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[Illustration: frontcover]
THE NETHER MILLSTONE
[Illustration: She came slowly down the steps and stood between the two
men (Page 32.) _Frontispiece_]
THE NETHER MILLSTONE
BY
FRED M. WHITE
AUTHOR OF
"THE SLAVE OF SILENCE," "THE CRIMSON BLIND,"
"THE WEIGHT OF THE CROWN," ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED_
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1907
Copyright, 1905,
By WARD, LOCK, AND COMPANY.
Copyright, 1907,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
---------------------
_All Rights Reserved_
Published September 1907
Printers
S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U.S.A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. "The Caste of Vere de Vere."
II. Dashwood Hall.
III. Horace Mayfield.
IV. A Leaf from the Past.
V. The Sacrifice.
VI. A Cruel Misunderstanding.
VII. The Only Way.
VIII. Found!
IX. The Parting Guest.
X. Skin Deep.
XI. The Dowager Lady Dashwood.
XII. Lady Dashwood Sees a Ghost.
XIII. Desecration!
XIV. A Fierce Temptation.
XV. Not Quite Too Late.
XVI. The Unfinished Word.
XVII. Breathing Time.
XVIII. A Flaming Sword.
XIX. A Guardian Angel.
XX. Half Told.
XXI. Vincent Dashwood.
XXII. Who Did It?
XXIII. The Silver Clue.
XXIV. A Fresh Calamity.
XXV. Pride or Prejudice.
XXVI. In Reckless Mood.
XXVII. A Warning.
XXVIII. Moral Force.
XXIX. Strategy.
XXX. The Heir of the House.
XXXI. Under Which Lord?
XXXII. Must This Thing Be?
XXXIII. A Rebel Against Fate.
XXXIV. Mistress Of Herself.
XXXV. A Friend in Need.
XXXVI. Connie Colam.
XXXVII. The Unexpected Happens.
XXXVIII. The Mystery Deepens.
XXXIX. Homeless.
XL. In Peril.
XLI. The Lesson of Adversity.
XLII. The Courage of Despair.
XLIII. Getting Nearer.
XLIV. The Dreary Way.
XLV. The Walls of Pride.
XLVI. The Head of the House.
XLVII. "How Long, How Long!"
XLVIII. Face To Face!
XLIX. A Bolt From the Blue.
L. Hard Put To It.
LI. Cold Comfort.
LII. The Spider's Web.
LIII. The Web Tightens.
LIV. "Eyes Clearer Grown----"
LV. Not Dead.
LVI. Found!
LVII. A Clean Breast Of It.
LVIII. "The King is Dead--"
LIX. "Long Live the King!"
LX. Open Confession.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_Page_ 32 (_Frontispiece_). "She came slowly down the steps and stood
between the two men."
_Page_ 15. "She playfully asked him not to be too long."
_Page_ 272. "Under the shade of a tree Mary laid down and closed her
weary eyes."
_Page_ 397. "He had Mary's hand in his."
THE NETHER MILLSTONE
CHAPTER I.
"THE CASTE OF VERE DE VERE"
There were tears in the girl's eyes--tears of futile anger and
despair. The danger was so great, and yet safety was so near. If only
the black horse would stumble or swerve, if only she could work the
bit into that iron mouth and bring him to a standstill altogether. Her
gloves were cut to ribands now; the blue veins stood out on the
slender white wrists.
And still the horse flew on down the rocky path leading to the
lych-gate. He would charge through the gate into the green old
churchyard beyond, but no longer with his rider fighting for life on
his back. The arch of the lych-gate would sweep her from the saddle
with a blow that would crush the life out of her. Mary Dashwood could
see that plainly enough; she knew that she had only a few more minutes
to live.
She set her teeth and blinked the welling tears from her proud blue
eyes. She was not afraid--no Dashwood was ever afraid--but the pity of
it! She saw the great beeches rising on either side of the path, she
saw the blue sky beyond, the song of the birds came to her ears. And
she was only twenty-two, and life was very dear to her.
The moment was coming ever nearer. The black horse was thundering
along the straight downward path; the lych-gate was in sight. Mary
discarded the idea of throwing herself from the saddle; she would have
only been dashed to pieces on the rocks on either side of the road.
She had been warned, too, not to take the black horse. She bent low to
escape an overhanging bough; her hat was swept away; the shining
chestnut hair began to stream from her shapely head.
There was a crackling of sticks in the wood on the right; surely, a
hundred yards or so ahead, a face looked over the high fence, the
figure of a man was holding on to the overhanging bough of an oak
tree. Mary Dashwood wondered if the man realised her danger. Perhaps
he did, for he crooked a leg over the bough and hung arms downward
over the roadway. He was saying something in a smooth, firm voice.
"Pull to the side of the road," said the voice. It almost sounded like
a command. "Drop the reins and clear your stirrup as you near me. And
have no fear."
The big horse thundered on. Despite her peril, Mary did not fail
to notice how strong and brown and capable the stranger's hands
looked. . . . It was all done so quickly and easily as to rob the
episode of romantic danger--two hands, warm and tender, and yet firm
as a steel trap, grasped the girl's slender wrists, she was floated
lightly from the saddle, and in the next instant she was swaying
dizzily on her feet in the road. The pride and courage of the
Dashwoods availed nothing now--it was but a mere woman who fell almost
fainting by the roadside.
She opened her eyes presently to the knowledge that a strong arm was
supporting her. A bright blush mounted to her proud, beautiful face.
The colour deepened as she saw the look, half admiration, half
amusement, on the face of her rescuer.
"Mr. Darnley," she stammered. "I--I hardly expected to see you here. A
little over two years ago, in Paris, you saved my life before."
"It is good to know that you have not forgotten it," Ralph Darnley
murmured. "And yet the coincidence is not so strange as it seems. I
did not come to these parts moved by any unaccountable impulse--I
simply had business here. And I was told that a walk through the park
would repay me for my trouble. As I was making a start out, through a
copse I saw your predicament and hastened to your assistance. A handy
tree did the rest. The only strange part of the affair is that you
should be here, too."
"Nothing strange about that," the girl smiled, "seeing that the Hall
is my home."
It was a commonplace statement of facts, and yet the words seemed to
hurt Ralph Darnley as if they had been lashes to sting him. The honest
open brown face paled perceptibly under its tan hue. A dozen emotions
changed in those clear brown eyes.
"I--I don't quite understand," he remarked. "When we met in Paris two
years ago, Miss Mary Mallory----"
"Quite so. Mary Dashwood Mallory. But, you see, the head of the family
was alive then. He died nearly two years ago without any children, in
fact, his only son died years ago somewhere abroad--it was a rather
sad story--and my father came into the title and estates. He is Sir
George Dashwood now. You can quite see why he changed his name."
"Of course. Only you can see that I could not possibly know this. What
a grand old place it is, and what a grand old house! You must have
grown very fond of it."
"I love it," Mary Dashwood cried. The look of haughty pride had faded
from her face, leaving it refined and beautiful. "I love every stick
and stone of it, it is part of my very life. You see, I have
practically lived here always. As my father was in the Diplomatic
Service, and my mother died young, it was necessary for somebody to
look after me. I spent my childhood here with old Lady Dashwood, who
has now gone to the dower house--such a wonderful old body!"
But Darnley did not appear to be listening. He made an effort to
recover himself presently. He was like a man who dreams.
"I can quite appreciate your feelings," he said quietly. "I understand
that the Dashwoods have ruled here for three hundred years. It is a
fine estate; they tell me the heirlooms are almost priceless. And yet
I am sorry."
The girl looked sharply up at the speaker.
"Why should you be sorry?" she demanded.
"Because it is the end of a dream," Darnley said. "I rather gathered
in Paris that your father was poor. The fact levelled things up a
little. It is just possible that you may remember our last evening
together in Paris."
"I recollect," Mary said, the delicate colour flushing her cheeks
again. "But I thought that we had closed that chapter finally, Mr.
Darnley."
"No. That chapter can never be closed for me. I loved you from the
first moment that we met, and I shall go on loving you till I die. I
asked you to be my wife, and you refused me. The future mistress of
Dashwood could not stoop to the son of a Californian rancher, though I
happened to be an English gentleman by birth. I hope I took your
refusal quietly, though it was a great blow to me. There can be no
other woman for me, Mary."
"I am sorry," the girl said, "but see how impossible it is. Perhaps I
am a little old-fashioned, perhaps it is the fault of my bringing up.
That like must mate with like has always been the motto of the
Dashwoods. These new people, with their wealth and noise and
ostentation can never cross the threshold of Dashwood Hall. My father
is fond of finance, but he never dreams of bringing his City friends
here."
Darnley smiled to himself. He recollected the days in Paris, when
Mary's father had been hand-in-glove with many a dubious French
financier.
"We are wandering from the point," he said. "In any case your
strictures do not touch me, for I have no money. My poor father left
me comfortably off, as he thought, but my mine of silver is ruined
now, ruined by a firm of City swindlers whom I was fool enough to
regard as honest men. It was a very bad thing for me when I came in
contact with Horace Mayfield."
It was the girl's turn to start guiltily. The beautiful face flushed
once more.
"I know Mr. Mayfield," she said. "He is the only one of my father's
business friends who comes here. We make an exception in his favour,
because he is so well connected. Frankly, I do not like him, but I
thought that he-----"
"That he is a cold-blooded and calculating rascal to the core,"
Darnley said. "I trusted him, and he left me almost penniless. Many
people will tell you I am saying no more than what is actually true.
And, because I am poor, I came down here thinking to find a little
something that belonged to my people years ago. And so I met you,
Mary, and discovered that I love you with the same old pure affection,
that will go on burning in my heart till I die. It may strike you as
strange that a poor man should speak to Miss Dashwood, of Dashwood,
like this. Mind you, I am young, and strong, and able, and I shall
come into my kingdom again. And love is worth all the rest; it is
better far than money, or position, or pride of birth. If I could hear
you say that you cared for me now! You are so beautiful; behind all
your pride the woman's heart beats true enough. May God grant that you
meet the right man when the time comes! I would give you up to him
willingly and shake his hand on it. But to think of your being the
wife of some brainless nonentity, of some brutal ruffian who has
nothing but an old title to cover his moral wickedness, why the
thought is unbearable. Mary, I think I could find it in my heart to
kill that man."
The words came slowly and clear as cut steel. Calm as he was,
Darnley's tones vibrated with passion. He drew the girl towards him,
and laid his hands on her shoulders so that he could look down into
the fathomless lake of her blue eyes. Strange as it was, Mary
Dashwood did not resent that which would have been insolent
familiarity in anybody else. There was something so strong and
dominating about this man; she thrilled with a strange tenderness and
pride in the knowledge that he loved her. True, on his own confession,
he was penniless, but then he treated the loss of his money in a way
that only a strong man could assume.
"I love you, dear," he said, very gently and tenderly. "I love you,
Mary, and no words could say more. I shall live to see the ice and
pride melt from your heart, I shall live to see the beautiful
womanhood within you blossom like a rose. The day will come when you
will be prouder far to own a good man's heart than you will be to call
yourself a Dashwood. You may frown, but I feel certain that my words
will come true. And, meanwhile, I am afraid that there is no hope at
all for me, my dear."
"It is impossible," Mary said coldly. Yet her voice trembled and tears
came to her eyes. "Oh, I know that you are a good man and true, but
you must make allowances for me. And besides, love is only a name to
me. I owe my life to you, and believe me, I am too grateful for words.
And if the time should ever come--oh, how selfish I am. Look at your
arm. It is bruised and bleeding. It must have happened when you lifted
me from the saddle. You must come up to the house and have it attended
to at once."
