Will O’ the Wisp

by Patricia Wentworth

  “No, we can’t,” said Heather Down. The high, hard colour came back to her cheeks. “And if you’re going to come between me and Aunt Nellie—”

  “Miss Down!”

  “My name’s Ida Baker. And what’s the good of your talking about being friends? If Aunt Nellie lets you help her when she won’t let me, isn’t that coming between us? Do you expect me to stop hating you? If you had come out to Cape Town, Erica would have gone away with you and wouldn’t have cared if she never saw me again. I used to hate you when I thought about it. And now you want to take Aunt Nellie from me. And you talk about being friends—friends!” Her voice rose sharply. “You’d better let me alone, David Fordyce, or I’ll do you a mischief yet.”

  She stared at him for a moment, and then went out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  CHAPTER XL

  David went back to his rooms. The certainty that Heather Down was not Erica had released him from the intolerable burden which he had been carrying. It had been very horrible to think of Erica changed into this bitter, twisted creature; and horrible to feel himself bound by an intimate tie to a woman whose hatred and resentment spoke in every word and look. He had again his gentle, pitiful memories of the child who had been his wife for a fortnight.

  He wrote a long letter to the solicitor who had acted for him in Cape Town, repeating Heather Down’s statement and asking him to verify it. He wrote also to Miss Smith.

  All this time he kept himself from thinking about Folly; and yet all the time it was just as if she were there at the door, clamouring to be let in, calling to him. A sense of uneasiness which was past his own control gained upon him.

  He rang up Eleanor, and was told that she was dining out and had just started. Somehow this piece of news immensely increased his uneasiness. At the back of his mind there had been the feeling that Eleanor was there to turn to. Now Eleanor was not there any more.

  He walked up and down the room calling himself every sort of fool, but unable to rid himself of the insistent sense that Folly was calling to him. He had been engaged to dine with Frank and Julie, but had put them off. Now he would have been glad to go. Anything was better than to stay here alone, a prey to overstrained imaginings.

  The telephone bell rang, and his mood underwent a change. It might be Frank Alderey; and suddenly he felt an extreme disinclination to go out. He took up the receiver impatiently, and heard the voice that had been crying in his ears for an hour—Folly’s voice, quick and unsteady.

  “David!” The name came to him, and then a confusion of sound and a click.

  He called, and got no answer. After several efforts, he got the exchange.

  “I’ve been cut off.”

  “What number?”

  “I don’t know the number. They rang me up.”

  After a second attempt he got a short “No reply from the number.”

  He left the telephone with his mind clearly made up. It was not for nothing that he had thought he heard Folly calling him; his dislike and distrust of Floss Miller came up like a tide. Folly had called to him, and nothing should keep him from going to her. He blessed the memory that never forgot an address as he hailed a taxi and gave the man the direction which Floss Miller had given him the night they had met at The Luxe.

  At the entrance to the block of flats he told the driver to wait and took the lift to the fifth floor. As he stepped out of it, the door in front of him opened. Mrs. Miller in a black and silver coat with a very handsome grey fox collar stood on the threshold.

  As he came towards her, she exclaimed and took a half involuntary step backwards, and at the same moment David, with every sense strained to the utmost, heard distinctly the sound of a turning key. He reached the doorway as Mrs. Miller, recovering herself, came forward.

  “I’m just going out,” she said.

  “So I see,” said David.

  He was most keenly aware of everything—the dark cage of the lift behind him on the left; the lighted hall of Mrs. Miller’s flat with its pink-shaded drop-light; and away on the right the closed door from which had come the click of the turning key.

  He said: “Is Folly in? I wanted to see her.”

  Mrs. Miller made another step forward. She was heavily powdered and, under the powder, very heavily flushed; her eyes were rather vacant; the step she had just taken was unsteady. He realized with disgust that she was half drunk already.

  He repeated his question sharply:

  “Is Folly in? I want to see her.”

