Will O’ the Wisp (3 page)

“Six years.” The words fell as something falls from a tired hand.

“It's a long time to be out of your own country. You weren't in a hurry to get back. You've been staying in Paris, haven't you?”

“In Florence first, with Amy Barton, and then with an old schoolfellow in Paris. She's an artist.”

“You'd better settle down. You're not left badly off?”

Eleanor's colour ebbed.

“No.”

“That's something. You must settle down. You will find some changes. Perhaps you'll like them. Most people seem to like change nowadays. I can't say I care for it myself.” She paused, and added dryly: “Frank Alderey's married.”

“Yes, I want to meet her.”

“H'm! There's not so very much of her to meet. Her clothes oughtn't to cost Frank much; hut it seems the less stuff there is in a thing, the more you pay for it. H'm!” Her tone became drier still. “David isn't married. It's time he was thinking about it. The longer people wait, the worse fools they make of themselves as a rule. Of course, he has his affairs”—there was a little scornful glitter in the hard blue eyes—“but they don't come to anything. Two years ago, now, there was a friend of Betty's—a good-looking girl, rather like you, my dear, before you lost your colour. H'm! I can't say India's improved you.” She gave the little short laugh which was so like a cough, and flicked at her nose with six inches of
point-de-Venise
set round a bit of lawn the size of a half-crown. “Well, it didn't come to anything—it never seems to come to anything with David. And there was a girl with red hair before that—red hair and a temper, if I'm not very much mistaken. That didn't come to anything either. I suppose there's some entanglement.”

Eleanor refused the challenge. She sat with her gloved hands upon her knees; they clasped one another lightly. Mrs. Fordyce looked at them. She always looked at a victim's hands. She had, before now, found them betray what eyes and mouth kept hidden. Eleanor's hands told her nothing; Eleanor's face, quiet, smiling, and a little sad, told her nothing either. She put up her hand with the crowded, crooked rings and yawned.

Miss Mary was at Eleanor's side in a moment.

“I think, my dear, if you don't mind, perhaps Grandmamma has talked enough.”

Eleanor stood up thankfully. That scorching fire at her back, and Grandmamma's relentless eyes on her face—she couldn't have stood a great deal more. As she moved to speak to Milly March, she heard Miss Mary summoned in a voice which held no hint of fatigue:

“Mary! Where's David? I want to speak to David.”

David looked at the gimcrack gilt chair.

“What happens if I break it?”

“You won't—it's stronger than it looks. Sit down.” Mrs. Fordyce used a sharp, commanding undertone.

David sat down. He was wondering why no one had ever told Grandmamma what a rude old woman she was. It would have given him the greatest pleasure to tell her, in a perfectly frank heart-to-heart conversation, just what he thought about the way in which she had been talking to Eleanor. It was the limit, the absolute outside limit.

At this point he became aware that he was providing Grandmamma with amusement. She smiled a wintry smile that showed the famous teeth.

“I've been talking to Eleanor,” she said.

“Yes. I saw you.”

“Perhaps you heard me.” There was a little icy sparkle in the pale blue eyes. “Perhaps you heard me, David. H'm! Listeners never hear any good of themselves. I was saying it was high time you were married.”

David's frown vanished. Grandmamma generally enraged him; but occasionally she amused him too. The fact that she persisted in regarding him as a Lothario generally amused him.

“That's what Betty says. Whom shall I marry?”

Mrs. Fordyce sniffed. A counter-attack always disconcerted her. She had hoped to see David in a black fury, but obliged to be polite because she was Grandmamma and this was her eighty-ninth birthday. She lifted her left hand from its dark maroon background and tapped David on the knee.

“I was serious.”

David's look was gay and challenging.

“Of course. Match-making is a very serious business. Who is it to be?”

Mrs. Fordyce knew when she held losing cards. She leaned back in her chair and just closed her eyes for a moment. If David had been six years old, she would have slapped him as hard as she could. A grandson of twenty-eight cannot be slapped; but he can be presented with a touching picture of an old lady of eighty-nine whose affectionate solicitude he has rebuffed. She closed her eyes, sighed, put the
point-de-Venise
to her lips for a moment, and then said, with an effect of vagueness:

“Ah—yes—what were we talking about? Dear Eleanor, I think.”

