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II
THE MUTUAL BENEFIT

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Her father was out when she reached the cottage. He often went forth for his slow walk in the cool of the evening. He would probably linger about in the scented lanes until supper-time.

She had put everything in readiness for that simple meal before leaving the house, and there remained only Rollo’s milk to warm up. She carried him into the kitchen with her and there let him toddle about while she prepared it. He took the keenest interest in everything, and she had to keep a sharp eye upon him to save him from the pitfall of the coal-scuttle which possessed an irresistible attraction for him. He was perfectly good-humoured over this frustration, for he knew already that she would never refuse him anything within reason, and he had a baby adoration for his mother which was greater even than his spirit of adventure. His faith in her judgment was absolute, and on the very rare occasions when she was obliged to rebuke him he invariably wept inconsolably, not as a spoilt child weeps, but from sheer heartbreak. Molly was his whole world, and he had a shrewd suspicion that he was hers—poor old Granddad coming in a very bad second. As a matter of fact, Granddad counted for so little in his life that he was apt to regard him with something of contempt. He was not even as interesting as the aforesaid coal-scuttle, and there was one fact in relation to him which Rollo resented acutely. He was never allowed to make a noise in his vicinity, and as making noises was at that time one of his chief joys, perhaps he was hardly to be blamed for trying to scamper in the opposite direction whenever he heard the slow and rather shuffling step approaching.

He was extremely pleased on that June evening that he and Molly had the cottage to themselves. After his nap in the wood, he was by no means anxious to have his energies quenched a moment sooner than was necessary. It was such fun to potter round and hammer things just as the fancy took him, and—except in the matter of the coal-scuttle—Molly was very tolerant. She even laughed at him once or twice, showing her pearly teeth in a fashion which Rollo found quite entrancing. He would have paid her a great many compliments had he possessed the vocabulary. Certainly she would never lack an admirer while the breath remained in his sturdy young body. She would always be exquisite in his sight—as he would be in hers.

The heating of the milk was not a lengthy operation, not nearly lengthy enough for Rollo. Armed with a saucepan-lid he was beating everything with which he came into contact with uproarious enthusiasm, and it was hard to be deprived, however gently, of this fascinating weapon.

But Molly was firm. It was already past bedtime, and the undressing and bathing process had still to be accomplished. Tenderly silencing his protests, she led him up the old rickety stairs that emerged rather disconcertingly into the tiny little room in which he slept. There was a gate at the top which she was careful to close. So much a rule of the household was this that Rollo himself always closed it if Granddad, who was inclined to be absent-minded, failed to do so.

A door out of Rollo’s chamber which was perpetually open led into Molly’s, and another which was kept shut and through which Rollo was never allowed to wander led from hers to that of her father. The rooms were low, and it was very hot. Rollo’s little tub, poured out in the early morning, was quite tepid by evening, a device which in summer saved a considerable amount of trouble. In the winter months he took his bath in the kitchen.

He played his usual joke of trying to get into it without undressing, and received the usual phantom slapping from Molly with shrieks of delight. She had a most satisfying sense of humour where he was concerned. That little farce over, he submitted with a good grace to being divested of his few garments, and then proceeded to wallow in his bath with great contentment.

He splashed rather more than usual that evening, but Molly uttered no reproof. When Rollo was not making a definite bid for her notice, she was inclined to be abstracted. Behind his back her brow was puckered in deep thought. When at length he was ready for supper and bed she held him closely in her arms for several silent moments. Then, when he was in his cot at last, she set about putting everything in order in a mechanical fashion, and finally drew the curtain and left him to sleep while she went downstairs to lay the supper.

It was very quiet in the little oak-beamed parlour. Only the gruff voices of a few old men in the bar of The Plough next door were audible now and again. The lattice-windows were wide open, but no air was stirring. It would be a hot night up under the slanting roof.

She was tired after her walk in the fields, but she scarcely knew it. She was conscious only of a dreary sense of being pushed forward—a helpless pawn in the game of life—whither she had no desire to go.

