Will O’ the Wisp (18 page)

“Gone out?” said Miss Editha.

“For the afternoon,” said the parlourmaid.

“Is Miss March at home?”

The parlourmaid hesitated, and Miss Editha walked into the hall.

“Ah, I see she is. Then you needn't announce me—I'll just go in.” And in she went, to find Folly curled up in a big chair with a book. Timmy lay asleep on her knee in an abandoned attitude, all stretched out and furry.

“Don't get up,” said Aunt Editha brightly. “I wouldn't disturb that darling pet of a kitten for worlds. I'll just take this chair beside you, and we can be quite cosy. Well, Flora, my dear, this is very nice. It was such a disappointment to find that dear Eleanor was out; but the next best thing to finding her is to find you, my dear. Dear Eleanor has gone out with Captain Wingate, I suppose?”

“'M—” said Folly. “Look at Timothy, Aunt Editha! Isn't he funny? He always yawns when I tickle his chin.”

“I was just thinking how nice it would be to have a cosy little chat with you, Flora dear.” Aunt Editha stroked Timmy absent-mindedly with one finger. “About your father's marriage, you know. Now tell me, was it a great surprise to you?”

“Oh no.”

“That is well. I
am
so glad of that. And now, dear child, tell me—have you met this lady?”

Folly nodded.

“How delightful—how very delightful! Dear child, you will be such a happy family. I feel sure of it. So sensible of your dear father to choose a contemporary of his own—so
very
sensible. I hear from Aunt Milly that he has made a most judicious choice, and that you will now have that kind, wise guidance which you must so often have felt the need of.”

Folly was stroking the pads of Timmy's paws; the little transparent claws came curving out of their velvet sheaths and then sank back again. She fixed a mournful gaze on Miss Editha's face.

“I shall probably go and live with Floss,” she said.

“With—Floss? You mean—Oh, my dear child!”

“'M—” said Folly. “I expect I shall.”

Aunt Editha patted her hand. She was terribly shocked, but never too much shocked to be kind.

“Dear child, pray don't talk like that. I know how terribly hard it has been for you. But, believe me, brighter days will dawn—they will, indeed. I feel sure that your dear father has made a very wise and happy choice, and that you will come to rejoice in his happiness like a good, unselfish child. And now we won't talk about it
any
more. When did you say dear Eleanor would be back?”

“I don't know.”

“Is she out to tea?”

“I expect so.”

“My dear—well, perhaps you would both come round and have supper with us this evening?” This was a really brilliant inspiration, and quite impromptu.

“Thanks awfully, Aunt Editha, but we're engaged.”

“Are you going to Aunt Milly? She didn't mention it.”

“Oh no,” said Folly. She pulled Timmy's whiskers, and was bitten for her pains.

Aunt Editha smiled her kind, bright smile.

“Now, don't tell me. You must really let me guess. Is it Frank and Julie?”

Folly shook her head.

“Dear Uncle St. Clair then? No? The William Fordyces? My dear child, where can you
possibly
be going?” Aunt Editha was flushed, and her voice trembled a little.

All at once Folly's mood changed. Aunt Edith was kind. She did try to find things out, but she was
kind;
and she was really, really fond of Eleanor. She was even fond of the wicked little Will-o'-the-Wisp who had been teasing her. She put both hands on Aunt Editha's arm and squeezed it.

“We aren't really going out at all; Tommy and David are coming here. So you couldn't guess—could you?”

“Tommy?” said Aunt Editha, pleasantly fluttered. “Is that Captain Wingate? And do you call him Tommy, dear child?”

“'M—” said Folly. She stopped squeezing the arm and patted it instead. “Everyone calls him Tommy—he's that sort. But I thought you knew him. David and Eleanor seem to have known him for ages and ages and ages.”

