The dark fantastic (9 page)

Judith's apologetic "Please don't let me disturb you" brought an explosive ''Damn!" from Lucius and a discordant crash from the piano as John Barclay's arm hit the keyboard. Doc Baird pushed the table aside, and Richard touched a paper spill to the fire and lighted the candles. Then he came forward to relieve Judith of her tray.

"Thank you so much." His smile was reassuring, but she was conscious of nothing but a desire to be elsewhere. She turned quickly to leave, but he stopped her. "Please don't go yet. I'd like to present my friends."

Gathering together what shreds of dignity remained, Judith acknowledged the introductions. It seemed unnecessary to mention that she had met the gentlemen before. Nor did John Barclay or Doc Baird allude to any previous meeting. But Lucius Goff, who seemed still irritated at the interruption, drawled, ''Charmed, Miss Amory! I'm always charmed to meet you," then, coolly turning, spoke to the other men as though there were no lady present.

"I tell you it can be done under the proper circumstances. Doc and I had great success when we tried it alone. We've never succeeded wth other people around, but that's because something always occurs to break the concentration—like tonight."

He did not glance at Judith, but his rebuke was no less pointed.

"I don't say it can't be done," said John Barclay. "I merely say it's no proof of supernatural manifestation. We all know Doc Baird has some sort of magnetic power in his body. We've seen him cure too many headaches to doubt it. If he can stop a pain by laying his hands on the spot, there's no reason why he can't cause a table to move the same way. But that doesn't prove that spirits of the dead can communicate with us. I still say the Fox sisters were frauds."

Lucius retorted: "You're dodging the issue. Doc's power to cure aches and pains has nothing to do with psychic phenomena. I don't claim that table tipping is supernatural manifestation. But I do assert it is the power of mind over matter."

The schoolmaster smiled, but he shook his head.

"I've yet to see a piece of furniture move by someone's will power. You admit the table does nothing until Doc lays his hands on it. You and I tried it. You and Richard tried it. But only when Doc's hands touch it does it so much as quiver. Maybe it's just as well Miss Amory opened the door when she did. This is a good Methodist table, and I'm sure it would have been scandalized if Doc had raised it clear off the floor."

There was a laugh at that. Richard said hastily, before

Lucius's quick tongue could reply, "How about some more music? Perhaps Miss Judith will play for us and we can have a little harmony."

Judith had been listening with interest. She could have held her own in this argument. Her father had been a keen student of the occult. He had gone in for mysticism as some men go in for stamp collecting. Judith had a small trunk-ful of his books upstairs.

But it seemed there was to be no further discussion. The schoolmaster was relinquishing the piano stool to her; Richard was thumbing through a song book for some of his favorites. The room soon rang with "Captain Jinks" and "Nellie Gray" and "Camptown Races." Miss Ann and Millie, in the kitchen, hummed together over their work. The children in the dining room sang at their play. And Abigail, lying wakeful in her bedroom, sat up suddenly and reached for her wrapper. Through two closed doors, and under cover of a male quartet, she had caught the sound of a voice for which she had been listening.

After the last verse of "Annie Laurie" Judith excused herself. Much as she wanted to stay, she had the good sense to leave her audience clamoring for more.

"I'm sorry, but I really must go. I promised the children I'd read to them."

But when she had closed the door behind her she leaned against it for a moment, smiling in elation. Richard Tomlinson's obvious disappointment at her withdrawal was something to sleep on. She decided to go on up to her own room and not bother with the children tonight.

And then she heard a door open and close somewhere. Shuffling footsteps sounded along the passage. She knew those steps. Abigail was up and moving around in her clumsy bedroom slippers.

Judith thought, "She'll go into the dining room and find Thorne, and then there'll be the devil to pay." She had a swift vision of Richard humiliated before his guests. She had better take Thorne upstairs with her before Abigail made any discoveries.

The children still sat at the lower end of the dining table, so quiet that for a moment Judith thought they were asleep. But no, their eyes were wide open, fixed spellbound on the cucumber cow which Thorne had made. It still stood in the china saucer, and Thorne was pretending to milk it. She talked softly to it, the way a milkmaid talks when coaxing an animal to give down milk.

