The dark fantastic (20 page)

''Mother, do you think Millie could have had anything to do with this?"

The idea was ludicrous, but Miss Ann went out to the kitchen to question her old servant.

''Judith"—Richard turned to his wife, and their glances met combatively—"you said every member of the household should be examined. Have you any light to throw upon this business?"

Judith said, still sweetly, "Nothing, except to remind you that you've overlooked Thorne."

"I haven't come to her yet."

"You've come to her now."

He looked across the room, where Thorne sat motionless on the stool. Her face was pale, but no paler than his.

"Cricket, do you know anything about this?"

"I didn't do it," said Thorne.

"Then that's all that matters," said Richard.

But Judith was not satisfied.

"You know, Thorne, you're quite clever enough to remove a key from a man's pocket without him being aware of your action."

Thorne said in a curious tone, "Yes, I know that. Other people know it too."

Judith said sharply, "what do you mean by that statement?"

Richard interrupted, "She's said she didn't do it, Judith. Why can't her word be accepted as well as the others?"

"Because she is insinuating something."

"You're not insinuating anything, are you. Cricket?"

Thorne's face was so pale now that she looked almost ill. It was very hard trying to explain with all of them staring at her. She said, "I've had a feeling something like this was going to happen."

"Make her tell what she means, Richard, by those veiled hints."

How could Thorne put into words what was so clear to her own sensitive perception? That sense of foreboding which had underlain her strange ecstasy had meaning now. This was what had been moving toward her, this incriminating circumstance. Judith would convince Richard of Thorne's guilt. And to lose Richard's trust and friendship would be a blow which should satisfy Thorne's bitterest enemy.

She said, "I've been too happy lately. I was afraid something would happen."

"That's superstition," said Judith.

"Yes, I know." Thorne wrinkled her smooth young brow with the effort to make her meaning clear. "I think whoever played this trick was hoping it would be laid at my door."

Judith's face flushed with anger. "Be careful how you make accusations, young lady."

"I'm not accusing anyone," said Thorne. She looked about the little group, noting the suspicion in the farm hands' faces, even in the wide clear eyes of the children. "But you can see how well it succeeded. You all believe I did this."

"We believe nothing of the sort," said Richard.

No one else spoke.

Miss Ann came back from the kitchen to report that Millie was ready to swear to her own innocence. Richard informed his mother of Thorne's belief that someone was trying to incriminate her.

"And I for one think it's the explanation for this mischief," he said, "and the stolen coin as well."

Miss Ann asked Thorne, "Who do you think has this spite against you, child?"

Thorne shook her head. It was not clear whether she refused to answer or did not know. But Judith suddenly decided to terminate the discussion.

"We're not interested in theories, we're interested in facts. Thorne, by her own admission, is the only person who could have stolen your key, Richard."

"And Thorne, by her own admission, did not steal my key, Judith. So that's the final word upon the subject."

But it was not the final word. There was one thing more, which Judith seemed impelled to say.

She waited until bedtime, when Richard was comfortably ensconced with his book, a candle at his elbow. It was not flattering that he had reverted so soon to his old habit of reading in bed. The ritual of hairbrushing no longer engrossed him.

"Of course it's quite plain what Thorne was hinting at this morning," Judith began.

He looked up from the page he was reading. "What did you say about Thorne?"

"Why, it was quite evident," said Judith, "Thorne would have had you believe I played that silly prank in order to incriminate her."

Richard looked not at all shocked, only interested.

"Yes, of course. You are the one person who has the perfect opportunity for taking my key and replacing it—while I'm asleep."

Judith dropped the brush she was wielding. She did not speak until she had retrieved it.

"My dear Richard, are you accusing me?"

He smiled innocuously. "You are quite as likely a suspect as Thorne. You had the opportunity and the motive."

"What motive?"