  “Well, you can’t,” said Mrs. Miller. She leaned against the door-post. “You can’t see her to-night. And I’m going out. Tell you what, you come along with me and we’ll be a nice little family party. I’m dining with Francis Lester—he’s a very great friend of mine. You come along with me and we’ll be a nice little family party.” Her voice slid thickly over the consonants. She put a hand on David’s sleeve and smiled at him. It was a horrible ghost of what had once been an enchanting smile. “Come along,” she said.

  “Where’s Folly?” said David.

  Mrs. Miller stepped out into the hall and pulled at his arm.

  “Other fish to fry. You come along with me.”

  Then she came back and took hold of the handle to close the door. David stood his ground, half in, half out of the flat.

  “I’d like to see her if she’s in,” he said. Then he raised his voice and called, “Folly!”

  His ear had been straining for any sound from behind the door on the right. Now a sound came in answer to his call, a desperate, broken little sound. He turned his back on Floss Miller, walked to the door, tried the handle, and spoke through the panel:

  “Folly, are you there?”

  There was no answer.

  “Open the door or I shall break the lock! Open it at once!”

  Floss Miller’s voice called his name:

  “Look here, David Fordyce—”

  “Open this door!” said David.

  The key turned in the lock, and with a wrench David opened the door and took a step into the room.

  It was the drawing-room of the flat. There was an overwhelming impression of pink lights, pink cushions, scent, and cigarette smoke. Mr. St. Inigo leaned against a rose-coloured sofa with his hands in his pockets, and on the far side of the room David saw Folly. She was up against the wall with a tall chair in front of her; her hands were clenched on the top of the chair; her face was of an agonized, terrified pallor.

  “Don’t you know when you’re not wanted?” said Mr. St. Inigo.

  David took no notice of him. He went to Folly and touched her arm. It was quite rigid. He said, so low that only she could catch the words:

  “Has he hurt you?”

  She moved her head a very little. The movement said “No.”

  David crossed the room again. He addressed St. Inigo:

  “Get out of this at once!”

  There was something about the pale lounging figure that made David hope that he would not go; he wanted to hit St. Inigo; he wanted to kill him. He held himself in and said:

  “Get out!”

  St. Inigo began to say something, but before the half of it was said, David’s fist took him on the mouth and he went down sprawling.

  Mrs. Miller screamed. She stood back against the wall and watched St. Inigo being run out of the flat. The door shut upon him.

  “You’re strong!” said Floss Miller, as David came back. She spoke in an admiring tone.

  “I’m taking Folly away,” said David.

  Mrs. Miller shrugged her shoulders.

  “What a fuss about nothing!”

  David went back into the drawing-room. The room filled him with disgust—the whole place filled him with disgust—Mrs. Miller made him feel physically sick. His mind was bent on getting Folly out of this beastly place. He went over to her and told her so.

  “I’m going to take you away. You’d no business to have come here. I’m going to take you back to Eleanor.”

  Folly ha
d not moved. Her hands still gripped the back of the chair with so much force that the knuckles showed white on the little straining hands. David unclasped the hands.

  “Pull yourself together. Where’s your room—where are your things? Can you get them?”

  She made again the movement that said “No.”

  David’s voice hardened.

  “You must pull yourself together. I want to get you away. Where’s your room?”

  She moved then in the direction of the hall; with David’s hand on her shoulder they came past Floss Miller to a door at the far end. David opened it—Folly’s room; her hat thrown down on the bed; an evening dress across the pillow; trifles scattered everywhere. He left the door open. Folly sat down on the edge of the bed and stared in front of her.

  “Can’t you pack?” He spoke sharply and felt desperate. What on earth would he do if she fainted? She looked ghastly. Every moment that they stayed here added to his impatience. To get her away, to get her out of this horrible place, was all that mattered.

  Folly shook her head. She could not tell David that the room was full of mist—thick, white, baffling mist; and on the mist, like a picture on a screen, Floss Miller’s face, smiling. She could not tell David this; she could only sit still and hold on desperately to the fact that he was here.

