Great mischief

by Pinckney, Josephine, 1895-1957

  With extreme deliberation the Negro drew closer about him the soiled scarlet coat he wore, a survival of some long-discarded style. It had the look of a theatrical property or even of a disguise—at least a suggestion that under the appearances of everyday lay something more. The old fellow consulted the children with quick glances and cryptic monosyllables that excluded a white man, left him isolated in the midst of a conspiracy even the babies seemed to be part of. Finally they vouchsafed directions of a sort for finding the house, directions that might equally answer for the pursuit of wild antelopes.

  The attempt meant going a long way round. Timothy sent a defiant look in the direction of the shop, rammed his hands in his pockets, and walked rapidly toward the section where the Farrs lived. His problem was not insoluble, however; he found a corner grocer with a prosaic mind who identified the house for him. He approached it, strolling now with an air of nonchalance, and examined it from across the street. It was a noncommittal dwelling, its shutters bowed in against the sun and other intruders. His dark-browed vixen was nowhere to be seen. Not a flowerpot gave a clew to the inhabitants; he craned hopefully at the clothesline in the back yard, but it was bare of informative

  evidence. Presently a pretty, plump girl came along and went through the back gate with a basket on her arm, having evidently been to market. It seemed unlikely that she was at all related to anyone capable of seething the fat of infants in a copper cauldron.

  Timothy started home feeling quite irritable. What a wild goose chase on a busy morning—and only that hydrocephalous boy left to mind the shop. A horse-car took him part of the way, but the ehivalry of the driver necessitated so many unscheduled stops to put ladies out at their own front doors that he could have walked the distance in less time. When he went into the hall to hang his hat and coat on the hatrack, he saw through the open door of his room that Penny was there laying a fresh fire. Bracing himself, he went in and forestalled the expected accusation of self-indulgence. "It was so damp and cold last night. Sister; I really needed a blaze. There's lots of grippe going round, you know—"

  Penelope stood up with the coal scuttle in her hand and looked at him with large blue eyes. "Why, of course, Timothy; it was bitter last night. Of course you needed a fire. You must never endanger your health—and besides, a little fire is such a pleasure and comfort, isn't it? There's nothing I love more than falling asleep with the firelight on the ceiling. But how muddy you are! Take off those damp clothes quickly and let me put them in the kitchen to dry." She went outside to allow him privacy and Timothy handed his clothes to her through the door, feeling doubly guilty to have so misjudged his sister. Far from being censorious . . . All

  during their midday dinner he made amends (knowing this was the way to please her) by asking Mr. Dombie about the battle at Secessionville and simulating a great interest in the oft-told tale. The high tragedy of that small engagement crumbled among the dry husks of Mr. Dombie's speech. For him, too, it was an oft-told tale; the immediacy had leached away; his sacrifice had gone to join the faded heroisms of other old battles. He stalked among the gleanings, pecking at details . . . "our line ran north and south . . . only eighty men in the rifle-pits . . . we held the pits four hours and twenty minutes." Or he would tell a little joke, his thin neck shooting forward. "I was reported dead, you know. Officially I'm a corpse—ha-ha. Miss Penny, ma'am, how do you like having a corpse at table?"

  Shuddering slightly. Penny said—as usual: "Hush, you mustn't say such things, Mr. Dombie."

  No one mentioned Timothy's ill-considered idea of going away.

  After dinner Mr. Dombie took a siesta, following which he usually came and sat for an hour or so by the stove in the shop and made paper spills from old newspapers. This saving on matches was his chief contribution to the economy of the household and he made a great many spills; every empty jar and mantel-vase bristled with them. Presently Penelope came through the shop dressed for the street. The cold weather brought a rosy-violet color into her cheeks, and in spite of her rusty black she looked warm and vital, a woman in the full tide of life carrying under the maternal flow^ of her cloak great gifts of energy and reassurance.

  "Here's a letter for you, Mr. Dombie. It came by the afternoon mail." Handing him the envelope, she paused by the stove for a moment. "No bad news, I hope."

