The dark fantastic (3 page)

But there were other people to testify that Doc Baird possessed magnetic power of some kind. He had been known to cure headaches, pains in legs and backs, and various nervous ailments by the simple laying on of hands. Jed Weatherell, an epileptic, asserted that when he felt a fit coming on Doc Baird could put it back, if he could get to him in time.

Old Dr. Caxton, a bona fide physician known far and wide as Rockgut Caxton, snorted derisively at such gullibility and denounced the blacksmith as a quack. But as the smith accepted no fees and solicited no patients—he was kept busy six days a week at his trade—he could hardly be accused of charlatanism.

Yet there was some point to the skeptics' demand that if Doc Baird possessed the skill with which he was credited why had he never been able to cure Richard Tomlinson's wife? Surely, if he had any power at all, he would have used it for his friend.

One evening, about a week after Richard Tomlinson's trip to the city, John Barclay sat before the hard-coal burner in his schoolroom and waited for his friends to gather. He thought, as he cuddled his violin, how good was male companionship—not that he didn't love his wife and family of daughters, but—how satisfying was the good hearty man talk that presently would fly back and forth across this glowing stove. What would they be arguing about tonight? Lucius would have the latest news. It was he who usually set the evening's discussion. Last time he had been full of this green-backer talk.

"It's the only thing that will prevent a panic. There's no currency in the country. How long has it been since you've

seen a silver piece, John Barclay? Or you. Doc; how are you paid these days? In produce, I'll be bound. This whole community's living by a system of barter. Isn't that a fact, Richard?"

"We haven't seen any silver at Timberley since the war."

They had had a rousing discussion that night over the green-backers.

What Lucius would have on the griddle tonight there was no telling. But you could count on its being fresh and full of interest. Lucius was the spice of the quartet, just as Doc was the leaven and Barclay himself the flavor. It was Richard who was the substance.

"If his wife does die," thought the schoolmaster, "I hope he never marries again. After all he's been through he deserves a rest."

A heavy step on the wooden porch made him lay aside his fiddle. That would be Doc Baird, usually first to arrive. He was unmarried and had no womenfolk to cajole into good humor before leaving the house. He lived in a two-room cottage back of his shop and "did for himself." Many a harassed family man envied the big blacksmith.

He came in now, with step surprisingly light for so huge a frame, and said as he took the schoolmaster's stoutest chair, "Richard won't be in tonight. His wife's worse."

John Barclay nodded, as though this was to be expected following Richard's trip to the city.

"Been out there, Doc?"

"No. Richard was in town today. The black horse cast a shoe. He asked me to tell you. He didn't like to call you out of school."

The schoolmaster rose and got a jar of tobacco from a cupboard where also reposed a box of chalk and a couple of blackboard erasers. He set the tobacco jar in the center of a small table, and both men filled their pipes.

"She's heading for another spell," said Barclay dryly.

Doc nodded. "I look for it to break tonight."

"Do you suppose you could do anything for her, Doc?"

"I don't know. I've never had a chance to try."

"Richard won't let you?"

''She won't let me. Goes in her room and slams the door when Richard takes me out there."

"You needn't take it personally. She orders Dr. Caxton out of the house too."

"It's nothing to me. It just embarrasses Richard."

"Yes, it would." The schoolmaster sighed. Then to his own surprise he heard himself saying for the second time, and aloud: ,

"If she ever does die, I hope Richard has sense enough not to marry again."

The blacksmith shook his head. "Not a chance."

"He doesn't need a wife," persisted Barclay. "His mother runs the house and she's certainly raising his children."

"A man needs a woman," said Doc solemnly.

"You're a great one to talk."

"I don't mean me—or you—or even our friend Lucius. I mean Richard. He's only twenty-five. If Abigail dies he'll marry in six months, mark my words."

"I don't believe it. He's had enough. I can tell. Besides, there'd be the same thing to go through again."

"You mean the little girl?"

John Barclay nodded. The blacksmith cleared his throat.

"I still say Richard'll never stay single. The women won't let him. Man alive, he'll be the best catch this side of Indianapolis."

