Will O’ the Wisp by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online Page A

else’ll ever stop her doing the things she oughtn’t to? Don’t you worry about her—she’ll come back all right. Naught comes to naught.”
    â€œDon’t!” said Eleanor quickly. “David, I did want you to like her.”
    â€œDid you?” His voice was dry. “Look here, we’d better be getting up on to the terrace.”
    â€œOh yes—I mustn’t be locked out!”
    â€œDon’t run—I’ve got a key.”
    They had reached the topmost step when David asked:
    â€œWhy do you want me to like her?”
    â€œShe wants friends. She’s picked up with a perfectly rotten crowd.”
    â€œI’m afraid I can’t compete.”
    Eleanor slipped her hand into his arm.
    â€œNo, David, listen! She does want friends. She—you know her mother ran away?”
    â€œVaguely. I shouldn’t be surprised at anyone running away from George. Oh, he’s a bore!”
    Eleanor shook the arm she was holding.
    â€œDon’t!”
    â€œMy dear girl, that George is an unqualified and undisputed bore is the sort of thing you can’t argue about—it’s simply a bed-rock fact, and every time I meet George I stub my toe on it.”
    â€œWell, you can’t say Folly’s a bore, anyhow.”
    â€œNo—she’s not a bore—I’ll give her that. Is she like her mother?”
    â€œNo, she isn’t. Why must people be like someone? She’s herself.”
    â€œShe’s a little devil. What was the mother?”
    â€œBig—fat—fair—sleepy—looked at you sideways—fat white hands. I loathed her.”
    â€œSo I see. Folly looks at you sideways.”
    â€œShe doesn’t—not like that. David, she doesn’t really. Don’t you see how rotten it is for a girl when everyone— everyone —expects her to go off the rails because her mother did? And she’s not like her—she’s not . She’s naughty and she’s provoking; but she’s not in the least like her mother. David, do you know the woman carried on with that child in the house and didn’t care whether she knew about it or not?” She dropped his arm and stepped back with an angry stamp of the foot. “It makes me wild!”
    â€œHow old was she?”
    â€œFolly? Fourteen. Can you imagine it? The child hasn’t had a chance. George doesn’t pretend to care a rap for her. And, David, she’s only nineteen now. Do make friends with her.”
    David looked at Eleanor in the moonlight. He felt an extreme disinclination to talk about Folly March. Eleanor did not look at him; her eyes were on the bright lake and the dark woods; her thoughts were far away.
    â€œHow bright and cold!” she said at last, only just above her breath.
    â€œIt’s too cold for you. Come in.”
    â€œI didn’t mean that.” Then, after a pause: “It’s like Indian moonlight frozen.” On the last word her voice fell lower still.
    David said, “Did you like India? Do you want to go back?” He had not meant to say it, but the words came.
    â€œNo,” said Eleanor quickly. “No!”
    He was sorry he had spoken, because she shivered; and yet, having spoken, something pricked him on.
    â€œEleanor—how has it been—all these years?”
    Eleanor winced.
    â€œIt’s over.”
    â€œMy dear, I—was it as bad as that?” He laid a hand on her shoulder and felt it rigid.
    â€œIt’s over,” she said again.
    Someone was coming up the dark steps on their right, softly and with great caution. Just for a moment this someone stood in the shadow looking at the lighted terrace and the two figures standing so close together that they made one figure in the moonlight. Then, quickly and silently, a woman in a black cloak crossed from shadow to shadow and was gone.
    David and Eleanor were aware of one another and of the past; they neither saw