"I don't think--" Darnley hesitated; "yes I will. It's really nothing.
Let me catch your horse for you and we will walk across the path
together."
CHAPTER II.
DASHWOOD HALL
There were the lodge-gates at last, with the arms of the Dashwoods
carved in mossy stone, and the great iron gates from the cunning hand
of Quentin Matsys himself. Beyond, the noble elms planted in the days
of Elizabeth led to the house, a great Tudor mansion with gabled and
latticed windows covered with ivy to the quaintly carved roof-tree.
The gardens spread wide on either side; there was a thick hedge of
crimson roses bounding the park, and in its purple shade the dappled
deer reposed. Ralph Darnley drew a great breath as he took in the
splendid beauty and serenity of it all. For three hundred years the
reign of the Dashwoods had lasted, and not a stain had shown itself on
the family escutcheon all that time. Darnley could excuse all Mary's
pride.
"It is exquisitely beautiful," he said, with a queer catch in his
voice. "How vividly it recalls Tennyson's line--'a haunt of ancient
peace.' I am trying to make due allowances for your feelings, Miss
Dashwood. If I had been brought up here, my views might be the same as
yours. I love old houses."
Mary smiled one of her rare tender smiles. Darnley's eulogy touched
her. She led the way through a great flagged hall, the walls of which
were a perfect dream of carving; from their frames dead and gone
Dashwoods looked down. There was oak carving everywhere, the ceilings
were panelled, in the stained glass windows masses of flowers stood.
Ralph would have stopped to admire it all, but Mary hurried him on.
"We will go into the breakfast-parlour," she said. "Then I will
endeavour to show you that I can be useful as well as ornamental.
Excuse me one moment--I must get rid of these torn gloves. Ring the
bell, please, for Slight, the butler, and ask him for warm water and
towels."
Ralph laid his hand on the bell as Mary flitted away. The old butler
came presently, a thin little man, pink and white, the embodiment of
what an old servant should be. Ralph gave his directions clearly
enough, but the man stood there shaking from head to foot. There was
joy and terror and amazement on his face; the tears gathered in his
rheumy eyes.
"Mr. Ralph!" he whispered, "Mr. Ralph come back from the grave! Come
back after all these years! What will the master say if he knows? I'm
dreaming, that's what is the matter; I've gone off my head or I'm
dreaming. And after forty years!"
The speaker came forward tremblingly and touched Ralph's hand.
Apparently the contact with warm flesh and blood reassured him, for
the pink apple bloom came back to his cheek.
"The same and yet not the same," he went on. "Stands to reason as
forty years must make a deal of difference. But you are Mr. Ralph over
again all the same. I loved him, sir. I mourned for him like a child
of my own. I taught him to ride; I taught him to use a gun. I had to
stand between him and Sir Ralph when the crash came. And you are his
son as sure as there is a Heaven above us."
"Not quite so loud," Ralph said. "Pull yourself together, Slight. I
take it you are old Slight about whom my father talked so often. He
did not forget you, Slight. On his deathbed he gave me a message for
you."
"And so my dear Mr. Ralph is dead. Dear, dear. What shall I call you,
sir?"
"You are to call me nothing for the present," Ralph said. "I am Mr.
Darnley, Slight, and you are to be discreet and silent. I had quite
left you out of my calculation when I came here today; in fact, I had
forgotten all about you. It never occurred to me that you would
discover the likeness to what my father was forty years ago. I
will ask you to meet me this evening, say, at half-past ten at the
lodge-gates, for I have much to say to you."
"And, meanwhile, is nobody to know anything about you, sir?"
"Not a soul. The present head of the house never saw my father. The
only one likely to recognize me would be the dowager Lady Dashwood,
who is at the dower house. I am placing myself and my happiness
entirely in your hands, my faithful old Slight, and I ask you not to
betray me. Rest assured that it will all come right in time.
Meanwhile, I have hurt my arm, and I require towels and soap and hot
water."
Slight went his way with the air of a man who dreams. He came back
presently, followed by Mary Dashwood. She dressed Darnley's arm
skilfully enough. The touch of her fingers was soft and soothing. She
was a tender and feeling woman now, without the slightest suggestion
of cold pride on her face.
"I think that is all," she said quietly. "How brave and strong you
are: how little you make of your courage. And yet few could have done
what you did for me today. But I am forgetting that my father will be
glad to see you. Let us go to the library."
A tall figure rose from a mass of papers heaped on a table. Here in
the library was the same restful air of calm repose, the same
patrician silence that brooded over everything like the spirit of the
place. A flood of sunlight, tempered by the amber and blue of the
stained glass windows filled the room; the rays centered upon the tall
figure with the thin white face and grey hair, standing by the table.
"My daughter has been telling me everything, Mr. Darnley," Sir George
said. "It was well and bravely done of you. . . . I am glad to see you
in my house."
Darnley murmured something appropriate; he hoped that the expression
of his face was not betraying his emotions. For the change in Sir
George since they had last met was startling. The old, jaunty, easy
manner was gone, the straight figure was lost, the iron-grey hair was
white as snow. There were deep lines of care and suffering graven on
the pleasant face, a suggestion of fear, or fright, or remorse. This
was a man who carried some secret in his heart. Darnley felt that he
would have passed Sir George in the street unrecognized. And yet the
man appeared to possess everything that made life worth living. Ralph
ventured to offer some suitable comment on the house and the beauty of
the surroundings. A look of infinite sadness overcame the features of
Dashwood for the moment. The slender fingers clutched as if at
something unseen, as the fingers of a drowning man might clutch at a
straw.
"Yes, it is perfect enough," he said dreamily. "A perfect house in a
perfect setting. And Mary loves it even more than I do. It seems
almost impossible to connect this place with sin and suffering and the
sordid cares of life--what is it, Slight?"
"A telegram for you, Sir George," the old butler murmured. "Is there
any reply, sir?"
Sir George murmured that there was no reply. He dropped the telegram
in an unconcerned way upon the table, but his hand was shaking again,
and his features looked terribly white and worn.
"From Horace Mayfield," he said huskily. "He is coming down today, on
a rather important piece of business, and will probably stay the
night. By the way, Darnley, it would give me great pleasure if you
would dine with us this evening."
Ralph would have refused. It would have been an exquisite pleasure to
spend a long summer evening with Mary in that delightful old house,
but then it seemed impossible to be under the same roof as Horace
Mayfield. It appeared strange that that handsome, plausible, well-bred
scoundrel should be a friend of Dashwood. Ralph was framing a
courteous refusal when he became conscious that Mary was regarding him
with a pleading glance. Her face was weary and anxious-looking, her
eyes were alight with an appeal for help. She was asking Ralph to
come, and yet she did not want her father to see how eager she was.
"I shall be delighted," Ralph answered. "Half-past seven, I think. And
now I must be going."
Ralph turned away into the great dim hall followed by Mary. A ray of
sunlight fell upon her beautiful face and grateful blue eyes.
"That was very good of you," she murmured. "Mr. Darnley, Ralph, if I
should want a friend in the near future, I feel assured that I can
rely upon you."
"I love you with my whole heart and soul," Ralph replied. "And some
day you will give that love to me. I would give my life for you, if
necessary, and you know it."
CHAPTER III.
HORACE MAYFIELD
The cloth had been drawn in the old-fashioned way, so that the candles
in the ancient silver branches made pools of brown light on the
polished mahogany of the dining table. Here were palms and flowers,
feathery fronds, rays of light streaking the sides of blushing grapes
and peaches with the downy bloom on them. The candle rays glistened
sombrely on deep ruby red wines in crystal decanters; the table was as
a bath of silver flame in a background of sombre brown shadows. A
noiseless servant or two, gliding about, ministered to the wants of
the guests. How peaceful, how restful and refined it all was, Ralph
thought, the only jarring note being the person opposite him, a
clean-shaven, hard-featured man with a glass screwed in his left eye.
And what a hard, firm mouth he had. He was quite at his ease, too, in
Dashwood's presence; he chatted with glib assurance to the man whom he
had robbed as deliberately as if he had picked his pocket. Actually he
had met Ralph in the drawing-room an hour before, with a smile and a
proffered hand, as if they had been two men taking up the threads of a
desirable acquaintance.
Ralph's fingers had itched to be at the throat of the man, but he had
to smile and murmur the ordinary polite commonplaces. He shut his
teeth together now as he noted Mayfield's insolently familiar, not to
say caressing, manner towards Mary Dashwood. Sir George looked on and
smiled in a pained kind of way. He reminded Ralph unpleasantly of a
well-broken dog in the presence of a harsh master. It was almost
pathetic to see how Dashwood hung on any word of Mayfield. Surely
there was some guilty knowledge between the two, some powerful hold
that Mayfield had on his host. It was with a feeling of relief that
Ralph saw Mary rise at length. He opened the door for her, and she
playfully asked him not to be too long, it was so lovely a night.
[Illustration: "She playfully asked him not to be too long." _Page
15_]
"I'll come with you now," Ralph answered. "I don't care to smoke, and
I never touch wine after dinner. I fear Sir George wants to talk
business, which seems to me to be a desecration on an evening like
this. Shall we go outside?"
"I think it would be nice," Mary said. "No, I shall not need a wrap."
She stepped through the double French window that led to the lawn. The
full light of the moon flashed on her ivory shoulders and played in
gilded shadows on her hair. As she looked upwards, Ralph could catch
the exquisite symmetry of her face. A desire to speak possessed him, a
desire to tell the girl strange and wonderful things. Here was his
heart's object standing pale and beautiful by his side; he had only to
stretch out his hands and the flowers were his for the plucking. It
only needed a few words and the whole situation would be changed. But
Ralph was silent, he was too strong and masterful a man for that. What
he won he would win by sheer merit, by intrinsic worth alone. He could
have purchased the kisses and caresses for which his heart hungered,
but he knew that they would be no more than Dead Sea fruit on his
lips.
"You are very silent," Mary said at length. "What are you thinking
about?"
"About you," Ralph said boldly. "I was thinking how beautiful you
looked with the fuller moonlight on your face. It is only when you
recollect that you are Miss Dashwood, of Dashwood Hall, that I like
your expression least. And you are not always happy."
"What do you mean by that?" Mary asked. There was a startled look in
her eyes. "Why should I not be happy?"
"Why, indeed! But the fact remains that you are not. I do not want to
appear inquisitive, but there is a worm in the heart of the rose
somewhere. Mary, why do you allow your father to ask Mayfield here
when you dislike him so much? Though you are exclusive and can show
your pride, yet you allow that man to be insolently familiar with you.
He laid his hand on your arm tonight, and I could have struck him for
it. It is not as if you cared for him----"
"Oh, no, no," Mary said with a shudder. "I detest him. He is so cold
and calculating, you cannot chock him off. I thought that when I
refused to marry him----"
"Ha! I expected something of the kind. Mayfield is not the man to take
'No' for an answer once he has set his heart upon a thing. I told you
before that he was a scoundrel, and I am in a position to prove it.
