Miss Smith went on looking at her hands.
“I think I’ve a right to ask that question. I think I have a right to insist on your answering it.”
Miss Smith looked up. She was trembling, but a curious frightened dignity showed in face and voice.
“It’s five years since the Bomongo went down,” she said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“It’s five years ago, Mr. Fordyce. Why did you wait five years? Why didn’t you come to me before?”
“I didn’t know where to find you.”
Miss Smith looked down at her hands; they had stopped shaking. She did not exactly sniff, but the tip of her nose moved. David realized that he was being given the lie.
“You don’t believe me? Well, I can’t make you; I can only tell you the facts. Erica told me she had an aunt in England, and that her name was Nellie Smith. She said she had forgotten her address.”
Miss Smith’s nose twitched again.
“She wrote to me after her father died,” she said.
“She told me she had forgotten your address. I can only tell you what she told me. How many hundreds of Nellie Smiths do you suppose there are in England? I’ve only found you now by accident.”
“Yes, Mr. Fordyce. May I ask you how you did find me?”
“I have cousins of the name of March. Perhaps you’ll remember that Mr. George March and his daughter stayed in your rooms about three years ago.”
“Yes, Mr. Fordyce. But that’s three years ago.”
“I told you I advertised for news of Erica. Miss March saw the advertisement, and she remembered the name—Erica Moore. She says she wrote her name in your birthday-book when she was here, and that Erica’s name was on the same page.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Miss Smith. She looked uncertainly at David. “I’m sorry I doubted you, but five years is a long time for a gentleman to wait before he so much as troubles himself to ask whether his wife is alive or not.”
The resentment in her voice fairly took him aback.
“Miss Smith, what do you mean? I made every inquiry that I could possibly think of. I stayed in Cape Town till I was called home to my father who was dying. I employed a solicitor, and I have written to him from time to time. Will you tell me what more you think I could have done?”
She made no answer. Whilst David waited, she looked up at him in a flurried way, and then down again.
“Miss Smith, will you answer the question that I asked you? Have you heard anything about Erica, or haven’t you?”
Miss Smith got up. She could not turn any paler, but the lines about her mouth deepened. David had been wrong. She would not lie, however hard she was pressed. She stood under her illuminated texts, and she looked, not at David, but at the big Bible with the frill of pink and green wool standing up all round it in loops.
“I can’t answer your question, Mr. Fordyce,” she said. “I’m not at liberty to answer it.”
David got up too. He felt as if he had been struck very hard and unexpectedly.
“Miss Smith—what do you mean?”
“I can’t tell you. You must go away. I can’t tell you anything.”
She shook and tottered. David caught her arm and put her back into her chair.
“Is Erica alive?”
She leaned back and closed her eyes.
“Miss Smith, for God’s sake!”
“I can’t.” She said it in a thread of a voice.
After a minute she opened her eyes and looked at him imploringly.
“I mustn’t. Will you go?”
“How can I go?”
The tears came into her eyes.
“I—can’t—tell—you. I’m—not at liberty. If you’ll go away, I’ll write to you. I’ll ask.”
David bent over her and took one of her hands. He was shocked to feel how cold it was.
“You’ll ask leave to tell me. Is that what you mean?”
“Yes,” said Miss Smith.
She groped for a handkerchief and began to cry.
CHAPTER XIX
David was dining that evening with Mrs. Homer-Halliday, the lady who had insisted upon four bathrooms being introduced into the small Tudor house which she had bought as a week-end cottage. She was one of those charming middle-aged American women who possess perfect taste and the means of expressing it. David had had an introduction to her when he first went to the States, and added gratitude for much kindness to a sincere admiration of her many charming qualities.
