Will O’ the Wisp

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Go home!” said David harshly.

  “I can’t. You’re angry with me.”

  Her hand went up and caught his arm.

  He said, “Angry?” in a voice she did not know.

  “I can’t bear it—it tears me. I can’t bear it. It makes me want to kill you, and it makes me want to say I’m sorry, and—it hurts—it hurts too much.” She was trembling and taking quick, crying breaths.

  “Folly, go home!”

  “I can’t.”

  “You must.”

  She pressed against him in the dark.

  “David—David—why does it hurt like this? It hurts. David!”

  His arms came round her, suddenly and hard. He did not speak; a frightful anguish held him dumb. Once they had kissed carelessly on the brink of this deep place of pain; now they did not kiss at all. They held one another in the darkness, and the long minutes passed them by.

  It was Folly who pulled herself away with a sob.

  “You’re not angry—now?”

  “No—I’m not angry. Folly, go home!”

  “You won’t be angry again?”

  He put out his hand to push her away, and felt it caught, held, and pressed for a moment to her cheek.

  “I can’t bear it when you’re angry,” she said. And then, as suddenly as she had come, she was gone again.

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  David wrote next day a letter which he addressed to Miss Down at 16, Martagon Crescent. It had no formal beginning.

  “If you are Erica, I beg you to believe me when I say that my one desire is to do all I can to make up to you for the last five years. If you are Erica, you are my wife, and Ford is your home. I beg you to believe that I made every effort to trace you, and that all the evidence available seemed to prove your death. Your letters were suppressed. You have a right to an explanation, which shall be given you. But I would prefer not to write about it. Your resentment makes everything very difficult. If you could put it on one side and meet me in a different spirit, it would make it easier for us both. All that is in my power to do I will do. I only ask that you will cease to believe me capable of having deserted you. We had not known each other very long, but I think that what you knew of me could not lead you to suppose that I would do such a thing.”

  The letter ended abruptly with no more than initials. David sent it off and sat for an hour looking down the road which he must travel.

  Presently the telephone bell rang, and he heard Folly’s voice. It was so unexpected that he could hardly steady his own.

  “David—is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s something I was going to tell you, only I forgot.” The last word shook a little.

  “What is it?”

  “I meant to tell you. It’s about the letters—her letters.”

  “Yes?”

  “Betty kept them back—didn’t she?”

  David did not answer.

  “David, don’t be tiresome! I do hate people being discreet! I know she kept them back, so what’s the sense in not saying so?”

  Silence.

  A sort of exasperated rattle came along the line; he imagined that the receiver was being shaken. Then Folly’s “Ooh!” and “David, are you there? You’re not to go away. I want to tell you about Francis.”

  “What about him?”

  “Francis Lester—Betty’s husband. I told you I’d met him—Floss and he are great friends—but I didn’t tell you the odd sort of things he said.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “About you.”

  David gave an odd laugh.

  “I don’t think I really very much care what Lester says about me.”

  “Ooh! Don’t be stupid. I didn’t mean that sort of thing. David, you’re being stupid.”

  “Well, what did you mean?”

  I’ll tell you. Francis had had about fifty cocktails, I should think—he does, you know, and then he talks. He talked about Ford—he talked about it rather as if it belonged to him. So I said, ‘I didn’t know it belonged to you’”—her voice lifted impudently—“and he got cross, and he said if it didn’t now, it was all the same as if it did, because you couldn’t get married unless he gave you leave, and as long as you didn’t marry, Ford was bound to come to Betty.”

  David considered this. It was what Betty had admitted; but there was something more. If Francis had really said, “He can’t get married without my leave,” it might mean a very great deal more than Betty had admitted. If there were a legal impediment to his marriage, it could not in any sense of the word be considered to depend upon Francis either giving or withholding his consent. If there were no legal impediment—

  David thought about this until Folly’s voice broke in:

  “Are you there? Don’t go away—I haven’t finished.”

  “I’m not going away. I was thinking. Folly, are you sure Francis used those words—I couldn’t get married without his leave?”

  “’M—that’s what he said.”

  “Did he say anything more?”

  “No—not about you. He talked about Betty and said she didn’t send him nearly enough money. When I think about being married to Francis I’m quite sorry for Betty.”

  “So am I,” said David.

  Folly laughed a little gurgling laugh.

  “Ooh! Your voice sounded like swearing.”

  “I feel like swearing.”

  “Poor Francis! Because, you know, when I think about being married to Betty, I feel sorry for him. David—”

  “What?”

  “David, I’m going away.”

  “When?”

  “To-day. I’m going to Floss. I thought I’d tell you. Good-bye.” The receiver went on with a click.

  An hour later Eleanor rang up.

  “David, I’m frightfully distressed. Folly’s gone to her mother. I couldn’t stop her. Did you hear anything about it?”

  “She told me an hour ago on the telephone.”

  “What am I to do? I don’t even know George March’s address. He’s on his honeymoon somewhere in Italy.”

  “You can’t do anything.”

  “I want to see you. Will you come and see me? I want to talk to you.”

  “What’s the use?” said David.

