# Paid In Full/Chapter 15

pp. 164–184.

### CHAPTER XV
#### HOSTAGES

Ten minutes later, Simmons, still a little pink about the eyes and inclined to intermittent chokings, ushered a visitor into the empty morning-room.
He was an attractive-looking, clean-shaven, well set-up man of about forty-five, dressed in a blue serge suit. The suit was smart and well-cut, but inclined to be shiny at the seams.
The stranger looked round the sunny room, with its bright chintzes and flowers, with obvious interest and appreciation. Then he turned to Simmons, and stood surveying her in an attitude of abstracted meditation, with his feet rather far apart, caressing his upper lip with the tips of his fingers.
‘A pleasant morning,’ he remarked affably.
‘Yes, sir. They are all going on the river; but I think Mrs. Cradock is still upstairs. What name shall I say?’
The stranger reflected.
‘Mrs. Cradock won’t know it, but you can say Captain Conway—Captain Dale Conway.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Simmons turned to go, but found Captain Conway standing between her and the door, gazing down upon her with manifest approval in his bold grey eyes.
Simmons dropped her own nervously, and sniffed.
‘Are you in distress, my dear?’ inquired Captain Conway.
‘Oh, no, sir!’
‘I always like to help little girls in distress.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Especially when they are fair and fluffy. I never can resist them when they are fair and fluffy.’
To prove his words, the visitor laid a paternal hand upon Simmons’s shoulder. The result was an agitated squeal and another hurried exit. Masculine admiration was meat and drink to Simmons, but it is possible to have too much of a good thing in the course of a single morning.
Captain Conway now put his hands in his pockets and strolled round the cheerful room, humming a little tune. Presently he came to the sideboard, upon which stood a silver cigarette-box. He helped himself to a cigarette and, having lit it, replenished his own case from the same source. After that he continued to stroll, halting next at the small table beside the mantelpiece, upon which stood the portrait gallery of the Cradock family. He had inspected Denny with obvious interest, and was upon the point of carrying Joan over to the window for better light, when he was aware of a footstep in the doorway behind him. He did not turn, but looked up into a Venetian mirror on the wall.
‘Good-morning, Mildred!’ he said. ‘The bad penny has turned up!’
Mildred Cradock halted in the open doorway, with her hand on her heart, and terror in her eyes.
‘Denis! You!’ she whispered hoarsely.
‘At your service,’ replied her husband, taking his stand before the mantelpiece, cigarette in mouth, hands in pockets.
She advanced towards him—a few dazed, uncertain steps.
‘I thought you were dead!’
Denis Cradock smiled.
‘Ah, did you? That was rather a liberty, Milly. You appear disappointed that I am not.’
‘I am.’ Mildred had characteristically resumed control of herself.
‘Why? Have you married again? No, of course not: that’s a stupid question: otherwise you wouldn’t still be Mrs. Cradock. It was by that name I traced you here.’
Mildred spoke again. Her deep voice was pitched a little higher than usual: otherwise it was expressionless.
‘Where have you been? Where have you come from?’
‘Recently, from Southern California. Generally speaking, from going to and fro in the earth and wandering up and down in it. That is a quotation from Scripture, which you may or may not regard as apposite.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Want? What do you think I want?’ Cradock spread his arms abroad comprehensively. ‘The comforts of home.’
‘Where is that—woman?’
‘Could you be a little more explicit? There are so many—women.’
‘The woman you took away in that boat, with its bribed crew.’
‘Oh, that lady? Well, as a matter of fact she took me away. She bribed the crew, too. I had no money: I never have! But I can set your mind completely at rest so far as she is concerned. I haven’t seen her for more than fifteen years. She proved to be a quite impossible person, I regret to say. Don’t you worry about her. At present I am absolutely heart-whole. In the words of the poet, “All that I ask is Love; All that I want is You!”.’ He threw his cigarette into the fender and took a step nearer. ‘Milly!’
Mildred stepped back a corresponding distance.
‘Keep your distance, my man!’ she said calmly.
‘Certainly,’ replied Cradock, sitting down. ‘It’s rather a warm morning. Could I have a little refreshment, do you think? Thank you!’ He leaned over and rang the bell.
Mildred remained standing.
‘Keep your distance,’ she repeated, ‘and keep silent while I speak to you. I am not afraid of you. After what you did that night, on that ship—’
‘Dear, dear! Feminine jealousy lives long, doesn’t it?’
‘I am not speaking about that poor creature: she was welcome to you. I am speaking of something different.’
The swing door opened behind her, and Simmons appeared.