They dined at The Luxe and were to go on to a private dance given by the Lane-Willetts. David walked to The Luxe and was glad of the cold, stinging air. He had come away from Martagon Crescent feeling very much as if an earthquake had shaken the whole fabric of his life to its foundations. Erica’s aunt, with her honesty, her trembling dignity, and her terrified reticence, had made a far more profound impression upon him than the three advertisements which he had tried to dismiss as either malicious or irrelevant. He was in no mood for his engagement; and yet there was relief in the necessity for keeping it.
It was a pleasant party of eight. Mrs. Homer-Halliday had David on her left and talked to him a good deal. They were halfway through dinner, when he looked across the room and saw Folly March at a table with three other people. Two of them were men of a sufficiently raffish type, one bald and flushed, the other a pale, unwholesome youth with red hair. Facing Folly across the table was a large fair woman with sleepy eyes and an applied complexion. She wore a great many rather unconvincing pearls and conveyed so unmistakably the impression of the woman who has dropped into the half-world that David received a violent shock. What was Folly doing in a public place with a woman of this kind? Then, with a still greater hock, it came to him that Folly was with her mother—that this was Mrs. Miller.
He looked away quickly, but in spite of himself his eyes went back to Folly. He had a profile view of her. She wore the little white dress with the frills. The broken coral necklace had been replaced by a string of equally infantile blue beads—not the big ones of the passing fashion, but the little oblong sky-blue beads which children used to thread for their dolls in the seventies and eighties. There was a silver ribbon in her hair; the little dark curls just hid her ears.
“What a perfectly sweet little girl!” said Mrs. Homer-Halliday. “I’m sure you know her—or is it only that you’d like to know her?”
David found her smiling archly at him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Now, Mr. Fordyce, don’t you pretend you weren’t looking at the little girl with the blue beads!”
“She’s a cousin of mine,” said David.
“Well, I’ve lost my heart to her. I’d love to have you bring her to see me one day. Do you know the people she’s with?” Her tone changed ever so little.
“No,” said David, keeping to the letter of the truth. He felt no desire to explain Mrs. Miller.
Mrs. Homer-Halliday changed the subject.
Some time later David was waiting for the rest of his party in the lounge, when he saw Folly again. She was with the red-haired youth who had been her partner at dinner, and she wore a sparking mutinous air that made her very much the Will-o’-the-Wisp.
David felt a strong desire to kick the red-haired young man very hard. The feeling surprised him a little. Under the frowning intensity of his gaze Folly looked across a crowd of people and saw him. At once her face changed. Without nod or greeting she slipped through the intervening groups and came to him.
“David! Did you see her?” The thrill of excitement in her voice struck an answering thrill from David. He nodded. “Eleanor told me you were going to see her. Do tell me.”
Neither of them had mentioned Miss Smith’s name. They were suddenly on a note of such intimacy that everything was taken for granted. David dropped his voice:
“I saw her. She wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“Does she know anything to tell?”
“Yes, I think she does. She said s
he wasn’t at liberty to tell me anything.”
“What did she mean?”
Folly’s eyes were bright and blank.
“She was going to ask—there was someone she was going to ask whether she might tell me.”
“What is there to tell?” said Folly.
“I don’t know. She seemed to know about me—to be expecting me.”
“How could she?”
Mrs. Miller bore down upon them, and in a moment Folly was changed; the eager note dropped from her voice.
“Who’s your friend?” said Mrs. Miller. She put her hand on Folly’s shoulder, a large white hand gemmed to the knuckles.
“It’s David Fordyce. How much of a cousin are you, David?”
“Fifth cousin six times removed, or something like that.”
“Oh, the Fordyces are too much for me. I don’t pretend to keep up with them,” said Floss Miller. She shrugged the shoulders she was so proud of, laughed, and looked sideways at David out of those sleepy eyes.
Considering that the Fordyce family had dropped her, David thought this remark showed some assurance. He disliked Mrs. Miller more than he had ever disliked a woman at first sight. She wore a plain and well cut black gown with an air which made it seem flaunting. She had certainly had too many cocktails. The hand on Folly’s shoulder filled him with a sick disgust.
