The dark fantastic (14 page)

"Isn't that the way Nancy wears hers?"

"Yes. Don't you like it?"

His answer was to extricate the two shell pins that held the

braids and toss them away. "Hairpins!" he muttered. Then, with his fingers, he combed the thick loose plaits into their accustomed curly tangle.

"You shouldn't have thrown the pins away," said Thorne. "They belonged to Nancy." She looked at him anxiously. "Are you angry? I didn't know you'd mind."

In the twilight of the beeches her face was a dim pale shape. He took it between his hands as though to see it better. He could no more be angry with her than with his own hand or heart, but he was troubled. She was growing so fast and he had no knowledge of how to deal with a girl child who was growing up. He would have talked to his mother about her but that he recalled what Judith had told him about Miss Ann's belief that Thorne would do better in Kentucky with his older sister. If his mother held that opinion it would not do to betray his own uneasiness. Doubtless his other sisters agreed with her. He had no one to turn to in his perplexity, unless . . .

Inevitably his reasoning brought him to the point round which his thoughts had milled all summer: Judith.

Over and over he had relived their talk by the kitchen fire. He realized that he had practically committed himself to marry her—if he ever married anyone. But this summer of absolute freedom had been so to his liking that he had decided he did not want to marry again. He had persuaded himself that he could manage his household without any woman's help, when this troublesome business about Thorne obtruded and destroyed his peace of mind.

"I'm not angry with you. Cricket. I just don't like you shooting up so fast. You're growing like a spring colt."

"Am I?" she laughed happily.

He said jealously, "You sound as though you were glad."

"Of course I'm glad. Aren't you?"

He did not answer. He only stood stroking her hair, as though his hand upon her head could postpone growth and some dimly foreseen heartache.

"I don't want to be a child all my life," said Thorne. "I'd like to grow up right now—this very summer."

"Another speech like that and I'll turn you across my knee." He gave her a little shake as he released her.

They went on in companionable silence through the deepening twilight of the woods. All about them the unseen life of feathered, furred, and creeping things grew vocal with the fall of evening. A squirrel barked just over their heads, from some hidden pool of rain water came the croupy plaint of a frog, a thrush cleared his throat in a thicket, and on all sides rose the pulsing croon of katydids. It was the time, of all others, Thorne loved to be in the woods. She was sorry when they came out of the grove and crossed the road to the store.

Timberley store was kept by an elderly bachelor named Witherspoon who lived on the premises with his family of cats and never closed up till bedtime. On mail days—Tuesdays and Fridays—he never went to bed until a late hour, because as sure as he did some tardy customer would bang on his door and demand that he open up and give him his paper. The mail consisted mostly of periodicals. Those who could afford it subscribed to at least one—sometimes two—weekly papers. Those who couldn't afford subscriptions borrowed from their neighbors. The Tomlinsons took both the Indianapolis and Terre Haute papers and after reading them passed them on to the Schooks.

As Richard and Thorne entered the store Henry Schook hailed them from his seat on the sugar barrel.

"Our papers've come, Richard. Here's the Express." He tossed over one of the newspapers as blandly as though it had been his own. "You can run through that while I see what's doin' in Indianapolis."

The room was filled with men, newspapers, tobacco smoke, and conversation. Richard was greeted from all sides. Thorne

edged her way to the row of mailboxes at the back of the room, where Mr. Witherspoon was still sorting the contents of the two sacks labeled ''U.S. Mail."

"A-B-C-D-E-F-G-Garcey Humph! Wonder what Widow Garcey's brother in Ohio's writin' her about. Oh, hello, Thorne. How're you this evening?"

"Fine, thanks. Want me to put that in Mrs. Garcey's box?"

"Might as well." Mr. Witherspoon surrendered the envelope dubiously. "Always hate to see people get letters. So apt to have bad news in 'em."

"Why?" Thorne was interested. "Wliy should letters be apt to have bad news?"

His reason was cogent. "No point in writin' if things are goin' well."