When she had finished she dropped down upon the window-seat and leaned her head against the woodwork with a sigh. Evidently Rollo had fallen asleep. The drone of bees in the old-fashioned pinks outside gave an illusion of restfulness. She tried to marshal her thoughts for a final review of the situation before her father should return.

But weariness tricked her, and before she had even realized that she was drowsy she had dropped into a doze. It was scarcely sleep, but rather that floating state of consciousness between slumber and waking in which visions sometimes take shape. And for the first time in all the long aching period of loss and bereavement, in a dream that did not seem to be a dream, she saw her husband. He was very far away from her. She might have been looking through the wrong end of a telescope; but his figure, his attitude, were quite unmistakable. His face, owing, apparently, to some flaw in the medium through which she looked, was as though veiled. She felt, rather than saw, his eyes. And in the same fashion she sensed—rather than heard—his voice.

“I’m not dead, Molly,” he said. “I can’t come back to you. I can never come back. But I’m not dead.”

She clasped her hands fast together. The words seemed to go through her, setting every pulse and nerve a-quiver. “Sweetheart!” she said. “Sweetheart, I’ve never thought you dead. No one like you could die.”

“No—not dead,” he said again. “Only—gone away. Think of me—like that, dearest—and love me still!”

“Love you!” she cried, and suddenly speech and breathing were alike choked with sobs. “My darling, as long as I live I shall love you—first—and best—and always.”

“Ah!” he said, and there was a pause.

Into it she cried with a wild and piteous entreaty. “Ronald—Roy—darling—don’t go away! Tell me you love me too! Tell me—tell me!”

The vision was fading like a shadow from a screen. Her very agony was defeating her, bringing her out of her trance. But ere her full physical consciousness claimed her again, she caught—or thought she caught—a wandering echo from the eternal spaces: “Only God knows—how much.”

Sobbing she awoke and started up between anguish and ecstasy. That his spirit had for those few fleeting seconds found hers, she had no shadow of doubt. It had been soul-communion of an unfathomable description. Most people would have called it a dream, but Molly knew otherwise with that deep conviction which defies all reasoning. Somehow the gulf between them had been bridged; she did not ask how. She only knew that it was so. His body might lie in a nameless grave among all those myriads in the land where the guns were thundering, but his spirit was alive and able to call to hers. It filled her soul with awe and longing. She had a wild yearning to cry out to him again, but something held her back. Something told her that the means of communication had been cut off and she would cry in vain.

Dazed and strangely bewildered, she put her hand to her head and stood listening. It was then that other sounds, purely of earth, came to her—the quiet and purposeful tread of a man’s feet on the narrow flagged path outside. Someone was coming up to the door, and she knew who that someone was. Her heart gave a hard, sickening throb that seemed to constrict her throat. She waited without breathing for a knock upon the panels.

But it did not come. There was a moment’s pause, and then a voice spoke instead, and she remembered that the door was open.

“Can I come in?”

The voice had breeding and a semi-conscious note of superiority which yet was free from intentional condescension. Molly freed herself with a violent effort from the invisible bonds which seemed to be holding her. “Of course! Come in!” she said.

He entered, bending his tall frame to do so. He was a fine man, well-proportioned, self-possessed. All the Aubreystone family were thus distinguished. His hair was brown and rather sparse, his eyes a calm mid-grey.

“Well, Mary!” he said. “I am a little early, but I thought I should find you in. Are you alone?”

He held out his hand to her—a cool, steady hand that closed upon hers before she even realized that she had moved in response.

“There has been an air-raid warning,” he continued with the utmost composure. “They probably will not pay us a visit or waste any bombs upon us if they do. But I thought I would come all the same.”

“My father’s out,” said Molly somewhat breathlessly. “Do you think——”

“He is quite as safe out as in,” said Lord Aubreystone. “There is no need for anxiety. As I said, a place like Little Bradholt is quite unworthy of their notice. They probably will not even pass over it.”

“Oh, I hope not,” murmured Molly. “I think I will run up and fetch Rollo.”

