The dark fantastic (12 page)

"I knew I couldn't be of any real help downstairs," said Judith, "and I was afraid the little boys might wake and start looking for you."

Miss Ann nodded silently. She, too, bent over the sleeping children and tenderly touehed little Rodgie's curls.

"I'm too old to bring up so young a child. Too old—and too tired."

It was the only time anyone ever heard Ann Tomlinson admit weariness.

Judith whispered, "Is it " But the words stuck in her throat.

"It's all over," said Miss Ann quietly. "Their mother died at quarter to three."

CHAPTER 10

The funeral of Abigail Tomlinson was an event of widespread interest. Every family in the district was represented. School was closed for three days because Richard was a township trustee.

The services were conducted at the house, with the choir from the Woodridge church singing "Rock of Ages" and "Lead, Kindly Light." Mr. Jameson spoke briefly. Too briefly, in some people's opinion. There was talk afterward about how he "skimped" in his praise of the deceased.

"You'd have thought the woman was alive and well, the way he ignored her."

It was true that the minister had little to say about Abigail except that God had now released her from her sufferings. He spoke with sympathy of the bereaved husband and two small sons. But his real tribute was paid to the small gray-haired woman who sat between Richard and his children, as though gathering all three beneath her wing.

"You who know Mrs. Ann Tomlinson—and who that has had sickness or death or calamity in his house does not know her?—can rest assured that these children are not left without a mother, and this man is not left without as stout a heart as God ever put in a woman's breast to cheer him through his trouble."

There were moist eyes in weather-beaten faces at that. Everyone loved Miss Ann.

Abigail looked surprisingly young in death. The lines which illness had etched upon her face were magically erased. She looked fair and fragile as she lay in her pale gray casket.

This matter of the casket caused comment. It was the first time that anything except black for an adult had ever been seen in the county. Richard had sent to Indianapolis for it, and that in itself lent a kind of glamour to the woman who lay within it. It stood before the drawn curtains of the alcove, facing the clock which no longer told the hours. More than one person remarked afterward that the face of the dead woman was turned slightly toward the clock, as though listening for it to strike.

She was buried in the family burial ground on the hill. Young Will Tomlinson, Mr. Otis Huse, Lucius Goff, and John Barclay carried the casket to its final resting place. The plot already held the graves of Roger Tomlinson, four children who had died in infancy, and Millie's husband.

Abigail died between midnight and dawn of a Friday night. She was not buried until the following Wednesday. During the interim the body lay in the unheated front room and people went about on tiptoe. The house was hushed and its inhabitants lived withdrawn.

Judith found the interval of waiting almost unendurable. She spent most of her time with the children. There was the chance that by keeping close to Richard's sons she might see him more often. But whether purposely or unintentionally, he seemed to avoid her. She saw him only at mealtimes.

A restlessness possessed her. It made it almost impossible for her to stay in the house. It drove her to take long walks with the children. Once out of doors, she talked of anything, everything, except the somber circumstance that was throwing them so much together. She told them stories, even jokes of a subdued nature, and was altogether so pleasant a companion that the little boys clamored to be with her. They were awed but not saddened by their mother's death. Abigail had been merely a disquieting presence in their lives too long for them to feel any great sense of loss. So while they behaved with gloomy propriety within the house, once out of doors their walks with Judith became increasingly pleasant excursions.

Thus it was with Richard's sons. Not so with Thorne. Thorne, who of all people should have felt no loss in Abigail, was silent, grave, and thoughtful.

Judith became exasperated with her.

Finally she took her to task.

It was the day before the funeral and Judith, knowing the ordeal in store for them, was anxious to give the little boys a pleasant time. She had taken them for a tramp through the sugar orchard, where snow lay thick-crusted on the ground again after the February thaw. They had come out above the pond, and the boys had discovered good sound ice upon its surface and soon were making a slide. They shouted to Thorne, who stood on the bank, not joining in the sport.

"Come on, Thorne! Come on and slide."

"Yes, Thorne, why don't you play with them?" asked Judith.