‘Did you ring, ma’m?’
‘Yes. Will you bring the whiskey and soda for Captain Conway, please.’
‘Yes, ma’m.’
Simmons disappeared, and Conway inquired:
‘Something different—eh? What was that?’
‘I was thinking,’ said Mildred, ‘of the way in which you, an officer and gentleman—’
‘I wasn’t a real officer, you know,’ said Conway, with a ready smile; ‘only a Squadron Commander in some Irregular Horse—some extremely Irregular Horse. Their irregularity, especially off duty, was quite unique.’ He chuckled, like a schoolboy—like Denny.
‘You were responsible,’ pursued Mildred steadily, ‘for the safety of a company of British soldiers.’
‘A half-company; but you are wrong in any case. As it happened, I was not travelling on duty, but on leave, and in mufti. The men in question had their own officer to look after them. In spite of that fact, I took the trouble, when the alarm was given, to see that they were paraded upon that portion of the deck provided for such an emergency.’
‘It was your duty, as senior officer on board,’ pursued Mildred relentlessly, ‘to stay until the last man was rescued.’
Cradock nodded his head, thoughtfully.
‘A nice point,’ he said; ‘but I think you are wrong. I had other duties.’
‘Duties?’ For the first time Mildred permitted herself an ironical smile.
‘Yes. In a case of this kind the procedure is simple and invariable—women and children first. I observed that you and the two children were being well looked after—in fact, it hurt me a little to observe what a lot of men seemed to be doing it—so I took steps to ensure the safety of the only other woman on board whom I happened to know. After that, I considered that I was entitled to look after myself. Still, I respected your susceptibilities to the last, Milly—and I think you might be a bit more grateful about it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean this. When we were picked up a few days later, I gave my name as Arthur Swann.’
‘Not Conway?’
‘No. Dale Conway was one of my later incarnations. Anyhow, Denis Cradock disappeared from the pages of history—or rather from the books of his creditors, who realised with profound relief that they had touched bottom at last—without permitting his name to be associated in any way with that of any lady but his wife. Don’t thank me: I liked doing it. However, that’s all ancient history now. No doubt you would like to hear of some of my more recent adventures. Would you?’
‘No!’ replied Mildred decisively.
But here Simmons entered with the prescribed whiskey and soda, and the only alternative to constrained silence was small talk.
‘What happened to you during the War, Captain Conway?’ asked Mildred, sitting down at last. ‘I suppose you rejoined at once.’
‘Indeed, yes. I had a most interesting time.’
‘What front were you on?’
‘I was on the Western Front to begin with. Thank you, dear!’ This to Simmons, proffering a sizzling glass.
‘In the Cavalry?’
‘Not this time: they thought I was too old. Absurd, of course, but one has to accept these things. They put me in the Army Pay Corps.’
‘How dangerous,’ said Mildred—‘for the Army, I mean,’ she added, as the door swung to behind Simmons.
‘Don’t be catty, my dear. It may have been dangerous for the Army, but it was equally dangerous for me. I took all sorts of risks.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘In fact, my fondness for risks landed me in serious trouble.’
‘A surprise visit from the auditor?’
Conway laughed, good-temperedly.
‘Have the last word, by all means,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, what happened was this.’ And he proceeded to repeat for his wife’s edification the stirring tale of the Field Cashier’s car, Hellblast Corner, and the ten-franc notes.
‘Did they find any of the money?’ asked Mildred, when he had finished.
‘None. Most of Belgium is under water during the winter.’
‘And what sentence did they impose?’
‘I did not stay to listen. As I sat waiting in the empty hut for the General to make up his mind on the subject, it suddenly occurred to me that, to employ a popular expression of the period, I had done my bit. So I got up, walked out to my unguarded car, stepped on board, and set off for New York.’
‘New York?’
‘Yes—via Havre, where I contrived to bluff my way on board a French liner, which conveyed me across the Atlantic.’
‘First-class, of course?’
‘Certainly.’
‘You could well afford the money!’
‘It is a rule of the British Army, Milly, that officers in uniform must travel first-class. Not that I wore uniform after I stepped upon neutral soil: that would have been both useless and dangerous. However, that by the way. I may say, in all modesty, that I was a great success in America. I was quite a little pet: you would have been proud of me. The Americans are an extraordinarily hospitable people, and they appreciate an Englishman who is what they call “a good mixer.’ If he happens to be a wounded hero into the bargain—”
‘You were wounded?’ asked Mildred quickly.
