Paid In Full/Chapter 23

said Cradock, bringing the punt alongside, with a dexterous flick of his paddle. ‘How’s that for an ancient mariner?’

That small but determined hero-worshipper, Molly Cradock, buttressed about with many cushions at the other end of the punt, gave a little wriggle of pure ecstasy.

‘Splendid!’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry our voyage is over. Shall we go into the house, or will you sit here and tell me some more?’

‘I don’t think we’ll go into the house,’ said Cradock. ‘I’m coming to lunch to-morrow, remember, and I never was one to overwork a welcome.’

‘I’m sure you couldn’t ever do that,’ said Molly. ‘Will you come and sit beside me?’ She made room for him, deferentially.

‘Thank you,’ replied Cradock. ‘I can just squeeze in, I think. There! Hallo, I’m sitting on something.’

‘It’s my autograph book,’ said Molly, retrieving the ubiquitous volume. ‘I was going to ask you to write your name in it. Will you, some time?’

‘Rather! Any old time.’

Molly wriggled again. In the space of a few hours this fascinating stranger had taken complete possession of her heart; and she realised with rapture, in some instinctive fashion of her own, that she in her turn exercised some kind of humble sway over him. Else, why should he now be reclining here, with his arm linked in hers, in a punt in a backwater, obviously well content to be where he was, when he might have been the centre of a gay group at the fireworks?

The hero lit a cigar.

‘This,’ he announced, turning his gaze towards the stars, ‘is bliss!’ Then he looked down upon the adoring face of his companion, pinkly illuminated by the swinging lanterns.

‘Molly,’ he said, ‘do you know what you are?’

‘No. Do tell me!’

‘An oasis.’

Molly’s brow puckered.

‘That’s something shady, in a desert, isn’t it?’

Cradock smiled, perseveringly.

‘Shady is a rather misleading term, Molly—especially applied to you. The shade you cast is a healing shade, always. You’re a human oasis—something very rare, and soothing—’

‘O-o-oh!’ breathed Molly.

—‘And refreshing—that a traveller, if he is lucky, may encounter just once or twice in his journey through—the wilderness.’

‘Has your journey taken you through the wilderness much?’ inquired Molly, deeply intrigued.

The wanderer shrugged his shoulders, philosophically.

‘I suppose it has, most of the time. I’m not kicking; one takes the rough with the smooth. It’s chiefly a matter of luck, and how one begins.’

‘Of course, it doesn’t do to begin wrong,’ agreed Molly, nodding a wise head.

‘No. But sometimes, early in life, before we are able to see very clearly ahead—when we are young, and impulsive—’

‘I’m terribly impulsive, Mother says.’

‘—we take a step which carries us off the green path, and points us straight for the wilderness. And before we know where we are, we find ourselves right in the middle of it. And some of us never get back.’

‘Has that happened to you?’ asked Molly, in grave concern.

‘I’m afraid so, Molly.’

‘I’m dreadfully sorry.’

‘Thank you!’

There was silence again. Plainly Molly was thinking: and who knows what fantastic lion-and-mouse schemes tumbled in review through that eager little brain? Presently she asked:

‘Are you sure you can’t get back? I mean, couldn’t you get some one to help you?’

Cradock sighed.

‘Who could?’ he said. ‘Who would?’

Molly made the inevitable suggestion.

‘Why not talk to Mother about it? She’s wonderful at helping people.’ She waited, a little apprehensively. Had she been too forward? No, all was well: he was smiling again.

‘Your mother knows all about it already, Molly,’ he said.

Molly’s face cleared.

‘Oh, I forgot! You’re old friends, aren’t you? Of course, Mother has given you all the help she can already.’

‘Yes—I suppose she has.’

Molly edged a little closer.

‘Captain Conway,’ she said shyly, ‘would anybody fresh be any use?’ Then, with a rush: ‘Would I be any use? You said something just now about stepping suddenly off the path—into the wilderness—at the beginning. Would you mind telling me? I mean, how did it happen?’

‘I married.’

Molly, of course, was prepared for this.

‘The wrong woman,’ she remarked, in a hollow voice.

‘Yes. No, no, Molly; what am I saying? That’s not fair. Perhaps I ought to say she married the wrong man.’

‘How noble you are!’ remarked Molly, with absolute sincerity. ‘But didn’t she—love you?’

‘I never knew. I was very, very fond öf her; but somehow I could never get much response out of her. Perhaps it was my fault. Perhaps I was too rough a diamond for her.’ He was speaking in a low voice, with a hand over his eyes.