Not that the fellow has done anything to bring himself within the grip
of the law--your City rascal is too clever for that. And your father
is afraid of him; he watches him as a dog watches his master. If he is
in the power of that man he must get out without delay. He must raise
money on the property----"
"He can't," Mary said sadly. "My father has not taken me into his
confidence. But you can see how much he has aged and altered lately,
and you looked quite shocked when you met this morning. I don't know
what it is, but I feel that some evil is impending over him. That is
why I asked you to be my friend. You see my father is not really a
rich man. He has the income of this fine estate, it is true. I believe
he could get rid of Horace Mayfield if he could raise money on the
property, but that is impossible. Old Sir Ralph, my great uncle, had a
serious quarrel with his wife--that is the present dowager Lady
Dashwood, you understand. It must have been all Sir Ralph's fault, for
she is the dearest old lady. The heir to the property took the side of
his mother when the separation came, and left Dashwood Hall, declaring
that he would never see the place again. There is only one man living
who knows the whole facts of the case, and that is Slight. But his
lips are sealed. The old man loved young Ralph Dashwood as if he had
been his own child. Ralph the younger went off to America, and has
never been heard of again. That was forty years ago. When old Sir
Ralph died two years ago, and my father came into the property, no
will could be found. So my father, being next of kin, succeeded to the
property and the rents of the estate. It is a settled estate, and each
possessor has only what is called a life-interest in it. Now it is
just possible that some day an heir will turn up. It is more than
likely that young Ralph Dashwood married in America, and left a
family. Or he may be still alive, and is waiting to claim, for his
son, that which he declined to touch himself. Most people know this,
and that is why my father could never raise a penny on the family
property. If he could, he would not long remain under the heel of
Horace Mayfield. Oh, if we could only find a way!"
"I begin to understand," Ralph said thoughtfully. "If old Sir Ralph
had died leaving a will, things might have been very different. Is
that what you mean?"
"Partly. Sir Ralph died leaving a good deal of ready money. That will
no doubt come to us in time, but for the present we cannot touch it in
the absence of proof of the death of the youngest Ralph Dashwood. I
mean the one who went to America. Old Lady Dashwood says she is sure
that her husband did leave a will, and that he had divided all his
money, with certain provisions. If that will could be found, we should
be in a position to get rid of Mayfield. What a hateful thing this
money is, and what misery it seems to bring everybody. But I am afraid
that I am very selfish and exacting. Why should I worry you with our
troubles?"
"My shoulders are broad, and I have very few of my own," Ralph smiled.
"Indeed, I am more interested than you imagine. As I told you today, I
am a poor man, thanks to one who is a guest here at the present
moment. But, still, don't forget the fable of the mouse and the lion.
I may find a means of freeing you from the net yet. But here come the
others."
Mayfield emerged from the window on to the lawn. His cigar seemed to
pollute the sweet-scented night; he was talking loudly to Sir George.
"We shall know presently," he said. "The worst of living buried in the
country is that one is out of touch with telegrams and telephones. I
told my secretary to wire directly he heard from Worham and his
partner."
"Don't let us talk about it," said Sir George in a voice that shook a
little. "Let us enjoy the beauty of the night . . . I began to wonder
what had become of you, Darnley. So you and Mary have been communing
with Nature together. You will have a cigar before you go?"
Darnley declined the offer. He did not care to stay any longer in
Mayfield's presence. And it was getting on to half-past ten, when he
had promised to meet Slight. He made his excuses and passed across the
lawn in the direction of the avenue. At the end of the rose garden he
paused to look back.
He saw the picture of the grand old house standing out in the
moonlight; he could see Mary, pale and silent, a dainty figure in
white and amber. He saw Mayfield bend familiarly to her, and the girl
draw coldly away. There was a fierce tumult in his heart, a desire to
go back and proclaim his story. He could stretch out a hand, and put
an end to all that without delay. But he preferred to wait. He was
going to win Mary, and wear her like a white rose on the shield of a
knight. He was going to bend down the barrier of her pride, and win
her for himself alone, _as_ himself, and not as a man who had the
advantages of fortune on his side.
These thoughts filled his mind as he walked down the avenue. He knew
that he had far to go before the goal was in sight. He almost walked
over a figure standing just inside the lodge gates, and his thoughts
came tumbling to earth again.
"I beg your pardon, Slight," he said. "I was miles away just now. Let
us sit on this tree stump in sight of the old house and talk things
over."
CHAPTER IV.
A LEAF FROM THE PAST
The old man stood there in the moonlight, his face agitated and his
lips quivering.
"I can hear the master's voice again," he murmured. "Time seems to
have gone back with me. It is as if you had come like a ghost from the
grave, Mr. Ralph. And it was close here that your father stood, after
the great quarrel, and swore that Dashwood Hall should see him no
more. . . . And so you have come back to claim your own, sir?"
"I must be very like my father, or what my father was like forty years
ago," Ralph said thoughtfully. "Sit down, Slight, please don't stand
looking at me like that. I did not expect to be recognized in this
way, and I am not here to claim my own, at least, not in the fashion
that you mean. My father chose deliberately to forfeit his
inheritance. My grandfather gave him the chance of coming into his own
again. But he always refused, as you know, Slight. And now Sir George
Dashwood reigns in his stead."
"The estate, the title--everything is yours, Sir Ralph," Slight said
doggedly.
"No, no. Forty years ago there was a great upheaval here. It was a
quarrel that could never be patched up or healed. At the bottom of it
was family pride, the accursed kind of pride that stifles every
feeling of humanity and turns hearts into flints as hard as the nether
millstone. The upshot of that quarrel was a permanent separation
between my grandfather and the present dowager Lady Dashwood; it drove
my father into exile. It broke the heart of one of the best and truest
women that ever lived. And all this to keep from so-called
contamination the blood of the Dashwoods. Before my father went away
he took steps to make his sacrifice complete. He executed a deed
cutting off the entail of the estate, so that the late Sir Ralph could
do what he pleased with it."
"I don't quite understand that, Sir Ralph," Slight said.
"Don't address me by that title," Darnley replied. "Let me explain.
Most people believe that a family estate like ours cannot be left
elsewhere. But if the heir likes to execute a deed for the purpose of
cutting off the entail as it is called, why, the holder for the time
being can do what he likes with the property. My father did this with
his eyes wide open, and you witnessed the deed, Slight."
"I recollect it," Slight said slowly. He made the admission
grudgingly. "It was my task to deliver it into the hands of old Sir
Ralph. If I had only known!"
"You would have destroyed it. You would have carried your loyalty to
my father so far. But the deed was delivered to my grandfather and
subsequently he made his will. For twenty years there was silence
between father and son, a silence which was broken at length by the
father, who wrote to the son and asked him to return. Then Sir Ralph
wrote once more to my father and said that he would give the latter
twenty years to decide. He had made a will at the same date as that of
the second letter, leaving everything to my father, provided that
within twenty years of that date he claimed his patrimony. If the date
passed, then everything was to go to the man nominated in that will. I
need not say that the man so indicated was Sir George Dashwood. In
other words, if I make no sign for six months, the property becomes
his irrevocably. I can claim the property as my father's heir, and I
can produce that will as proof of my claim."
"But the will was never found," Slight said eagerly. "We looked for a
will everywhere."
"It was hidden away. In old Sir Ralph's last letter to my father he
explained the hiding-place. I have only to let Sir George know where
the will is, and he is safe. For the will directs the finder to the
repository of the deed cutting off the entail, so that Sir George can
prove his claim then to everything. At present he has no more than the
income of the estate, and I have ascertained that he has many old
debts to pay off. In addition to this he is under the thumb of a
scoundrel."
"Ay, that he is," Slight muttered. "We servants learn a great deal
more than you gentlemen give us credit for. That Mayfield means
mischief. They say that he's rich. But riches don't content him. He
wants to marry Miss Mary. And she can't bear the look of him. If only
he can ruin Sir George, his path will be clear. Miss Mary would break
her heart if she had to leave this place. From a child she was brought
up here, she loves every stick and stone. And she was always led to
believe that some day it would belong to her, because her father was
the last of the old race, seeing that we all regarded Master Ralph as
dead and buried. And Miss Mary had dreams of being mistress here some
day, and, maybe, dreams, too, of a good husband and children of her
own. Ay, it's a terrible weapon this Mayfield has in his hands."
"So it seems," Ralph replied. "I know the rascal well, for he ruined
my father two years ago. Mind you, at that time, I had never heard of
Dashwood Park. I was merely the son of a Mr. Darnley who had done well
silver mining in California. Mayfield came to us in London and we
trusted him, trusted him to such an extent that nearly all we had
passed into his hands. It was only on his deathbed that my father
told me everything, told me what my birthright was, and how I could
secure it, if I did not wait too long. So I came down here to look
about me, and to my surprise I found that I had met Miss Mary before
in Paris. Is she a favourite here, Slight?"
"Ay, indeed she is, sir," Slight replied. There was a ring of
passionate sincerity in his speech. "We all love her dearly. Strangers
think that she is cold and distant. It may be so. But we all know the
heart of gold that beats under that placid breast. It is in times of
sickness and trouble that we know of the angel in our midst. I'm not
denying that Miss Mary is tainted with the curse of family pride. But
still. . . . Ah, sir, if you ever looked out for a wife, why there is
the very one for you. You the head, and she the mistress. It would be
a happy day for me."
"That is just what I mean," Ralph said quietly. "Slight, I have been
in love with your mistress for two long years. And I am going to marry
her some day. But I have my own idea and my own way of leading up to
that happiness. She must care for me for my own sake, and not because
I am Sir Ralph Dashwood, of Dashwood Hall, and she a--pauper. No, no.
My lady shall stoop to me, she shall tell me with her own sweet lips
that a good man's love is worth all the pride of place, worth a dozen
old families and a score of houses like this. _Then_ she shall know
everything, but not before."
"And that will be too late," sighed Slight. "Before that Mr. Mayfield
will have ruined Sir George, and Miss Mary will marry him to save the
old house. She would make any sacrifice and face any degradation for
the sake of her pride. Though every fibre of her body may call out
against the pollution of that man's touch, she would smile at him
before the world and pretend to be happy. It's a dangerous experiment,
Mr. Ralph, and don't you try it. I haven't lived in the world for nigh
on four-score years for nothing. If you love Miss Mary, and if she
comes to care for you, she'll care none the less because you are
master of this good old place. And if her father is ruined----"
"My good Slight, her father is not going to be ruined. Unless I am
greatly mistaken, he is exceedingly anxious to be rid of Horace
Mayfield. I presume it is a mere matter of money, and for the sake of
argument call it £50,000. Sir George owes Mayfield that sum. In the
present circumstances he could not hope to repay it. A disgraceful
bankruptcy may follow, a criminal collapse even, for Mayfield would
not hesitate where his desires and interests are concerned. But
suppose I could show Sir George a way to get this money? In that case
he could rid himself of that scoundrel at any sacrifice. I have only
to let Sir George know where the will is hidden and he is free."
"It would be wrong, sir, cruelly wrong to yourself," Slight cried.
"You could never appear after that and claim your own. Sir George
would be no more than an innocent impostor. And you, the real master
of Dashwood, would be compelled to earn your bread."
"I don't see it exactly," Ralph smiled. "My father never intended to
claim his inheritance. He cut himself off from England deliberately.
And after all these years, would it not be a cruel thing to deprive
Miss Mary of a home which she has come to regard as her own? But I
have made up my mind, Slight, and nothing shall deter me from it. You
may call me a visionary and a dreamer if you like, but my hands are
strong and capable, and I have been taught to use my head. I want you
to be discreet and silent; I want you to be my witness when the time
comes. I should not have taken you into my confidence, but that you
recognized me at once. All day I have been wandering about the dear
old place. I have studied all its ancient beauties. We can't wonder
that Miss Mary has come to regard it as part of her life. It has cost
me more than a passing effort to restrain my covetousness."
Ralph stifled a sigh as he looked about him. He could see the fine old
house clear cut against the sky; in the park the oaks and beeches hung
like great sentinels guarding the home of the ages. And it was so
still and peaceful, so suggestive of all that is worth having in life.
A cry from somewhere broke the perfect silence, the bleat of a sheep
from distant pastures.
