Will O’ the Wisp Read Free Page A

coughed.
    â€œMary—” She coughed again.
    Eleanor stood before her, still smiling but a little bewildered.
    â€œIt’s my flowers, Grandmamma—my violets. Don’t you like violets?”
    â€œGrandmamma doesn’t care for flowers,” murmured Miss Mary.
    â€œScent!” said Grandmamma, and coughed again.
    A shocked Miss Editha took Eleanor by the arm.
    â€œMy dearest girl! Had you forgotten? Grandmamma can’t endure flowers—not scented ones. We never have them. Are they fastened with a pin?” Her fingers moved about the bunch. “My dear, perhaps if you—I don’t seem to—oh, my dear, take them off quickly! ”
    Eleanor unfastened the diamond arrow which held her violets. With the bunch in her hand, she looked at David. There was a little colour in her cheeks, and a hint of laughter in her eyes.
    He came out of his corner.
    â€œHow d’you do, Eleanor?” he said; and Grandmamma stopped coughing.
    An interested Family gave them its whole attention.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” said Eleanor. “I’d forgotten.” She spoke to Mrs. Fordyce. “David will take them away. I’m so sorry I forgot—it was stupid of me.”
    She put the violets into David’s hand. He touched her glove, and violet leaves, and stalks just faintly damp. And then she was kissing Grandmamma, and Miss Editha was sighing with relief.
    The violets smelt very sweet.

CHAPTER III
    A little gilt chair, very upright in the back and rather narrow in the seat, stood in the corner between Grandmamma’s chair and the fire. When Mrs. Fordyce singled out one of the Family for conversation, Miss Mary would indicate this fragile seat. When Mrs. Fordyce had had enough of anyone’s society, she had only to glance at her daughter, and Miss Mary would murmur in her little mousey voice: “I think, dear, if you don’t mind, perhaps Grandmamma has talked enough.”
    Eleanor was sitting on the little gilt chair when David came back into the room after leaving the violets in the hall. He came across to his old corner and stood there propped against the wall. He could see Mrs. Fordyce in profile, and he could see Eleanor.
    She was much more graceful than Eleanor Fordyce had been. Her black was black velvet—a coat and skirt; the coat open to show something white and the sparkle of a diamond brooch. She leaned forward a little and spoke low. But, low as she spoke, David found himself hearing what she said. Grandmamma was putting her through a catechism.
    â€œI thought he died in the spring. I believe Editha told me that your husband died in the spring.”
    Then Eleanor’s answer:
    â€œNo, it was December—December last year.”
    Mrs. Fordyce looked with intention at the little twinkling diamond brooch.
    â€œI’m sure Editha told me it was the spring, and that you didn’t come home at once on account of the heat.”
    â€œNo, Grandmamma, it was December.”
    â€œThen why didn’t you come home?” Mrs. Fordyce’s fingers tapped impatiently on the padded arm of her chair.
    â€œI stayed to settle things up, and then to pay some visits. And then I went into Kashmir with a friend. I had always wanted to go.”
    Mrs. Fordyce coughed dryly.
    â€œMourning used to be a time for seclusion,” she said. “Times change.” She coughed again, “Weeds for a year, and black for a year, and half-mourning for another year, was the least that was expected of a widow—the very least. I remember very well that I decided to drop Marion Craddock’s acquaintance when I saw her wearing jet wheat-ears in her bonnet eighteen months after George Craddock’s death.” She looked again at the twinkling brooch.
    â€œMourning is just a fashion. Don’t you think so, Grandmamma? One does what other people do, but it doesn’t make any difference to what one feels.”
    â€œAh!” said Mrs.