  Mr. Dombie turned it in his hand and opened it deliberately. There was silence in the shop as he looked over the contents. He returned it to the envelope and said aloofly, "No, no—merely a business communication." He put it into his pocket.

  Penelope stood by, silent; three vertical lines marred her fine forehead. Her patience with Mr. Dombie was infinite, but his secretiveness about the rare letters that came to the house for him irked her incontinently. Delicacy forbade her questioning him too closely about his relatives, since they seemed to have abandoned or forgotten him; he so seldom mentioned his past, his life before the War, that he too might have forgotten, or have had none. The envelopes usually bore the imprint of the bank in which he kept what small funds he possessed. It was downright obstinate of him, Penelope sometimes grumbled to Timothy, considering they gave him food, lodging, and medicines, not to take them into his confidence about his affairs.

  But Mr. Dombie went back to making spills, and she had to go out with her curiosity unassuaged. Timothy had his own irritations; every time the door opened Mr. Dombie greeted the newcomer with a monsoon of a sneeze. He cross-questioned each customer about

  his errand: "How's that—sore throat? It may be diphtheria. Have you observed a membrane like a white patch in the throat?" Or, "So Mrs. Button has had a stroke. I've been expecting it for some time. Her left side is completely paralyzed? A poultice of corn meal—"

  Many of his customers, Timothy knew, were put off by this morbid interest in people's illnesses. He glanced at the withered figure in the rocking chair, kept for him near the stove. Still, Mr. Dombie was a responsibility they had to carry, the stranger within their gates, the man who had been brought to this pitiful wreckage by a holy war in his and Penelope's defense. Once in a while Timothy -wondered what Mr. Dombie would have been like had his bones and his nervous system not been damaged by a Union shell, but whatever the answer "was, he had to admit that holy wars can do fearful things to decent people. He couldn't help notingr however, that he made no further sales that afternoon except a five-cent package of Epsom salts.

  Timothy took advantage of this lull to work on his ledgers. His mind tugged to be free to consider the enigmas of the past three days; but privacy was hard to come by in his routine, so he glumly balanced his petty cash account. Actually, the shop hadn't done so badly. If Sister would just restrain her incontinent goodness— It came into his head that he might take a leaf from Mr. Dombie's bankbook and have an account of his own without divulging it to Penelope. He let out a small mischievous chuckle at the thought. He could put a percentage of his earnings into it every month, and in time

  he would have enough to take a trip. He would harden his heart to Penelope's just demands. Of course he would always take care of her; just how he would manage it if he went away was a detail that would have to be worked out.

  By evening the weather had softened; the cistern was purged of the mouse and other inadvertent guests, but it was bedtime before Timothy escaped the entanglements of domesticity and found a moment to be alone. He went into the shop, and when he had barred the door he turned to the shelf where the Epsom salts concealed the pot of ointment, forgotten until his last sale of the afternoon had exposed it in its corner. He took off the lid and looked at the dark, oleaginous salve with a speculative eye; the smell of it filled his head and produced a queer exhilaration; he started to scoop it out, then hesitated, feeling mildly foolish with the dry mood of his day of buying and selling still crusted on him like salt crystals. He, a respectable pharmacist, giving credence to strange powers in this small crock in his hand; he, a member of the Reverend Batt's congregation, going over, or rather gone over, to the dim
ension of sorcery—for on the instant all doubts were sponged away that uncommon results would follow his dipping a finger into this mixture.

  He must make up his mind quickly, he thought, because a sort of momentum was gathering him up and fear, the good witch who warns against danger, lost substance moment by moment. But the mind, he went further, isn't framed for this kind of question . . . there are times to recognize its limitations ... a sudden revulsion shook him against all that was tight and classical, against the literal eye and the aggregate of facts like crushed rock.

  He scooped out the ointment and rubbed it energetically on the backs of his hands.