David said nothing. He was trying not to feel a brute.

“Yes—Eleanor,” said Grandmamma, a little more briskly this time. “H'm—yes—she's back. Looks shocking. Have you seen her?”

“Just for a moment.”

“Looks shocking—doesn't she? Quite lost her complexion—India, I suppose, or Cosmo Rayne. He's no great loss, according to all accounts, but I suppose she was in love with him. Someone said he beat her. H'm—well, there are worse things than beating. Pity she's lost her looks so! H'm—what do you think?”

“I don't think out of office hours. Hullo! Who's that?”

Mrs. Fordyce turned slowly. A red-faced man had just come in, and behind him a slip of a girl.

“George March,” said Mrs. Fordyce impatiently. “Yes, just retired. He's been Commissioner at one of those places that end in 'bad—Mirabad—Morabad—h'm—I can't remember. His wife ran away. The daughter's a handful, I should say. Her name's Flora, and they call her Folly—
Folly!
”

She laughed on a sharp, satirical note, and a moment later just touched George March's hand and said, “How d'ye do, George?” in her least interested voice.

“Glad to see you looking so well,” said George March heartily.

Folly stood behind him, waiting for her turn. A high-crowned vagabond hat with a wavy brim hid every vestige of hair. Under it her little round head was black and sleek as a seal's, hair cropped close as could be. The hat was red—not the dark, serious red smiled upon by fashion, but a full, bright scarlet. Jumper and skirt were the same colour, and she carried a scarlet leather bag that was nearly as large as herself.

When she tilted her head and looked at David, he saw a little round face whose skin had been creamed and powdered to an ivory tint unbroken except by the vivid scarlet of lips that were painted to match the scarlet bag. She tilted her head a little more, and David saw that her eyes were green and impudent. If she had suddenly put out her tongue at him, he would not have been in the least surprised—a little, pointed scarlet tongue—a little serpent's tongue. He concluded that his Cousin Folly was likely to make the Family sit up.

“Very glad indeed to see you looking so well,” said George March.

“Thank you, George,” said Mrs. Fordyce. “How do you do, Flora?”

“How do you do, Aunt Anna?” said Miss Folly March. She had a little, soft, purring voice. She put her hand into Grandmamma's with the prettiest grace in the world.

Grandmamma dropped the hand without further speech. Miss Folly followed her father across the room.

Mrs. Fordyce gave her dry cough.

“Her mother ran away with an Australian. I dare say he deserved it. George was well rid of her. None of you young people seem to have much luck with your marriages. H'm! Do you? George—Betty—Eleanor. H'm! No, not much luck! We managed these things better in my generation—h'm—a great deal better!”

For one cold moment David had wondered if his name was going to follow Eleanor's; there had been just the ghost of a pause whilst Grandmamma's malicious eyes had raked him. He didn't think she had got much for her pains. But with Grandmamma one could never be sure.

“Eleanor's better off than Betty,” pursued Mrs. Fordyce. “George and Eleanor are both better off. George has divorced his mistake, and Eleanor's buried hers. You—”

David wasn't sure whether he jumped or not. There was an imperceptible pause and a little rattling laugh.

“You haven't made yours yet. Betty's the worst off of the lot of you. I never did like Francis Lester. But of course Betty would have him. And what's she got out of it? A clumping boy to bring up, and a husband whom she won't divorce, and who hasn't the common decency to leave her a widow.”

David had heard all this so many times before that he allowed his attention to wander. Mrs. Fordyce had a pointed prickle ready for him:

“I've kept you long enough. I've talked long enough too. Go and make it up with Eleanor if you want to. I dare say she'll be very pleased.” She dabbed at her chin with the yellow lace hand-kerchief and leaned back.

Miss Mary stole from behind her chair.

“What is it, dear?”

“I've talked enough.”

“Yes, yes.”