Thorne did not answer. She stood with her back to the raw March wind, looking cold and pinched and unhappy.

Judith said impatiently, "What's the matter, Thorne?"

Thorne looked at the schoolmistress strangely. She could

not put into words her vague, foreboding fears regarding this woman. Neither could she explain the dread in her own heart, which she was yet too young to understand.

She whispered, "I think it would have been better if Miss Abigail hadn't died."

For a second Judith's determined cheerfulness froze.

Then she rallied. "Of course, Thorne. We all wish that Miss Abigail hadn't died. We feel very sad about her death. But we should not show our sadness to the children. It makes it harder for them."

"That's not what I meant." Thorne's candid brow puckered in a frown. "I'm not sad—about Miss Abigail. She made Richard very unhappy. On his account, I'm glad she's gone."

"That's a terrible thing to say," said Judith sternly.

"Yes, I know." Again that elfin look came into Thorne's eyes. "Do you suppose she knows?"

"Who knows?" said Judith sharply.

"Miss Abigail. I'd hate for her to know how we feel about her dying."

"What do you mean, how we feel?" Judith's voice rose shrilly. "Be careful how you include other people in your remarks."

"I'm sorry. I thought you felt the same way I did."

"Well, you thought wrong. I have nothing but the deepest regret for Mrs. Tomlinson's death."

The strange child nodded. "That's what I mean. Now that she's gone, I think maybe it would have been better if she hadn't died,"

There was company for supper following the funeral: friends and relatives who had driven from afar to attend the services. As many as could be accommodated stayed overnight. The strange faces at the table, the added bustle in dining room and kitchen lent an air of somber conviviality to the house. Miss Ann and Millie had worked for three days preparing the feast which they knew would be expected and which really justified Cousin Lutie Simms's unfaihng tribute on such occasions: "My, my! Regular harvest dinner." Judith found the change of atmosphere exhilarating after the oppressive silence of the last five days.

But if she had hoped for a re-establishment of her old subtle contact with Richard, she was disappointed. He sat at the head of his table, hospitably attentive to the needs of his guests, but dignified and remote. Except for exchanging a few words with Otis Huse, who sat on his right as nearest relative of the deceased, the newly made widower was silent throughout the meal.

This was approved by all present.

Privately, no one believed for a moment that Richard felt anything but relief for his wife's death, and speculation was already rife as to how soon he would marry again. But his behavior as a bereaved husband was beyond criticism.

Judith was seated midway of the long table, with Lucius GofF on her left and young Will Tomlinson on her right. Of the two, she found it easier to talk to Will. This was odd, for the eighteen-year-old lad had always been antagonistic and had openly charged her with encouraging his brother in the matter of Thorne. But Will was practical and rather hard-minded. His sister-in-law was dead and there was no use pretending; that all concerned, herself included, weren't better off. Judith found him a comfortable neighbor.

On the other hand, Lucius Goff's smile was absurdly unnerving. It seemed to say, "Why are you mourning?" She flushed under it, though his remark was perfectly innocuous.

"Have you ever noticed how heartily people eat following a funeral?"

Perhaps he was only trying to be amusing. But there was a knowing twinkle in his black eyes. Judith looked the other way.

It was long after the usual bedtime when she came downstairs with her book. Knowing that she was to share her bed with fat Cousin Lutie, who probably snored in her sleep, Judith was in no haste to retire. Taking a candle, she slipped down the covered passage to the kitchen. Just after prayers she had heard Richard say that he would smoke a pipe by the kitchen fire before going to bed.

She found him sitting alone before the open grate of the big cookstove.

There was no light in the smoke-blackened room except the red gleam of coals through the grating. It made sharp high lights of the man's features, changing the familiar outlines of his handsome open countenance, giving a dark brooding look to his face.

"I beg your pardon. I didn't know there was anyone here."

At the sound of Judith's voice he started, almost guiltily, and rose to his feet.

"Please don't go. I just thought I'd read a bit before going to bed. There's no fire in my room." Judith set her candle on a convenient shelf and drew an old rocker close to the stove.