“Well, so long—must be going,” she said. She looked back over her shoulder as she drew Folly away. “Come and see me—27, Maudsley Mansions.” Her eyelids narrowed and she smiled. Just for a moment her resemblance to the Mona Lisa was startling.
Folly went a yard or two with her mother and then ran back.
“That’s Floss,” she said defiantly.
“So I guessed.”
“Why did you look at her like that?”
“Folly, how did I look?”
Folly laughed angrily.
Like all of you do—like all you Fordyces do; as if you were too good to live; as if you couldn’t bear to see her.”
David was really shocked.
“Folly! I can’t think why you should say such a thing.”
“It’s true—you’re all like that. And I came back just to tell you—” She choked and stopped.
“Folly—please don’t!”
She looked at him with a wide, strange look. Then it changed; resentment came up like a flame.
“I don’t care for any of you. Floss’s friends are good enough for me—they don’t pretend anyway. I’m going with her now—we’re going to dance. You’re much too good to come, I suppose.”
“I’m afraid I’ve got another engagement. My party’s waiting for me now.”
“So is mine.” She dropped her voice to a furious whisper. “It’s like the sheep and the goats—isn’t it? I shall probably meet Stingo and make it up with him. Run along to your sheep, or they’ll begin to bleat.” She slipped into a laugh, gay and impudent. Her eyes mocked him; the tip of a scarlet tongue just showed. And then she was gone.
David did not contribute very much to the gaiety of the Lane-Willetts’ dance.
CHAPTER XX
David had hardly got to office next morning, when Eleanor rang him up.
“David, did you know Francis Lester was in town?”
“Good Lord! No! There must be some mistake.
“There isn’t. Folly met him last night. It appears he’s a friend of her mother’s.”
“There must be some mistake. Is Folly there?”
“I’ll call her.”
He heard her voice raised; it came faintly as she moved away from the telephone: “Folly! Folly! David wants—” The rest was lost.
A moment later, Folly, gay and impudent:
“Hullo, Mr. Grundy! Temper better this morning?”
“I was going to ask about yours,” said David dryly.
“’M—mine’s feeling better, thank you. Did you ring up on purpose to ask about it?”
“No—Eleanor rang me up. Folly, is it true that you met Francis Lester last night?”
“’M—I danced with him. He dances divinely.”
“It can’t be the man I mean.”
“’M—it is. He asked after you, and after Betty, quite nicely. He explained about being a cousin right away at the start. Is that all? Because I’m really having my bath, and Eleanor’s old lady will make Eleanor buy her a new dining-room carpet if I go on dripping on to it much longer. I’ve only got a towel on. Good-bye, Mr. Grundy dear.”
She rang off.
David bent his mind to drainage.
A quarter of an hour later the telephone bell rang again. He picked up the receiver, and a woman’s voice said: “I want to speak to Mr. Fordyce.”
“Speaking,” said David. He did not recognize the voice. It had that metallic quality which makes some voices so unpleasant on the telephone.
“You are David Fordyce?” said the voice.
“Yes.”
“You advertised for news of Erica Moore?”
David’s hand closed hard on the receiver.
“Yes.”
“May I ask why you described her as Erica Moore and not as Erica Fordyce? She was Erica Fordyce, wasn’t she?”
“Yes. Who am I speaking to?”
“To someone who knows that Erica Moore was Erica Fordyce. You haven’t said why you advertised for Erica Moore.”
“I should think that would be obvious. Anyone who had any information would know that she had been Erica Moore. I naturally had no wish to make my private affairs public property.”
“Meaning you didn’t wish your family to know of your marriage?”
“You can put it that way if you like. May I ask who you are?”
“You can ask,” said the voice.
David made a strong effort to keep down his temper.
“I suppose you didn’t ring me up just to say that sort of thing. It’s rather waste of time really. Don’t you think so? The point is, have you any information to give me?”