“My dear child—ridiculous!” protested Lord Aubreystone. “This cottage is no more likely to be struck by a bomb than by a flash of lightning. The chances are infinitesimal. We must allow ourselves a little commonsense. Leave the poor child in peace!”

He smiled at her with the words, and, though nervous still, Molly felt reassured. His deductions were so abundantly obvious, and she did not want to startle Rollo unnecessarily now that he had settled down to his night’s rest.

“Won’t you sit down?” she suggested.

“May I?” said Lord Aubreystone.

He had kept her hand in his, and he drew her down beside him on the couch, as if to give her confidence.

“You know what I have come for, don’t you?” he said.

“Oh!” said Molly.

She made a little movement to draw her hand away, but he detained it in a quiet but slightly imperious grasp.

“We are going to be very sensible,” he said, and there was a hint of admonition in his voice, “and treat the matter as, in my opinion, these matters always should be treated, in a frank and business-like spirit. Believe me, I am not pretending that in offering you marriage, I am proposing to place you irretrievably in my debt. It is true that in my position I have a good deal to give, but you will give in return. It will be a mutual benefit. So you need not feel overwhelmed from that point of view.”

“Oh, I haven’t—I don’t,” began Molly tremulously.

He swept her scarcely heard rejoinder aside.

“There are many ways of giving,” he said, “just as there are many ways of withholding, as I am sure you realize. I am prepared to give a considerable amount myself. In fact, there is nothing in reason which I would deny you. I think that is the sort of spirit at which we ought to aim, in order that the foundations of our mutual happiness may be well and truly laid.” He smiled a little and pressed her hand more closely. “Don’t you agree with me?” he asked.

Molly snatched at her ebbing courage, aware that she was being borne down by superior weight and wisdom before she had been given a chance to express her own point of view. She quivered with embarrassment as she made her stand, but her voice was resolute and her look unwavering.

“I am very sorry,” she said, “if I have let you understand that everything is settled. I’m afraid it isn’t. I think I ought to have said ‘No’ from the very beginning. You see, Lord Aubreystone, there are some things which it isn’t in my power to give. I ought to have told you that—only you wanted me to take time to consider.” She paused in distress.

“Come—come!” he said. “We’re not going over all the old ground again, are we? I’m not proposing to be a very exacting husband. I haven’t asked you to fall deeply in love with me, for instance.”

Molly shivered. “I am sorry,” she said again. “That’s just it. I’m afraid I am the sort of person that only does that once.”

“Well?” he queried. “And does that make it impossible for you ever to have any sort of affection for anyone else again?”

“No,” said Molly. She paused, but her steadiness was returning and she faced him unflinchingly. “It only makes it impossible for me ever to forget that once.”

“I understand,” said Lord Aubreystone. He made a large and tolerant gesture with his free hand. “You want to keep your little garden of memories undisturbed. Well, my dear, you are quite at liberty to do so. I fully realize that every nature must have its reserves, and I should be the last to wish to trespass upon ground which I have no doubt you regard as sacred. You have had your day of happiness and it has been all too short. You think you can never be happy again. At twenty years of age, one does,—and I must not forget that it is your birthday. I have not forgotten it. But you must forgive me if I fail to recognize in your objection a serious obstacle to our marriage. In my opinion it merely constitutes a further reason for urging it upon you.”

He stopped, looking at her with kindly temperate eyes that somehow made her feel that she was being childishly unreasonable. She turned away from them with that desperate sense of being overborne.

“Don’t persuade me too hard!” she begged in a low voice, “There are some things it’s impossible to explain which make it very difficult for me.”

“That I can quite understand,” he said. “You have had a very tragic experience, but I don’t think you are quite justified in letting it spoil your whole life. Remember, it is not only yourself that you have to consider!”

“Oh, I know—I know!” Molly said, and released her hand almost forcibly to rise to her feet. “That’s what is troubling me so. Little Rollo! But he is his child. It seems like an act of treachery.”

She began to pace the uneven floor, while he stood punctiliously attentive, watching her, still in a fashion controlling her, or so she fancied.

“My dear,” he said after a moment, “I think you’re taking rather a morbid point of view. There can be no talk of treachery to one who is dead.”

