The dark fantastic (17 page)

Then it was shattered startlingly by the shrill high voice of old age.

"They're standing right on the spot where Abigail was laid out."

The speaker was old Judge Shane, a local patriarch, stone deaf and embarrassingly given to thinking out loud. For a shocked second the incident put a slight damper on the newly made marriage.

Then John Barclay's hands upon the piano plunged into the Mendelssohn march, and suddenly it was the merriest

gathering imaginable. Perhaps it was because Lucius Goff took hold, and he was slightly exhilarated. Perhaps the old Judge's soliloquizing had made everyone a bit hysterical. Perhaps, as Ellen Barclay said afterward, it was a relief to find you could laugh and cut up again at Tomlinson's after all those years of having to mind your P's and Q's on account of Abigail. Whatever the cause, there had never been seen so much backslapping and handshaking and kissing of girls—old and young.

Ann Tomlinson, looking sedately festive in gray poplin, stood in the dining room with Dr. Caxton and watched the loaded table swept clean again and again by the onslaughts made upon it. Baked hams, fried chickens, cakes, pies, and jellies disappeared as though a swarm of locusts had passed over. As fast as they vanished replenishments came through the covered passage from Millie's inexhaustible kitchen, borne by Cousin Lutie and Henry Schook's wife, who was "helping out." The preacher was heard to sigh, "It's discouraging to see so many good things before you, when you've already had more than you should eat." Mr. Jameson's popularity with the ladies put him in a fair way to rival Jesse Moffat as a trencherman.

Ann's eyes met the doctor's and they both smiled. These two understood each other. They belonged to the same generation. He had been her husband's friend. She was not afraid to let him see, behind her smile, her mind's unease regarding this marriage.

"You've set a new goal for local society tonight, Ann."

"I'm afraid that was not what I was aiming at. Doctor."

"You don't feel right about this wedding, do you?"

"I wish Richard had waited longer."

"I shouldn't worry on that score. Considering the life Abigail led him, I think six months' mourning was too damn good for her."

"I don't mean—on Abigail's account. Though considering Otis Huse's sharp tongue, I think it would have been wiser. But it's Richard I'm thinking of. He's never had a chance to be a bachelor. We married him off so soon. Every young man needs a little time of freedom. And now—just six months after his release from " She looked at him with eyes suddenly moist.

"You know how it was."

He said fervently, "God knows I do," and then they both were silent.

"It won't be like that this time," he went on. "Richard's getting a healthy wife; one who, if I'm any judge, has plenty to offer a husband. You must remember he's human, Ann." He added bluntly, "He needs a woman."

"He needs love," said Richard's mother.

"Bah! There's no such thing," scoffed the old cynic.

There was dancing in the front room. From somewhere John Barclay's violin had appeared and Lucius Goff had organized a Virginia reel. Hearing the rhythm of tapping feet and stringed music, Ann Tomlinson glanced anxiously at the minister. But Mr. Jameson was still surrounded by attentive ladies bent on giving him indigestion and apparently oblivious of the turn the festivities had taken.

"I suppose I should go in and stop them," Ann murmured dubiously.

"You'll do no such thing," growled the doctor.

Nevertheless, she hurried down the hall, still doubtful of the propriety of Terpsichore and Theology consorting. The doctor followed, snorting, at her heels.

The dance was in full swing. Every man young enough to twirl and sashay had captured a partner and was cutting as lively a figure as Sunday breeches and tight shoes would permit. The voluminous skirts of the ladies dipped and swirled. It was a pretty sight. Eyes sparkled and cheeks glowed with the rollicking exercise. The doctor muttered in his companion's ear, "Now if you can see anything wrong in that I'll eat Jameson's coattails, swallow by swallow."

Ann looked about for Richard. He was not dancing. He was standing apart, watching his bride dance with Lucius Goff.

Judith danced well, if somewhat stiffly, in a far more ladylike fashion than the others, who were growing more boisterous with each round. Richard's eyes followed her, smiling, as though he approved the way she danced. She caught his eye, and as the next turn of the reel deposited her near him Miss Ann heard her say, "Please, Richard, come on. I'd much rather dance with you."

