of you, stupid! That's why."

Richard tossed the whole matter aside with a weary gesture, but his mother said, "Let the child sleep in the trundle bed if she likes," and bustled away to get the bedding.

But once out of the room she stopped still, while a half-formed suspicion in her own mind took root. Thorne had recognized what she herself had feared but refused to acknowledge: that Judith was in love with Richard.

Ann Tomlinson was never a woman to flinch from the truth. But seldom had she faced so unpleasant a truth as the one confronting her now. Judith was encouraging Richard in a course which might very possibly result in his wife's death.

The schoolmistress was in the dining room when Miss Ann came through with an armful of blankets. She was sitting near the lamp with the family darning basket in her lap. No one could deny that she had been most helpful during these trying days.

"I wanted to tell you. Miss Judith, that I'm putting Thorne downstairs tonight in the trundle bed."

Judith looked relieved. "Perhaps that's better. I don't think she rests well with me."

Miss Ann did not comment. She was busy folding a large-size blanket to fit a small-size bed.

Judith went on: "You don't suppose there's any danger of Miss Abigail's finding out how near she is?"

"We'll have to risk it tonight. And after tonight it won't matter." Ann Tomlinson looked straight at the schoolteacher, "Because tomorrow I'm sending Thorne to Kentucky."

There was the strangest silence in the room.

Then Judith said, "Don't you think that's a question for Mr. Tomlinson to decide?"

The tiny gray-haired woman spoke with quiet authority--

"Miss Judith, sometimes we have a mistaken sense of loyalty. You are loyal to Richard because he helped you in the matter of the school. And Richard is loyal to a little girl because he thinks she has no other friend. But both of you overlook the fact that a woman in this house is dying. Abigail's mind may not be right. I don't know. But I do know she'll die if she doesn't get relief from this feeling she has about Thorne, And the only way to relieve her is to send the child away. So I'm sending Thorne to my daughter in Kentucky."

It was a long speech for Miss Ann. She picked up her blankets and went back to the front room,

Judith laid aside the darning basket and went softly upstairs.

Her bedroom was icy, but she felt no chill. Her body burned. She closed the door behind her and turned the key in the lock. Then she lighted a pair of candles on her dresser.

Softly she opened her dresser drawer and groped beneath a pile of underclothing. Her fingers closed upon the rag doll.

CHAPTER 9

She could not have told at the time why she had concealed it. Why she had kept silent while everything in the house was searched except the personal belongings of the schoolmistress.

Now she knew.

I'll bet a we could find that doll we'd find a string tied round its neck so tight it's choking me.

Fingers cold as ice took a velvet ribbon from the box on the dresser and tied it round the doll's rag throat; tight, tighter, tighter; until the cotton neck was no bigger than a slate pencil and the stuffed head lolled foolishly to one side like a chicken's with its neck wrung but not severed. The fingers knotted the velvet in a hard double knot and left two streamers dangling. They were Judith's fingers.

The heat in her body had cooled now. She was so cold she had no feeling; about anything. She sat with the doll in her hands and listened.

Footsteps moving up the stairs. Richard's mother coming up to bed. She had talked wath her son. She had hold him she was sending Thorne to Kentucky. He had finally yielded. The very tap of the shoes upon the bare oak stairs made this announcement. Ann Tomlinson had settled her household before coming up to bed.

Judith waited until the footsteps died upon the carpet of the room across the hall. Then she slipped Thorne's doll into the pocket of her voluminous skirt and went back down the stairs.

She found Richard in the dining room. It was exactly as she had guessed. His mother had told him her decision and he had made no further protest. He reahzed at last that his wife would die unless her mind was relieved.

He looked drawn and haggard, utterly without hope. Whether the misery in his eyes was for his wife's condition or for the loss of his little friend, Judith eould not tell. But the time was past for encouraging him to hold firm.

"Perhaps I was wrong," she admitted, ''in urging you to keep Thorne. But I honestly thought I was helping you."

"You were. You don't know what a help you've been." He looked at her gratefully from hollow, sleep-starved eyes. And then he looked away.