She turned round, her face curiously convulsed. “Dead to you!” she said. “To me—never—never!” She stopped a second or two to steady herself; then: “He is as much alive to me,” she told him, “as if he were upstairs at this very moment with Rollo. In fact—I don’t know—he may be. He was with me—only just before you came in.”

“My dear Mary!” said Lord Aubreystone.

She advanced towards him, her hands clasped tightly over her breast. Her eyes were strangely bright; she seemed to be looking beyond him. “I know it sounds absurd to you,” she said, speaking rapidly but very clearly. “And I admit it is purely a spiritual connection. But it is there, and nothing will ever alter it. You must understand that, if you really want to marry me. There may be times when he will be so close to me that nothing else will count—times when I must walk in my secret garden and be alone with him.”

She ceased to speak, her face still strained and unnatural, her whole attitude one of tense aloofness.

But her companion betrayed neither resentment nor discouragement. He merely smiled at her compassionately.

“My dear,” he said, “I quite understand. All this is quite comprehensible—almost inevitable to any but a superficial nature. But I assure you, it does not count with me. The world is full of grief, especially at the present moment, and it behoves us to make the best we can of the unfortunate circumstances in which we find ourselves. You are young and, whether you realize it or not, your trouble is partly physical. That is the part which I shall hope to heal. I have no desire to intrude upon any spiritual territory. I am merely asking you to place your physical well-being in my hands. I am quite willing to leave anything beyond that to take its ordinary course.”

“You want me to bear you children,” she said in a voice that sounded too weary to express active repugnance.

He made a slightly deprecatory gesture. “I think it would make for your own happiness as well as mine that you should do so,” he said. “You are too young to live alone. And it would make for Rollo’s happiness also. An only child is always handicapped, and, as I have already promised, though I could not make him my heir, he would share all educational advantages with any children of my own.”

Her lower lip twisted as if from some sudden pain. She turned from him with an almost fierce movement. “Oh, I know it’s only the body,” she said, “but I don’t think I can—I don’t think I—possibly—can.”

It was at that moment that through the summer stillness there came a sound—a humming as of a swarm of bees high up in the air—a disturbance of the atmosphere that seemed to drift down as it were from another planet.

Lord Aubreystone heard it and sharply turned his head towards the window.

In the little inn next door a dead silence had fallen, but almost immediately, as the sound swelled, a voice cried out, “That’s them! They’re coming! They’ll be over us in another minute!”

It was the voice that reached Molly rather than the sound to which it alluded. Her expression changed to swift alarm.

“Oh!” she gasped. “An air-raid!” and sprang to the door.

In a moment her light feet were running up the steep stairs, and the man was left alone.

He leaned from the window and listened. The sound was approaching very rapidly. It no longer resembled the humming of bees, but was obviously the roar of machinery overhead. The heavy foliage of some chestnut trees obstructed his view, but he judged that the advancing horror was at no great distance.

And then suddenly—like a thunderbolt—it came. Something swift, piercing, appalling, fell from the heavens. A thunderous crash and a roar in the village street—a fearful smell of explosive—flame and smoke and shrieks—all intermingled like a ghastly nightmare! And after it the running to and fro of many figures, and the cracking and smashing of falling masonry—while the terrible death-machine sped on in search of its objective a few miles beyond.

There came a child’s frightened crying from the room above, but it was swiftly drowned in the general commotion outside.

“It’s the church!” shouted a man’s voice, and another, “No, it’s the school!”

And then suddenly the little garden gate was pushed open, and a scurrying, dishevelled countrywoman tore up the path. She was calling out hysterically at the top of her voice.

Lord Aubreystone went to meet her, gripped her and held her up as she stumbled at the step. She practically fell into his arms in the doorway.

“Steady! Steady!” he said. “It’s no good panicking. You’re as safe here as anywhere.”

“Safe!” she screamed. “Safe! There’s a whole crowd more of ’em up there. I seen ’em as I run along the street. And I’ve come to tell Mrs. Fordringham as ‘er poor father is lying dead in the road.”

Where Three Roads Meet

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