Читать книгу Where Three Roads Meet - Ethel M. Dell - Страница 8

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That birthday of Molly’s was destined to be branded upon her as it were in letters of fire for the rest of her life.

The awful shock of her father’s death and the masterly removal of herself and her child from the old tumbledown cottage which they called home, bereft her for the time of the power to think coherently, and when her full faculties returned she found herself an inmate of the Castle and almost, it seemed, a prisoner. How it had come about she hardly knew, but a will that was stronger than hers now encompassed her, and her own fate as well as that of little Rollo had passed out of her control. Circumstances had combined to defeat her, and she was no longer capable of resistance. As one borne upon an irresistible current she was swept forward towards an unknown goal, and however she might fear the issue she lacked the strength to hold back.

When Ivor came to her that evening, she was crouched in a low chair beside the bed in which Rollo lay asleep, and the look she turned upon her visitor was one of pathetic resignation. He knew before he spoke to her that the battle was over. The sight of her great eyes gazing up at him like the eyes of a lost child moved him to compassion.

“You’re very tired,” he said. “Why don’t you go to bed yourself?”

“I couldn’t possibly sleep,” she answered. “Besides, I must be ready—in case the aeroplanes come back.”

“There’s no fear of that now,” he said. “And, anyway, I shall be at hand. Have they brought you anything to eat?”

“Oh, yes,” said Molly with a sigh. “They were very kind, and it was very good of you to bring me here. I don’t know what I should have done.” She repressed a sharp shudder. “I haven’t really grasped it yet,” she added apologetically.

He bent over her. “You must have a rest,” he said. “You’ll be ill if you don’t. Try to realize that you are in safe keeping! I will arrange everything for you. There will be nothing for you to worry about.”

Her look went to the round dark head on the pillow. “I couldn’t leave Rollo,” she said somewhat irrelevantly.

“My dear, I haven’t the faintest desire to separate you from him,” he assured her. “But you couldn’t go on living alone with him now that your father has gone. You are much too young. Besides, what have you got to live on?”

She shook her head. “I really don’t know. Life is difficult. One never has long enough to decide.”

He laid a quiet hand upon her. “I think you will have to let me decide for you,” he said. “I am older than you are, and I have had more experience of life. You may rely upon me not to let you make a mistake.”

She leaned her head against his arm almost involuntarily while a deep sigh broke from her. “It’s Rollo I think of,” she said with a weary sort of iteration of the thought. “Things happen so suddenly. I might die too. And then—what would become of him?”

“As my stepson, I should naturally provide for him,” said Ivor. “I am quite ready to accept responsibility in that direction, as I have already told you. I cannot make him my heir, but I can do everything else that is necessary to fit him for the life of an English gentleman.” He stooped a little lower over her. “Do you think you are quite justified in holding back?” he asked in a tone of gentle reasoning. “Doesn’t the very uncertainty of which you speak make you feel that there is no time to be lost? I assure you that thought has been in my mind a great deal lately. We are bound to make quick decisions in times such as these. It is only those who do so who can hope for any kind of security.”

He paused. She had made no attempt to respond, but her head still lay in utter weariness against his arm. Save for a certain throbbing which seemed to denote some hidden agitation, he could have almost believed her to be sleeping.

He tried to look into her downcast face, but could only do so by deliberately turning it up to his own. This, after a few moments, he did with quiet compulsion; and then, as she made no resistance, merely suffering his action with closed eyes, he stooped and kissed her.

Her lips quivered under his own, but she remained quite passive in his hold.

“I think that decides it, doesn’t it?” he said. “You have made up your mind to marry me at last.”

“Have I?” she murmured weakly.

His arms closed about her, strongly yet restrainingly. “Yes,” he said with steady emphasis. “The matter is settled. And, now that you are left alone, I am going to take everything into my own hands. There is nothing to prevent our immediate marriage. In fact everything is in favour of it. And then you will be able to stay quietly here in my mother’s care until the end of the War. You agree with me, my dear?”

Her trembling lips moved in answer. “Yes, if you wish it. I agree.”

“Good!” he said, and kissed her again as one who had earned the right. “I shall arrange for our marriage to take place within a week. No, hush!” For she had made a faint sound of protest. “I know what is best, and delay is only painful. I could never allow you to go back to the cottage after the funeral. We will put all that is morbid and sorrowful behind us. It is far better that you should enter upon your new life at once. Believe me, you will never regret it.”