"It shall be as you wish, sir," Slight said at length. "I could never
refuse your father anything, and I can refuse you nothing when you
look at me out of the past with his eyes. But sorrow and trouble will
come of this; you mark my words."
"No, no," Ralph cried as he rose to his feet. "True and sterling
happiness, the death and destruction of the family pride which has
been our curse for many generations. I am going my own way to work and
you are going to help me. Now come and show me the big window in the
staircase that my father used when he wanted to leave the house late
at night to visit poor Maria Edgerton, the child-wife, the child of
the people, who was killed by our family pride as surely as if she had
been murdered. My mother was a good woman, Slight, she had her
husband's respect and affection, but his heart was always with the
girl who suffered so much to become his wife. I hope that her grave
has never been neglected, Slight."
"No, sir," Slight said huskily. "We have seen to that--her ladyship
and myself between us. That is the window, sir, the big stained glass
one with the light behind it. You can get up on to the leads with the
aid of the ivy. At the bottom of the window is a brass knob. If you
press it, the window opens inwards, and there you are. But I hope you
don't need to burgle your own house, seeing that you are a welcome
guest there. And, as I was saying just now----"
The speaker paused, for the soft, rich silence of the night was broken
by a cry. The long drawing-room window leading to the lawn was still
open; the lamplight flooded on pictures and china and flowers. A
figure came to the window, a tall figure with upraised hands and hair
wild and dishevelled.
"You scoundrel," the figure cried. "You have done this to ruin me!"
CHAPTER V.
THE SACRIFICE
The speaker's tones rang out with passionate vehemence. He stumbled
down the steps, into the garden, and repeated his accusation loudly.
It all seemed strangely out of place there, Ralph thought; it was no
spot for sordid emotions, and angry passions. The words rang clear and
loud to the startled vault of heaven; a blackbird started from her
nest and flew across the lawn with nervous twitter. Then another
figure came from the drawing-room, the trim, immaculate figure of
Horace Mayfield.
"For goodness' sake, control yourself Dashwood," he said curtly.
"There is nothing in the world to make all this ridiculous fuss about.
It is all the fortune of war. We tried to get the best of these
fellows, and they looted us instead. It was no fault of mine that
these cablegrams miscarried. My manager has sold me--a thing that
sometimes happens in the City. All we have to do is to pay and look
pleasant."
"But I can't pay, and you know it. Nobody understands the tenure on
which I hold the property better than you do. If I wait for the money,
what happens?"
"I am afraid it will be very awkward," Mayfield said. "People will
refuse to believe that you have been a victim of a fraud. They will
actually regard the fraud as your own. Whereas, if you pay up
cheerfully, nothing can be said. Personally, I am all right. I kept my
name out of the business so that you could have all the credit.
Unfortunately, you will get all the blame as well. There may not be a
prosecution; of course, it is not an easy matter to get the Public
Prosecutor to interfere in these cases. The only thing for it is to
take the bull by the horns and get out of all by paying."
Sir George laughed in a bitter kind of way. He stood with his back to
the house, facing the man who had brought all this about. He seemed to
be almost beside himself with fury. The whole man was transformed.
"I have no money," he said, "and you know it. You have deliberately
brought me to this pass for purposes of your own. You have traded upon
my love of gambling to get me into your hands. And I might have been
happy and comfortable here. I was getting rid of my millstone of debt
so nicely when you came along once more. But for you, I should not
stand here now outside my own home, an honoured house for three
centuries, a ruined and desperate man with a vision of a prisoner's
dock before me. You are a rich man----"
"Possibly, Dashwood. At any rate, I am in a position to find money.
But there is no kind of friendship or sentiment when one comes to
business. You are not a child that you can accuse me of luring you to
your ruin. Still, I am not disposed to take offence. I will undertake
to settle the matter for you in time. But you must have a joint
guarantee and I want another person to become security for you. You
understand what I mean. If Miss Mary will be so good as to give me her
word----"
A sudden cry of passion broke from the older man. He seemed to lose
all control of himself. He dashed forward and smote Mayfield with fury
on the mouth. The latter staggered back a thin streak of blood
trickling from his under lip.
There was no outbreak, no display of passion, on the part of Mayfield.
He was surprised and shaken by the impetuosity of the attack, but he
stood there calmly, as he wiped the blood from his face. His features
might have been carved out of solid marble, and the full light of the
moon heightened the effect. In spite of his knowledge of the man,
Ralph could not but admire him at that moment. One who could keep his
feelings under such control would prove a dangerous foe.
It was a strange, weird scene altogether, terrible and repulsive by
very force of contrast. The environment was so quiet and peaceful, so
exalted and refined. Ralph stood as if rooted to the spot. He saw Sir
George advance again, he saw the hand upraised once more. All the
pride of rank and place had fallen from the man; he was transformed
for the moment to a savage. Then Mayfield caught the uplifted arm and
held it in a grip like a vice.
"You will gain nothing by this," he said quietly. "You seem to forget
that I am a guest under your roof. Would you alarm your servants,
would you have them know what their master is, when all his passions
are aroused? Come, sir, this is not what one has a right to expect
from the owner of Dashwood Park. You owe me an apology----"
The words were lost on Sir George. He wrenched himself free, he turned
and faced the house with uplifted arms. The demon of anger still
possessed him.
"I owe you nothing," he cried. "But for you I should be one of the
happiest men alive. If I had been content to pay off old debts by
degrees nothing would have happened. But I listened to you, with what
result you know. You are a trickster and a cheat, a liar and a knave.
You have laid a trap for me, and I have tumbled into it with my eyes
open. What you mean to say in as many words is this--unless I can
procure the sum of £50,000 in a few days I stand every chance of a
criminal prosecution. You know exactly how I am situated, you know
that I am helpless."
"You are not in the least helpless," Mayfield said sternly. "To a
certain extent the fault is mine, and I am prepared to do all that is
in my power. You have only to say the word and the money is yours.
Promise me that your daughter shall become my wife, get her to say the
word, and the situation is absolutely changed. I neither admit nor
deny your accusations. You could not prove them--a jury would give a
verdict against you, if you tried to do so. And if Miss Mary does me
the honour to become my wife----"
"Never," Dashwood cried. "Never in this world. Our women only wed
honourable men."
"Is that really so? And what manner of man will the world call you if
I fail to come to your assistance? Control yourself--listen to me for
a moment. Do you realise what will happen to you if I go away without
coming to some understanding? The police will come here and arrest
you, it may be when you are entertaining friends. They will take you
away, with handcuffs on your wrists. You will stand in the dock
charged with a vulgar conspiracy to defraud innocent shareholders,
_and the charge will be proved_. And if you ever come out of gaol
again, it will be as a broken and dispirited man. It will be useless,
when it is too late, to look for any consideration from me. I am not
likely to forget the blow you dealt me just now. And, whilst you are
raving like a lunatic, we might be settling the matter comfortably
over a cigar. You are a man of the world; at least you will be once
more when this fit of midsummer madness has passed. Explain everything
to your daughter if you like, put any face upon it that you please.
Agree to my conditions and you can sleep in peace tonight, and every
other night, for the matter of that. Listen to the voice of reason,
and I will forget the treatment I have had at your hands."
But Sir George was not listening. Apparently a terrible struggle was
going on in his breast. He could see now, how neatly and cleverly he
had been trapped, he could see that he had no remedy against the man
who had schemed for this position. And he was innocent himself of
anything dishonourable. And now to give his daughter to this man! The
mere idea was horrible. The meanest hound on the estate was far better
off than Sir George at this moment.
"Do your worst," he shouted. His voice rang out on the startled
silence. "Do your worst. If I could kill you now, I would do so. You
are not fit to live, your presence is an insult to any honest man. I
can see nothing, I am going blind. . . ."
CHAPTER VI.
A CRUEL MISUNDERSTANDING
Sir George clasped his hands to his eyes; everything for the moment
had faded from his sight. The blood was rushing wildly through his
head; there was a din like the clang of hammers in his brain. He was
beside himself with grief and passion. His voice uprose again and
broke the stillness of the night horribly. What were his title and his
old family worth now? It was all as nothing, in the presence of this
threatened calamity.
"Mary, Mary," he cried, "come to me. Come, whilst I have the strength
left to tell you the truth. Tomorrow I shall be too weak, tomorrow I
shall not dare to give all this up. Come, and tell him that you will
have none of him."
The speech ended in a yearning scream. It was a strange setting for so
peaceful a scene. Ralph Darnley made a step forward, with the impulse
to interfere, strong upon him. Then a figure came between the light
and the window, and Mary appeared. She stood there, tall and stately
in her white dress; her eyes were filled with stern disapproval. She
came slowly down the steps and stood between the two men. She did not
fail to notice Mayfield's cut lip and the spot or two of blood on his
gleaming shirt front.
"What is the meaning of this?" she asked. "Father, you don't mean to
say----"
"Ay, but I do," Dashwood said doggedly. "I struck him. Would that I
had killed him! There would be far less disgrace for the family in the
end. I struck him, and he took it quietly like the cur and craven that
he is!"
"I hardly think that I deserve that," Mayfield said. "Whatever my
failings may be, you will not find a lack of physical courage amongst
them. Sir George has been very unfortunate in his speculations, and he
chooses to blame me for it. We only got the news late tonight. A man
in whom we trusted has played the knave, and Sir George is likely to
suffer for it. To put the matter quite plainly, unless your father can
find a very large sum of money in a few days he will probably be
prosecuted. One can make any allowance for his feelings in the
circumstances, but that is no reason why he should accuse one of
deliberately laying a plot to ruin him. As to the assault upon me, why
let it pass. In the excitement of the moment----"
"Pardon me," Mary said quietly, "I heard my name mentioned. My
father's voice was raised so loudly that I could not help hearing
something of what passed. You did me the honour to say that I might
avert the catastrophe."
"That is so," Mayfield retorted in the same self-contained manner. "In
certain circumstances I am prepared to stand by your father. I can say
that it is a misunderstanding so far as he is concerned, and that I am
prepared to take over the venture as it stands, and pay everybody who
has lost confidence in it. I could write to the Press and vindicate
the honour of the man who stood in the light of prospective
father-in-law to me."
The girl's face whitened in the moonlight. Ralph could see the heaving
of her breast. She had taken in the situation like a flash of
inspiration. There was none of the grinning triumph of the successful
rogue on Mayfield's face; it was all being quietly and decorously
done, but the grip of iron was there all the same, the iron hand in
the velvet glove. Mary essayed to speak, but words failed her for the
moment. Sir George stood between the man and his prey with trembling
hands outstretched as if to keep them apart. His lips opened, he
gabbled something too incoherent for understanding, then he collapsed
like a heap of black cloth on the grass. Something seemed to snap in
his brain, then a blank came over him.
Mary forgot everything else in the dictates of humanity. With a cry
she knelt on the grass by the side of the stricken man. Ralph came
forward, slowly followed by Slight. It seemed natural that he should
be there at that moment. Mary turned towards him instantly. Here was
the friend in need that she so sorely prayed for.
"It is some kind of seizure," she said. "My father had one two years
ago in Paris. He was warned then to avoid any undue excitement. Will
you please help me to carry him to his room? Slight, call a groom up
and send him to Longtown for a doctor."
"No occasion," Mayfield remarked. "Give me the key of the stables, and
I will take my car into Longtown and bring the doctor back with me. It
will take less time."
It was a weary two hours that passed before the doctor arrived. Still,
his account was a fairly cheerful one when it came. It was merely a
case of rest and quietness and careful nursing. Sir George had fallen
into a kind of troubled sleep.
Ralph turned to go. Mayfield had volunteered to take the doctor home
again. Slight was sitting with his master till Mary was ready to
return. She stood by the window leading to the lawn; that means of
exit was as good as any other, Ralph said.