"I think I'd better wait till Mr. Jameson leaves."

"If you feel that way, I shouldn't be dancing either,"

"But I want you to dance. I've no objection personally.

It's just that—on Mother's account There! It's your turn.

Hurry, or you'll miss Lucius."

As she swung back into line to meet her partner Dr. Caxton muttered to Ann Tomlinson:

"See what you've done wdth your bluestocking notions? Made a wallflower of the best dancer in the room. I know," he replied in answer to her surprised look. "I saw him dance a schottische one night at Henderson's. If you don't go tell him to get in that reel I'll go and push him in."

But before she could take action the two were cut off from Richard by a swarm of children who had been playing blind-man's buff out of doors. They flung themselves upon Richard, clamoring that they wanted to dance too. A junior reel was organized, composed of the Turner boys and Nancy, the younger Barclay girls, Richard's two youngsters, and Thorne. In the scramble to pair off, Thorne was left without a partner. She seized Richard's hands and pulled him into the dance. He seemed to need no urging.

It was a sight worth watching, the way those two danced together. Like many tall men, Richard was surprisingly light on his feet, and Thorne was like blown thistledown. Before long everyone else had stopped dancing to watch them.

Judith stopped dancing and stood quite still. She had taken Richard's refusal to dance with her as a subterfuge to hide his deficiency in the graceful art. She had not dreamed he could dance like that. Ann Tomlinson, catching a glimpse of her new daughter-in-law's face, recalled sharply the taste of a green persimmon.

As Thorne came tripping down the line, hands outstretched that Richard might twirl her, Judith made a movement swift as a darting hawk. She seized the hands before Richard could reach them and pulled Thorne out of the dance.

"You've stayed up long enough, Thorne. It's past your bedtime. You'd better go upstairs."

The cold, harsh command was astounding. Fortunately only a few people heard, for the room was crowded. But those few looked blank with consternation. Richard's own boys—six and seven—were staying up as late as their elders. Thorne, fourteen, was being sent to bed like a naughty child.

Ann Tomlinson looked at her son. Richard's face was a stony mask.

The doctor said softly, "She shouldn't have done that."

Ann whispered, "what do you think he'll do?"

"What can he do?" growled the doctor. "Just married. He can't start arguing with the woman before he's even bedded her."

Ann turned to look for Thorne. She had vanished. Judith was explaining sweetly, graciously, to a roomful of curious people that she was asking them all to stop dancing in deference to Mr. Jameson.

"I know Miss Ann doesn't think we're showing proper respect to the minister."

Dr. Caxton mumbled in his beard, "Something tells me Abigail was a houscbroken angel compared to this filly."

Fortunately no one heard him.

Richard's foot was as light on the stairs as it had been in the dance. No one heard him go up. He paused outside the door of his mother's room and listened to a sound of mufHed sobbing within. He tried the door. It was locked.

He called softly, but the sobs seemed to come from beneath a pillow. He dared not lift his voice. He would be heard downstairs before he was heard within the smothering feathers of his mother's bed.

His heart ached for the unseen weeper. He blamed himself for the whole stupid business. He had committed an unpardonable error in dancing, even with the children, after refusing his bride. He tried generously to excuse Judith. She had reason to be hurt by his behavior.

But she had no right to vent her feelings upon Thorne. His first shocked anger at Judith flamed again, frightening him by its vehemence. This was no way to feel toward the wife he had just wedded. But she had no cause to reprimand the child in that shameful fashion before a roomful of people. She had behaved exactly like—Abigail.

His thoughts retreated in panic haste from that comparison.

He put his ear to the door. Mingled now with the sobbing was an audible refrain, repeated over and over.

"I wish I was dead. Oh, I wish I was dead."

Strangely, the forlorn little wail reassured rather than alarmed him. It was the moan of childhood, wishing itself dead because of some injury, real or fancied. He smiled and drew his hand caressingly across the hard-oak door. Then he turned and went back downstairs.