‘Yes; I forgot to tell you that. I had been shot through the legs—or was it the lungs? Never mind! Gassed, too. When lecturing, I used to stop and cough sometimes: that was a great help. Kind-hearted folk used to come round behind the platform after my lectures, with tears in their eyes, and press me to accept an extra hundred dollars. I did so; but I was almost ashamed to take the money. But, of course, the market was soon spoiled. The game was so attractive that blundering outsiders butted in and ruined it. Then America came into the War herself, and that gave our military authorities an official footing in the country.’ Denis Cradock wriggled, as if under some disagreeable reflection. ‘Official—and officious. Damned officious!’
‘What did you do when you were found out?’ asked his wife calmly.
‘I trekked farther west—to California. I worked in moving pictures there for some months. A most attractive spot.’
‘Oh, why, why did you leave California?’ Mildred was speaking from her heart this time.
‘For that very reason. Work—too much of it! As you know, the sight of work always makes me feel sick and faint. Besides, I was such a good rider and swimmer that I was constantly being detailed for laborious stunts like battles and shipwrecks. It wasn’t a job for a gentleman at all. And’—the speaker shrugged his shoulders—‘there were other inconveniences.’
‘Some one’s husband began to make trouble, I suppose?’
‘On the contrary, he was much too accommodating. He offered to retire permanently in my favour!’ Cradock leaned forward, shaking an impressive forefinger. ‘My dear Milly, the looseness of the marriage tie in some of those Western States is nothing more nor less than a public scandal. Lay a finger on it, and it comes undone in your hand; and you find yourself roped in as Husband Number Two before you know where you are! No, I wasn’t having any. So I boarded the next train, and came home—to you!’ He leaned back again, glass in hand, with a satisfied smile. ‘There—frankly, freely, and without extenuation—you have the history of your rolling stone, tossed by the hand of Fate into this sleepy little back water of yours. À toi!’ He emptied the glass, and set it down again. ‘And now—what about it?’ he asked briskly.
His wife rose from her seat, and stood looking thoughtfully down upon the handsome, lined, impudent face that smiled up at her.
‘And you have been going through the world all these years,’ she said—and there was real pity in her eyes—‘lying, cheating, cadging, pilfering?’
She had fairly flicked him on the raw this time. The smile faded, and Cradock sprang to his feet.
‘Come, come, Milly,’ he cried, ‘don’t be a little hypocrite! You know my creed. The world’s my oyster—my big, fat, luscious, not particularly sensitive oyster. All mankind are fair game. If my neighbour is fool enough to let me pick his pocket, he has no one to blame but himself. If ever I meet a man clever enough to pick my pocket, I shall let him do so with pleasure. What could be fairer than that? Life, my dear, is not a picnic, as you in this up-river existence of yours appear to imagine: it’s a campaign—a campaign for most of us against power and place and privilege. What have I ever had’—his voice trembled with genuine emotion: characteristically, he had moved himself, but not his wife—‘to help me in the battle of life? Wealth, birth, influence? Nothing of the kind! Nothing but my five wits, and a perfect digestion!’
‘May one add—a thick skin?’ suggested Mildred gently.
Denis Cradock caught up the retort with characteristic dexterity.
‘A thick skin comes under the heading of a perfect digestion,’ he said. ‘The first symptom of indigestion, I’m told, is remorse. No, my wits and my digestion have been my sole weapons during life; and I flatter myself I have never used them otherwise than with consideration.’
Mildred stared at him in genuine astonishment. It was quite evident that he believed what he was saying. He caught the look.
‘I have never been cruel. Cruelty revolts me. I once nearly killed a fellow in the streets of Jo’burg for ill-treating a pony. Do you remember?’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Have I ever been cruel to you, Milly? Did I ever raise a finger to you, or speak a rough word to you during the whole of our married life?’
‘No. But you worked night and day, all the same, to break my spirit. You failed, though!’
Cradock nodded.
‘I certainly did. You’re as hard as nails. However, we are wasting time. Talking of nails, let us get down to brass tacks. How are you situated here? Well off? Still in possession of that snugly invested little fortune that you always insisted I married you for?’ He was standing up now, smiling down upon her, a mendicant unconcealed and unashamed.
‘We have sufficient, thank you.’
‘I mean, are you in a position to support a husband?’ With a comprehensive gesture he indicated the comfortable appointments of Abbot’s Mill. ‘It looks like it. Very well, then. Ulysses has come home—to spend his declining years with Penelope, and Telemachus. I forget if Ulysses had a daughter. Or, if you prefer it, the prodigal has returned. Serve the veal!’