Judith went close and leaned across the table—if she called to Thorne, Abigail might hear—and then she stood stock-still with astonishment.

Thorne was actually milking the cucumber cow.

Incredible as it seemed, with each pressure of the small brown fingers on the toothpick udders, a tiny stream of milk squirted into the saucer.

How long Judith stood there, she was never sure. She never heard the opening of a door or the shuffling of bedroom slippers across a carpet. She heard nothing, saw nothing, except a slowly widening pool of milk in the bottom of a saucer.

Suddenly Thorne sat back in her chair and made a graceful little gesture of finale. "There, that's all!" She relaxed, as though her performance had been something of a strain.

But her juvenile audience was not satisfied. ''Do it again, Thorne. Make Flossie give more milk."

"Flossie can't give any more milk."

"Why?"

"She's sick. See? She can't hold up her head,"

And in truth the weight of the potato on the quill toothpick had caused it to sag in the overripe cucumber.

"Is Flossie going to die?" asked Ricky anxiously. After all, the cow was his property.

Suddenly Thorne saw a dramatic finish for her act and a way to avoid an encore.

"Flossie'll never give milk any more. She's dead."

She gave the wobbly head the slightest prod and it fell off. The legs crumpled beneath the cucumber, for all the world like the legs of an animal succumbing to sickness. There was nothing left of Flossie but a couple of vegetables and a few toothpicks.

And a small puddle of milk.

The little boys said solemnly, "Flossie's dead."

Judith came out of the grip of a spell incredibly potent. She opened her mouth to say, "A great performance, Thorne. Now tell us how you did it." But the words were never spoken. For another voice, harsh with triumph, came from across the room.

"Now do you believe she's a witch?"

Abigail stood there, clutching her challis wrapper around her emaciated body.

Judith thought swiftly, "She shouldn't have seen this," and wondered how she could prevent a scene.

"It's a trick, Mrs. Tomlinson. A sleight-of-hand trick. Thorne's very clever that way."

"It's witchcraft! I saw what she did. I saw her milk that cucumber. Roger, go tell your father to come here."

Rodgie, always fearful of his mother's wrath, moved promptly. But Judith's hand stayed him.

"Wait, Roger. Please, Miss Abigail, don't call Mr. Tomlinson. It's nothing to bother him about. I've been watching the children's play. It's only innocent make-believe."

"You saw her get milk from that cucumber after telling the children it was a cow."

"I saw her pretend to get milk from the cucumber."

Abigail thrust a finger into the saucer, then licked her finger.

"It's milk! Taste it, if you don't believe me."

"I don't have to taste it. I know it's milk. But it didn't come out of the cucumber."

"Then where did it come from?"

Judith was baffled. For a moment she could neither credit nor deny what her eyes had seen. Again Abigail ordered her son to fetch his father, and Judith watched the child depart, powerless to forestall the thing she had tried so hard to prevent.

All this time Thorne had said not a word. She stood a little apart from the others, her hands behind her back.

Judith turned on her with crisp schoolroom authority.

"Come, Thorne, show us how you played that trick."

She retrieved the toothpicks from the china saucer and stuck the legs back on the cucumber. But it was soft with much handling and immediately collapsed.

"Flossie can't stand up," said Ricky. "She's dead."

"Nonsense!" Judith spoke sharply to Thorne. "Make the cow stand up."

"I can't," whispered Thorne. It was plain she was frightened half out of her senses.

"Of course you can," said Judith. "You made the cow perform once. You can do it again. We all know it's just a trick. We want you to show us how it's done."

But Thorne's fear of Abigail had frozen her. She seemed unable to move or speak.

Abigail said, "She won't do it again because Richard's coming. She doesn't want him to know what devil's games she's been playing with his children. But Richard will know. Because she can't lie out of it this time. It won't be her word against mine. Nobody can say I was having hysterics this time. Because you saw it too. Miss Judith."

As her voice rose shrilly the hall door opened and Richard stood there. His glance swept the circle of frightened faces and came back to his wife.

