The dark fantastic (7 page)

She thrilled to the knowledge that the whole family welcomed her presence. Richard's mother, his married sisters, even his young brother Will seemed pleased to have the schoolmistress in the house. Their cordiality had in it something of relief from strain. A far less discerning person than Judith would have sensed that her presence had much the effect of a cup of oil poured on bubbling waters. For the simple reason that Richard's wife had taken a fancy to her.

To Judith this paradox was exquisitely humorous.

She was too smart, however, to misinterpret the invalid's good will. For some purpose of her own the wife of Richard Tomlinson wanted Miss Amory to have the Timberley school. Judith was not long discovering what that purpose was.

Abigail wanted a teacher who would promise to whip Thorne Tomlinson.

She did not put the matter in plain words. The new teacher might go to Richard and ask questions. But she let Judith know that she favored her because of her stand on the subject of discipline for girls. Abigail had fallen into the habit of calling the schoolmistress into her room when she came from school in the afternoon and asking how the Tomlinson young

people were doing. Judith soon learned that there was only one with whom she was really concerned, and that was the girl with the starry eyes. She inquired perfunctorily about her own little boys in the primer class, likewise the Turner nephews and nieces. But when she asked about Thorne her eyes glittered and she licked her lips eagerly when Judith confessed the child was something of a problem.

''She's like what you said, isn't she?" said Abigail. "One of those sly sneaking things that throw a whole school in a turmoil."

Honesty compelled Judith to deny that she had found anything sly or sneaking in Thorne.

''On the contrary, she's quite open in her mischief. She's forever playing tricks to amuse the other children. Sometimes I think she lacks concentration. Yet she seems remarkably bright, if only she would pay attention. I've about made up my mind to speak to Mr. Tomlinson about her."

And this was true. Judith had been puzzled by the puckish behavior of the half-grown girl who went by the name of Tomlinson yet who called Richard by his first name while the other children called him either Father or Uncle. She had asked no questions, and no one had offered an explanation. But whatever Thorne's status, she was hated by Abigail Tomlinson with a jealous hatred that was hard to reconcile with the difference in their ages.

"Don't talk to Richard about her," said Abigail sharply. "Anything that concerns Thorne you're to take up with me. Understand?"

When Judith had acquiesced Abigail went on:

"She needs discipline. You have my permission. Miss Amory, to use any means you like to bring about results, Mr. Tomlinson is too easy. He doesn't realize that girls have to be whipped sometimes—whipped hard—harder than boys. I've a very good whip if you need it." The sick woman raised herself on her elbow and pointed to a peg in the

corner. "There it is, an old riding whip that I once used on a bad-tempered horse. Perhaps you'd better take it with you.

There was something fantastically ugly in this sick, frail woman half rising from bed to point out a cruel whip with which she wanted a little girl flogged. But to please the invalid Judith took the whip and promised to use it at her own discretion.

A few days later, when she was again summoned to Abigail's room, she gave her a conspiratorial smile and reported that Thorne was behaving much better.

"You whipped her?"

"Sssh!" Judith put her finger to her lips and saved the necessity of direct falsehood. "We don't want anyone else to know, do we?"

"You mean Richard?" Abigail's eves gleamed jealously. "She'll tell him."

"I don't think she will," said Judith smoothly.

To the Tomlinsons she never could have explained her method of appeasing the invalid. If she had said, "All you have to do is lie to her," they would have been shocked. In this stanch Methodist household a lie was an abomination and no extremity of circumstance justified its use. To the young woman who had lived all her life by her wits, deception was one's first expedient. She could pretend to anything that served her purpose, and her purpose just now was to cement the friendship of Richard Tomlinson's wife.

She had arrived a bit wistfully at this compromise with certain groundless hopes. For the memory of a night at the theater still lingered like the scent of a rose. A single incident had pressed it imperishably.