Thorne had never considered it in this light before. The remark excited her imagination. Mr. Witherspoon's moroseness had always fascinated her. Now it was explained. At some time in his life he had undoubtedly received bad news in a letter. That was why he lived alone, like an embittered old maid, with his cat Sheba and her occasional offspring.

"Well, I'll be switched! Here's one for you, Thorne."

Thorne looked up blankly. The storekeeper was holding out a square white envelope gingerly, as though distrusting its contents. Thesuperscription, plain as faultless penmanship could make it, was Miss Thorne Tomlinson, Timberly Farm, Woodndge, Indiana.

"Now who could be writin' letters to an innocent young thing like you?" wondered Mr. Witherspoon darkly.

Thorne knew only too well whose hand had penned her name with that beautifully shaded stroke. She had seen that writing on blackboards too often to mistake it. The sight of it now gave her a queer sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The storekeeper, mistaking her change of color, said kindly, "There now, don't be scared 'count of what I said about bad news. Nobody could be writin' you bad news 'cause you ain't got any folks to have things happen to. Go ahead, take it. See who it's from."

"I know who it's from," said Thorne, and slipped the letter into her pocket.

"Aren't you going to read it?" asked Mr. Witherspoon. He was disappointed.

"I will—later," said Thorne, and went out on the side porch, where Sheba and her daughters were making their evening toilets. Here Richard found her some time later when he inquired of the storekeeper what had become of her.

"She went outdoors to read her letter."

"Did Thorne get a letter? Who from?"

"She didn't open it in here," was the somewhat injured reply.

But Thorne was not reading a letter when Richard joined her. She was sitting on the porch step, so motionless that Sheba's kittens had made a bed of her wide-flung skirt.

"Hello! Hear you got a letter." Richard dispossessed the sleeping cats and sat down beside her. Leaning forward, he peered into her face and sharp anxiety seized him. Had someone connected with her old life—that good-for-nothing prestidigitator, Pete McGraw, to be exact—communicated with the child after all this time?

"Who's it from. Cricket?"

"I haven't opened it yet."

In her eyes was a look he had not seen there since Abigail died. His own fears immediately became facts.

"Listen, Thorne. No matter what's in that letter, you've nothing to worry about. There's not a person in this world— now—who has the power to hurt you. So give me the letter. If someone's trying to annoy you I'll send him about his business."

But when he reached for the envelope her fingers tightened upon it. An oil lamp flared in the room behind them. He saw tears upon her check.

"Thorne! What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I'm going home." She sprang up suddenly, like a young wild thing, and began walking rapidly toward the road. He had to hurry to catch up with her.

"Wait, Thorne. You're crying."

"I'm not."

She crossed the road and started running. Wildly she fled toward the woods, hearing him gain upon her and seized with a foolish panic. When he caught her she screamed and struggled in his grasp, beating his chest with small ineffectual fists while her face contorted with tears. "Let me go!" she sobbed.

"Thorne! What's come over you? We're not going back through the woods. It's too dark. Here, take my handkerchief. Your face is a sight. You shouldn't rub your eyes with hands that have been petting dirty cats."

The mild scolding restored her wonderfully. She accepted the handkerchief, used it, and returned it with a casual "Thanks," as coolly as though her sudden tantrum had never occurred. But as they went on their way she proffered the letter with a gesture slightly apologetic.

"Here—you can read it if you want to."

The large elegant black script was perfectly clear in the fading light. At sight of it Richard was relieved.

"Well, no carnival tramp wrote that. It looks like a woman's hand. Who could it be from?"

Thorne gave him a sidelong glance. "Don't you know?"

"It's not my sister Annie's scribble." He looked extremely innocent. "I can't think of any other feminine correspondents

with Timberley—unless " He stopped as his eyes fell on the

postmark. Thorne, watching him, saw color rise beneath his summer tan.

"It's from Terre Haute," he said, rather too carelessly. "Maybe it's from Miss Amory."

"I'm sure it is," said Thorne, and quickened her pace.

"Here, wait! Don't you want to read it?"

"It's too dark."

"Nonsense. It's quite light, now that we're clear of the trees."

"All right then, you read it," said Thorne, so shortly that he might have wondered at her tone had he not been so intent upon learning what had prompted Judith Amory to write to her former pupil.