"Those pictures of Abigail were a source of irritation to you. You might have decided that you would feel happier if they were out of the house altogether. So you stole down in the dead of night; and Thorne, sleeping in the trundle bed, heard you and cried out and gave you a frightful scare. I don't believe you meant to incriminate Thorne—at first

Your thought was to punish her for the shock she had given you. Abigail's purse was at hand. You filched a coin from it and slipped it into the family Bible, where you knew I would find it. Later your own fear of discovery prompted an accusation of Thorne, which I believe—or hope—you're ashamed of." His voice was pleasant throughout.

Judith turned back to the mirror. The hand that held the brush was trembling.

"Of course you don't believe a word you're saying."

"Whether I do or not, my dear, we'll say no more about it. Thorne knows that I'm convinced of her innocence. It's not necessary for her to know any more."

"I suppose she put that idea about me into your head."

"Oh no," said Richard quickly. "I'm sure Thorne never thought of you. Poor child, she was afraid of Abigail."

"Abigail!" said Judith sharply. And then she laughed, "Do you mean the silly thing is afraid of a dead woman?"

"When you consider how she was persecuted by Abigail, it's small wonder she should imagine the woman's spirit was hounding her, playing pranks from beyond the grave to incriminate her."

Judith said, "Her purpose in advancing that theory is to frighten me."

"Now you're being ridiculous." Richard slumped back on his pillow. "Why should Thorne try to frighten you?"

"You may not have noticed, Richard, but Thorne has never liked me. As far back as a year ago, when she shared this room with me, I was conscious of her reluctance to sleep with me."

"That's interesting," said Richard, and picked up his book. "Because Thorne had the same idea about you. She felt that you didn't like sleeping with her."

"There!" said Judith triumphantly. "You see how she lies?"

He slammed down the book with a force which, unfortunately, did not register on the soft feather bed.

"Thorne does not lie. She has too much sense."

"She has no sense at all, as you ought to know; you've been coaching her in arithmetic. She's only precocious—emotionally."

It was out at last, the word that held significance. With its utterance two spots of color burned in Judith's cheeks.

Richard said, curiously, "What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm beginning to understand why Abigail didn't like her. Abigail wasn't as crazy as people thought. In some ways she was smart." Suddenly Judith realized she was talking to the man who had been Abigail's husband.

She went on more lightly, "I suppose it's growing pains with Thorne. She'll stop behaving like a spoiled child eventually and turn into a respectable member of adult society— at least we hope so. In the meantime, it's rather uncomfortable for the people who have to live with her."

Richard laid his book on the night table and blew out his candle. When Judith came to bed there was no response from the other occupant of the big four-poster. She wondered if he really suspected her guilt in the matter of the photographs. Doubtless his startling accusation had been a random shot, more or less facetious. If he knew how accurate had been his aim he would probably never speak to her again. She had skated on very thin ice for a moment.

How stupid she had been! How childishly stupid, to risk her happiness on such a paltry issue. Abigail herself could have behaved no more senselessly. She seemed to have been driven, as on her wedding night, to act as Abigail would have acted; to do the thing which, if discovered, would utterly alienate her husband, as if she were bent on wrecking her marriage.

Heaven helping her, she would never be such a fool again. She would overcome the silly feeling she had about Thorne, this stranger feeling she had about Abigail. She would do nothing henceforth to jeopardize her marriage.

CHAPTER 17

The new year was well into February before Judith achieved her purpose of giving a party at Timberley which should be something other than a family reunion. Twice she had postponed her date; first during the holiday season, when an annoying irritation of her throat had prompted Dr. Caxton to prescribe a few days in bed.

"But I'm not sick, Doctor. I feel quite well except for this choking sensation. It catches me suddenly without the slightest warning."

"A nervous paroxysm," pronounced the doctor. "You probably talk too much." From his quizzical expression a facetious dig was indicated. "Public speakers frequently suffer that way."

"But I'm not a pubhc speaker."

He blandly included schoolteachers in this occupational liability.

"I'm not teaching any more. I only use my voice in conversation."