  Immediately they began to burn and he walked about shaking them gently while he waited, full of curiosity and childish hope, to see what would happen. The burning increased, he fanned the air more vigorously; then faint laughter rolled on the waves of stirred air and a faraway voice cried something like "Ride out!" He looked wildly around the empty shop; the muffled cries went on, like words corked in a bottle. He thought faint squeaks were coming from the twinkling jars about him and ran dizzily from one shelf to another like a large bird that had flown down the chimney and flapped about to escape. But now the sounds came from outside—he sprang into the nearest shop window, scattering the medicines on display, and pressed against the pane. The cold cloudy air beyond rustled with motion, with figures (though he couldn't make them out at all clearly) rising and spinning round the high white porch of the church steeple and coasting breakneck down a long beam of darkness to the soft earth. A bass viol was playing such a gay minor tune as his ears had never heard—it seemed to be a salamander, from its sharp bow-arm, that was dispensing this gipsy music. Timothy struggled to get through the transparence that shut him in from a world so irresponsible, so light-footed and menacing. Let me

  out—let me out, he muttered, running his hands over the invisible wall of his jail. He reached up, standing on tiptoe, toward the dancers, he almost rose from the platform; then suddenly his excitement dropped from under him, he had to catch himself to keep from falling. The burning x)f his hands slacked off, the dizziness passed, leaving a heavy languor in all his limbs. Cautiously skirting the green carboy, he let himself down to the floor of the shop like a man escaped from jeopardy, breathing heavily at this sharp change to another element.

  Little by little the stove, the counter, the cases, slipped into focus; glass and iron and wood crowded round him. He went over to the sink and scrubbed his hands with a detergent; then turning out tlie gas he stumbled across the hall to bed.

  The next day was Sunday. The Partridge household going to church remarked on the first beady buds strung along the branches. They walked slowly because of Mr. Dombie, who swung each foot forward stiffly and at random as if it didn't belong to him, but luckily their church was just down the block, an easy distance for a pair of crutches.

  At the church door other members of the congregation gathered round them, soothing and sibilant. On Sunday came Penelope's harvest of reward for her many kindnesses; and Timothy shared in the love and praise that curled about them like incense as they went up the aisle. Not that they would have deemed incense appro-

  priate to this service, but their expressions indicated that some kind of sweet smoke gratified their Low-Church nostrils. Timothy had retained only a vague recollection of his experience of the evening before and, strangely, he thought very little about it. What remained chiefly was a complacent acceptance of a state of affairs he had suspected all along, namely, that the rationalists were of all superstitious people the best-deluded. Besides, he did not consider the Lord's Day suitable for admitting such speculations, having grave doubts under whose dominion the world he had discovered lay. To most of this congregation the Devil was quite real, always at one's elbow, he could even be at church on Sundays, not a pewholder exactly but an interested attendant. Until he could work things out, Timothy had no desire to attract the attention of either a chastening God or the Author of Lies.

  During the collection he glanced idly about. The proximity of a pretty young girl in a pew on the side fluttered him pleasurably. He looked at her across the wooden partition as at a green pasture beyond a fence. He knew her, indeed he had once thought he might marry her—as soon as I see my way clear— But things kept happening to prevent and she remained to this day in ignorance of his private intention. . . . The scene before him altered a little, two figures stood near the pulpit, the asthmatic singsong of the organ dropped to a murmur, the vox humana became his own voice, manly, confident, taking the charming Sylvia for his wife. The vox angelica responded gladly, a trilling acceptance. . . . The daydream, as always, had power to dissolve

  such facts as the pew beneath him, the solid persons of Penelope and Mr. Dombie beside him, which persons it was his plain duty to nourish and support. He continued blissfully to conjure up the wedding and the transports that might be expected to follow soon after, remaining bolt upright like a bashaw when the final blessing rocked the rows of worshippers forward in unison.

  On Sundays the shop was closed but Timothy always stayed at home during the afternoon in case of emergency calls. He drowsed and read in one of the armchairs by the dining-room fire, and to him this was the high point of the week, although Mr. Dombie sat there too and shared even this time of indulgence. Penelope went visiting.

  Luckily no tinklings from below spoiled the beautiful peace of the Sabbath, and the hour for their evening tea passed without notice. It was only when Penelope rushed in, calling to him up the stairs, that Timothy realized she had, remarkably for her, come home late. He jumped up and opened the dining-room door. She appeared out of the darkness of the hall roseate and panting.

