The Dutch Wife by Eric P. McCormack Read Free Book Online Page A

excessively sorry for him. In that aspect of her character, she realized, she was perhaps the true daughter of her father, Judge Dafoe.
    – 6 –
    THE JUDGE’S ANCESTORS WERE DUTCH FARMERS who had domesticated the stubborn northern wilderness. He himself had been too frail for farm work, so he’d been encouraged to stay on at school. He eventually became a lawyer and set up a very successful practice in Queensville, with its wealthy grain merchants and elegant houses along the Lake shore—one of which he lived in. At the age of forty-five, in spite of his chronic bad health and against his doctor’s advice, he accepted an appointment to the Provincial Bench. He soon became infamous as the sternest of judges—“Judge Rope” was his nickname. The long hours he put in took so much out of him, he was warned by his doctor of the risks of a heart attack. Defence lawyers used to say that if Dafoe’s heart were to be attacked by anything, it would most likely be by the rat that lived inside it. The Judge was aware of this witticism and enjoyed it.
    To the surprise of his colleagues, he decided to marry, at the age of fifty. He chose for his wife Anke Oltmans, the available daughter of an immigrant Dutch merchant. She was a short, robust woman who reminded him of one of those figures in a Rubens painting. She devoted her life to looking after his needs.
    Their marriage seemed quite satisfactory to observers and was indeed so to the Judge himself. A Dutch Wife, he called her. “You can’t go wrong with a Dutch Wife,” he liked to say.
    Their daughter, Rachel, was born in due course. But after three years, Anke—who seemed so robust—caught measles from the baby, faded rapidly and died.
    Thereafter, Judge Dafoe became his daughter’s slave. This slight man, whose face was like a skull with only the flimsiest covering of flesh (the first sight of him used to terrify prisoners in the dock), was the most loving of fathers. It was as if the entire quotient of love he was capable of was heaped together in a single load and bestowed on his daughter. The sight of her would bring a smile—a death’s head smile—to his face. And the more indulgent he became towards her, the more aloof and unsociable he became to the rest of the world. “If you get along too well with people,” he would tell Rachel as she grew older, “it’s a sign of weakness.”
    ONE NIGHT, WHEN SHE WAS SEVENTEEN and had just completed her formal schooling, the doorbell of the Judge’s house rang. He was in his study, so Rachel answered the door.
    Under the porch light she saw a young man of middle height with a thin face and hair that was quite long, but tidy. His face was slightly pock-marked, like one of those modern paintings she’d seen in the Art Gallery. Altogether, she thought he looked the way an artist was supposed to look. He even carried a pad of paper. Some pencils stuck out of the top pocket of his coat.
    “My name’s Rowland Vanderlinden,” he said. “The Judge is expecting me.” He was a quick, nervous speaker.
    “Come in,” she said. “I’m his daughter, Rachel.”
    He seemed surprised to hear that, as she knew many others were surprised that Judge Rope could possibly be anyone’s father. She took him up to the study and left him with the Judge. An hour later, she was reading in bed when she heard her father let the visitor out.
    AT BREAKFAST THE NEXT MORNING, she asked him about the previous night’s visitor.
    “Vanderlinden?” her father said. “He’s an anthropologist. Writes down every word you say. But at least he was on time for his appointment, and that’s unusual.” The Judge was renowned for his punctuality. He had a clock even in the bathroom.
    “An anthropologist?” She wasn’t sure what that was.
    “It’s one of those newfangled so-called sciences,” he said. “They seem to come up with another one each year. He works at the Museum in Toronto and teaches a course at the University.”
    “Why did you