"what's the matter, Abigail?"

"Maybe you'll believe me now, Richard. Maybe you'll believe this girl is a witch." Abigail pointed vindictively to Thorne.

''What are you talking about?"

"She made a cow out of a cucumber and milked it right in front of our eyes. If you think I'm crazy, ask Miss Judith. She's not your wife. She has no grudge against your little pet. Ask Miss Judith whether or not I'm telling the truth."

It was ghastly, indecent, the way the woman's voice rose higher and higher, screaming her senseless jealousy to all the house. Judith burned with vicarious humiliation for the man who stood so quietly under his wife's tongue.

He asked Thorne gravely, "Have you been playing tricks again, Cricket?"

His own youngsters clamored to testify. The six-year-old said, "She milked the cow. Father. We saw it." And the five-year-old, who had followed close on his father's heels, added, "When the cow died, no more milk would come."

Still Thorne would not speak. She looked at Richard silently, desperate appeal in her eyes.

He sat down at the table and drew her to him.

"Now, Thorne, I want you to make me a cow just as you did for the children. See, here's the cucumber and the potato. We'll put them together with these toothpicks. And then you'll show me how to milk her. Don't be afraid. No one's going to scold you. I just want to see how it's done."

What might have happened if a door had not opened: whether Thorne, in the protecting circle of Richard's arm, might have demonstrated the simple legerdemain, will never be known. For Jesse Moffat, coming in from the barn with the nightly basket of apples, made the announcement that he had just come across Henry Schook's cow lying dead in the pasture.

"Hadn't been dead long, either. Musta had poisonweed in her stomach when she come here. Why—what's the matter?" He stared blankly at the shocked faces about him.

Richard was on his feet as if bracing himself for an expected blow.

Abigail was screaming, "Now will you believe me? Now will you send that little witch away before she kills us all?"

"Abigail, will you be quiet?"

But the hysterical woman could not be quieted.

She turned on the startled farm hand. "Henry Schook's cow never died from poisonweed. She died from witchcraft, and there's the witch who killed her!" She pointed to the white-faced girl.

"No, no! I didn't kill the cow." Thorne looked at Richard frantically. "You don't believe I killed the cow, do you?"

"Certainly not. How could you kill anything by sticking toothpicks in a cucumber? Come, Abigail, you know you don't believe any such nonsense. You're just working yourself into a nervous spell."

Richard put his arm about his wife to lead her back to her room, but she pushed him away.

"You think I'm crazy! But ask Miss Judith. She saw that girl get milk from that thing she made. How did she do it, if poor Flossie wasn't bewitched?"

It seemed to Judith that the room was suddenly filled with people. Through the open hall door she saw the faces of Lucius Goff and Doc Baird and the schoolmaster. And in the doorway of the covered passage peered the round black face of Millie over the shoulder of Ann Tomlinson. Abigail's screams had penetrated the far corners of the house.

Judith said to Richard, "I saw Thorne milk the cucumber cow. But I've seen similar tricks before. It was just a piece of parlor magic. Of course it had nothing to do with the death of anyone's cow. But if Thorne would perform the trick again and show us how it was done, I think Mrs. Tomlinson would feel better."

Thorne was unable to perform the trick again. Even with Richard putting the cow together and making it stand, she could not draw milk. She was too nervous. Her hands shook so that she could only fumble and murmur frantically, "I can't, I can't."

"You see?" cried Abigail. "She drew the life from Flossie when she milked that toy. Now her victim's dead, she can't do anything with her witch doll."

At the word "doll" Thorne's eyes turned fearfully to the chair behind Abigail. Judith's eyes followed their glance. On the chair lay the rag doll Thorne had brought to Rodgie. All she had ever read on the subject of witchcraft warned Judith that Abigail in her present state must not see that doll.

"That's the way witches work," Abigail was saying. "They make dolls to represent their victims. Then they work their evil charms on the doll until their victim dies. Ask Millie. She knows."

But Millie had vanished. Doubtless she had been the source of much of the invalid's information.