  "I've just been to see Lena Whitlock, Timothy, and found she had a collapse this morning. I've got a nurse, but she can't come on until later, so I'm going back to stay until she arrives."

  "How dreadful!" Timothy murmured, seeing Lena Whitlock, a kind, brown little woman who sewed out, as he had sometimes seen her in this house helping

  Penelope make over her dresses. "Poor soul—is she in a bad way?"

  "Dr. Porter has been working over her and thinks he has pulled her through this attack. But he says it's only a question of time."

  "Very sad—very sad," said Mr. Dombie. "What ails the poor lady?"

  "Some obscure disease, apparently; hard to diagnose. But I say it's too early to give up hope. If only she could take a sea voyage—the change of air might work a miracle—"

  "What are her symptoms?" Mr. Dombie wanted to know. "Has she a fever? Vomiting? Cancer, now, is an obscure disease—fools the doctors—"

  But Penny for once was in no mood to oblige Mr. Dombie. She shrugged off his helpful diagnosis and went about putting the tea cloth on the table. Her long black cloak stirred the plush-curtained air of the room as she moved; her momentum had a sureness about it from an emotion competently controlled. She looked almost beautiful.

  "I have two prescriptions, dear—can you fill them? I must get back directly."

  Timothy gladly went down to the shop for the sake of Lena Whitlock, bent over a sewing machine or kneeling on the floor with her mouth full of pins. A widow too, with three little girls to support. Luckily he was able to supply the medicine; he labeled the bottles and took them to Penelope as she came down into the lower hall.

  "I'll escort you back, Sister, It's too late for you to be going through the streets alone."

  "I don't mind in the slightest. You stay here, dear, and give Mr. Dombie his supper."

  Penelope was never afraid for herself; still, she shouldn't go about alone after dark. As he stood torn between conflicting duties, she smilingly took the bottles from him and went out with them.

  Timothy put some cold victuals on a tray and fed Mr. Dombie and himself. Mr. Dombie for once felt talkative. He paid a fine tribute to Penelope's good heart and good sense, and then began to question Timothy about the treatment of convulsions in children. A niece of his had nearly died with a convuls
ion; while she had recovered, it had left her in delicate health. Weary of the limited range of Mr. Dombie's conversation, Timothy sank deeper into his high collar and his book. Taking a low advantage of Penny's absence, he even answered, 'Tshaw!" or 'Tiddlesticksl" once or twice.

  When he had helped Mr. Dombie to bed, Timothy banked the fire and went to fetch Penelope home. Lena lived across town, but he was used to walking, and stepped out briskly—though a fog was coming in, and the trees turned to vapor, the seaward streets choked into silence, made him fidgety. As he approached Lena's gate Dr. Porter had just lifted the iron weight tethering his horse and was putting it into the bugg)'.

  "Good evening, Doctor; and how is Miss Lena this evening?"

  "Ah—" The doctor's deprecatory sigh floated down the mist, dissolved and left a vacuum, the signature of death. "It seems to be leucocythemia, but the symptoms are irregular. In any case I fear there's little hope."

  The nurse had arrived, so at Timothy's ring Penelope put on her cloak and came with him. The fog had worked selectively to blot out familiar landmarks, leaving parts that were subtly estranged by their separation from the whole. Front steps led menacingly up to vanished doors; iron fences, their scrollings suddenly sharp and black, barred the passer-by from the unhallowed country beyond, whose mother-of-pearl air was surely breathed by a race of different beings. Crossing a little park they came abruptly on a church, a long white flank and steeple, couched in the mist. "Why, it looks like a unicorn!" said Timothy.

  He could have believed it was a unicorn, but Penelope could not, so she answered with an irritated "Tsch-tsch!" It was plain that, coming from Lena's sickroom, she was not in an imaginative mood, which he thought a pity, considering that she possessed the traditional requirements for catching and taming such a quarry. But one couldn't allude to one's sister's virginity, crowning virtue though it was, so he contented himself with saying regretfully, "It would make an unusual pet."