“Wingate?” said Miss Editha. “Wingate—Wingate? David had a schoolfellow of that name, older than himself, I think. Yes—yes! And his parents used to live in the same neighbourhood as dear Eleanor's parents. That would be it! Of course, such an old friend, it makes all the difference. Dear Eleanor would naturally enjoy meeting him again—to be sure—very pleasant for them both. Dear child, you've quite set my mind at rest. And now I must be getting back to Grandmamma.”

Folly let her out. On the threshold Miss Editha turned and hugged her.

“Such a nice talk, dear child! So cosy!”

She forgot to leave the book that Bertha had enjoyed so much.

CHAPTER XXVI

David found a faint relief from strain in Tommy Wingate's cheerful company. At supper Tommy was full of talk. The solemn parlourmaid had gone out, and they waited on themselves.

After supper they sat round the fire and talked about the times when Tommy was Wingate major and a most tremendous swell, and David was his fag. Eleanor, it appeared, was then chiefly remarkable for the length of her pigtail and the way in which it was apt to betray her by catching in trees and bushes when she was in headlong flight from the boys. They went on remembering very happily, and Folly, curled up on the floor at Eleanor's feet with her head against Eleanor's knee, forgot all about George and Floss and being lost dog.

When Tommy said good-bye, he said: “May I come next week, Eleanor?”

Eleanor first met his eyes frankly and answered with an “Oh yes—do,” and then quite suddenly blushed and dropped her lashes.

David went away feeling more rested than he had done all the week. That schoolboy past had been a very pleasant place to wander in.

At midday on Monday he was rung up again.

“Well, David Fordyce?” said the voice.

David made his own voice as coolly indifferent as he could:

“Who is speaking?”

There was a laugh.

“That won't go down, you know.”

“Don't you think it's time you told me your name?” said David.

“I'm going to. As a matter of fact my card is probably somewhere on your table at this moment. I left it there when I came to see you.”

David fumbled amongst his papers and picked out a card. It was of the size used for men's visiting cards, and written across it in pencil with printed letters were the words
“Miss Heather Down.”
There was no address.

Miss Down—the girl in the bright pink hat who had talked so oddly. He asked quickly:

“Are you Miss Down? I have her card.”

“Miss Heather Down. Well, David Fordyce, you've had the week-end to think things over, and I should like to know what conclusion you've come to?”

“I haven't come to any conclusion at all. I should like to meet you and talk things over.”

“All in good time.”

David struck the table with his hand.

“Miss Down, what's the good of all this? If you wished to rouse my interest, you've roused it. I can't believe that you want to torture me.”

The voice said: “Can't you?”

“No, I can't. Will you tell me plainly whether you believe Erica to be alive?”

There was a long pause. Then the voice said:

“What do you think, David Fordyce?”

“I don't know what to think. I have believed her dead.”

“Since when?”

“Since the wreck of the
Bomongo
.”

In a sort of hesitating way the voice said: “Erica survived that wreck.” Then with vehemence: “You know very well she did, David Fordyce.”

“I do
not
.”

“You say that?”

“Of course I say it.”

“Then you've got a nerve. Do you think I know so much, and don't know that Erica wrote to you?”

“Erica wrote to me?”

“You know she did.”

“Miss Down, that's a most extraordinary assertion. If I had received a letter from Erica, how could I possibly have believed that she was dead?”

“I never thought that you believed it. It suited you to pretend you believed it—that's all.”

“I never received any letter from Erica—I can swear it.”

“You swore to love and cherish her. Pie-crust promises—weren't they? What's the good of your trying to bluff me? I can tell you what was in the letters.”

David exclaimed sharply.

“I know too much, you see. Do you still think you're talking to a stranger, David Fordyce?”

A feeling of the most sickening dread touched David.

“Tell me who you are, then.”

“Can't you answer the question yourself? If you can't, take a dictionary and look up my name. That may help you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look in the dictionary. And then if you want to see me, you can come round to Martagon Crescent. I shall be there at nine o'clock.” She rang off.