She came to David with her little mouse-like run.

“David, I think Grandmamma is just a little tired—if you don't mind.”

David went across to where Folly March was standing listening to the three Alderey girls, who were all talking at once. They greeted David with little shrieks of “Make him guess!”; “No, I can't!”; “Yes, do!”; and “Oh, nonsense!”

“What am I to guess?” said David.

“Winnie—” said the youngest Alderey girl.

“Pobbles, you're not to! It wasn't me; it was Minnie.”

“David, don't listen to them!”

David felt reasonably bored. He frowned, and saw a green glint between Folly's eyelashes. They were very black eyelashes. An imp—a whole impery of imps—undoubtedly lived behind them; and all the time the creature had a little round ivory face and a painted scarlet mouth as expressionless as one of those little ivory faces on a painted China fan.

“Make him guess! David, guess how much—”

“Pobbles, you're not to!”

“I
shall!
”

“Minnie, stop her!”

“Winnie, don't let her!”

“David, guess how much Minnie paid—”

“I'm rotten at guessing.” David had no use for the Alderey girls. “I'm absolutely rotten. And I think clothes are a bore, and sales immoral. And now, please, I'd like to be introduced to my cousin Flora. It is Flora, isn't it?”

The scarlet painted mouth opened and said, “No—Folly.”

All three Alderey girls spoke together, giggling.

“Oh, Folly!”

“Who is he?” said the little purring voice. Another imp, a different one this time, beckoned to David.

He responded with alacrity.

“Let me introduce David Fordyce. I'm either a third cousin twice removed, or a second cousin three times removed. Are you any good at the Family tree? I'm rotten at it myself.”

“I want some tea,” said Folly.

She turned her back on the Alderey girls and edged towards the door. David followed her.

Later on, in the hall, he gave Eleanor back her violets. It seemed quite natural to both of them that he should put the bunch into her hand with no more than a casual “Here are your flowers.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Eleanor. They might have been meeting every day.

She stood on the bottom step of the stair with her left hand on the newel-post; her right hand held the violets between them. She looked down on David because they were nearly of a height and the step made her the taller for the moment.

“They're faded.” David's voice was a little different to the voice he had for the Family.

“Yes.” Eleanor's voice was different too.

David was remembering that at their last meeting he had knelt and hidden his face against her dress; and Eleanor remembered the sound of the sobbing breath with which she had tried at the last to say his name. She said now, quickly:

“David, come and see me.”

“Where are you?”

“Milly March found me a flat—just a furnished one, whilst I look round.”

She stepped down into the hall and laid the violets back on the oak chest from which David had taken them.

“I'll give you a card with the address. When will you come?”

“When
may
I come?”

“To-morrow. Can you get away at tea-time?”

“Yes, I can get away.”

She wrote on her card with a little violet pencil.

“There—that's the address, and the telephone number. If you can't come, call me up.”

“I shall come.”

He held her coat for her and watched her take the flowers again. Then Milly March came heavy-footed down the stairs, a little out of breath.

“Grandmamma kept me!” she panted. Then she saw David, and had an access of tact: “Are you sure you've got room for me, Eleanor? Because if you haven't—I mean if you're taking David—”

“I'm not taking David,” said Eleanor Rayne.

CHAPTER IV

A Grandfather clock struck the half-hour as David crossed the hall of Eleanor Rayne's temporary flat. A piercing silver chime sounded from what he took to be the dining-room.

The maid who had let him in threw open a door on the right and announced him to an empty drawing-room. As she murmured “I'll tell Mrs. Rayne,” and withdrew, a gilt clock with a painted face struck two deep whirring notes from the mantelpiece, where it stood amongst a medley of china cups, Chelsea figures, ivory elephants, wooden bears, and silver peacocks. The room had a great many chairs in it. There were two walnut bureaux, three china cabinets, a tea-table set with tea things, a marble table supported by monstrously fat gilts Cupids, an Empire card-table with brass claw feet, and a frankly Victorian walnut pedestal table upon which stood a large group of stuffed birds under a glass dome.