''I thought you might need this more than I do," she said, and handed him the razor. Her pixie smile twinkled mischievously and they both laughed.

"I want to thank you for the presents," she said politely.

"Oh, you're quite welcome," said Richard, charmed by her quaint manner.

"People often throw things on the stage when they like the act," she explained, "but not candy. It was very good candy." She said this earnestly, her eyes fixed upon his well-filled plate.

Suddenly he realized that she was hungry.

"Won't you join me for dinner?" he asked, as courteously as though she were twice his age instead of half.

"Thank you. I don't care if I do." And slipping into the chair beside him with a nonchalance that was both humorous and pathetic, she dropped her adult manner and fell upon the plate of food set before her as voraciously as a hound puppy.

He watched her as she ate. It was impossible to guess her age. She might have been older or younger than she looked. In spite of a coltish thinness, she was exquisitely molded. Her dirty little face was lovely in its structure. A dimple at the corner of her mouth gave that pixie quality to her smile; but the hue of her chin, the tilt of her nose, and the curve of brow and temple held promise of beaut)' to come.

But Richard saw nothing of that. He saw only a scrap of a girl bolting her food like a starved animal, and the sight made him indignant.

"How old are you?"

"I don't know."

"Don't know?"

"I've been ten years old on the handbills now for two seasons. And I seem to remember being nine for quite a while. It's my private belief I'm past twelve." She winked at him merrily over the rim of her mug as she drained the last drop of milk.

Then she pushed back her plate mih a sigh of repletion.

"I hope my appetite didn't shock you. This is the first time I've eaten today."

"What!"

"I'm being disciphned, you know."

"For what?"

"Cutting a show yesterday. It was so hot I went swimming in the pond. I didn't get back in time."

Richard's indignation boiled. Any man who would force a growing child to stand for hours without food in her stomach should be tarred and feathered.

"It's a wonder you didn't faint."

"I did. But it didn't do any good. Pete saw I was faking."

"Is Pete your father?"

She gave him a withering glance. "Do I look like I belonged to that tramp? My father was an artist. And my mother was a lady."

It might have been idle boasting, but Richard preferred to believe it. There was breeding in every line of her fragile body.

"Where are your parents?"

"Dead. My father had a beautiful act. Played nothing but theaters. Pete worked for him and after he died stole his props, his act, even his name."

"Pete is the magician, Thorndyke?"

She nodded scornfully. "But his name isn't Thorndyke. It's McGraw."

"And what's your name?"

"My father called me Thorne, just to round out the act. But his name wasn't Thorndyke really. I don't know what it was."

A nameless waif, that was all. With an intrepid spirit and a dangerous promise of beauty to come. He wondered with queer anxiety what would become of her.

"Is Pete good to you?"

"He is when he's not drunk. But he gets drunk every night."

"Why do you stay with such a man? Why don't you run away?"

She demanded practically, "Where to?"

"Surely there are kind people who would give a little girl like you a home."

"Name one," was the shrewd rejoinder.

Richard was silent.

When they came out of the fry tent he asked if there was anything else she would like and she promptly replied, "Yes. I want to ride on the merry-go-round." She had been at the fair a week and watched other children ride the fascinating ring, but not once had she set foot in one of the gilded chariots.

Richard bought a sheaf of tickets, and the two of them climbed aboard. For the first trip she kept her eyes fixed on the man in the center who rode round and round the central pole on a big white horse, propelling the carrousel. But after that her dizziness subsided and she was able to watch the revolving landscape about her. She did not talk; the music of the calliope drowned conversation. But she smiled at Richard from time to time and gave him moist, friendly pressures of the hand.

When their tickets were all used up she confessed she had had enough.

"If I go again I'll lose my dinner, and I can't afford to do that."

They played chuck-a-luck. They lost fifty cents on the shell game. They watched half a dozen men and boys try to catch the greased pig. They consumed quantities of molasses taffy and popcorn and pink lemonade. They finished off the afternoon at the races.

"I hope you won't be late again for your show," Richard said dubiously when this last jaunt was proposed.