She made no further effort at remonstrance, but sank again into quivering passivity. The steady pressure of his lips upon her own again deprived her of the power of speech, and when he released her at length the will to act and free herself had somehow been subdued. He had taken her at a moment when her strength was at a very low ebb, and in making the decision irrevocable he firmly believed that he was acting in her interests as much as his own.

He remained with her for a little while, but not for long, for after all she had undergone she was plainly worn out, and his caresses—though they served to strengthen his own proprietary attitude—seemed almost too much for her tottering strength.

“I will leave you now,” he said finally. “I think there is no need for me to press my sympathy upon you. But before I go, I should just like to give you my birthday gift, and then you must go to bed.”

It was as if he spoke to a child, his voice kindly, compassionate, slightly condescending. But Molly did not even raise her eyes in answer. She was tired to the soul.

He took a little paper packet from his pocket and unwrapped it. The glint of diamonds shone in the shaded light.

“Just a token!” he said. “Let me have your hand—yes, the left one. Ah, splendid! It may be a little loose, but I expect you will grow to it—as to everything else.” He began to slip the ring on to her third finger, but paused. “I think the old wedding-ring must come off,” he said. “You may wear it on your right hand till we are married, if you like.”

She uttered a sudden hard sob and drew her hand away. “It—has never been off,” she said in a choked voice. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t!”

He caught her hand back again and firmly held it. “Oh, come! This is nonsense!” he said with a touch of austerity. “I can’t allow it. Morbid sentiment, my dear Mary,—nothing else! Perhaps, however, I am the most suitable person to take it off.”

Her fingers clenched. “No!” she said. “No!”

He opened them out with quiet force and drew the gold band, which was loose enough, from her finger. She gave a low cry as she felt it go.

“It is best,” he said. “It is far best. There! You shall have the engagement one instead. I will take this one away. It will only give rise to sad memories.”

“No!” she cried. “No! Give it to me!”

But he withheld it, faintly smiling, fully determined. “I know what is best for you,” he said. “You are very young and impressionable. What I do is for your good. You will realize that later. I want to help you over the bad places and make you happy.”

“Happy!” she repeated in a wrung whisper. “Happy!”

“I know,” he said. “It seems impossible to you now. That is because you are young, poor child, and have been through so much trouble. But very soon things will be quite different. You will learn to look forward and leave your sorrows behind. Good night, Mary, my dear! By this time next week you will be wearing—another wedding-ring.”

She moaned in answer; words seemed to have failed her.

“Go to bed,” he said, “at once! You are worn out: but you will feel better in the morning.”

He drew her to him, kissed her once again on lips and forehead, paused a moment, and then—as she still found no words—patted her hand and turned away.

He was gone. She was alone with her child. But for the first time in the whole of her widowhood she was unaware of him there beside her. A great passion of feeling shook her, such a tempest as her slender frame was scarcely able to endure. Her hands were clenched. She dared not throw away the alien ring. Yet it seemed to be searing her flesh like a hot iron. She had suffered it, she had accepted it, she was powerless. But her agony of soul was such as even in her deepest sorrow she had never known before.

Softly, with a subdued violence, like a caged creature, she paced the room—the sumptuous prison to which she had been brought—driven, despite all weariness, by the fire within.

Wild thoughts and impulses rushed through her brain in a confused medley. At one moment she was terrified, at another desperately brave. And all the time within her the dreadful yearning gnawed—too deep for words or any physical expression, the longing that must go for ever unsatisfied for Roy—Roy, her husband, most precious, most beloved—to whose memory a bitter fate compelled her to be false.

How long she wandered through that terrible wilderness of despair and anguish she never knew. It was as a blackness that pressed upon her, shutting out all sight and sound, even smothering the thought of her father lying alone in death in their little cottage in the village. So cruelly was her spirit rent that all power of concentration was gone from her, and only the agony remained.

Later it seemed to her that all night long she wandered piteously crying for Roy, and receiving no answer because by her own action she had placed him beyond her reach. But when morning broke with the singing of many birds she was lying exhausted and sleeping on the bed with little Rollo in her arms.