"What were you doing outside tonight?" the girl asked keenly.
"We will go into that another time," Ralph suggested. "I did not mean
to listen, but I heard everything. Did I not tell you that Mayfield
was a villain?"
"I have felt it before now. Without any apparent cause for it, I have
detested that man. And he has always acted as if he had only to say
the word and I would consent to be his wife. On two occasions I have
refused him. To think that men should be such villains where innocent
girls are concerned! Of course, he has led my father into a terrible
position, and my hand is to be the price of his freedom. Ralph, I am
so dreadfully, horribly afraid of that man! How wonderfully he must
have controlled himself when my father struck him! And how cleverly he
insinuated that he might be allowed to appear as my future husband. I
tell you I would give up everything to be free of this tangle. What is
my pride, what is my home here, so long as the happiness of a lifetime
is at stake!"
"That is a lesson that I have tried to teach you before," Ralph said
quietly. "Mary, I love you. The time will come when you will love me.
If ever you needed a friend in your life, you need one at this moment.
I could show you a way out, but after that I should never dare to
claim my reward, because the obligation in your eyes would be too
great. I want you to care for me for my own sake. Still, you need have
no anxiety. Within the next few hours Mayfield will be powerless to
harm you."
"Ralph, you speak in enigmas. I pray you to be plain. Can't you trust
me?"
"My dear, in this matter I cannot trust anybody; by Heaven, I can
hardly trust myself. Ah, if you only knew how I love you and how great
the temptation is! But the reward that I am working for will be all
the sweeter when the time comes. Go sleep now with a calm mind, for I
pledge my honour that things shall be as I say."
Mary's two hands had fluttered out to Ralph. She was moved by the deep
sincerity of his words, for a broken smile, half respect and half
affection, quivered on her face. With an impulse that he could not
resist, Ralph drew the girl to him and laid his lips on hers. Then,
with a sigh, he put her from him and turned towards the window.
"There," he said, "I ask no pardon for my audacity. I could not help
it. And that kiss was as pure as if it came from your mother's lips."
"The first from any man," Mary murmured, a pink flush on her face.
"You are a good man, Ralph, and it is a pity I did not meet you before
the curse of the family pride fell upon me. Good night, and God bless
you for all your kindness to me."
The window closed and the blind fell, the lights in the house began to
vanish one by one, and still Ralph lingered there on the grass. He saw
Mayfield return, he saw the last ray extinguished, save for the
solitary glow in Sir George's bedroom. A clock over the stables struck
the hour of two, and still Ralph stood there oblivious of the flight
of time.
He was thinking of the dramatic scene of the evening. More than once
he mourned his lost opportunities. He had all the strings in his own
hand, the game was entirely his, and he felt, too, that in spite of
her fateful pride, Mary was beginning to care for him. If not, why had
she taken his kiss so sweetly? Ralph had only to proclaim his
identity, he had merely to prove his title to the estate, and at once
he would be in the position to free the present occupier of Dashwood
Hall of his peril. And Mary would not refuse to marry the man whose
blood was as pure as hers. But Ralph had made up his mind what to do.
He would win her love as Ralph Darnley, afterwards the truth could be
told. Why not tonight? he asked himself. There was no time like the
present. He would go and find the will, he would let Sir George know
where it was.
The house was still now, and Ralph knew the way . . . . He was in the
long corridor presently, here was the old oak dower-chest and the
panel below it. Here was the spring by which the panel was released.
The thing was ridiculously easy.
Ralph pressed in the spring and the panel came away. Within it was a
long manuscript written on thick white paper. Ralph thrilled as he
read the endorsement. Beyond doubt, here was the will of his
grandfather, Sir Ralph Dashwood. All this was quite plain in the
moonlight. It only needed now to put the will at the bottom of the
dower-chest and write a letter to Sir George anonymously, and tell him
where to seek for it. And Ralph had only to be silent henceforth, and
the deception would pass for all time. Verily Mayfield's triumph was
likely to be a very short one, and . . .
Somebody was speaking to Ralph: Mary, with her hair over her
shoulders, and a candle in her hand. Her face was cold and set, her
eyes filled with stern displeasure.
"Thief in the night," she said. "What is the meaning of this, Mr.
Darnley?"
CHAPTER VII.
THE ONLY WAY
A sense of blinding, unreasonable anger held Ralph for the moment. He
was doing nothing wrong. He was acting entirely for the best, and here
he was taken under the most shameful conditions--a miserable, degraded
thief in the night. From the coldness of Mary's voice, from the scorn
in her eyes, he could read the reflection of her thoughts. And yet he
was acting from the highest and most honourable motives. Surely no man
was ever impelled by a loftier idea of self-sacrifice.
"I ask what you are doing," Mary repeated. "Do not tax my patience too
far."
There was no mistaking the menace in those clear-cut tones. Thus would
the daughter of the house of Dashwood address a burglar or other
midnight intruder. Ralph felt that she would have been not in the
least afraid to face a felon of that type; his face tingled as he felt
himself set down in the same category. He cudgelled his brains for
some plausible explanation which should be anything but the right one.
The edge of the failing moon still left a shaft of pallid light
shining through the great stained glass window; it flung into high
relief the arms and motto of the family of Dashwood. And those arms
and that motto belonged to the man who stood there with the shamefaced
air of a boy caught in a fault.
"I am still waiting for you to speak," Mary went on. "It is possible
that there may be some explanation of this amazing conduct of yours."
The cold, proud voice seemed to doubt it all the same. And yet one
word would have swept all the clouds of suspicion away. Ralph knew
that it lay in his power to bring that white, haughty figure to her
knees; one inkling of the truth and the whole situation was changed.
For all this belonged to Ralph; Mary was no more than an honoured
guest in the house. Yes, it all belonged to him, the grand old house,
the matchless pictures, the furniture from the time of Elizabeth, the
great sweeps of upland country, and the farms lying snug under their
red roofs.
A few words spoken, and what a difference there would be! Those words
meant that Ralph would have held out his hands and asked Mary to come
and help him to reign here. Ay, and she would have come, too. Her
point of view would be entirely changed. And she must love him.
Indeed, he had more than a feeling that she loved him now, without
being aware of the state of her affections. Her heart would go out to
him, and there would be peace and happiness for evermore.
The temptation was great, so great that the beads of perspiration
stood out on Ralph's forehead. But he crushed the temptation down; his
pride came to his assistance. No, when Mary came to love, she should
love the man for his own sake, she should tell him so, and Dashwood
should be as nothing in comparison.
"I came here to look for something," Ralph said at length.
"Indeed! Judging by what you hold in your hand I should say that you
have found it. How did you manage to obtain entrance to the house?"
"Quite a simple matter," Ralph replied. "I climbed on to the leads
outside the big window. By pressing a knob outside, the window can be
made to open."
"Really! I have lived here practically all my life, and I was not
aware of that fact. For an absolute stranger, your knowledge of the
house is exceedingly comprehensive. May I ask if you have found what
you were looking for?"
"I have," Ralph said huskily. "Permit me to replace it in the old
chest. Tomorrow, if your father is well enough, I will see him and
explain. I beg to assure you that I have what criminal lawyers call a
perfect answer to the charge."
"And you ask me to believe this?" Mary burst out passionately. "How do
I know that you are not one of those who are in league against us? How
do I know that your indignation against Horace Mayfield is not all
assumed?"
"How do you know that I am a gentleman?" Ralph retorted. "You cannot
explain why."
"Indeed I cannot," Mary said bitterly. "I trusted you, I regarded you
as a friend. I asked for your assistance and you promised it to me. In
my heart I thanked God that I had a friend that I could rely upon.
Actually, you caused me to forget the difference between our stations
in life. And now!"
The girl paused, with something like tears in her voice. She looked
very sweet and womanly at that moment, Ralph thought. He could afford
to ignore the suggestion of the social gulf between them. The
temptation to tell the truth came over him again, but once more he
fought the impulse and conquered it.
"In spite of your distressful pride, you are a very woman," he said.
"I am your friend and more than your friend. For your sake, there is
nothing that I would not do. It is for your sake that I am here
tonight, strange as it may seem. A little time ago, fate placed me in
possession of certain information closely touching on the fortunes of
your house. Please do not ask me to explain, for I cannot do so
without spoiling everything. Call me a sentimentalist, if you
like--perhaps the air of the grand old place has affected me. Anyway,
there it is. I came here tonight to place you in possession of certain
information that would for ever have rid you of the hateful presence
of the man who calls himself Horace Mayfield. I did not want to place
you under any kind of obligation, so I chose this method----"
"But why?" Mary exclaimed. "Why? Have you not saved my life twice?
Could a million obligations like this increase the burden of my debt
of gratitude to you?"
"That is right," Ralph admitted. "Call me a Quixote if you like. I am.
The day will come when your eyes will be no longer blind, when love
will come before everything. I have my own way of getting my ends, and
am too proud to rely upon anything but myself. I am going to make you
happy, and you are going to be the mainspring of that happiness."
Ralph spoke almost with the spirit of prophecy upon him. It would all
come right some day, but he little dreamed of the trouble and
tribulation that were near at hand. All he could see now was that
Mary's eyes were growing dim and softer.
"My knowledge is going to save you," Ralph went on. "But I did not
wish you to know that I had any hand in the business. As I said
before, you must not ask me to explain. I want you to give me your
hand, and to say that you regard me as being still beyond suspicion.
Oh, I know that it is a deal to ask. But a long pedigree and the
possession of a grand old house are not necessary to the honour of a
man. I admit that I crept here like a thief in the night. If you
charged me, I should have nothing to say, my character would be
forever ruined. If you----"
Ralph paused, and his face flushed with annoyance. A petulant voice
calling for Mary broke the silence--shuffling feet came along the
corridor. Dishevelled and dazed, Sir George Dashwood stood there,
candle in hand, looking from the glorious white figure with the
rippling golden hair to the faint outline of Darnley. The old man was
haggard and trembling, yet a certain dignity sustained him.
"I have called you three times," he said. "I needed you, my child. I
woke up with my head better and a raging thirst upon me. Then I
thought that I heard voices here and I came out. The situation, Mr.
Darnley, is singular. Permit me to remind you that it is not the usual
thing----"
The speaker paused. He seemed to be struggling for words to express
his feelings.
"Quite so, Sir George," Ralph said eagerly. "I--came back for
something. I helped you into the house after your illness overcame
you. Forgive me if I seem to have stayed a little too long in my
anxiety to be of assistance. If you will take my advice you will go
back to your room without delay."
Sir George muttered something to the effect that he was very tired. He
babbled about cool springs in the woods, he accepted Mary's arm as a
weary child might do. It seemed almost impossible to believe that this
was the sprightly, gallant figure that Ralph had known in Paris so
short a time ago. But when Ralph had gone by the way in which he had
come, and once more Sir George was in his bedroom, a change came over
him. He eagerly drank the soda-water that Mary had procured for him.
"No, no," he cried, "tired as I am, I cannot sleep yet. I was half
asleep, I was between waking and dreaming, and I was dying of thirst.
I came out into the corridor and saw you standing there with Ralph
Darnley. There were certain words that seemed to be burned into my
brain with letters of fire. You were angry with him, and yet he was
going to be a friend to us. That was no common thief in the night,
Mary. What was it he found? What was it that was going to rid us of
the hateful presence of Horace Mayfield? Don't tell me that I was
dreaming, don't say that it was all a cruel delusion on my part. The
secret, the secret, girl."
The words came like a torrent. Out of his white and haggard face,
Dashwood's eyes gleamed like restless stars on a windy night. The
clutch on the girl's arm was almost painful in its intensity. Mary
wondered why she was trembling so.