  After one glance at her, David let her alone. He pulled out the trunk which stood in the corner of the room and put into it everything that he could find. Then he strapped the box, took it through the hall, and put it outside the door of the flat. The hall was empty.

  He went back for Folly. She was still sitting on the edge of the bed, still looking into the mists in which she saw Floss Miller’s face, Floss Miller’s smile. He put her hat on her head and pushed her arms into her fur coat as if she had been a child. Then he put his arm round her and set her on her feet. She was quite passive, but to his relief she was able to stand. He took her through the hall, and, as they reached the door, Floss Miller came out of the dining-room, and the smell of brandy came with her. She spoke, and at the sound of the thick voice Folly gave a sort of shaken sigh.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Miller, “I don’t care which of you gets her. Always back the strongest—that’s a good plan, isn’t it? That’s my plan, anyway.” She came a step nearer and dropped her voice a little. “I say, David Fordyce, Stingo said he’d pay my debts. I suppose you’ll do as much?”

  He felt Folly quiver. She pressed against him. Her voice came back in a dreadful gasping whisper:

  “Don’t listen to her—David—don’t—she’s my mother!”

  All of a sudden David understood. It was not St. Inigo but Floss Miller who had brought that look of dazed agony to Folly’s face. It was a betrayal of the most intimate sanctities and loyalties of a very loyal heart. It was the betrayal of woman by woman that had left Folly so helpless before St. Inigo. He felt the greatest passion of anger of which a man is capable, and another deeper, stronger passion of protecting love. His arm closed hard about Folly. There was nothing to be said. It was finished.

  He lifted her over the threshold and shut the door on Floss Miller and her flat.

  CHAPTER XLI

  During the drive to Chieveley Street, David did not speak at all. They went up in the lift and rang the bell of Eleanor’s flat. No one came. David rang again, and the sound of the faint, shrill ringing died away. He spoke then, almost angrily:

  “Eleanor’s dining out, but there ought to be someone in the flat. What’s happened to them?”

  Folly answered.

  “Not if she’s dining out. She lets them go to the pictures.” She spoke in a small weak voice, but it had lost the hoarse, unnatural quality which had frightened him; it was her own voice again, small and faint.

  “Oh, Lord!” said David. “What are we going to do?”

  “I’ve got my key.” Then, after a pause and a long sigh: “It was in my bag.”

  “Your red bag? I shoved it in the top of the box.”

  “Yes, it’s there.”

  He got out the bag, found the key, and opened the door. It was like the first time he had brought her here—like and yet different. He had been angry with her then; now he knew that he loved her utterly, and that to meet her need he must be mother, brother, friend, and lover all in one.

  He put on the lights, and they came into the drawing-room. It was warm, and the fire not yet out. In the lap of the largest chair lay Timmy very fast asleep.

  When he had revived the fire, David went and foraged in the kitchen. He came back presently with eggs, hot soup, and coffee, to find Folly sitting forward on the sofa with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, staring at the fire.

  He made her eat, and when she had finished he heaped cushions behind her.

  “I shall stay till Eleanor gets back.”

  “’M—” said Folly. Then, after a pause: “You’re kind.”

  David’s eyes stung; the words were said so childishly.

  She had taken off her fur coat. Her dress was the pink one she had worn at Ford when she had first tied on the little black curls and asked him if he liked them. She had short curls of her own now, which only covered her ears halfway. Her small black head lay back against a pale blue cushion. The colour had come to her lips again, but her cheeks were pitifully white, and there were blue smudges under her eyes.

  David put his hand on hers and held it in a warm, gentle clasp. After a long time she lifted her lashes.

  “Why are you kind?”

  “I’ll tell you presently.”

  She sighed deeply.

  “I tried to call you.”

  “I heard you.”

  “Did you? I didn’t think you could. I only had time to call once.”

