Fool Errant (32 page)

He found that the hand in which he was holding the letter had started to shake a good deal. He tried holding it with the other hand, but it wasn't any better, so he put the letter down. There is nothing that makes you feel more of a fool than to see your own hand shaking like a bit of rag in the wind.

Then all at once the thing got through to where he could feel it. Marian—Marian wasn't going to marry him. It had got right through like fire that has been smouldering in a garment and suddenly reaches the

Lindsay sat there with the letter in his hand and the words of it burning themselves slowly into his consciousness—slowly, deeply, surely. The moments slid into minutes, very long minutes. And then, when realization was full, he forced himself to face it.

It was a relief to find that he could think quite clearly. The feeling of shock and pain seemed to be quite separate from his thinking. He looked again at the letter. Marian was not going to marry him. She gave no reason, and he knew of none—he knew of
none.
Something surged up in him at the word. There are words that touch the springs of agony. No reason—none—
none.
Other words pressed in through the breach made by this surging something—No more—never. He beat them back, closed down the breach, and turned ordered thought upon the catastrophe.

He had spent the week-end with the Raynes—the house very full, and so not much time alone with Marian; but no quarrel, no coldness—or none of which he had been aware. Marian was pale. He saw her for a moment like that, looking in, as it were, upon the havoc she had made—watching it; a little pale, a little pensive; black hair just pushed from her forehead, black lashes just drooping over grey-green eyes. The impression was startlingly distinct. He went resolutely back to the week-end. She was pale. Mr Rayne had joked about it—“Too many dressmakers!” he said. “Why does a girl want ten times as many dresses as usual just because she's going to get married? She can't wear more than one of them at a time—can she?”

It shocked him horribly to realize that he was looking back to the week-end of only two days ago as if it were something far away in the past. He was separated from it by a dim gulf. It was far—it was endlessly far away. It was like a country which one has left behind one long ago.

He got out of bed and put Marian's letter away in a dispatch-box. As he turned the key, the worst of the stunned feeling went. The fighting thing in him got up, raging. If she thought she could just chuck him over like that without a word—well, he would show her she couldn't. Half a dozen lines on a blotted sheet. … He would show her. If she'd got a reason, she was damned well going to give him the reason. And, if she hadn't got a reason—if she hadn't got a reason. … His thoughts seemed to run slower. If she hadn't got a reason, wasn't he well rid of a woman who would break a man's life for a whim?

He said it, and tried to mean it; but he couldn't—not at once—not quite at once. This was Tuesday. They were going to have been married on Saturday. … “I can't marry you, Lin—I
can't.”

He heard the bath water running.

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About the Author

Patricia Wentworth (1878–1961) was one of the masters of classic English mystery writing. Born in India as Dora Amy Elles, she began writing after the death of her first husband, publishing her first novel in 1910. In the 1920s, she introduced the character who would make her famous: Miss Maud Silver, the former governess whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting served to disguise a keen intellect. Along with Agatha Christie's Miss Marple, Miss Silver is the definitive embodiment of the English style of cozy mysteries.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1929 by Patricia Wentworth

Cover design by Maurcio Díaz

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3314-5

This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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