"I'm convinced my wife will die. Miss Judith, if Thorne remains in this house. I don't pretend to understand how such a thing can be. But I have come to believe in witchcraft; the witchcraft of one's own mind."

There was silence between them. Judith's hand clutched something tightly within the folds of her skirt.

She said, "Thorne can come back—afterward "

"What do you mean—afterward?"

"After your wife has—recovered."

"You think my wife will recover?"

"When the child is gone your wife will begin to eat. When she begins eating she will regain her strength." Unconsciously Judith's voice hardened. "Of course she will always be an invalid. But invalids usually live to a ripe old age."

Perhaps her companion noted the implication in her words, for his denial came swiftly.

"I don't agree with you. I believe my wife's recovery will be complete, once her mind is set at rest." Twin spots of color burned upon his gaunt unshaven cheeks; his hollow eyes flashed fire. Never had he looked less comely; never had he been more desirable to the woman than he was at that moment. For she guessed that he was lying, to himself as well as her. He did not believe his wife would ever be anything but a hopeless burden. He was trying to deny his own protest which he was afraid she might see.

"You need sleep, Mr. Tomlinson. Why don't you go upstairs and get a good night's rest? Let me stay with your wife tonight."

He passed his hand across his eyes, sorely tempted, yet muttering:

"No, no. It's my job. I ean't think of putting it on you."

But Judith urged, "Tomorrow's Saturday. I can sleep all day if need be."

After much pleading he yielded, on condition that she call him at midnight. They would divide the watch between them. Abigail had been given some sleeping drops, he said. She would probably sleep for the first part of the night.

Judith waited until his hushed footfall had faded upon the stairs. Then she went noiselessly down the passage to his wife's room. She opened the door without making a sound and closed it in silence behind her. She stood motionless beside the sickbed.

Abigail lay, as Judith had so often seen her, in the attitude of death. The hands folded on her bosom rose and fell with the rhythmic respiration of drugged sleep.

Judith drew the doll from her pocket and laid it on the pillow beside the sleeper.

Then she prepared to wait.

There was a coal fire in the grate and a shaded night lamp on a little table by the easy chair. She sat down in the chair and tucked her cold hands under her shawl to warm them.

There was no sound in the room, not even the comforting tick of a clock. Richard's big gold watch lay beside the medicine chart on the night table, but it told the moments silently. The room was so quiet she could hear Abigail breathe.

In—out. Inhale—exhale. In—out. Inhale—exhale.

Richard had said she might sleep soundly all night.

In—out. Inhale—exhale. In—out. Inhale—exhale.

Judith hugged her cold body closer.

The hands of Richard's watch moved slowly past the half-hour.

There was another sound in the stillness beside Abigail's breathing. It came from beyond the locked door leading to the front room. It was a muffled sound of childish sobbing. She recalled that Thorne was sleeping in the trundle bed.

Strangely, the sound held companionship. She was not alone with that measured breathing.

The hands of the watch moved past the three quarters—the hour—the quarter hour.

The sobbing beyond the door had ceased.

She was alone.

In—out. Inhale—exhale. In—out. Inhale

She waited for the exhalation, but it did not come.

Abigail was awake.

Judith did not have to move from her chair to see what was happening. She had only to turn her head. The shade of the night lamp cast a shadow that obscured the chair.

But the coal fire shed a glow that illumined the bed.

Abigail had turned toward the fire and was facing the doll on her pillow.

She lay rigid, motionless, eyes fixed and glassy as death. For a moment it seemed as though she had died at a single shock.

Then very slowly she put out a hand and clutched the doll and found it real. A convulsive shudder ran through her body. She opened her mouth to scream. No sound came.

The doll was in her hand. She could not let it go. In fascinated horror she drew it closer, examining it in detail. Its head lolled ludicrously to one side.

And then she saw the velvet ribbon about its neck; tied so tight the rag throat was no bigger than a pencil.

She dropped the doll with a sound of speechless terror and clutched her own throat.

The doll fell noiselessly upon the carpeted floor.