  “You’d been calling me for an hour before the telephone bell rang at all.”

  “Had I? I didn’t know. They came—I couldn’t go on.”

  David’s hand tightened on hers.

  “Don’t talk about it.”

  Her eyelids closed.

  “I can’t—ever.”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  He got up, because, just for the moment, he couldn’t bear to be so near her and not take her in his arms. But she looked up at once with a little cry:

  “Where are you going?”

  “Only to put some coal on the fire.”

  When he came back she sat up a little and stretched out her hands towards him.

  “You won’t go till Eleanor comes?”

  He shook his head. Then, as he took the cold hands in his, she gave a little sob.

  “Don’t go! I’m frightened.”

  David went down on his knees and put his arms round her.

  “My darling little thing—my darling, darling little thing!” he said.

  There was just a moment when she clung to him, trembling. Then he felt her draw back; her hands pushed him from her.

  “Folly—my little darling!”

  She shrank into the far corner of the sofa.

  “No—I’m not.”

  “Didn’t you know it? Didn’t you know how much I cared?”

  She shook her head; her eyes were wide and blank.

  “I couldn’t tell you, because I didn’t know if I was free. I saw Heather Down this afternoon, and she told me that she wasn’t Erica. She told me Erica died in Cape Town more than four years ago.”

  Folly’s eyes lost their unseeing look. She said:

  “I’m glad you know. It’s dreadful not to be sure—it’s dreadful to feel you have to love someone whom you can’t. Sometimes you can’t.”

  He knew she was thinking of Floss Miller.

  He said: “I didn’t mean to tell you that I cared. I meant to wait. But I can’t see you like this and not comfort you with all the love I’ve got.”

  Folly gave a little cry. She caught at the arm of the sofa and stood up.

  “No—no—no!” she said. “No—no, it’s not true. Oh, it isn’t!” She spoke in a horrified whisper.


  “Folly!”

  “No, it isn’t true. David—it isn’t. David!”

  “Of course it’s true,” said David. “My little darling!”

  “Oh!” said Folly. It was a bitter little cry that wrung his heart.

  “Folly, what is it? I love you with all my heart.”

  She said “No” on a quick, shuddering breath, and then: “Did you think I would? Did you think I’d take you from Eleanor? Oh no!”

  “Folly, darling—what nonsense!”

  She came up to him and caught his arm.

  “It’s not nonsense. You’re hers—you’re not mine. I always thought you were hers, and I flirted with you. Yes, I know I flirted, but I wanted to see if you were a beast like Stingo—I wanted to see if you were good enough for Eleanor—I wanted to be sure she was going to have a real chance of being happy. She wasn’t happy with Cosmo Rayne—nobody could have been happy with him. I want her to be happy. You mustn’t love me.” She shook the arm that she was holding; the vehement colour came up in her cheeks like a flame. “You mustn’t—you mustn’t! You must love Eleanor.”

  David put his other arm round her.

  “Then Tommy Wingate’ll break my head,” he said gravely.

  “Why will he?”

  “Because Eleanor’s going to marry him.”

  Folly stared with all her eyes.

  “Who said so?”

  “Eleanor did.”

  “Ooh! David—she didn’t!”

  “Folly, she did.” He laughed a little unsteadily. “She said it in front of Grandmamma, and Aunt Editha, and Aunt Mary, and Timothy and me.”

  “Ooh!” said Folly again. “You’re sure?”

  “Ask Timothy—or Grandmamma. Now am I allowed to love you? Or must I have a hopeless passion for Mrs. Tommy Wingate?”

  Folly flung her arms round his neck.

  “David—no, David, I want to say something. No, David, I want to say it in your ear.”

  “What is it, you silly little thing?”

  “David—are you sure you don’t love her?”

  “I’m quite sure. I love you. I love you so much that I don’t know how to say it. Do you love me?”

  “I don’t know. Do I?”

  “I think you do.”