Will O’ the Wisp (25 page)

“I never had the letters.”

She threw out the hand from which she had slipped the rings.

“Tell those lies to someone else. The letter said that I was ill. Perhaps that put the idea into your head. You were wishing you hadn't got married—your father had died and you had come in for the property—you hoped I'd die too—you wanted to see if I would. When no more letters came, you thought I was out of your way. When you'd waited a bit longer, you were quite sure that I was dead. Well, I waited too—I wanted to punish you.”

A cold, dull pain gripped David. Under the pain a cold, slow anger. He stood separated from her, not only by the years, but by every instinct and feeling of his heart. Yet if she were Erica, he must make amends. He owed a debt, and he must pay it if the price beggared him of all that made life worth living. He constrained himself and said:

“I can't make you believe me. Can you make me believe you? Can you convince me that you are Erica?”

“Don't you know it?”

“I'm not sure.” David said the words in a low voice. He did not look at her.

“You're not sure because you don't want to be sure.”

“That's not true. I do want to be sure.”

She picked up the rings and held them between finger and thumb, turning them this way and that.

“Perhaps I don't want you to be sure,” she said. “That would be a good punishment—would't it? Never to be sure—never to know whether you're free or not. I haven't made any claim, have I?”

“No.”

“Well, I don't mean to. I don't mean to do anything more. I've done what I came for. I didn't come to make a claim; I came to punish you. You won't see me again; and you'll never, never be sure. You'll never know whether you're free or not—you'll never be able to go to another woman and make her the promises that you made to me. That's your punishment.”

She put the wedding ring back on to the third finger of her left hand and slipped the forget-me-not ring after it. All this time she had looked David in the face, and he had met her look. Now, as the blue ring touched the other, she looked down quickly. The look, the shade of triumph that crossed her features; the half-turned head; the black dress that gave her youth and pallor—something in David said “Erica”; something broke—some resistance, some unbelief. He put his hand over his eyes and stood for a moment shaken to the depths.

It was the sound of the closing door that made him lift his head again. The little shabby room was empty. He was alone in it.

He went to the door and opened it. The dark passage was empty too. At the far end of it there was a door. David went to this door and knocked upon it. There was no answer. He opened the door and stood looking into the kitchen. It was nearly dark, but a fire burned in the range. Miss Smith sat over the fire in a wooden chair with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands; the firelight shone on her grey hair.

“Miss Smith,” said David.

She lifted her head with a sort of groaning sound.

“Miss Smith, where is she? I must see her.”

“She won't see you—she's gone out.”

“How—”

“Oh,” said Miss Smith with another groan. “She's gone.”

“She can't have gone.”

Miss Smith nodded.

“You don't believe me. She took her hat and her coat and she went out by the back door. She's gone.”

David could bear no more. He said, “I'll write,” and went down the dark passage and out of the house. Outside there was still daylight.

CHAPTER XXXVI

David found himself in Chieveley Street. He had been walking for an hour, and it was dark. A heavy shower swept up from the north-east. The cold, wet street was empty. He remembered the night he had walked along it with Folly's little shaking hand upon his arm; he remembered how he had lighted a fire in Eleanor's room. It was the thought of the fire that made him realize how cold he was. A craving for warmth, and light, and companionship turned him in at the entrance to the block of flats.

He did not ring for the lift, but walked up the stone stair; and again memory showed him Folly standing just above him, Folly catching at his hand and guiding his fingers so that they might feel how her hair had grown. All these memories seemed to belong to another David. The things that they showed him were over long ago.

He found Eleanor alone. She exclaimed at the coldness of his hand, made him sit by the fire, and insisted on sending for fresh hot tea.

David drank the tea and did not talk. If he talked, he would have to think; and he did not want to think. He let Eleanor talk to him, and could not have told what she said. He liked the sound of her voice—gentle, musical, unhurried. He did not know that his silence and his pallor were alarming her more than a little.

A wave of pity and tenderness swept over her as she watched him. What had happened to make him look like this? She wanted to know, but she could not ask him; she could only talk on about meaningless trifles—a book she had read, a play she had seen.

David sat back in the big chair by the fire. The peace, and the firelight, and Eleanor's voice all combined to lull him into a drowsy state between sleeping and waking. It was not sleep, for dreams come in sleep; and if he slept, who knew what dreams might come? It was not waking either, for one is awake, one must think; and above all things in the world he desired the cessation of thought. Where thought leaves off and dreams have not begun there is a resting-place. He saw the room as one sees a scene on the stage; he saw Eleanor, graceful and remote; there was stillness, warmth, and rest.

The peace and the stillness were interrupted by the banging of the outer door. There was a sound of footsteps, a sound of laughter, and the drawing-room door opened to let Folly in. She was all in bright red, with her arms full of the early scarlet tulips. Timmy nestled between her shoulder and the little black curls that almost hid her ear. She came in with a rush.

“Ooh!” she said. “Ooh, how nice and warm!”