It was the custom of the Tomlinson household to gather about the fire of an evening, and while knitting needles clacked and jackknives plied, Richard would read aloud. Many a sock was knitted, many a whip mended, amid whole-

some chuckles at the antics of Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller. Dickens was the best-selhng author of the day, and the family reading circle was about halfway through David Copperfield at the time of Judith's advent.

There had been no evening readings for some time previously because of Abigail's illness and Thorne's enforced absence. But on the first evening that the new boarder took her place among them they were all present, Abigail sitting up for the first time in days, and Thorne back among the other youngsters clustered about the fire.

The fat red volume of Dickens still lay face open on the table where Richard had last laid it. But instead of resuming the novel he went to the bookcase and took from it a small black book well worn with much reading.

"Aren't we going to hear some more about Uriah Heep?" demanded his son Ricky.

"Suppose we let Uriah rest for tonight. Here's something more exciting."

"What?"

"A play called Macbeth."

"How does it begin?"

"Oh, it begins with a bang. Listen." He began to read: " 'Act I, Scene i—An Open Place. Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches.'"

And then he lifted his eyes from the book and looked straight at Judith.

That was all. Just a twinkle of the eye. But it brought again the shared thrill of waiting for a curtain to rise and it sent her spirits soaring. That had been her welcome from Richard Tomlinson.

So far, it was the only welcome he had given her. She had not talked alone with him once. They met at mealtimes, but he was usually engrossed in some talk about the farm with his brother or Jesse Moffat. During the day their paths seldom crossed, and at other times he was generally to be found with his invalid wife. Abigail seemed jealous of every moment that he was out of her sight.

It was a strange marriage, Judith decided. From what Ellie Barclay had told her and what her own sharp eyes had seen, she was able to conjecture pretty accurately how it had come about.

Richard Tomlinson had been in his second year of college when he came to the conclusion that he was not fitted for the ministry. His decision had been a crushing blow to family and friends. So marked were his talents that it seemed even to the materialistic that he was throwing away a brilliant career, for it was a day of pulpit oratory. But Richard considered the pulpit something more than a rostrum for rhetorical eloquence. Far from being irreligious, as of course he was branded, he was deeply conscious of the sacredness of the high calling to which so many ambitious men aspired. To his mother he explained that he did not consider himself good enough to be a preacher. And that was the only defense he ever offered.

His father, even then in his last illness, never recovered from the blow. He had hoped to see his son ordained before his death. Now that hope was blasted. But a stubborn belief that Richard might yet be brought to see the error of his ways led the dying man to arrange a marriage which was to prove a calamity to the entire family.

Abigail Huse, at twenty one of the zealots of the Methodist Church, was chosen by Roger Tomlinson as a fitting wife for his son. She was a couple of years his senior and her religious zeal, so his father hoped, would inspire Richard to resume the work for which he had been preparing.

Richard, eager to appease his disappointed father, had entered into the marriage without protest. Abigail was pretty, angelically "sweet," and he was barely eighteen years old. He was prepared to be a loving husband.

But scarcely were they joined in wedlock when he realized that he was yoked to a woman who was "good" in every negative connotation of the word. Abigail's was a nature in which religion's only property was to curdle what milk of human kindness it exuded. All that was harsh and repressive in the doctrines of the church she adhered to. All that was gracious and loving she distrusted. Her outward sweetness was a mask which she did not bother to wear in private. She had married Richard to save him from the devil, and this she would do if she had to take him personally to hell in order to negotiate.

Their marriage was a nightmare from the beginning. On their first night together he had found himself clasping a snow maiden who would not melt or even thaw in his arms.

"Richard! I thought you were a gentleman."

"I'm your husband, Abigail."

"That's no excuse for behaving like a brute."

If it had been left to the bewildered, apologetic boy, the marriage would have terminated right there. For he had married a fanatical prude whose frigidity was matched only by her arrogance.