  “David, don’t talk like that. Will you come? I must see you.”

  “All right, I’ll come round.”

  “Thank you,” said Eleanor, and rang off.

  David found her standing by the fire, and he had the impression that she had been walking up and down waiting for him. She looked pale and troubled.

  “David, I’m so glad you’ve come.” She gave him a hand that was cold in spite of the fire.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do anything to help you,” said David.

  He looked about the room. It was empty without Folly. Her scarlet tulips stood in a burning sheaf on the piano; Eleanor had picked up the scattered flowers. But there are things that you can’t pick up again.

  Eleanor took her courage in both hands.

  “David, won’t you tell me what has happened? I’m all in the dark.”

  David stood by the mantelpiece and leaned his arms upon it. He looked down into the fire and saw Folly’s face there. The room was empty; and the room was full of her. He said in a slow, dull voice:

  “I don’t know what you know. There’s a girl called Heather Down. I think she’s Erica. She hates me. She’s only come here because she hates me. She says she wants to punish me. I think she is my wife.”

  “David!” Eleanor’s voice shook with her horror of what he was saying. She moved nearer to him and put a hand on his arm.

  He lifted his head and gave her a strange, boyish look.

  “Beastly—isn’t it?”

  “My poor David!” Then after a silence: “David—you and Folly—it’s better for me to know. You care for each other?”

  David went on looking at her, still with that young look of puzzled distress.

/>   “I suppose we do. I hadn’t thought of it like that—at least not till yesterday.”

  Her hand pressed his arm. The old sense of close, strong kinship was between them—stronger, closer, kinder than it had ever been.

  “I don’t think she knows,” said David. “I was angry with her. She asked why it hurt so much.” His heart broke in him with tenderness for Folly. “She doesn’t know—I don’t believe she knows.”

  “David, dear.”

  Eleanor’s eyes clouded with tears. She was so near him that her nearness and her sympathy shook his self-control, and for a moment he put his head down on her shoulder and she felt him tremble.

  It was at this moment that the door opened. It was Aunt Editha who had opened it. She said: “My dear girl! My dear boy!” And as David stepped back and Eleanor turned, they beheld not only Aunt Editha, but Aunt Mary, and between these two faithful supporters the portentous figure of Grandmamma.

  Grandmamma was a very imposing sight in a cloak of black plush heavily bordered with fur and a truly wonderful bonnet. The edge was incrusted with flowers worked in jet, and it bore three ostrich-feathers sable rampant on a field of beaded net. The weight of the feathers had tipped her wig over her left eye. She leaned upon a tall ebony stick with a silver handle, and she surveyed David and Eleanor with a glance of ancestral disfavour.

  David had never admired Eleanor so much in his life. There was a lovely carnation colour in her cheeks; but she went to meet Grandmamma with unfaltering sweetness and dignity, kissed an averted cheek, embraced two fluttered aunts, and provided everyone with chairs. Aunt Editha then loosened Grandmamma’s cloak, and Aunt Mary opened a beaded bag and supplied her with a lace-edged handkerchief.

  All this time Mrs. Fordyce’s hard, bright blue eyes were taking in the room, the flowers upon the piano, Eleanor’s heightened colour, and David’s pallor. She folded her hands over the lace-edged handkerchief and opened fire.

  “I came,” she said, addressing Eleanor, “I came to hear for myself the truth about Flora.”

  The shot was unexpected. Folly having only left the flat an hour or two before, it was certainly surprising to find that the Family was already upon the warpath. Eleanor’s surprise showed so plainly that Grandmamma proceeded to majestic explanation.

  “I wish to hear the truth from your own lips. I told Milly that I would inquire into the matter personally. I see that you are wondering how it is that I am already informed of the disastrous step that Flora has taken. It happened, providentially, that Milly had been to see Euphemia Castleton this morning. On her way to lunch with me she was obliged to pass the lower end of Chieveley Street, and at the moment she turned the corner she saw Flora in a cab with luggage—with luggage. Milly was very much surprised, and as the cab was obliged to wait at the corner owing to a block in the traffic beyond, she ran across the road and inquired where Flora was going. I am still hoping that she heard the answer incorrectly. Milly arrived at my house in a state of the most painful agitation and informed us that Flora had left you and gone to her mother.” At this point Grandmamma lifted the lace handkerchief and rubbed the end of her nose with it. Then in a different and much brisker voice she continued: “We will talk of this presently. I have told you why I came. There is no need, I imagine, for me to tell you what I saw when your Aunt Editha opened the door of this room. I merely ask what conclusion I am to draw from it.”

  David had retired to his old place by the hearth, where he remained standing because decency forbade him to run away and leave Eleanor to face the Family alone.

  She flushed a little more brightly than before and replied:

  “I don’t think there are any conclusions to be drawn,”

  “Dear girl—” murmured Miss Editha. Miss Mary fidgeted with her bead bag.

  “H’m!” said Grandmamma. She fixed Eleanor with a hard, bright eye. “H’m! My dear Eleanor, am I to conclude that you are so much in the habit of embracing young men as to consider that what we saw requires no explanation? Or am I to understand that a former foolish flirtation between you and David has been revived?”