He had not been missed. Judith was preparing to toss her bridal bouquet, and it was well that he came down when he did or they would have passed on the stairs. He stood in the hall below and watched her lean from the rail of the landing and throw the flowers straight into the hands of the oldest Barclay girl, and he knew she had done it to please him. John Barclay was his friend, and it was fitting that one of his five daughters should receive the hopeful token. Judith was very tactful. But Richard, watching the giggling maidens, could think only of Thorne, who should have had a part in this pretty scene, sobbing her heart out upstairs.

He went out onto the side porch, where some of the more convivial spirits had been withdrawing at intervals all evening. It was as he suspected. Something more potent than his mother's raspberry shrub was circulating. One of the Henderson boys had brought it from town. When he was invited to sample the fiery nectar he did not refuse. He had to get rid of this feeling he had toward Judith. If he did not go to her tonight a little drunk he might not go to her at all.

Judith sat before the mirror in the bird's-eye-maple room alone at last. It was the custom of the community, so she had learned, for all the marriageable women to gather in the bridal chamber and help the bride disrobe. She had meekly submitted to this barbarous rite, but first she had locked the bureau drawer which hid her wedding nightgown. It was not the virginal garment which the ladies of Woods County would be expecting. Now, rid of her unwelcome attendants, she quickly unbuttoned the thick muslin gown in which they had sheathed her.

It was a handsome gown, hand-tucked and embroidered, a gift from Richard's sister in Kentucky. The sleeves came down to her wrists; the yoke was finished with a ruffle at the throat. She unfastened a dozen fine pearl buttons before the heavy nightdress fell to her feet.

Unlocking the bureau drawer, she took out another gown and slipped it over her head. It was not quite transparent, but it might as well have been. She had made this gown herself  in secret. No one, not even Cousin Lutie, had seen it. It fell about her body like trailing mist.

She was trembling now, weak with apprehension. She had watched Richard's face, following that little scene with Thorne. what had come over her to make her behave like that? All along her every conscious effort had been to conciliate and win Thorne's friendship. And suddenly she had pounced on the child and ordered her off to bed as though something had taken possession of her; some malevolent imp, bent on causing her to do the one thing that would alienate Richard on her bridal night. It almost seemed as if some power outside herself had driven her to wreck her own happiness by behaving like—Abigail.

She gazed into the mirror fearfully as she whispered the name.

It was the first time she had let herself think of Abigail since the day she met Miss Ann coming out of the downstairs bedroom. Now, curiously, the thought of the dead woman brought no reminder of anything that had happened in that room, only a vivid recollection of Abigail's jealous hatred of Thorne. That hatred had puzzled Judith once. It alarmed her now. Because now she had felt it too. She had taken it unto herself this very night, as she had taken Abigail's husband. And it had caused her to behave as Abigail would have behaved. The thought was sinister; it was frightening.

Of course she would never let it happen again. She would watch herself. She would explain to Richard that she had been momentarily ill—or disturbed about the minister—or something—if it was not too late. . . .

The house was quiet now. All the overnight guests had retired. Doors along the hall were closed. Voices and footsteps were silent. Still he had not come to her.

Was he too angry to come? If he did come, would he desire her? Judith's eyes grew haggard with waiting as the little clock on her dresser ticked away the minutes of her marriage night.

A wind was rising. The branches of the locust trees lashed against her window like frantic arms beseeching entrance. The tall house moaned and sighed. A creaking sound moved up the stairs, and for a moment she knew a thrill of pure terror. Then she recognized it as a footstep moving slowly—reluctantly?— toward her door. When the light tap sounded discreetly she had no voice to answer the summons. A stricture, like a band, tightened about her throat.

He came in softly and closed the door. They looked at each other in silence. She feared that the flush on his face was anger and that he had come to have it out with her. Then she saw that he had been drinking. He must have been exceedingly wroth with her, for he was not a drinking man; but if the drink had dulled his anger she did not care.

He came slowly across the room to her and stood looking down at the misty nightgown. Its charm was not wasted. Whatever had been on his mind when he entered was not there now. She smiled, half giddy with relief, and felt herself lifted in his arms.

But even as she was borne to the marriage bed she had a strange conviction that he had not come to her like a bridegroom. He had come, as his look betrayed, like a guilty lover keeping a rendezvous.