The tulips dropped in a heap on Eleanor's lap. She turned and saw David's face.

David had seen her come into the room with a curious sense that, after all, this was a dream—a bright dream that passed before his eyes and would presently be gone; it wasn't real, and he had no control over it.

Folly stood by Eleanor with one hand holding Timmy close against her cheek. The brim of her hat was wet; the glowing cheek was wet. Her eyes were as bright as wildfire.

She said, “David!” in a quick startled way, and then: “What's the matter? David—what's the matter?”

Eleanor put up her hand and laid it on Folly's arm with a warning pressure. Folly moved away from it, moved nearer David, and asked again and insistently what Eleanor had not been able to ask at all:

“What's the matter—
David?
”

David lifted his eyes slowly to hers.

“David—what is it? Tell me.”

David said: “I think she is Erica”; and Folly cried out sharply: “She can't be! She can't be!”

“I didn't think so; but I do now.”

The hand with which Folly was holding the kitten closed involuntarily. Timmy swore, scratched, and fled, scrambling down until he could jump on to the arm of Eleanor's chair.

“Why?”

David began to wake up. Thought and realization flowed remorselessly in upon him and swept him from his resting-place.

“Why?” said Folly with a little bitter cry that hurt him even through his own pain.

“I think she is Erica. She knows things—” He broke off. “She told me that Erica had written to me, and she told me what was in the letters. They never reached me till to-day. I went to Ford and—found them.” His voice failed before the last two words and he recovered it with an effort.

“Betty kept them back,” said Folly quickly.

David made no answer.

“The letters are just what she said. And she has Erica's rings—the wedding ring with her initials, and the other ring I gave her. I think she is Erica.”

He got up as he spoke, slowly and as if he were lifting something heavy. He said: “I must go.” And he said it to Folly, not to Eleanor.

Folly came a step nearer.

“What will you do?”

“I must do what I can. She thought I had deserted her.”

“David—what are you going to do?”

“That's for her to say.”

“No!” said Folly. “No!”

He stared at her.

“What can I do? If she's Erica, she's my wife—she must come to Ford.”

The colour rushed, brilliant, to Folly's cheeks.

“You can't!”

“I can.”

“You can't! David—you can get a divorce.”

David's voice rang hard.

“Desert her first and throw mud at her afterwards! Is that what you suggest?”

“No—
no
—I didn't mean that. I meant—David, she could divorce you. People do—”

“I'm to cheat my way out of a promise I made of my own free will? I don't see much difference between that and any other form of cheating.”

Folly's colour did not fade, but it became fixed, like a bright stain on the white skin. It gave her a strange anguished look.

“People do it.”

“People cheat.”

She caught her breath.

“No—no—you
could
do it—you could!”

“I won't.”

The scarlet stain died slowly from her cheeks.

“Floss did it. You could.”

David was silent, and his silence struck at her.

“My mother did it. You've forgotten that. I hate you. Oh, how I hate you!”

Their looks clashed for a moment, and a rage that answered hers sprang up in him so suddenly that it swept him off his balance. He took a step towards her with his hands clenched, and Eleanor cried out and got up, scattering all the scarlet tulips.

He said, “I beg your pardon,” and went blunderingly out of the room, walking like a man who does not see where he is going. He had to grope for the handle, and his shoulder struck the doorpost as he flung out. The outer door shut heavily.

Eleanor stood among the scattered tulips. The strange intimacy of the scene left her dazed and trembling. If she had been a hundred miles away, if she had belonged to another century, they could not have regarded her less. From the moment that Folly had come into the room, she and David had been as much alone together as if Eleanor had never existed; to them, for those brief passionate moments, she was not there at all. The shock of this realization made her incapable of speech or action.

She watched Folly go out of the room and shut the door, and she watched Timmy playing at being a tiger in a fallen jungle of scarlet tulips. He played this game with little fierce growls, swift rushes, and wary retreats.

Eleanor sat down suddenly and covered her face with her hands.

David went down the stairs and out into the street. It was not raining any more, but the northeast wind had an edge on it like fine sharp ice. It was very dark; a dozen yards from the lamp that marked the entrance to the flats there was no light at all; the next lamp looked like a faint, far star. The pavement was wet and slippery, as if the rain that had fallen had begun to freeze.

David walked slowly. Thought was awake again and deafening him with echoes. “I hate you.” That was Folly—words flung at him as an angry child might fling a stone. But the real hatred had been in Erica's eyes and in Erica's voice when she said: “You'll never be able to go to any other woman and make her the promises you made to me. You'll never be
sure
.” Erica looking like that, speaking like that—Was she Erica—could she be Erica? The answer came from the echo of her own words: “You'll never be sure—you'll never be sure.”

Behind him on the pavement he heard quick, running footsteps. Then in the darkness someone brushed by him and, turning, stopped right in his path with a little choked cry:

“David!”

David set his teeth.

“Folly, go home!”

“Ooh! I was afraid it was someone else.” She came against his shoulder with a snuggling movement.

“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.”