Paid In Full/Chapter 26

heavy feet Sir Anthony entered the pleasantly lit drawing-room. It was almost midnight. Mildred was sitting on the sofa, very still, with Molly’s hand in hers. At a sign from the old man, the little girl rose and tiptoed from the room.

Mildred looked up. She was very pale, but entirely composed.

‘They have found him?’ her lips asked.

‘Yes—by the stakes above the weir.’

‘He was—dead?’

‘Yes. He appears to have gone under the moment they took the child from his arms. He held her up—she was more frightened than hurt—and cried out, ‘Here she is!’ Then, without any warning at all, he slipped back, and was gone. He must have been more exhausted than he looked. He didn’t seem to try to save himself, Denny said; but they saw his face and he was smiling. He was a brave fellow.’ The old gentleman’s voice shook. ‘They are bringing him here: it is the nearest place.’

‘It is the only place,’ said Mildred.

Then she sat silent again, with folded hand, thinking her own thoughts—and who are we to attempt to penetrate them? Gradually her expression changed; the hard lines began to disappear from about her mouth. The hunted look in her eyes was gone: in its place the tender gaze which her husband had detected there, for a brief moment, that very afternoon, had come back. This time one felt it had come back for good.

Once she spoke.

‘I suppose we shall never know,’ she said, half to herself.

It was Sir Anthony who broke the silence.

‘He was a fortunate man at the last,’ he said soberly. ‘Most of us would like to die at the biggest moment of our lives. Death under such circumstances puts Paid to any account.’

Mildred looked up.

‘Uncle Tony, do you know with whom he spent the last hour of his life?’

‘Molly, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, it was Molly. And it was Molly who found the way out for us.’

‘Molly?’ said the old man in surprise. ‘The Littlest of the Hostages?’

‘Yes. In all simplicity, in all innocence, she found the way out for us—and for him.’

Sir Anthony laid his hand upon Mildred’s.

‘I was right?’ he asked.

Mildred nodded.

‘Yes. The white spot you spoke of—it was there, all the time! And without knowing it, Molly revealed it. When he left her to-night he had accepted her standard—her estimate of himself. He was going away—for good.’

The old man bowed his head.

‘The miracle,’ he said softly—‘the miracle! But how do you know this?"

‘From what Molly told me. And—from what he said to me himself.’

‘You saw him, then?’

‘Yes. He was standing in his punt, just leaving. He looked so tall, and vigorous, and young, in that light!’

‘What did he say?’

‘Very little; and what he said was spoken in his old, careless, flippant fashion. But it told me all I wanted to know, and—it repaid me for much.... After that, we said good-night to one another, and he went away. I shall always be glad we—said good-night to one another.’ She covered her face.

‘You loved him, Mildred?’

‘Always!’

Sir Anthony rose gently to his feet, and left her.

Out in the garden, flitting across the lawn like a forlorn little ghost, he found Molly, obviously anxious for company.

‘I’ve been down to the backwater,’ she explained. ‘I left my autograph book there. It was pretty dark; the lanterns have all gone out. Where’s Mother?’

‘In there, resting for a moment.’

‘Captain Conway was a very old friend of hers,’ continued the little girl confidentially; ‘and he died just the way my father died. That’s what’s upset Mother: it has brought things back. It must be rather splendid to have known two men who could die like that.’

‘I dare say your mother is well content, my dear, in having known one,’ said the old man. ‘Ah, here she is!’

Mildred was standing in the veranda behind them, with a look of infinite peace on her face.

‘Time for bed, Littlest!’ she said, with all her old authoritative smile.

‘I just ran down to the backwater for my autograph-book, Mother.’ Molly displayed the precious volume. ‘Almost the last thing he did was to sign it for me. He has only put his initials, though: there they are—‘D. C.’

‘The same initials as Denny,’ said Sir Anthony thoughtfully.

‘So they are. I never noticed. And he’s written them on Lord Roberts’ private page. Of course he didn’t know. But I’m glad now: aren’t you, Mother?’

‘Yes, dear. Glad and proud—now.’