With his hands in his pockets, he strolled up to the window, stretched himself luxuriously, and gazed contentedly out into the sunny garden. This done, he turned, to find his wife standing behind him.
‘You can’t stay here,’ she said.
Cradock extended a deprecating hand.
‘I was expecting that. But listen to me: the whole matter can be adjusted quite simply. Why not acknowledge me as your miraculously restored husband, who lost his memory owing to exposure in the wreck, and has just found it—and you—again? What a romance! What a thrill for the neighbourhood! Why can’t I stay? I do so long to stay.’ His voice dropped to a soothing, caressing murmur, which Mildred, among other women, knew well. ‘Why can’t we settle down to a real Indian Summer together? I would make amends. Word of honour, Milly!’
There were tears in his eyes. For the moment he was profoundly convinced that he was speaking the truth. But Mildred knew her man.
‘You are going away from here,’ she said rigidly, ‘and never coming back.’
In a moment Cradock’s attack of sentiment had passed. He put his hands back in his pockets, smiled whimsically, and inquired:
‘It is permitted to ask why?’
‘Certainly. Because I have brought up my children to believe that their father was a decent man.’
‘Then why not let them go on believing it?’
‘I intend them to. That is why you are going away, my friend.’
Cradock made a wry face.
‘Touché!’ he said.
‘Do you think,’ cried Mildred, turning on him suddenly, ‘that you could live in the same house with them for a week and not be found out?’
‘I flatter myself that I could. I can be rather engaging when I like. You know that, Milly.’
‘God pity me, I do! But that feeling has been dead in me for more than fifteen years. If need be, I shall have you turned out of the house.’
Cradock smiled indulgently.
‘It can’t be done,’ he said. ‘You can’t have your lawful husband thrown out of his own house.’
‘Lawful? The law can release me from you to-morrow—and shall!’
‘No, it won’t! You won’t ask it to.’
‘Why not?’
‘Pride! Pride! Pride! What would the Smiths and the Browns say? What would the Robinsons say? What would Laura Meakin say? Ah, that gets home! You see, I have been making inquiries about you, Milly. You are highly respected here: this pleasant house is the social centre of the neighbourhood. You won’t sacrifice all that, for the sake—’
‘Can't you understand?’ blazed Mildred. ‘I’m a mother! I’ll sacrifice everything—life itself—yours or mine—or both—to rid my children of the contamination of your presence!’
Cradock whistled long and softly. A new avenue of attack had providentially revealed itself to him.
‘Oho!’ he said; ‘the children? They are your hostages to fortune—eh? But think a moment, Milly! They’re my children, too: they may take my side. Joan, for instance. Joan must be almost a woman by this time; and a woman always has a soft spot for—a soldier of fortune.’
‘Joan is my daughter,’ retorted Mildred hotly, ‘and therefore no fool. All she needs from me is a warning. All I needed twenty-two years ago was a warning—only there was no one to give it to me!’
‘Well, our dear son, then? He might sympathise with my propensities. Like father, like son, you know!’
This time he had spoken the truth, and Mildred knew it. Realisation of that fact appeared in her eyes—and real terror.
‘Never! Never! Never!’ she cried.
Cradock heaved a gentle sigh of relief. He was on solid ground at last. ‘Don’t make a scene, Milly,’ he said soothingly; ‘there’s a good girl! You know I hate scenes. Listen to me! I’m not the sort of fellow to put any woman in a tight corner. We can settle this little matter in two minutes, in one or two ways. Either you can announce to the family that Father has come home, and we can all settle down and live happily ever after; or else, if you are ashamed of poor old broken-down me—after all, I might prove a drag upon your social ambitions—why not introduce me as Captain Conway, who has returned from South Africa after twenty years, and has unexpectedly run across you, the wife of his old friend Cradock, in this quiet little up-river resort? I stay on for a little while as your guest; I find the locality delightful; I decide to settle here; I take a little house close by. (Of course you take it, really; but I would never give a lady away.) I mingle with the local nobility and gentry and beauty and fashion, as your little protégé. There must be some very jolly week-end parties in some of these big places round here. I wonder if they play bridge at all. Possibly one might get a little baccarat, too, or chemmy. In that way I could make a humble but honest living, supplemented by an occasional fiver from you, and at the same time gratify my paternal yearnings—from a respectful distance, of course! There, what do you say to that? The bargain is in your favour; but I never could haggle! Think it over!’
During this characteristic harangue Mildred stood by the open window, staring stonily out over the lawn towards the river, with her back to the orator. Suddenly she was conscious of young, limber, white-clad figures upon the little jetty, busy about the launch. A shout of laughter came floating across the lawn; probably Leo was delivering a disquisition upon the internal combustion engine. Then Joan and Denny detached themselves from the group, and came strolling across the grass towards the house.