But Abigail had intelligence of a sort, and much reading of the Old Testament enlightened and finally convinced her of the nature of the curse laid upon Eve. With an air of martyrdom she informed her husband that she was ready to obey the biblical injunction. In due course of time their son Richard was born.

A year later—again by Abigail's decree—there was a second son. But when, after the usual interval, she stonily signified her willingness to assume again the burden of reproduction, Richard told her they would have no more children. He was kind enough to imply that consideration for her health was the reason.

But Abigail knew better. For perversely, with the birth

of her son Roger, some belated seeds of passion stirred in her frozen nature and with her husband's announcement sent forth shoots, seeking a sun which no longer shone. From that moment her life was like a creeping vine.

They continued to occupy the conjugal bedchamber, for separate quarters would have meant a community-wide scandal, and Richard had enough talk to live down as it was. But though he preserved the outward semblance of his marriage, his private conduct toward his wife was as chaste as hers had been on their wedding night.

Abigail's desires, thus frustrated in their inception, found vent in the pursuit of her original purpose. Night and day she exhorted and berated her husband for his refusal to enter the ministry. When he turned a deaf ear she denounced him as no Christian.

Perhaps he was too much a Christian to be a theologian. Though Abigail never could have understood a thing like that. Even he did not understand it. What he did know and could not explain was the riotous joy of living which throbbed in his veins and which his strict upbringing made him distrust. Perhaps, as he feared, his Puritan soul was housed in a pagan body. Perhaps he had merely a love for things of the earth. Every opening bud, every note of mockingbird and cardinal, was a delight to him. In spring, when redbuds blossomed and honey locusts made him half drunk with their sweetness, he felt quite sure he was not called to tell other people about their sins.

So he had settled down to the business of managing the farm (an occupation for which his younger brother was better fitted), and for enjoyment he turned to books and for escape there was the occasional trip to the city and perhaps the theater. This last indulgence was frowned upon by Abigail, but he did not let it deter him. He no longer tried to explain himself to Abigail, nor to his family, nor to anyone.

Not until a vagabond child came to Timberley did Richard find it possible to explain himself. And to her, it was unnecessary.

There was no one in the front room when Judith came downstairs. She had changed from her school dress to her dark red merino and she had tied a velvet ribbon around her throat. It was a Friday evening, which meant that young Will would go to see the girl whom he was currently "sparking," and there would be no one in the fireside reading circle except the children and their grandmother and Richard and Judith.

Abigail had taken to her bed again.

But the fire, which was never lighted in this room till after supper, was already brightly ablaze. The piano was open, the chairs grouped around it as though in expectation of a gathering. No open book, laid face down to mark a place. Judith had a premonition of disappointment.

When she went out to the dining room Miss Ann confirmed her fears. Richard was having company this evening.

"Lucius Goff, John Barclav, and Doc Baird. The four of them get together about once a month—at the academy, as a rule—but since Abigail's been sick she doesn't like having Richard out at night, so the men are coming here, I told Richard they could have the front room to themselves. You and I and the children will sit out here till bedtime. We can have our apples as usual and maybe you can read to us instead of Richard. We're all on pins and needles to see if anything's turned up yet for Mr. Micawber." Ann Tomlinson laughed merrily and tucked a curly gray lock under her neat little cap. It was impossible to resist her good humor. Judith agreed to carry on with the misfortunes of the Micaw-bers.

Abigail registered disapproval of the evening's program by refusing to appear at the supper table. She kept to her bed

the greater part of the day, but she usually got up for the evening meal. Richard's habit was to enter the house through her room, whieh had an outside door, assist her to dress, and bring her out to the dining room. But tonight she was not with him.

He eame alone from his wife's room, carefully shaved and brushed and wearing his broadcloth suit in honor of the expected company. But his lips were tight and there was color in his cheeks as he explained that Abigail did not feel like coming to the table. Could Millie fix a tray?

"Do you suppose she'll eat it?" said Miss Ann doubtfully.

'I'll have to feed her," he said.