The Weak-Eyed Bat

Margaret Millar The Weak-Eyed Bat

Chapter One

It was, thought professor Henry Frost, a pitiable state of affairs that he, a gentleman and a scholar, author of an authoritative work on the Ionic dialect in Homer, should have sired two such oddities as the Misses Joan and Susan Frost. In Joan's case his paternity was open to doubt, since the second Mrs. Frost had been notoriously liberal-minded along certain lines; but Susan was undoubtedly his own flesh and blood.

“A poor thing,” said Professor Frost over his bacon and eggs, “but mine own.”

Susan was, as usual, picking listlessly at her food in the faint hope that someone would comment on her lack of appetite. She raised her large doleful brown eyes at her father’s remark.

“What did you say, Father?” she asked in a voice which left no doubt that she was using up her last few pitiful ergs in an effort to be polite.

“I said,” Professor Frost said mildly, “that the bacon is delicious this morning.”

Susan blushed. “Really? How nice! I had it made especially for you, Father. It was especially—”

“She raised the pig herself in an incubator,” Joan remarked, “especially for you, Papa, because you are such a dear good papa, the hell you are.”

“Joan!” Susan said in mechanical shock.

Professor Frost regarded them both with distaste, but since Joan had resumed reading her letters, his distaste began to distill like dew on his elder daughter, Susan.

Certainly no one could say that he was not a man of kindly disposition and infinite patience, but Susan’s ability to strain one’s patience went far beyond infinity. Nobility on a large scale was Susan’s forte, he reflected. When a neighbor fell sick it was Susan who sat at the bedside shedding cheer with a false vivacity that was horrible even to contemplate. It was to this habit of Susan’s that Professor Frost attributed his unfailing good health. Far better to die in one’s boots, he thought.

“Isn’t it a beautiful morning?” Susan said sadly. “Muskoka has such a lovely climate.”

She waited for a reply to this conversational tidbit but none came, so she chewed with faint sorrow on a piece of toast.

Hattie Brown, a local girl hired for the summer, shuffled into the dining room and set the coffee percolator in front of Susan. Susan began to pour.

Joan thumped her last letter on the table and yawned audibly, stretching her brown arms over her head.

“You have quite a range of pretty noises,” her father said, “but it’s hardly necessary to display them at the breakfast table.”

“I agree,” Susan said automatically.

“Oh, dry up.” Joan reached for her coffee. “You’re both very boring. Such a perfect gentleman and such a perfect lady making such polite conversation.”

Yes, Professor Frost reflected, when one contemplated Joan, one was forced to admit the virtues of Susan. Whereas one could and often did ignore Susan, one had Joan thrust upon one.

One could only describe Joan as violent — violently blonde, violently eighteen, and violently female. A large, handsome Amazon with a loud laugh, Joan was as uninhibited as a tornado.

People were likely to miss small sums of money or pieces of jewelry after a visit from Joan. No charge had ever been laid against her, but doors were locked and husbands put out on leashes by vigilant wives.

She pushed her coffee cup away and lit a cigarette. “Got a hundred?” she asked casually.

Her father frowned at her across the table. “A hundred what?”

“Dollars, dear Papa.”

“What for?”

“For dear Mamma. One of my letters is from Mamma. She’s in Mexico and needs a hundred dollars, and after all you were married to her.”

“Let me see the letter,” Professor Frost said.

“The hell I will! Don’t you believe me?”

“No.”

“All right. I’ll settle for fifty.”

It promised to be an uncomfortable scene and Susan said quickly: “I see Dr. Prye arrived last night.”

Joan’s interest was immediately diverted. Her pale blue eyes began to gleam and Professor Frost sighed.

For Joan all Gaul was divided into two parts, male and female. It was an eminently simple division and it was only natural and just that Joan, who had an eminently simple mind, should accept it. But still it disheartened the author of a book on the Ionic dialect in Homer. Perhaps there were places where one sent girls like Joan, a kind of combined finishing school and reformatory. He must ask Prye. Prye would know what to do.

Restored once more to his scholastic calm, Professor Frost excused himself and went up to his study. Joan stared after him, looking unusually thoughtful.

“The lousy bastard,” she said.

Susan jumped to her feet, her small thin hands clenched at her sides. “Don’t you dare!” she shouted. “Don’t you dare to say that word. You of all people!”

Joan threw back her head and began to laugh, a brittle, unpleasant laugh that shattered against the walls.