"Hush," she said. "You must sleep now, or you will be really ill
again. Leave it till the morning, when you will be better able to
understand. I cannot tell you now; indeed, I know no more than you do
yourself. But now you must go to sleep!"
CHAPTER VIII.
FOUND!
Sir George lay back on the bed with weary eyelids closed. His last
effort had cost him more than he knew. Mary's will had conquered for
the moment, and he felt disposed to obey. All the same the strange
thread of logical reason was going on in his mind. The only thing that
could save him and preserve the proud traditions of the Dashwoods must
be something in the way of papers or documents of some kind. He lay
there, allowing Mary to make him comfortable for the night. He lay
there long after the girl had departed to her own room and the house
was wrapped in close slumber. But the quietness was soothing to Sir
George's brain. His mind was growing stronger and more logical; the
dazed dream of the scene in the corridor began to shape itself into
concrete facts.
What had Ralph Darnley been saying? Yes, it was all coming back now.
Darnley had learned certain facts somewhere, bearing on the fortunes
of the house of Dashwood. Surely there was nothing so wildly
improbable in this, seeing that Ralph Darnley had passed the best part
of his life in America. The late Ralph Dashwood, the original heir to
the property, had lived in America, too. Of course, America was a
large continent, but that was no reason why Ralph Dashwood and
Darnley's father should not have been friends. Had not Ralph Darnley
admitted that he had business in the neighbourhood of Dashwood Hall?
Perhaps he had come to make money out of his information. But then the
young fellow was a gentleman, and would not stoop to that kind of
thing.
Still, he knew there was no getting away from the fact, for had not
Dashwood heard it from the younger man's lips? A means whereby it was
possible to get rid of Horace Mayfield for ever! The mere idea sent
the blood throbbing through the sick man's veins, and brought him in a
sitting position in bed. That meant documents or papers of some kind;
it could really mean nothing else. Dashwood remembered vividly now
that Ralph had been standing by the old dower-chest in the corridor
and that he had had a paper in his hand. So far as Dashwood knew, the
old chest had not been opened for years. It was by no means a bad
hiding-place. Perhaps----
Slowly the sick man dragged himself to his feet. He had promised Mary
that he would lie quietly there till the morning, but he could not
find it in his heart to keep that promise. Sleep was out of the
question. Dashwood looked at his watch to find that it was only just
half-past three, five hours before it would be time to rise. It seemed
like an eternity. And all the while that fiend, Horace Mayfield, was
sleeping under the same roof. Suppose he had been listening to what
was going on. Suppose that he had had his suspicions attracted to the
dower-chest! The mere thought was intolerable; it was impossible to
lie there with such a torture praying on his mind. And the house was
as still as death.
Sir George lighted his candle, though the bright summer dawn was
creeping up from the east and the birds were beginning to twitter
outside in the garden. The long corridor was getting pink and saffron
with the strengthening colour from the great window. And under it lay
the object of the sick man's search. Here it was with the lid
unfastened and a mass of papers on the top. The first document was
long in shape, neatly folded, and bearing an endorsement in a legal
hand. The paper was yellow and faded, but the ink was quite plain for
the eye to read. Yes, here it was, right enough, the yellow paper that
meant happiness to all and the full splendour of the house of
Dashwood.
"How did he know, how did he discover it?" Sir George muttered. "My
hands are so shaky that I can hardly hold the paper. The will of Sir
Ralph Dashwood, dated 1877, and duly witnessed by the family lawyer
and his clerk. . . . Provided that for the space of twenty years after
this date my son Ralph does not appear either by himself or by the
heir or heirs male of his body. . . . Ah, six months more and the
property comes to me absolutely! Strange that the will should come to
light so near to the time appointed by Sir Ralph for--but that hardly
helps me, seeing that my danger is so close at hand. . . . What is
this? A deed executed by Ralph Dashwood the younger cutting off the
entail. . . . I wonder where that is? Perhaps the yellow sheet of
parchment lying by the side of the will. . . . By Heavens it is! Oh,
this is a direct interposition of Providence to save the good old name
from disgrace. And this is what Ralph Darnley was looking for as a
pleasant surprise for me. Armed with these documents, I can raise all
the money necessary. I can kick Horace Mayfield out of the house, I
can----"
The speaker staggered to his feet and pressed his hands to his
throbbing, reeling head.
He was nearer to collapse again than he knew. He would have denied the
fact that he was terribly afraid of Mayfield, but it was true all the
same. The aim of the financier had never been quite hidden from his
eyes; for some time past he had an instinctive knowledge of what
Mayfield was after. His family pride had bidden him to have no more of
Mayfield, but he had not listened. Proud as he was, he had not
hesitated to stoop to gambling transactions, with the risk that he
would not be able to pay his debts if he lost. Surely he deserved a
sharp lesson and a cruel awakening.
But he was free now, fortune was on his side. His great good luck sent
him trembling from head to foot like some amazed criminal who has been
discharged by a stupid jury. He would have to give up nothing. He was
still Sir George Dashwood with a grand estate, and a house with a
history of three hundred years behind it. He would go to London
tomorrow with those papers in his possession and his bankers would be
ready to accommodate him to any amount in reason. He would pay the sum
that Mayfield had mentioned, and wash his hands of the whole
transaction. He would show the world how a country gentleman deals
with these things. It never struck Dashwood that he was a feeble
creature who had juggled with the good name that he proposed to hold
so highly; he little realized the deep self-abnegation that had led to
this dazzling piece of good fortune.
"Kick Mayfield out," he repeated, "after breakfast. Let him see that I
am not in the least afraid of him; make him understand that we are
little better than strangers for the future. Ah, that will be a
triumph."
He hugged the papers to his breast, like a mother with a child. There
were weak and senile tears in his eyes. He had lost nothing after all;
the fine old house, the wide and well-kept estate, the great timber in
the park and the deer there, were all his. He started as the sound of
a footstep fell upon his ears. It seemed to him that somebody was
creeping along the corridor. Perhaps it was Mayfield, who had found
out what had happened. Mayfield was strong and unscrupulous, and he
might try to gain possession of those papers by force. Sir George
would have hidden himself, but it was too late, and besides it was
broad daylight now.
The first rays of the morning sun shone on the old man as he stood
there huddling those precious papers to his breast. He might have been
some clumsy thief detected in the act. With a sigh of relief he
recognized the figure of Slight coming in his direction. The old
butler only looked a shade less distracted than his master, and his
eyes were drawn and haggard; obviously he had not been to bed.
"What--what are you doing here?" Sir George stammered. "Why are you
spying upon me like this? Why are you down so early?"
Slight made no reply. His gaze was fixed in a dazed kind of way on the
papers which Sir George was still hugging to his breast. There was
something like horror in the old man's eyes. There might have been the
proofs of murder there.
"So you've got them," he said in the voice of one who talks to
himself. "So he has carried out his threat and they have passed into
your possession. Take and burn them, take and pitch them on the fire,
and watch them till the last ash has vanished. You will be a happier
man for it, Sir George, and a great wrong will be averted."
"What does the man mean?" Sir George cried in astonishment. "Slight,
what are you talking about? Say it all over again. If you are mad or
drunk----"
"Not mad," Slight said mournfully. He seemed to have come to his
senses suddenly. He spoke now as one does when acting under a great
restraint. "Not mad, Sir George, and as to the other thing, why. . . .
But the secret is not mine. I promised solemnly not to open my lips. I
have given you the best advice one man can give another, but more I
dare not say. Burn them, burn them, burn them, for the love of
Heaven!"
Slight turned away and seemed to totter down the corridor. The full
light of the strong morning sun was shining through the gold and
crimson glories of the great stained glass window now, the birds were
singing sweetly outside. The park grew fair and green as the dew
rolled back across the fields; the garden blazed in the sunshine. Sir
George saw all this as he looked through his bedroom window. The
fierce joy and pride of undisputed possession were upon him;
everything was safe now.
"Slight is mad," he murmured. "What does that old man know? What can
he know? Let me put these papers away where they will be safe. How
shaky I feel; how my head swims! If I could only get an hour or two of
sleep. . . ."
CHAPTER IX.
THE PARTING GUEST
The big clock on the breakfast-room mantelpiece was chiming the hour
of ten as Sir George came downstairs. He was a little later than
usual, and he apologized to his guest for his want of punctuality with
a courtly air. He was not accustomed to country hours, he said; he
doubted if he ever should be. He made no allusion whatever to his last
night's quarrel, his manner was perfectly natural and easy. If
anything, there was a suggestion of bland patronage in his tone.
Mayfield glanced keenly at his host from time to time. There was
something here that he quite failed to understand. He had expected to
find Sir George apologetic and rather frightened. On the contrary, he
was more like a bishop who entertains a curate than anything else. And
Mayfield could get nothing from Mary, who sat at the head of the
table, cold and stately, yet serenely beautiful, in her white cotton
dress. Mayfield ground his teeth together and swore that Dashwood
should pay for this before long. He held the fortunes of the baronet
in the hollow of his hand; his passion for Mary was the more inflamed
by her icy coldness. It would be good to humble her pride in the dust,
to compel her to come to his feet and do his bidding. All the same,
Mayfield had made up his mind to have an explanation after breakfast.
He smiled and talked, though his anger was hot within him.
"Mr. Mayfield will want a timetable presently, my dear," Sir George
was saying in his most courtly manner. "I am afraid that we have
intruded too long already on his valuable time."
"I have always time to spare for you," Mayfield said with a snarling
smile. "And Miss Mary need not trouble about the timetable. You
forget that I have my car here which will get me to London by mid-day.
Before I go I should like to have a few words with you, Sir George.
You will pardon me for mentioning it, but we left matters in rather an
unsatisfactory condition last night."
The little shaft passed harmlessly over Sir George's head. He smiled
blandly.
"To be sure we did," he said. "You are quite right, we will settle
things up before you go. What do you say to a cigar on the terrace
after breakfast? No, you need not go, Mary. I have a reason for asking
you to listen to our business conversation. We had a quarrel last
night, when I regret to say I lost my temper. For that exhibition of
unseemly and vulgar violence I sincerely beg your pardon, Mayfield. I
apologize all the more humbly because we are not likely to meet very
often in the future. Henceforth our business transactions promise to
be slender, for after this week I am determined that the City shall
not see me again. You will quite see, Mayfield, that in future our
intercourse must cease. It is rather painful to talk to a guest like
this, but you will understand me."
Mayfield's face expressed his astonishment. He wondered if Sir George
had taken leave of his senses, and deluded himself into the belief
that he was the possessor of a vast fortune. And yet the speaker was
absolutely calm and collected. What could possibly have happened since
last night to change him like this?
"Perhaps I am rather dense this morning," Mayfield said slowly, "but I
cannot follow you at all. Yesterday I explained to you the position of
affairs fully. We had been deceived by a trusted servant of mine, and
you were called upon to pay £50,000. Failing this, you would perhaps
have to face a criminal charge. Unfortunately, your hold upon the
estate is so slender that it would not be possible for you to borrow
any large sum of money. Not to speak too plainly, your position was,
and is, a desperate one. Partly because I was in a measure
instrumental in bringing about this lamentable state of affairs, I
offered to advance you the money. In other words, I offered to give
you £50,000. It is true there was a condition, but I merely allude to
that in the presence of Miss Dashwood."
Mary's face flamed. Her heart was heavy within her. So far as she
could see, this was the master of the situation. He held the demons of
Disgrace and Bankruptcy at bay. What was the cherished possession of
Dashwood worth so long as the shadow of dishonour lay across the
threshold? For the sake of the grand old home and the grand old name,
Mary would have to listen to Mayfield's proposal. She glanced from him
to the smiling face of her father, who had risen from the table and
produced his cigar case.