"I might as well be killed for a sheep as a lamb," was the philosophical retort.

It was late afternoon when they parted in front of the hokey-pokey stand. He told her simply and honestly that he had never had such a good time in his life.

"Me too, I've had a swell time," she mumbled, her mouth too full for articulation. "Good-by." And she was gone, leaving him suddenly conscious of being alone.

It was late when he turned homeward. The various shows and concessions were 'being dismantled, for it was the last day of the fair and a storm was brewing. He mounted his horse and rode slowly around the edge of the crowd milling toward the gates.

As he passed the magician's wagon he caught the sound of blows and sobbing. He spurred his horse around behind the wagon and in another moment he was on the ground, grappling with a total stranger. Never had Pete McGraw received such a thrashing as the one that descended on him from the fists of a man he had never seen before in his life.

"If you lay a hand on her again I'll break every bone in vour body!"

The luckless prestidigitator struggled to his feet and spat out teeth.

"I'll learn her to cut shows," he muttered, and then demanded not unreasonably, "What the hell's it your business?"

"If you lost money by her absence this afternoon I'll settle it. How much does she owe you?"

A crafty gleam lighted Pete's unclosed eye. "You mean for cutting this show?"

Suddenly Richard knew the child could never go back to this man.

"For cutting all your shows for the rest of her life. I'm taking her home with me."

There was a slight business transaction then, consisting of the transfer of all Richard's available cash to Pete's pocket. Truth to tell, the man was glad to be rid of the girl. He had always feared that when she grew older she would claim her father's properties and oust him from the act, for she was far cleverer than he. Now he was sole proprietor of Thorndyke, the Magician.

As Richard rode home with the child behind him, his mind struggled with the problem of how best to report his rash act to Abigail. He explained to Thorne that his wife did not approve of shows and play acting and it might be better not to mention her connection with them. The threatened storm caught them before they reached home. When they came to Little Raccoon they found the bridge out and were compelled to ford the swollen stream. This gave Thorne an idea. The story of the wreck of a covered wagon and rescue of its sole survivor was a product of her creative genius. And its recital was proof of Richard Tomlinson's histrionic ability.

To their joint relief the story was accepted, and from that day to this neither Richard nor Thorne had divulged the truth about her background.

When he had finished the story Judith said, "You'd never forgive yourself, Mr. Tomlinson, if you sent that child away."

The look he gave her was eloquent assurance that she had said what he wanted to hear.

"I think, though, your wife should be told the truth," Judith went on. "If she knew Thorne's early history it might put an end to talk about witches. I wish you'd let me tell this to her. Maybe I could convince her she has nothing to fear."

He said eagerly, "Do you think you could?"

"I could try," said Judith, and rose to say good night.

Impulsively he put out his hand and clasped hers.

"I don't know how to thank you, Judith."

They stood for a moment in silence, hand clasping hand.

Then very gently she withdrew her hand and said good night and went out and closed the door. But her heart beat fast as she climbed the stairs. For he had held her hand. And he had called her Judith, without the "Miss."

CHAPTER 7

Jesse Moffat's tongue could not be bridled. Before sundown of the next day every man, woman, and child from Timberley to Woodridge had heard of the mysterious death of Henry Schook's cow and how Thorne Tomlinson had drawn milk from a cucumber named Flossie. They had learned about a doll she had made and dressed in a scrap of Abigail Tomlinson's wrapper. They heard how the sick woman had been seized with a violent illness when she discovered pins stuck into the doll's body.

By nightfall Saturday, it was being openly talked in the public square at Woodridge that Richard Tomlinson's wife was dying of witchcraft practiced by the elfin foundling whom he had brought into his home.

Mitch Rucker, a distant cousin of the Tomlinsons, stood on the very steps of the academy and related to all who would listen how he had told his cousin Richard time and again that there was something queer about that child and he'd better get rid of her. Mitch Rucker's words carried weight because he was a war veteran and had been at Appomattox. To be sure, he had done little since except stand around and talk (he found it uncomfortable to sit down), telling over and over how he had driven an ammunition wagon for four years and never got a scratch until the very last day of the fighting. But he was a hero for all that, and when he declared his belief that the girl at Timberley was a witch his words carried the ring of authority.