‘I’m quite sure it wasn’t that,’ said Molly stoutly.

Cradock looked up again, and smiled.

‘You’re a great little partisan!’

Molly, much gratified, inquired respectfully:

‘Would it hurt you to tell me the rest?’

‘There’s not much to tell. She left me, at last. Perhaps she was justified; she couldn’t help being a little ashamed of me, I suppose. She was my superior in station, and she had a good deal of money.’

‘She sounds mean, to me.’

‘We mustn’t judge her too hardly: we all have our weaknesses. God knows I have my share!’

‘Is she still alive?’

‘Yes.’

‘I bet she’s sorry now!’

‘It’s not impossible.’

‘People get wiser as they get older.’

‘How do you know, Molly?’

‘It stands to reason. I’m wiser to-day than I was two years ago, I hope. You wouldn’t believe the silly things I used to say and think. I thought the Derby was run at Derby—instead of Ascot! I expect she’s sorry all right. Is she alone?’

‘She has the children.’

‘Oh!’ There was infinite tragedy in Molly’s voice now. ‘So it cut you off from your children, too? Is she in England?’

‘Yes.’

There was a very long pause. Molly was sitting up with her arms clasped round her knees, which were under her chin, gazing vacantly into that mysterious region where she spent so much of her time, and from which, as her mother knew, she had never entirely emerged. The man beside her sat motionless, expressionless, waiting.

At last Molly stirred.

‘Well, what’s the big thought?’ he asked.

‘I was thinking,’ replied Molly, with the air of a general who has at last hit upon the key to an impregnable position, ‘that I would like better than anything else in this world to find out where your wife is, and get to know her really well; and when I had found out if she was truly sorry—and I am sure she is—I would tell her where to find you. That’s what I would like to do.’

Cradock’s mouth twitched.

‘You aren’t at all impulsive, are you?’ he said.

Molly drew back, quickly.

‘You’re laughing at me!’

‘On the contrary!’

‘I get it from my father—being impulsive, I mean. Mother has often told me about the impulsive things he used to do—suddenly give some one all the money he had in his pocket, and things like that—just because he felt sorry for them.’

Cradock recalled the incident now—a characteristic act of unnecessary generosity on his part towards a shivering beggar one winter night in Cape Town. He had forgotten all about it; but Mildred had remembered.

‘Your mother told you that?’

‘Yes. But of course I needn’t tell you all these things. You knew him! I envy you for that.’

‘Why, Molly?’

‘Because I never saw him, and he never saw me. I was born after he died.’

Cradock nodded his head, thoughtfully.

‘I must say,’ he said, ‘the revelation of your existence rather took me by surprise this afternoon. I hadn’t bargained for you, Molly, somehow!’

‘Bargained for me?’

‘No. I thought I knew everything there was to be known about Denis Cradock—and all the time I never knew he had another daughter!’

‘Still,’ persisted Molly, ‘you knew him!’

‘As I know myself.’

‘Were you brother-officers?’

‘Yes.’

‘You were on the Gallia when she went down?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see the way he died?’

Cradock glanced down sharply; but there was no arrière pensée in this proud, eager question.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I was in another part of the ship.’

‘Of course. You would be looking after your men, like him.’

‘Yes—naturally.’

Molly’s voice softened.

‘You know how he died, I suppose?’

‘I—never heard the full story.’

‘Mother told it to me, as soon as I was big enough to understand, and I’ve heard it from her so often since that I almost feel now as if I had been there, and seen everything.’

‘Will you tell me the story, Molly?’

‘All right; but I’ve got it so much by heart that I’ll have to tell it to you in Mother’s words, not mine. And some of it may sound rather childish; I was very little when first—’

‘I’ll understand. Go ahead, Molly!’

Molly rose to a kneeling position, with her hands in her lap.

‘Once upon a time,’ she began, in her serious, hoarse little voice, ‘a great ship was sailing along at night...’

And then, steadily, unfalteringly, line by line, word by word, quaintly reproducing every inflection of her mother’s voice, Molly told to Denis Cradock the tale of the man who died to save a little girl in a white frock.

‘He could save others, but not himself!’ she concluded, sinking back on to her heels and folding her hands again, to indicate that the story was ended. ‘Now you know why I envy you. I hope it wasn’t too long a story. Are you tired?’ She looked up anxiously.

Cradock did not reply. His thoughts were far away—following his wife, splendide mendax for his unworthy sake, through all those years of neglect. Presently he emerged from his reverie.

‘And you had this story from your mother?’ he asked, in a low voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Has she told it to you often?’