"If he's ever a widower," said the schoolmaster dryly. They had both been talking as though Abigail Tomlinson's death were an assured fact.

The train was late that evening, as usual. Due at six-fifteen, it was after seven when the brisk tattoo of a light walking  stick announced Lucius Goff. Lucius had become quite a dandy since going to work on the Terre Haute paper and he always carried a malacca cane. As he came in now, his cloak draped over his shoulders, his hat rakishly tilted, he gave the impression of a devil-may-care fellow who didn't give a damn what people thought. Which was exactly the impression he intended to give.

He was pricking with excitement for some reason. He looked about the room, his nostrils quivering like an expectant whippet's, and demanded, "Where's Richard?"

"He's not coming," said John Barclay. "His wife's sick." Then, thinking to himself, "Lucius has news," he added, "Take off your coat and sit down. We're here, if Richard's not."

But Lucius stepped to the window and peered up the quiet little street. It was dark, except where street lights glimmered, and the square was practically deserted. There was no light visible in any window except the drugstore, before which the station hack had halted. Tom Stickney, the druggist, stood in his door as if watching to see whether the passenger alighting from the hack was coming in.

The passenger was.

Lucius, from the window of the academy, could see straight into the lighted drugstore. He stood motionless, watching.

Doc Baird and the schoolmaster exchanged glances. Then John Barclay stepped behind Lucius and looked over his shoulder. Through the lighted drugstore window could be seen the trim silhouette of a modish young woman. She was talking to Tom Stickney.

Barclay said, "Humph!"

Doc, who without moving was looking over the heads of the other two men, said, "Who is she?"

Lucius spoke without turning his head. "I don't know. She was on the train as I came out. From Terre Haute. We rode up from the station together. I tried to speak to her—and got the icy stare." He grinned. "Then—after putting me in my place—she calmly asked the hack driver how she could get in touch with Richard Tomlinson."

The consternation of his listeners was like applause to the drama-loving reporter.

"Tomlinson! A woman from Terre Haute asking for Richard?" said Doc Baird.

"I don't believe it," said Barclay flatly. Then, to appease the black flash of Lucius's eyes, "You misunderstood, surely. Richard knows no one in Terre Haute. No women, I mean."

"How do you know?" retorted Lucius. "He went up there about a week ago, didn't he?"

"On business."

Lucius laughed, not in malice, but in sheer appreciation of his news. "I'll tell you what his business was. He went to see Macbeth. I know because I covered the play and I saw Richard in the first row of the balcony. Furthermore, he wasn't alone. He was in the company of a young lady. And if I'm not mistaken that same young lady is talking to Tom Stickney at this moment."

Three pairs of eyes focused on the drugstore window. No one spoke for seconds. Something was happening that boded no good for their friend.

Then the schoolmaster said, "This thing can be explained. Richard Tomlinson is a good man."

"Too damned good," snapped Lucius. "Ye gods, after all he's put up with, he's certainly entitled to "

Doc Baird spoke. "She mustn't be allowed to go out there. Abigail's in a bad way."

John Barclay sucked a swift breath. "Surely she wouldn't try--"

"Stickney seems to be giving her some sort of directions. Sec—he's pointing her down the street."

Lucius muttered excitedly, "By Jove, she's coming this wav." They watched, the three of them, as the trim figure stepped off the porch of the drugstore, lifted her skirts daintily, and crossed the street. They held their concerted breaths as she came briskly down the boardwalk to the academy. And then as they saw her set down a small traveling bag to unlatch the gate they backed away from the window like three bewildered hounds who had caught a cross scent and didn't know what to do with it.

Doc whispered, "She's coming here!" and looked at Lucius, who, for reasons of his own, became suddenly self-effacing. Giving the nod to the schoolmaster, he retired behind the stove while Barclay went to the door.

A pleasing feminine voice said, "Good evening. Is Mr. Richard Tomlinson here?"

The three men had never seen anyone quite like the young person who stepped across the threshold in response to the schoolmaster's invitation. Poised and self-assured; smartly, though somewhat shabbily attired; not a man among them— not even the urban reporter—could have told offhand whether or not she was a lady.