  David came forward.

  “Look here, Grandmamma—”

  “I was not speaking to you, David,” said Grandmamma stiffly; “I was asking Eleanor whether she considered herself engaged to you?”

  Eleanor’s colour had faded. David had never seen her angry like this before. She was very angry. She spoke very gently and distinctly:

  “I am not engaged to David. I think you forget how many years we have known each other and what close friends we are. There is really nothing to explain.”

  Mrs. Fordyce rubbed the bridge of her nose. Then she folded her hands again.

  “I disapprove entirely of marriages between cousins,” she said. “I will never consent to your marrying David.”

  “Oh, dear girl—” moaned Miss Editha.

  Eleanor got up.

  “There’s not the slightest question of my marrying David.” She slipped her hand inside his arm and held it tightly. “We’re just the very, very best friends in the world. I—I’m going to marry Tommy Wingate.”

  The moment she had said it, Eleanor let go of David’s arm and sat down again. She was perfectly calm, but very cold. She had not known that she was going to say it; she had not even known that she was going to do it; she had heard her own voice saying the words, and that was all. She had burned her boats with a vengeance.

  Ten minutes later David disentangled himself from the Family and took his leave. Eleanor had been cried over, fussed over, warned, lectured, and, finally, blessed. It had been established that Tommy had been known and approved by her late parents; it had also transpired that he possessed an income independent of his profession. It was at this point that Grandmamma thawed. She had a very sincere respect for young men of independent means, and remarked with decision that there did not seem to be as many of them as there used to be.

  “And now, my dear, we will return to the subject of Flora.”

  David departed.

  He rang up Eleanor an hour later.

  “Have they gone?”

  “Yes. Wasn’t it awful?” Eleanor sounded a little tremulous.

  “Some day,” said David, “I shall let Grandmamma have it in the neck. It’s what she’s wanted all her life.”

  “David, you can’t!”

  “I shall,” said David. “I was just going to when you cast your bomb. I say, my dear, I’m most awfully glad.”

  “Oh,” said Eleanor, “oh, I don’t know what made me say it. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know I was going to.”

  “But you are going to?”

  She gave a little shaky laugh.

  “I—I suppose so.”

  David laughed too.

  Does Tommy know?” he asked.

  “No, he doesn’t,” said Eleanor, and fled.

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  David received no answer to the letter which he had written to Heather Down. The hours of the morning dragged interminably.

  In the afternoon he went to Martagon Crescent. The little maid opened the door.

  “Miss Down’s out,” she said.

  David derived a momentary sense of relief from the fact that she said “out,” and not “gone away.” All day he had been remembering that Heather Down had said: “You won’t see me again.” That and her “You’ll never be sure” rang dreary changes in his ears.

  He asked, “Is Miss Smith in?” and the girl left him standing at the door with an awkward “I dunno. I’ll go and see.”

  She came back in a minute.

  “She can’t see you,” she announced; and she had hardly said the words before Miss Smith came running after her.

  “Come in, Mr. Fordyce. Come into my room.”

  She made him go before her, and shut the door. It was about four o’clock; the light slanting in across dingy roofs and grimy walls was cold and thankless. It served to show that the carpet was darned and the paper stained, but it did not light o
r cheer the room at all. The gloomy texts frowned from shadowed walls. There was no fire.

  Miss Smith, in her black dress with the mourning brooch at her throat, was as sad as the room. She had on a grey checked apron, which she took off and folded with trembling fingers. When she had laid it on a chair, she said in an anxious voice:

  “Why did you come?”

  David tried to speak reasonably and calmly:

  “Did you really expect me to stay away? I wrote to her. Has she had my letter?”

  “I can’t tell you anything,” said Miss Smith. “I can’t really.”

  “Miss Smith—”

  “I oughtn’t to have seen you. I said I wouldn’t see you.”

  “Why shouldn’t you see me?” asked David.

  Miss Smith did not answer. She had never come very far into the room, and as he spoke, she went back against the door and made an ineffective movement towards the handle.

  “Why shouldn’t you see me?” said David gently. “Why are you afraid of me?”

  Miss Smith leaned against the door and blinked at him.

  “What did you say to her—in the letter? She didn’t show it to me. I want to know what you said.” She spoke as if she had very little breath, and as if each panting sentence exhausted the small supply.

  “I told her—” David broke off short. “It was after I’d seen her here. I went away not knowing what to think. I—I want to do the right thing. If she’s Erica, she’s my wife; and I want to do what’s right to my wife. I had every reason to think she was dead. If she’s alive—” He broke off again.

  Miss Smith put both hands to her breast; the long, thin fingers with their rough, work-reddened knuckles crossed on the black stuff and pressed it with a certain rigid force against the bony chest below.

  “If she’s alive—what will you do if Erica is alive?”

  “Anything I can—anything she wants me to.”

  “You’d give out your marriage?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’d do what was right by her—give her her place?”

  He said “Of course” again.

  Miss Smith put her head back against the door for a moment and shut her eyes. When she opened them they were dry and bright.