"Try letting it rest for a day or so," was the crusty advice. "Go to bed—give your entire body a rest. Don't talk except when necessary. And keep yourself isolated from the children until we see what this is."

"You think it might be something contagious?"

"There's diphtheria over by Mullen's Mill," he told her bluntly. "I knew there'd be an epidemic of some sort. Some hogs died of cholera there last fall and were allowed to rot unburied during that warm spell. Someday we'll have laws about things like that, but I shan't live long enough to see it."

Judith went to bed for a week and had a wonderful time: reading, resting, and devising little services for Richard to perform. He was so sweet-tempered about waiting on her that she toyed with the temptation of prolonging her convalescence in order to enjoy his attentions. But on the doctor's next visit she was told to get out of bed and put on her clothes.

"We don't want any more invalids around here for Richard to coddle. There's nothing the matter with you."

Relieved, if somewhat indignant, Judith plunged into preparations for her party, which she now set forward to January, only to find a religious revival usurping the calendar for that month. Nothing daunted, she set her date for the first week in February and laid her plans before Richard, as a subtle means of persuading him that they were his own ideas.

Unfortunately he was inclined to be difficult. He had agreed heartily enough that they should give a party, but he failed to grasp its significance. It was not a family affair, she delicately pointed out. Neither the Turners nor the Mitchells were to be included. It was a little gathering of congenial spirits, and the only entertainment, besides a light refreshment, was to be the free flow of intellectual conversation. Richard seemed more interested in the fact that the party gave him an excuse to buy Thorne a new dress.

With remarkable patience and self-restraint Judith explained that Thorne would not need a new dress because she was not going to appear.

They argued this point exhaustively.

"This is an adult party. None of the children will be in evidence."

"That's all right for Ricky and Rodgie, but you said yourself that Thorne was growing up."

"I said she was suffering from growing pains. There's a difference."

Richard growled, "She's read a damn sight more than young Will."

By Judith's express invitation Will Tomlinson was to be among those present.

Miss Ann put an end to the argument by agreeing with Judith that Thorne was too young for a party of this sort. She would take all the children up to her room on the evening in question. Richard yielded, on one condition: that Thorne should be given a birthday party in May.

"Is her birthday in May?" inquired Judith.

He didn't know if it was or not, but May was a beautiful month for a party. His mother acquiesced, and Judith said it was a charming idea. They would give a party for all the children in May.

After that things went more smoothly. Invitations were so choice and few that they were accepted enthusiastically. An author of national repute chanced to be visiting old friends in Woodridge, and Judith captured him as the lion of the hour. In addition, there was the editor of the Sentinel, an oldish bachelor with a university degree and a spinster sister; there were the Barclays (Ellen included on her husband's account), Lucius Goff and a lady friend from Terre Haute, Albert Carpenter (present incumbent at Timberley school), and a few more of the intelligentsia.

Doc Baird was not invited, but Richard did not learn of this until it was too late to do anything about it.

The party was doomed from the outset. As an initial embarrassment everyone inquired for the absent Tomlinsons and seemed unable to grasp the idea that neither illness nor calamity was responsible for their non-appearance. Judith realized that she had committed an error in excluding the family.

But the major disaster was beyond her control. She had stated in her invitations that the gathering was complimentary to the visiting man of letters, Mr. Fairchild, and had indicated that literature was to be the subject of the evening's discussion. But unfortunately the six weeks' revival had just closed in a blaze of excitement, with the flaming oratory of the evangelist focused on the burning issue, "Is there a personal devil?" And those who had heard him were still smoking. Literature paled beside the incendiary topic of devils, both personal and general. Opinions ranged from the avowed skepticism of the Sentinel editor—who believed nothing he could not feel, taste, or smell—to the unshakable conviction of Mrs. Barclay, who declared the devil a part of her religion and accepted him complete with horns, hoofs, and tail. Discussion was livelier than anything Judith had dared hope for, but alas! on the wrong subject. Even Richard astonished her by affirming his belief in an incarnate spirit of evil.