He sat down again without speaking. Judith settled herself with her book and pretended to read. The clock on the shelf ticked noisily. The man seemed oblivious of her presence.

When she had turned two pages she laid her book down and delicately stifled a yawn. Then she stole a glance at her silent neighbor. He was looking at her intently.

She felt that he had been watching her for some time.

Inadvertently she spoke. ''what's the matter?"

He leaned toward her and said in a lowered tone, "Do you know anything about that doll?"

If he had struck her she could not have recoiled more sharply. Fortunately the recoil was mental and the light was poor.

"You mean—Thorne's doll?"

He nodded.

"Why do you ask?"

"My wife did not die of membranous croup."

"What did she die of?"

"Heart attack. Following sudden shock."

The kitchen clock ticked stridently above their heads. The book in Judith's lap was tightly clutched with sweating hands. She neither moved nor spoke.

"When you came to call me that night you said my wife had wakened from a sound sleep and seemed to be having trouble with her breathing. Remember?"

"I remember."

"Had there been anyone else in the room besides yourself during the night?"

"No one."

"Did you leave the room at any time?"

"Not until I went to call you." Judith seemed to be having trouble with her own breathing. "Why do you ask?"

"When I got down to Abigail's room I found her clutching her throat and gasping that she was being strangled. She couldn't breathe, she could scarcely speak, yet she tried to tell me something about the doll. She said she had waked to find it lying on the pillow with a velvet ribbon tied round its neck. The string was tied so tight it was choking her to death. She begged me to cut it so she could breathe. And all in gasping whispers while she clawed for air. Oh, my God, it was pitiful!"

"What did you do?" asked Judith.

"There was nothing I could do," he answered. "The doll wasn't there."

The hands gripping the book relaxed. "Hallucination."

Richard muttered, "I wish I could believe it."

"What did the doctor say?"

"By the time the doctor got there Abigail was unconscious."

'Then you didn't tell him about the doll?"

He looked guilty. "It was too late to do anything. Dr. Caxton seemed to think it was membranous croup."

"It was membranous croup, wasn't it?"

He shook his head. "It was her heart. I'm sure of it. She always fainted easily. She died of fright."

"Then it was self-induced," said Judith. "Because you found no doll, did you?"

"I searched everywhere. On The bed, under the bed. There was no doll in the room."

"There! You see? Pure hallucination."

"But she described so accurately the ribbon about its neck. Do you think she would have mentioned a velvet ribbon if it had been hallucination?"

"She might," said Judith calmly. "Velvet ribbons are the fashion, you know. I wear them myself. She was already having trouble with her breathing when I went to call you. Her imagination started working. The doll was never out of her mind. She began thinking about it—and saw it with a velvet ribbon around its neck."

"And you think that's all she saw—just an image of her own excited fancy?"

"I do indeed."

"Then why did she say"—he seemed to force the words— "when I asked her what became of the doll, why did she say, 'She knows'?"

Cold sweat drenched Judith's body under her woolen undergarments.

"I know what you're thinking, Mr. Tomlinson," she said carefully. "You're thinking she meant Thorne."

"No, no!" The very fervor of his denial was confirmation.

"The doll belonged to Thorne, of course. And Miss Abigail always believed she had it hidden away somewhere."

Now that she knew his fear Judith's relief made her slightly giddy.

"I never thought of it before—but I suppose someone could have slipped into your wife's room while I was out—and laid the doll on her pillow—then taken it away before you came down."

A stifled groan was the only sign that he had heard her.

"I remember now that Thorne slept in the trundle bed that night, just beyond the door that connected with Miss Abigail's room."

He, too, remembered. The lines in his face, the pain in his eyes were proof of his tortured thinking.

''She could have seen me go upstairs," Judith went on, "and seized the opportunity while I was out of the room. And of course she could have tied a velvet ribbon around the doll's neck. After all, she's little more than a child; she'd naturally dress her dolly in the current fashion. But that doesn't prove your wife actually saw the doll on her pillow. I still think she was suffering from hallucination."