"Quite so," he said genially, "you are perfectly correct. You made
that proposal, and, like a cur, I forgot myself and insulted you. I
went so far as to say that you had planned deliberately to bring this
thing about. It was ruin on the one hand and the sacrifice of my dear
child on the other. Pray take one of my cigars. There are chairs on
the terrace, let us continue our discussion there."
"Why go over the old ground again?" Mayfield asked impatiently. He
flung himself into one of the big basket chairs on the terrace. "Has
there been any material change in the position since last night? Not a
bit of it. If you could find this money----"
"There is no if about it, my good Mayfield," Sir George replied. "I
can find the money. It will be paid over to my creditors by the end of
the week, and I will take care to let the world know what a victim I
have been. The money will be paid."
A quick angry cry came from Mayfield's lips. The mask had fallen from
his face for the moment. His disappointment was clear and hideous.
"What?" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Do you mean to say that you have found
the wi----"
He paused and shut his lips together with a vicious click. He was
going to say too much. He glanced at Sir George to see if the
imprudent words had had any effect on him, but the head of the
Dashwoods seemed to be immersed in his own pleasant thoughts. Only
Mary noticed, but it was not till many days afterwards that she was to
attach any significance to the speech.
"The money is going to be paid," Sir George went on. "By the end of
the week I shall have finished with the City forever. I am not going
to make any accusation, but in the clearing of my own name I shall not
give any heed to others. Amongst the 'others' I need not say I am
alluding to you."
"And there I am kicked downstairs," Mayfield said bitterly.
"If you like to put it so. I could speak a little more freely if you
were not my guest at the present moment. But you quite understand me."
"Your patience will not be unduly taxed," Mayfield said grimly. "If I
am not mistaken there is my car under the portico at this moment. But,
before I go, I have something to say. You will not forget your
personal obligation to me."
"A matter of £5,000. I assure you it had not escaped my memory. By the
end of the week----"
"Quite so. By the end of the week. You wanted that money badly at the
time. I lent it you on the condition that you allowed me to take a
judgment for the debt. I brought a friendly action against you to
recover the money, and you allowed judgment to go by default. It is a
little formula that is sometimes gone through in the City, Miss Mary,
to enable one or more fortunate creditors to have the preference over
the rest. When I signed judgment I was in a position to levy execution
as it is called. That is another technical expression that means that
I am in a position now to place men in possession here and to hold
everything till the debt and costs are paid in full. In vulgar circles
this is called 'having the bailiffs in.' It happens with such people
as struggling tradesmen and the like who cannot pay their rent. It is
held to be a terrible disgrace amongst the poor. Common men come in
and take possession of the drawing-room, where they smoke clay pipes
and drink beer. Try to imagine a dirty creature of this kind with his
feet on your Louis Quinze furniture, Miss Mary. The very idea causes
you to look pale and ghastly. And yet such things have happened, and
history is always repeating itself."
The speaker paused and smiled, his words were horribly slow and
grating. Mary laid her hand on her heart as if some sharp fear
thrilled her.
"Is--is it possible for you to do this thing?" she asked.
"Indeed it is," said Mayfield with the same hard smile. "I could do it
today--as soon as I reach town, in fact. Quite like a scene from a
modern melodrama, is it not? Well, goodbye, Sir George; goodbye, Miss
Mary. I see my luggage is on the car and my chauffeur is waiting. I
will not intrude myself on you any longer. When my slaves of the law,
with their clay pipes and dirty boots arrive, there will be no
necessity to ask them to have dinner at the same table as yourself.
Goodbye."
With a sign of his hand, Mayfield motioned to his chauffeur. The great
car came along with a fuss and a clatter, and Mayfield sprang to the
side of the driver. He pulled off his hat with a gesture of mocking
humility and the car dashed away. Sir George sprang up, but too late.
The car was disappearing now in a cloud of dust down the drive. With a
face white as death Mary turned to her father.
"Is this thing true?" she asked hoarsely. "Are you still in that man's
power? Is it quite impossible for you to get the money today?"
"Quite," Sir George groaned. "I--I had forgotten that judgment. I
should have waited; I should not have shown my hand so soon. But he
will never do it; he was dismayed to find my position so strong; he
merely meant to frighten me."
"He _will_ do it," Mary cried. "I saw it in his face, in his wicked
eyes. A disgrace like that would break my heart, father. What is to be
done to avert this awful calamity? No sacrifice could be too great.
And I can think of absolutely nothing!"
CHAPTER X.
SKIN DEEP
Mary spoke as one who is moved to the very core of her being. It was
not merely a painful and unpleasant incident that faced her, but
something in the nature of a great and overwhelming tragedy. The
girl's pride was part of her being. She accepted it naturally, as in
the order of establishing things. Usually she was brave enough. She
would have encountered any physical danger with coolness and courage,
but the mere suggestion of this outrage frightened her.
Well, she could look to her father for assistance. He had behaved with
great fortitude during the recent interview with Mayfield; indeed, it
might be said that he emerged from the combat victoriously. Doubtless,
he could find some way out. The old blood had asserted itself before,
and it could do it again.
"Why are you so silent?" Mary asked. "Tell me what is to be done. A
disgrace like that would be horrible--after such contamination,
Dashwood would never be the same to me again. Father, you have found a
way?"
But Sir George made no reply. The bland and easy dignity had vanished,
the suave smile with which he had greeted Mayfield was not to be seen.
He had suddenly become a poor feeble wreck of a man again, and he
burst into senile tears. They were real tears, for Mary could see them
trickling down his face. She trembled with an alarm and anger that she
had never felt before.
For tears formed no part of her woman's armour; she left them to
children and the fretful mothers of the poor. In all the traditions of
the house, there was no mention of tears. Both men and women had met
their misfortunes with hard faces and dry eyes. It had been left to
Mary to be ashamed of a male Dashwood. Perhaps there was something in
the bitter scorn of her face that caused Sir George furtively to
remove the tell-tale drops.
"I'm not myself," he whined. "I have had a deal of trouble and
Mayfield is a great scoundrel. I had to have that money hurriedly--a
disastrous speculation. If I had not been high up in the service of my
country, it would not have mattered so much. But my creditors were
pressing, and Mayfield offered to help me. Of course, he wanted what
he called security. It seemed so natural when he explained to me. And
all the time he wanted to get me into his power."
"Oh, why go over the same ground again?" Mary cried. "Something must
be done without delay. Those horrible men must not come here."
"Perhaps it was only a threat on Mayfield's part," Sir George said
feebly.
"It was nothing of the kind and you know it, father. There was deadly
malice in every word that he uttered. And before then you had got the
better of him. You acted like a true Dashwood--I was proud of you. And
now you sit there, and, oh, I cannot bring myself to say the hateful
word. Why did you behave so nobly a little while ago, and so cowardly
now? You seemed to have found a way out."
"I had," Sir George whispered. "Last night you left me in the depths
of despair. I could not sleep, I could think of nothing but what you
told me about Ralph Darnley. I wondered if perhaps he was secretly my
enemy. Then it occurred to me that he was looking for some papers in
that old chest. I could not rest till I was satisfied; I also searched
the old chest. And what did I find? I found the late Sir Ralph
Dashwood's will and I found his unhappy son's deed cutting off the
entail. If no son of the second Ralph turns up within the next six
months, everything is mine. You can understand how the full force of
that discovery overwhelmed me. Here was a way out of all my
difficulties. That is why I was in a position to face Mayfield
fearlessly this morning. Within a week at the outside I could raise
the money to be clear of him. I had quite forgotten the smaller item.
I should have remembered it, I ought to have been smooth and smiling
before Mayfield's face until I was ready to be clear of him for ever.
And now he can strike me a deadly blow before I am ready to meet it.
Of course the inconvenience----"
"Inconvenience! Can you speak of so disgraceful a thing by such a
name? Dearly as I love the old house, I would rather see it and all
its treasures burnt to the ground. I could put the match to it
myself."
Mary's voice rang out with passionate anger. Her blue eyes blazed.
There was no trace of exaggeration in what she said, she would have
been ready to carry out her threat.
"It won't last long," Sir George muttered. "I'll go to London tomorrow
and take those papers with me. As soon as they have been verified, the
bank will advance me all I need. But business of this sort takes time.
People are very chary of parting with their money unless it is well
secured. Probably by the end of the week----"
"The end of the week! And the blow may fall tonight! We must have that
money now."
"Impossible, my dear child. I'm afraid you do not appreciate the
situation. When I came into the property I was heavily in debt. I had
to pay off those debts; also I had to keep up the house in a way that
befitted the traditions of the family. The consequence is that I am
constantly overdrawn at my bank as far as the people there allow it.
They don't like it, because they feel that if anything happened to me,
or some son of young Ralph Dashwood came along, I should find myself
not in--er--a position to meet all my liabilities. Therefore, to go to
them to raise this money would be worse than useless. I am afraid that
we shall have to put up with the inconvenience till the end of the
week, when those papers I found will have been properly verified."
Mary restrained the passionate anger that flamed within her. It was a
cruel blow to find her father so wanting in courage when the critical
moment came. He was prepared to sit down and weep, when hourly the
danger was drawing nearer. Instinctively Mary's thoughts went out to
Ralph Darnley. He would not have taken the blow like this, though he
had not the good fortune to call himself a Dashwood. He would be up
and doing. Perhaps it would be as well to consult him and ask his
advice. She felt ashamed of herself as the thought occurred to her.
And yet she had no other friend in the world. Despite her exalted
position, Mary was a very lonely girl.
What was the use of all her pride? This splendid isolation faded to
ashes now that she was face to face with the task before her.
Evidently her father meant to do nothing, he would submit tamely to
the degradation and wait for it to pass.
There were dead and gone Dashwoods smiling, or simpering, or frowning
from the walls--soldiers and statesmen, scholars, famous beauties, and
not one of them had ever seen the tainting of the family name. It was
left to Sir George to submit tamely to that. Mary could see that his
eyes were still wet.
"Something must be done," she said. "Are there no jewels that one
could turn into cash? Strange that I have never given a thought before
to the family jewels! But surely in a family like ours there must be
historic diamonds and the like. Did I not hear once from somebody that
the Dashwood emeralds are unique? I am told that it is no uncommon
thing for great ladies to take these jewels to men in London who
advance money on them. I have listened to such stories with
incredulity--I begin to see now why things like this have to be done.
Let me have them and I will go to London this afternoon. My cheeks
flame with shame when I think of it; but I suppose there are harder
tests of one's endurance. Where are they, father?"
"They are not here," he said. "I believe there are some magnificent
heirlooms in the way of family gems, but they are not in my
possession. You see we are merely a collateral branch of the old tree,
so we have nothing to do with the jewels. At present I understand they
are in the possession of the dowager Lady Dashwood. They came to her
as a matter of right on her marriage, and I am told that she has
retained them ever since. If her son had lived and come to the title
and married, then his wife would have taken the stones as a matter of
right, being the wife of the reigning head of the family. Whether or
not they would come to you on your marriage is another question.
Anyway, you would have the right of wearing them after the dowager
dies. But this is a matter about which I know really nothing. As you
are aware, my dear, Lady Dashwood does not like me. For some reason or
another she has a violent prejudice against me, and she never asks me
to the dower house if she can help it. Of course with you the thing is
different--she brought you up and regards you more or less as her own
child. It is just possible that she may tide us over the difficulty."
"Which means that you will go and ask her," Mary said eagerly.