Judith, in the shadow of the night lamp, slid from the high-backed chair onto her hands and knees. Creeping to the side of the tall bed, she stealthily retrieved the doll. Then, still on her hands and knees, she edged over to the closet door and opened it a crack. Her groping hand found a gap between wall and floorboard. She stuffed the doll down this convenient hole.

Abigail, gasping, strangling, choking, writhing upon the bed, could never have seen her.

''Miss Abigail! Miss Abigail! What's the matter?"

But Abigail could not speak. Whether the bulging eyes accused or implored the woman bending solicitously over her no longer mattered. For the sounds that rattled from her throat were unintelligible.

"Oh, my dear, forgive me for going to sleep in my chair. Are you in pain? Tell me, what's the matter? Can't you speak?"

Only inarticulate gurgles of fast-failing breath. Abigail could tell no one anything.

It was perfectly safe to call Richard.

The trundle bed was too short for Thorne. Perhaps that was why she could not go to sleep.

She lay on her back, eyes closed, while tears seeping from under her eyelids trickled into her mouth and ears. For the first time in her life she had gone to bed at odds with Richard. She loved him so completely, so utterly to the exclusion of all else, that the sharp note in his voice had almost broken her heart. He had never spoken like that to her before. And never before had she flared up in anger at him. Her tears were as much for her own anger as for his reproof. She had called him stupid! She had called Richard-darling, darling Richard—a stupid, when he was the only friend she had in the world.

But he was stupid not to see what Miss Judith was up to.

Her sobs came thick and fast. She turned on her face to smother them, shrinking from a fear as yet only half recognized. She cried until, from sheer exhaustion, she fell asleep.

She woke from her first short nap to hear voices somewhere. Lights bobbed fantastically in the hall, and hushed commotion filled the house. From the room beyond the alcove strange noises filtered. In terror Thorne started from her bed.

Chilled hands caught her and put her firmly back. She started to scream, but a cold palm closed over her mouth.

"Don't make any noise." It was Judith. Her voice was colder than her hands.

''What is it?" whispered Thorne fearfully.

"Abigail."

"Is she worse?"

"She's dying."

There was dim light from the hall. Thorne's eyes searched the schoolteacher's face, so strange was the tone of her voice.

"How do you know? Have you been in her room?"

"I sat with her. So Richard could get some sleep."

"Did she have another spell?"

"Yes."

Judith sat down on the side of the bed, her whole body tensed with listening.

There was the sound of hurrying feet, subdued voices that told nothing, strangling gasps from behind the connecting door, the ring of horses' hoofs on the frozen ground outside.

Judith whispered, "The doctor! Will went for Dr. Caxton."

Together they sat and listened to the heavy tread of the doctor's boots, to the one unhushed voice that now dominated everything. They caught fragments of talk beyond the door:

"Membranous croup . . . get kerosene . . . the woman's choking to death . . ."

They heard arguments over the dangers and merits of kerosene and goose grease, with Dr. Caxton shouting down Ann Tomlinson:

"I know it's inflammable, but goose grease won't cut phlegm. Bring me some coal oil, Richard."

They heard feet racing to the kitchen. They heard windows being raised to give the choking woman air. They knew when coal oil was administered. They knew when it failed.

TogeTher they listened, the woman and the child, bound in this moment by some fearful community of interest.

Once Thorne said in sudden panic, "I don't want Miss Abigail to die," as though in strange foreknowledge of the potentialities of the event.

Juditli said coldly, ''They were going to send you to Kentucky," as though showing cause why some judgment had been pronounced.

The child trembled and involuntarily shrank away from the schoolmistress.

When certain sounds from the other room conveyed a dreadful message to the listening woman she rose and drew the girl swiftly from the trundle bed.

"Come upstairs to my room."

Unquestioning, Thorne obeyed.

It was nearly daylight when Ann Tomlinson came upstairs. She found Judith sitting by the bedside of Richard's sons. The candle had burned low, and its guttering flame threw a queer light on the face bent over the sleeping children. For a moment Miss Ann was stunned by the expression on The schoolteacher's face. Then the flame burned brighter and she saw only a look of compassion. Perhaps that exultant smile was a shadow cast by a smoking wick.