‘Over and over again. Joan calls it The Legend. It never varies. Denny once asked Mother how she knew it so well, and she said she thought it must be written on her heart. Denny was quite little then, of course: he doesn’t ask questions like that now. He and Joan aren’t impulsive any more—at least, Joan isn’t. I know they feel just as I do, though.’

‘It would be rather splendid,’ said Cradock suddenly, ‘to have children who remembered you as that sort of man.’

Far away a church clock chimed. Molly scrambled to her feet, shook herself, and hitched up the pink silk stockings of ceremony—her most cherished articles of attire—which she had donned in honour of the guest.

‘I suppose I ought to go in now,’ she said. ‘It must be late. I’ll tell Mother I told you The Legend; I know she won’t mind your knowing. Perhaps you would like to hear it from her yourself. Ask her to-morrow, after lunch.’

‘I’m not quite sure,’ replied Cradock, stepping out of the punt and holding it steady, ‘that I shall be at lunch to-morrow.’

‘Oh—why?’ There was genuine consternation in Molly’s voice.

‘I may have to go away—rather unexpectedly. Will you tell your mother? I’ve had some news.’

‘Not bad news?’

‘No, not bad news: only—sudden. I think I’ll say good-night now.’

Molly hurriedly snatched up the autograph book.

‘Will you sign this, please?’ she asked.

‘Of course, I will.’

‘There’s enough light under that big Chinese lantern, I think.’ She handed him the volume, with its inseparable companion, the fountain pen, ‘Will you be away long, do you think?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Cradock, absently. ‘I’m not sure. I may have to go abroad again.’ He handed back the book. ‘There you are, Molly.’

‘Thanks most awfully,’ said Molly ecstatically. ‘I’ll lay it down here for a minute, for the ink to dry. We shall miss you, Captain Conway.’

‘Will you?’

‘Yes—all of us.’

‘And I shall miss you. You, Molly, more than any of them.’

‘Don’t!’ said Molly, with entire sincerity. ‘I’m an awful little idiot, really. I’m impulsive, and sentimental, and an Ancestor Worshipper—’

Suddenly Cradock blazed out:

‘Go on being impulsive, Molly! Go on with your Ancestor Worship! For all you know, you may be doing some poor old ancestor a lot of good, keeping him on a pedestal—even though he may not be entitled to it!’

‘All right; I will.’ Molly offered a hand. ‘Good-night!’

Cradock took the hand, and held it.

‘Molly,’ he said, ‘I have a daughter about your age. Will you give me a kiss for her?’

‘Certainly,’ replied Molly, with great cordiality—‘if you don’t mind my telling Mother. She once told me I could do anything of that kind I liked, so long as I told her directly afterwards.’

Cradock laughed.

‘I accept your terms. Tell your mother. I don’t think she’ll be angry.’

Molly, standing on tiptoe, reached up and kissed her hero reverently upon the cheek. Suddenly a pair of strong arms closed round her, and for the first time in her life she felt herself crushed to a man’s heart. But the man did not hurt her, or frighten her. He kissed her, with infinite tenderness, upon the forehead and on the eyes; and then released her.

‘Good-bye, Molly!’ he said gently.

‘Good-bye!’

Molly ran up the path towards the house, turning, after the pretty fashion of the young, to wave her hand before finally disappearing.

Denis Cradock stood gazing after the last flutter of her pink skirts; then he turned away, rather heavily, and stepped down into the punt. A footstep sounded upon the planking of the landing-stage behind him: his wife was standing a few feet away.

‘Hallo, Mildred!’ he said.

‘What have you been saying to her?’ she demanded fiercely. ‘What have you been telling her?’

‘Oddly enough, very little.’ He was his cool self again, almost. ‘She has told me a good deal, though.’ He picked up his punt-pole. ‘I gave her a message for you: I expect she’ll deliver it when she sees you. I must go now.’ He slid the end of the pole into the water, and turned his back.

‘Denis!’

‘Yes?’

‘What have you been saying to that defenceless child?’

He turned, and shook his head, gravely.

‘Milly, Molly may be a child, but she is not defenceless. She wears the most effective armour in the world.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will presently. Good-night!’ He set his weight to the pole, then checked himself. ‘Milly,’ he asked, ‘may I say something?’

‘What is it?’

‘Only this. If I had a hat on—I would take it off to you!’

With a thrust of the pole he set his bark gliding towards the mouth of the backwater; then he paused again, looked back at her—an upright, youthful, engaging figure of a man—with a smile on his lips.

‘Good-night, Milly!’ he said again.

‘Good-night—Denny!’

Next moment he was gone.