David sat looking at her card. Miss Down—Miss Heather Down. The feeling of sickening dread touched him again. It was as if he were in the dark, in a place unknown, and there, upon the darkness, could see a formless image drawing together, taking on form and outline.

He got up, went to the bookcase, and took down “The Oxford Dictionary.” The leaves turned under his fixed gaze. He was scarcely aware that it was his own hand that turned them. Halfway down a right hand page he saw the word Heather, and read on: “A species of
Erica
.” He shut the book and put it back on the book-shelf. The image had taken shape; and with all his heart and mind he rejected it.

He went back to his table and sat down. The horrible moment had passed; he felt clear and cool to coldness. Heather Down—Erica Moore. The name was merely a punning translation. He rejected the name and its implications. He rejected the whole attempt to convince him that Erica lived. Then, as he sat there, things began to come back to him—little odd things. Miss Down in her bright pink scarf. Erica's voice saying: “How long must I wear black? I do love bright colours. I like pink best of all.” Miss Down sitting in that chair over there and using odd old-fashioned proverbs to point her nervous jerky speech. Erica saying to him: “We played parlour games—backgammon and spillikins and proverbs.”

Like the tiny waves that wash against the foot of a cliff and undermine it, these thoughts came lapping against the set determination with which he rejected Heather Down's preposterous claim. If it were a claim, why had it not been made before? The thing that she had said came sharply into his mind. She said that Erica had written. Impossible! If she had written, why had he not received her letter? She had not written. She had not survived the wreck of the
Bomongo
. The whole thing was some barefaced attempt to impose upon his credulity.

At this point the little lapping waves began again. Whoever Heather Down might be, or whoever she might claim to be, she had, or fancied she had, some grudge against him. The resentment in her voice sounded real enough. He began to go over his interview with Miss Smith.

The little waves went on lapping.

CHAPTER XXVII

At the corner of Martagon Crescent, David looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock. He walked slowly to the door of No. 16 and rang the bell. The same little girl whom he had seen before let him in. David supposed her to be some sort of maid-of-all-work—a small peaked creature who looked ten, but who was probably fifteen.

He followed her into Miss Smith's parlour. The single gas jet burned noisily and filled the room with its stale fumes; a small, weak fire dwindled on the hearth. The room was cold as well as stuffy. Beneath the predominating smell of gas other odours lurked—the fustiness of a very old carpet, faint traces of furniture polish, and the peculiar smell of linoleum.

The door opened and Miss Down came in. She wore the same pink hat in which she had visited the office, a salmon-coloured jumper, and a bright cerise golf-jacket. Her manner was nervous, and her colour very high. She made no attempt to shake hands, but crossed between David and the fire and remained standing near the rose-wood table with its pink and green woolly mats and its family Bible.

David turned so as to face her. His first feeling was one of extreme relief. She was at least two inches taller than Erica; and he judged her to be three or four years older.

He said: “Good-evening, Miss Down.”

She made no reply to the greeting, and before the nervous intensity of her look David felt a faint return of his old horrified dread.

After waiting to see if she would speak, he said:

“Miss Down, you have made a most extraordinary assertion. You say that my wife survived the wreck of the
Bomongo
. You
do
say that?”

“Of course I do. The proof of the pudding's in the eating, isn't it?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Are you going to pretend that you don't know what I mean?”

“There's no pretence about it.”

“There are none so blind as those who won't see.” Her manner was at the same time nervous and self-assertive; she was obviously in a state of great excitement.

David said coolly: “Am I to understand that you claim to be Erica?”

Her bright flush deepened.

“And if I said ‘Yes' to that, David Fordyce?”

David's eyebrows lifted.

“I really shouldn't advise you to make that claim.” Tone and manner were as quiet as could be, but Miss Down started as if he had struck her.

“And why? You'll have to tell me that, you know. You've got a grown woman to deal with now, not a poor little frightened child like you had five years ago.

“That,” said David, “is one of my points Erica would not have been twenty-two until next June. You don't seriously ask me to believe that you are only twenty-one?”