It was an innocuous missive, quite brief. He read it in silence first, just in case it bore reference to any conversation the writer might have had with Mr. Richard Tomlinson.

"Dear Thorne,

"I've thought of you so often since leaving Timberley and always with the pleasantest memories of our companionship. How is the reading coming on? I can't chide you if you find little time for it these long summer days. There are shut-in hours next winter for Shakespeare and Dickens, and Timberley must be at its loveliest in June.

"I envy you, my dear. The city is so hot and the work I am doing —tutoring for fall examinations—so tiresome. I long for your cool green woods, but the next best thing would be a visit from you telling me about them. If any of the family should chance to be coming to the city do ask them to bring you to sec me.

"With kindest regards to all, I remain

"Your friend, "Judith Amory"

"Well, what a nice letter," was Richard's comment as he folded the sheet of note paper after reading it aloud. "A very thoughtful thing for a schoolteacher to keep in touch with her old pupils."

Thorne looked at him in eloquent silence. Her futile anger melted before the colossal stupidity of man. To her the purpose of the letter was so obvious it seemed that even Richard must see that the woman had used the device to recall her own image to his mind. That she had succeeded, a glance at his face would attest. Even in the gathering darkness a kindhng glow was visible,

When they came in sight of Timberley, Thorne ran ahead of him up the slope to the house. Fireflies starred the dusk, and the young Tomlinsons and Turners were chasing them over the lawn. She shouted to the children and threw herself into the sport; threw herself back into childhood, from the precarious ledge of adult reasoning on which she had teetered. What if Judith had written her a letter? It meant nothing. Why shouldn't Richard be pleased? He was always pleased when someone showed her a kindness. He was her dear friend, and no one, nor anything, could make him less. Neither death, nor life . . . nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature should separate them.

She had an ear for the majestic phraseology of the Bible, independent of its connotation. In the fragment which had lingered from last night's prayers she had failed to note that it was the love of God from which she was promised no separation, not the love of friend.

CHAPTER 12

Far from being the unsuspecting dolt that Thorne would have had him, Richard was perfectly aware of the purpose in Judith's note. The little strategy by which he was reminded that he had a rendezvous, come autumn, amused him. In the security of his resolution he was flattered rather than alarmed. For he had quite made up his mind that he was not going to marry again.

But the letter, carrying a delicate whiff of the scent she always used, brought Judith sharply before him. The elegant handwriting, expressing concern and affection for his little friend, revived the old feeling of gratitude. Judith was very kind; much too kind to be hurt. He had intended simply forgetting any vague promise to see her again. Now he realized the frank and gentlemanly thing to do was to call upon her and in a kind and impersonal way make it clear that he had no intention of remarrying. Perhaps he would take the children with him so that she could not possibly misconstrue his visit. He would go to the city as soon as harvest was over.

Wheat harvest dominated the month of July. The Tomlinsons owned the only reaping and threshing machines in the district, and it was the custom of the neighboring farmers to lend their services at Timberley in return for the loan of the back-saving machinery for cutting their own crops. When the Tomlinson grain had been harvested the whole crew moved on to the next farm, and so on in rotation. Women accompanied their men to assist in preparation of the harvest dinners which were cooked in the farmhouse kitchens and carried out to hastily constructed tables under the trees. Children accompanied mothers, and the whole season was in the nature of a prolonged community picnic.

After the reaping came the threshing. The great horsepower threshing machine, driven round and round by twelve tough mules to the accompaniment of an infernal din, threshed out a crop in two days that would have taken a week's toil on the threshing floor. Many a man in his prime could recall riding horse at the threshing when the grain had been tramped out by hoofs on the floor of a barn.

By the first of August the crop was garnered and sacked, the portion reserved for the family's use stored in the barn, the portion to be marketed hauled to Woodridge or the mill on Big Raccoon. Young Will usually attended to the marketing of the Tomlinson wheat. It was a job for which Richard had no enthusiasm. The drama of the harvest, he loved. The mounting tension of the rush to outstrip the ever-present