“Quite a lot,” said the voice.
“Then if you have, don’t you think it would be better to let me meet you? I don’t consider this telephone conversation at all satisfactory. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, I shall want to be convinced of the authenticity of any information about my wife.”
A hard, unmirthful laugh came to him along the wire:
“I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to me this way or not at all. Now listen, David Fordyce. You met Erica Moore on your voyage to Sydney five years ago. The boat was called the Susan Peterson; the master’s name was Quaid. You landed at Sydney on the first of February. Erica stumbled going down the gangway, and you saved her from a nasty fall. You drove with her to 120, Langdale Street, where her aunt, Mrs. Foss, had been living. When you got there, you found she had died a week before. Erica was taken in by a Mrs. O’Leary who lived at 125 in the same street. She was a widow with one son called Robert. He had red hair and freckles like his mother.” The voice paused, and then went on again: “Well, how does my information strike you? Is it accurate?”
David was dumbfounded; the mass of small details, the hard antagonism with which they were presented, fairly staggered him.
The voice went on:
“As you don’t say anything, I take it that silence gives consent. On February 10, 1922, you married Erica at a registry office in a street with a church at one end of it. Erica didn’t know the name of the street. You were married at half-past eleven in the morning. There was a thunderstorm going on, and you sheltered in the office until it was over.”
“Who are you?” said David. “For God’s sake stop all this! If you’ve anything to tell me, don’t beat about the bush.”
“You asked for proof that I knew what I was talking about. Are you satisfied? Or shall I tell you what Mrs. O’Leary said when you had such a row with her the day you made up your mind to marry Erica? She said, ‘If you mean fair by her, why don’t you marry her?’ Didn’t she?”
David pulled himself together.
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“You are telling me things that I know. Have you got anything to tell me that I don’t know?”
“Monday comes before Saturday,” said the voice. “Do you remember buying Erica a ring with turquoises? Would you know it again if you saw it? It had three forget-me-not flowers set side by side. She liked bright colours, and she fancied it; and you bought it for her the day after you were married. You got the wedding ring at the same shop—the name was Andrews. And Erica wanted her initials put inside her wedding ring, and the date. So you’d know the ring again, even if you didn’t know Erica.”
“Who—are—you?” said David. His lips were dry.
There was no answer; the line had gone dead. When he got the exchange, it was to be told that the other party had rung off. Further questions, and, perhaps, an urgent note in his voice, produced the information that the call had come from a public office.
David sat long and stared at the wall in front of him. Behind all this closely detailed information there was some motive which he could not divine. There was something vaguely horrible, as if Erica were being called up for a malignant purpose. The voice was dreadfully hostile. There was something that shocked those faint boyish memories of his.
As he sat there, he realized how faint they were, how little he had known of the timid child he had married, and of that little how dim a memory survived. He tried to call up Erica’s face, but it would not come. A little shrinking figure in black—he could see that; but the small immature features eluded him. She was pale; her eyes were neither blue nor grey, and her hair neither light nor dark. She was in black for her father.
Suddenly he remembered her saying that she hated black. He could see the gesture with which she picked up a fold of her skirt and said: “I hate it! I love bright, bright colours. How soon do you think I can wear colours again?” He saw and heard her quite plainly; and he heard himself asking her what colour she liked best, and her eager answer: “I like pink best of all—bright pink, like roses.”
Looking back, he felt the old pity stir. She had been so starved of all the colour and gaiety of youth. He guessed at a stern, unhappy home—no companions, no toys, no amusements. A solitary visit to Aunt Nellie had been remembered and treasured. “I went with the Sunday-school for a treat all the way to Epping Forest;” and, “When I stayed with Aunt Nellie, we used to play games every evening.” David had laughed and asked what games—cards?—to be met with a shocked, “Oh no! Cards are wicked. Aunt Nellie wouldn’t have them in the house.”
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