They also carried to the ears of the schoolmaster. John Barclay, usually the mildest of men, exploded when he heard Mitch Rucker's talk.

"I forbid you to repeat such malicious gossip."

"You forbid? Since when does a schoolmaster decide what fighting men shall think?"

"I'm not deciding. I'm merely asking that you do think and stop spreading fantastic lies. I was at Timberley last night. I happen to know there's not a word of truth in this wild tale that's going about."

"Henry Schook's cow died, didn't she?"

"Yes, but "

"And that girl got milk from a cucumber."

"She played a trick—a sleight-of-hand trick. It had nothing to do with Schook's cow. Use your head, Mitch. You're not superstitious, I hope."

Mitch Rucker's retort became a classic: "I went through four years of fighting without getting a scratch, without eating anything stronger than mule meat. And then, by golly, on the last day I got a bullet in my behind. And you ask me if I'm superstitious!"

The talk reached Lucius Goff as he was boarding the evening train for Terre Haute. Bombarded with queries about alleged table tipping, he airily equivocated:

"Nothing to it. We played and sang and pulled a few tricks of parlor magic which frightened Mrs. Tomlinson. I know nothing about anybody's cow."

Dr. Caxton, assailed by direct questioning, bluntly told people to mind their own business. He admitted having been called to treat Abigail Tomlinson. She had had a nervous spell but otherwise was in sound health. He disclaimed any knowledge of dead cows or childish pranks. He professed total ignorance on the subject of cucumbers stuck with toothpicks, or dolls stuck with pins. At mention of  witchcraft he snorted, blew his nose, and said, "Damnation!"

When the story came to the blacksmith shop it was greeted with stolid silence. Not until late afternoon, when a red-whiskered man strode into the shop, did Doc Baird lay down

his tools and give heed to a questioner. For the man was Otis Huse, a lawyer and near relative of Abigail Tomlinson. He could cause Richard trouble if he had a mind. So for his friend's sake Doc Baird gave a brief account of the occurrences at Timberley the night before.

"All this talk can be laid to Jesse Moffat. Jesse is a stupid fellow and likes to feel important. Children's pranks and a cow dropping dead made a good yarn. So he lost no time in spreading it."

"What about my cousin's strange seizure?"

"Your cousin, Mr. Huse, has been having strange seizures ever since I've known her," said Doc calmly. "If there's any persecution going on at Timberley, it's Richard, not his wife, who's the victim."

He regretted afterward that he had let his feeling get the better of him. For Huse's sandy face flushed ominously, and he left the shop without another word. Doc watched from his doorway and saw him turn into the parsonage of the Methodist Church.

The minister, an easygoing, kindly gentleman (admittedly not much of a preacher), listened while his visitor talked. He had heard about the gossip that was sweeping the town but had decided to ignore it. Upon Otis Huse's sharp insistence that there was more to it than gossip, he said mildly:

"Surely, Mr. Huse, a man of your mental caliber puts no credence in witchcraft."

"I'm not talking about witchcraft. I'm talking about the situation at Tomlinson's. I think you, Brother Jameson, as pastor of the church, ought to do something about it."

Mr. Jameson sighed. People were always asking him to meddle in other people's business.

"What can I do, Mr. Huse?"

"You can find a home for that girl Tomlinson insisted on taking into his family."

"That's easier said than done."

"Doesn't the church help support an orphanage near Green-castle? I seem to recall being asked to contribute to it."

There was such a place. The minister had once talked to Mr. Tomlinson about the orphanage. He had been opposed to sending the little girl there.

"It's your duty to talk to him again," said the lawyer harshly. "I'm convinced my cousin will never be well as long as that girl is in the house."

Mr. Jameson made no promises, but the next morning at the preaching service he looked expectantly toward the Tomlinson pew. Neither Richard, his wife, nor his mother was present. There were only young Will Tomlinson and the three children, besides the schoolteacher who was their boarder.