In a flash Mildred’s course was made plain, and her mind made up. But time pressed; the pair were only fifty yards away. She whirled round upon her husband, and cut him short.
‘Listen to me!’ she said, speaking in a low, rapid voice. ‘I believe in God, and I say my prayers to Him every night and every morning. Every morning I thank Him for my children, and every night I thank Him again for them; and after that I thank Him for having removed them from your influence just at a moment in their lives when you were beginning to be really poisonous to them. Well, God has sent you back to me! I don’t know why, but I suppose there’s a reason. All I know is that God can’t possibly mean you to stay with us; but for the present I can’t see my way out. I’m groping, in sudden darkness. But one thing has been made clear to me—as clear as daylight. The children must never know that you are their father. Thank you for warning me of that!’
‘Oh, I warned you, did I?’ Cradock was plainly a little taken aback.
‘Yes. You said: “Like father, like son!’ That’s just it! It’s Denny I’m thinking about—Denny! He’s weak, horribly weak; but so far he’s not vicious. His great standby so far has been his belief that his father was a decent sort of man—and that he takes after his father. If I acknowledge you as his father; if he gets to know the sort of person his father is—as he would in no time—his chief prop and stay will be withdrawn from him, and he’ll give up trying! He’ll go the same way as you! And to save him from that, I’ll fight till I drop! So I accept your second alternative—until I see my way clear to getting rid of you altogether. I don’t know how I’m going to do it: I haven’t been able to think yet. But I’ll do it. In the last extremity I could kill you: and I wouldn’t hesitate to do so! So—don’t drive me too far!’
Denis Cradock gaped. He had always known his wife beneath her placid breeding for a woman of spirit, but this tigress was a sheer revelation to him. For the moment he was fairly cowed. He tried to speak, but failed.
An eager and aggrieved voice broke the silence.
‘Mum, what on earth are you doing? We’ve been waiting hours and hours. Oh, I beg your pardon!’
Joan, half-way into the room, caught sight of the stranger, and recoiled precipitately on to her brother’s toes.
‘Come in, children!’ said Mildred, smiling. ‘I have a real surprise for you. This is Captain Conway, whom I haven’t seen since the South-African days. He is just home, and ran across us quite by accident. Come and shake hands.’
Joan was presented first. Captain Conway took her hand affably.
‘I know you, Joan,’ he said, ‘but you don’t know me.’
Joan vouchsafed no answer, but after the fashion of her sex which can never be comfortably neutral about its fellow-creatures—conceived an instant and permanent dislike for the visitor.
‘And this, I suppose,’ said Conway, releasing Joan’s hand, ‘is Denny.’
Father and son shook hands. They were much of a height, and surveyed one another with mutual interest. Conway turned to Mildred.
‘He reminds me so much of his father,’ he said.
Denny broke in eagerly.
‘Did you know my father well, sir?’
Conway laughed.
‘None better!’ he said.
‘Oh, I say!’ Denny, genuinely thrilled, shook Conway’s hand again.
Joan, muttering something about ‘more Ancestor Worship,’ subsided resignedly upon the sofa.
‘Please, sir, is your fly to wait? Because—’ Simmons was standing in the doorway.
Conway threw back his handsome head and laughed—a hearty, infectious laugh.
‘Bless me,’ he cried; ‘I had forgotten all about that fly! There’s extravagance for you!’
‘You must stay and spend the day with us, Captain Conway,’ interposed Mildred readily. ‘Send the fly away.’
‘Now, that’s what I call real Old Country hospitality!’ exclaimed the returned exile. ‘I shall be delighted. Did the cabman say how much?’
‘He said three-and-six, sir,’ replied Simmons.
‘I wonder if I have any silver about me,’ said Conway, feeling in his pockets. ‘I don’t believe I have. I’ve got a fiver somewhere, I know. I wonder if—’
He turned apologetically to his hostess.
Mildred bit her lip. Here was a foretaste of coming events. But Denny produced a ten-shilling note in a flash.
‘Here you are, sir,’ he said, ‘if that’s any use.’
‘Thank you, Denny,’ said Conway, taking it. ‘Now don’t forget to remind me about this.’ He handed the note to Simmons. ‘Tell the man he can keep the change.’ Then he slipped his arm affectionately into the arm of his only son.
‘What about that picnic we’ve all been hearing so much about?’ he demanded boisterously. ‘The jolly old river again—eh? I feel a new man!’