She looked about the square low-ceilinged room with its double row of unvarnished desks. She had never been in such a schoolroom before. If its crudity dismayed her, she gave no sign. She merely repeated the object of her visit.

"I was told that I might find Mr. Tomlinson here."

She addressed herself to the schoolmaster, but her glance included the blacksmith and the individual behind the stove. She recognized Lucius as the man who had tried to talk to her in the hack. It amused her to find him among those present and absurdly trying to conceal the fact.

"Mr. Tomlinson isn't here this evening," said John Barclay.

"He will be later, I understand."

The druggist had evidently explained to this stranger the custom of the four friends to congregate.

"I'm afraid not. His wife is ill."

"But she's always ill, isn't she? I mean—she's an invalid."

This was indeed ominous. It could not have been Tom Stickney, surely, who had discussed Abigail Tomlinson's health with this stranger.

The schoolmaster and the blacksmith exchanged glances. Lucius, in his corner, grew uncomfortably warm and wished himself elsewhere as the young woman set her bag on one of the desks and moved over to the stove. She ignored him as though he were invisible, stretching her gloved hands to the rosy isinglass windows in perfect composure.

Suddenly she inquired how far it was to Timberley.

John Barclay gasped, "Timberley!"

"That's Mr. Tomlinson's home, isn't it?"

"Y-y-y-yes-but "

"He told me anyone in Woodridge could direct me to his place."

"You mean"—the schoolmaster eyed her keenly—"Richard Tomlinson invited you to his house?"

"Invited is scarcely the word for a business appointment, is it?"

Suddenly the schoolmaster saw a light. But before he could speak the young lady was explaining:

"I met Mr. Tomlinson in Terre Haute—quite by accident— and he mentioned that the Timberley school was without a teacher. He said if I was interested in applying to come to see him. I told him I had never taught rural school and was not sure it would appeal to me. But I had just completed the half term at Oaklawn Seminary and wasn't altogether happy in my associations there. So last week I handed in my resignation and decided to accept Mr. Tomlinson's offer."

Thus, with only a slight variation of the truth, Judith expunged her humiliation at being fired from Oaklawn and put Richard Tomlinson on record as having offered her employment. She sat down in the chair which was now pushed forward for her and drew a deep breath of satisfaction.

The reactions of the three men were characteristic. Doc Baird and the schoolmaster accepted the glib explanation with relief, Lucius Goff with suspicion. That the young woman was telling only part of the truth, he was convinced. Richard had doubtless met her in Terre Haute, but why had he offered her the school? She was not the type of person needed at Timberley. Either Richard had been drunk (which was unlikely) or he had acted under pressure. Remembering his friend's domestic situation, Lucius's mind clutched at the darkest and most interesting possibility. 

No such thought troubled the schoolmaster.

"Well, well, so you are a teacher. Richard never told us that he had engaged anyone for the Timberley school. As a matter of fact, the business is not solely in his hands. The district votes at a school meeting. But they usually take whomever the trustees recommend. So you can probably settle everything when you talk to Mr. Tomlinson tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? I thought I might drive out there this evening. It's early, you know. Not yet eight o'clock."

At the coolness of this proposal there was another uneasy exchange of glances.

"I wouldn't advise going out there tonight," said Doc Baird flatly. "Not with Richard's wife the way she is."

John Barclay explained: "I'm afraid you'd find it an unfortunate time to see Mr. Tomlinson. On your own account, I mean. Better wait till morning. One of Moss Henderson's boys—he has the livery stable—will drive you out."

"But where am I to spend the night? I couldn't go alone to a hotel."

The town's sole hostelry on the north side of the square was distinctly no place for a lady. It had a bar.

A sardonic voice replied, "Were you thinking of spending the night at Timberley?" And Lucius Goff stepped dramatically from behind the stove.

The young woman was not one whit disconcerted.

"Certainly I expected to stay at Timberley. I'm to board there if I take the school."

This was pure bluff and fabrication, but Judith knew that no one present was in a position to call her hand. So she acknowledged with cool bravado the reporter's smile and bow.