"By no means, my dear," Sir George responded. "I could not stoop to
ask a favour of that kind from any woman, however pressing the
necessity. It seems to me to be more a question between one woman and
another. Now from you, the request would seem quite natural. If you
care to undertake it----"
But Mary heard no more. She could not trust herself to reply. Slowly
and coldly she walked from the room, her hands locked convulsively
together. Truly the family pride was a shattered reed to lean on, a
skin deep thing after all. And the strong capable face of Ralph
Darnley rose like a warm vision before her.
CHAPTER XI.
THE DOWAGER LADY DASHWOOD
The silent moody dinner was over at length; Slight was placing the
dessert on the shining mahogany. Mary rose presently and walked over
to the open window. Over the park the moon was gleaming like a silver
shield against the pallid sky; the deer moved like ghosts in the
pearly dew. It was more sweet and peaceful than ever, and yet Mary
dwelt bitterly on the mockery of it all. What an enviable mortal she
appeared to be, and yet how little did she deserve that envy. The
hours had crept on and the thunderbolt had not yet fallen. Perhaps the
blow would be delayed till tomorrow, which was a soothing reflection,
for nothing had as yet been done, though Mary had made up her mind to
invoke the aid of Lady Dashwood. She had not been across to the dower
house yet, for Lady Dashwood had gone out on one of her rare visits to
a neighbour, and at seven o'clock had not returned. There would be
plenty of time afterwards, and Mary stood by the window, drinking in
the full beauty of the night. She had made up her mind to tell Lady
Dashwood everything and throw herself upon the elder woman's mercy.
She turned to her father, who was gently complaining to Slight of the
quality of the claret he was pouring out.
"I am going to the dower house now," the girl said coldly. How could a
man be so trivial at such a moment, she wondered. "I may be late,
father."
Sir George murmured something in reply. He was still absorbed in the
contemplation of his glass. He had evidently forgotten the importance
of Mary's errand. The girl was very chill and her heart very cold and
empty and lonely as she passed down the old elm avenue and through a
path leading by a great belt of evergreens to the grounds of the dower
house beyond. It was a Tudor mansion a little older than the Hall
itself, and it boasted some wonderful gates and a rose garden famous
throughout the county. The whole façade of the house was covered with
roses, too, and the night air was heavy with their fragrance. The back
of the house looked on a green forecourt, and a long conservatory led
to a set of cloisters, which made a deliciously cool spot in the hot
weather. There Mary usually found her aged relative, but she was in
the drawing-room tonight. She rose as the girl entered, a tall figure
with a mass of white hair done up in some old fashion that was not
without its charm. Lady Dashwood's face was white as her hair, and it
bore the impress of some great and lasting trouble that never would
fade away on this side of the grave. Her eyes had the same haunting
care in them, the same suggestion of remorse. A keen observer might
have been justified in regarding Lady Dashwood as a woman who was
being weighed down with the burden of a terrible secret.
But her smile was sincere enough as Mary came forward; her slim hands
shook as she laid them on the girl's shoulders and kissed her. Then
she seemed to discern that something was wrong, for she sighed as she
looked into Mary's face.
"Sit down, dearest," she said tenderly. "It is very good of you to
come and see me so late. But there is something the matter, Mary. I
have not known and loved you all these years without being able to
read that transparent mind of yours. What is it dear? You know that I
will do anything in the wide world to save you from unhappiness."
"Dearest of foster mothers, I know it," Mary whispered. She blinked
away the rare tears that would rise to her eyes. "It is selfish of me
to come and worry you at this time of night, but there is no help for
it. We are in great distress."
"Does that mean your father as well as yourself, or rather that you
are worrying about him? What has he been doing now to cause you all
this anxiety? Something to do with those speculations over which I
have helped him more than once in the past."
"Have you?" Mary asked with a startled blush. "He never told me. He
wrote to you----"
"More than once, my dear. As heir presumptive to the estate, I suppose
he thought he had a right to do so. But I am afraid that I can't help
him again--at least, not just at present. But then I don't suppose it
is so very serious."
"It is disgrace," Mary said in a low voice. "It means the intrusion of
strangers, men sent down to take what is called possession till the
debt is paid. It is a matter of £5,000, and it must be obtained at
once--before mid-day tomorrow. Perhaps I had better tell you all about
it, but it would break my heart to see this disgrace fall on Dashwood.
Dearest, tell me that you will find me the money or the means to get
it!"
Lady Dashwood made no reply for a moment. A still more ashen pallor
crept over her white face. She placed her hand to her heart as if to
still some poignant pain there, her rings shimmered and trembled in
the lamplight.
"Tell me everything," she said huskily. "My punishment is coming, my
sin is finding me out at last."
"Your sin?" Mary cried. "If ever there was a good woman in the world,
you are one. I hate to hear you speak like that, my more than mother.
Surely you must know how good and pure your life has always been. And
you talk like this! If there is any mystery here, any secret that lies
like a shadow over our house----"
"Was ever a great family without its trouble?" Lady Dashwood asked.
"You must not take my foolish words quite so seriously, child. Perhaps
by brooding over them, one is apt to magnify troubles. So your father
has discovered this will and the deed by which my unhappy boy cut
himself off from his inheritance. Strange that the papers should be
found just now."
"Why?" Mary asked. "Why just now? Did you know of their existence?"
But Lady Dashwood made no reply. She seemed to be lost in a sea of
troubled thoughts. Mary did not repeat the question. After all, it
mattered very little either way. Lady Dashwood came to herself with a
start.
"But we have the present to think of," she said. "Your father will be
able to do as he likes now, therefore the trouble caused by this
hostile creditor is all the more to be deplored. He is some business
man, I presume?"
"Yes," Mary explained. "By birth a gentleman. His name is Horace
Mayfield."
A startled cry came from Lady Dashwood's lips, the grey pallor was on
her face again.
"Do you happen to know the man?" Mary asked.
"Oh, yes; I know him and his family. A bad man, a hateful man. Never
mention his name to me again. Mary, he must be got rid of at all
costs. I have no great head for these things, but I see the necessity
of getting out of the hands of Horace Mayfield. As you say, in a
week's time it would not matter. As it is the thing is urgent. Is it
so utterly impossible to find this money?"
"It is out of the question for us," Mary said haltingly. Her face was
burning now that she was coming to the pith of her errand. "My father
could not place his hand on a fifth part of the sum. I racked my
brains to find the way out. Then it occurred to me that there were
certain people who lent money on the security of jewels and valuable
plate, and things like that. I had never heard our family jewels
mentioned, but I felt quite sure that they existed. My father told me
that they were in your possession, that they belong to you so long as
I remain single. Dear mother, do you see what I mean? Do not put me to
the pain of having to speak more plainly. And it is only for so short
a time! By the end of the week the stones will be in your hands again.
I could go up to London in the morning and take the jewels to one of
the big dealers who do business of this kind. . . . The disgrace would
be averted. I hate to come here with a proposal like this, but I can
think of no other way. You are not going to refuse me this great
favour?"
"You want me . . . to lend you . . . my jewels?" Lady Dashwood gasped.
There was no trace of anger or displeasure in her voice. She looked
strangely white and drawn, as if suddenly, years had been added to her
life. "How do you know I have any?"
"I asked my father. No, he did not suggest it. He told me that our
family collection of stones was a famous one; he said that everything
was in your possession. Then in shame and agony of spirit I dragged
myself here to ask you to do this thing. My own proper pride held me
back, my family pride urged me on."
"The curse of the race," Lady Dashwood cried. "The besetting sin of
the family will ruin us all yet. Heavens! the mischief that it has
brought about already. It made my wedded life a long intolerable
bondage, rendering me old before my time. It was responsible for the
great sin which caused my son to leave home for ever. And yet I fed
you on the family pride, I held it before you day by day until you
have grown so cold and hard that I alone know of the kind and generous
heart that beats within you. . . . But enough of this. You want me to
lend you some of my jewels. If I tell you I have none, what then?"
"My father told me that they were in your possession, Lady Dashwood."
"My child, you must not speak to me in that tone. It hurts me
dreadfully. Suppose the stones are gone, suppose that I have parted
with them one by one to preserve a fearful family secret! Suppose that
I parted with the last diamond yesterday! What would you say if I told
you that?"
Lady Dashwood had suddenly lost her reason. Mary could see no other
explanation for this extraordinary speech. And yet the speaker looked
guilty enough, there was a shamed flush on her withered cheeks. She
rose from her seat and moved to the door.
"Wait a moment," she said. "I may find a way yet. But my sin is going
to find me out and my sacrifice shall be all in vain."
CHAPTER XII.
LADY DASHWOOD SEES A GHOST
With faltering hesitation Lady Dashwood made her way into the dark
hall beyond the drawing-room. She bore little resemblance to the grand
dame that her friends knew. In spite of her silks, her laces and her
flashing rings, she looked like the ordinary woman who is suffering
from the burden of a great affliction. There were tears in her eyes as
she walked along. The house was strangely silent; no servants were to
be seen anywhere as Lady Dashwood reached a door leading to the green
forecourt with the cloisters beyond. She stepped out into the
moonlight slowly, she passed across the garden under the brown stone
archway that led to the cloisters.
There she paused and looked about her furtively. There was nothing to
be seen but the shadows made by the moonlight. Like a thief in the
night Lady Dashwood crept along till she came at length to the end of
the cloisters, where there was a stairway leading to some dilapidated
apartment overhead. Once again there was a pause, and after that the
aged lady began to climb the stairs. At the same time there came the
unmistakable sound of voices overhead.
Lady Dashwood started and almost lost her balance. The sound was so
unexpected, so utterly unlooked for. The voices were quite clear and
distinct, too, on the still air. Lady Dashwood had no desire to play
the eavesdropper, but it was impossible not to hear everything. The
one voice was low and pleasant, and yet clear and commanding.
"I tell you it is impossible," the pleasant voice said. "You must
allow me to conduct this business in my own way. I have already given
you my word that everything will come out right in the long run. There
is still six months of the time to expire, remember, so that you need
do no violence to your conscience."
"Yes, but you have not taken Lady Dashwood into your calculations,
sir," the other voice said.
"Indeed I have, my good fellow. I have forgotten nothing. Everything
has been most carefully mapped out. As Lady Dashwood is more or less
of a recluse, there is nothing to be feared from her. It will be a
very easy matter to keep out of her way."
The listener fell back, clutching at her heart wildly. She was
compelled to lean against the brown walls of the cloisters for
support.
"I am dreaming," she murmured. "I shall awake presently and find
myself in bed. I am getting old and fanciful, and my mind is playing
me strange tricks. The owner of that voice has been dead for many
years; it is a mere chance resemblance. And yet it is as real as if I
had gone back over the wasted years. Is it possible----"
The speaker paused. It seemed to her that the two men overhead were
coming down and she had no mind to be caught listening. She turned
away swiftly, her slim ankle in its satin slipper gave a turn and a
cry of pain escaped her. A moment later and Slight was by her side,
looking at her with mingled sympathy and suspicion.
"Your ladyship has hurt yourself," he said. "Permit me to take you
back to the house. What are you doing here at this time in the
evening?"
There was something almost masterful in the tone of the question. In
spite of the pain that she was suffering, Lady Dashwood turned a cold
displeased eye on the speaker.
"You sometimes forget yourself, Slight," she said. "It is a failing of
old and privileged servants. Your place is over at the Hall. What are
you doing here? You were ever a man to do strange things in a strange
way. Have you some secret here?"
"We have had many secrets together, my lady, and we may take most of
them to the grave with us," said Slight coolly. "I have been too long
a friend of the family to be treated like this. And your ladyship must
just come back to the house at once. You are in pain."
"Pain or not, I am not going back yet, Slight. I came here for
something that I had left in one of the cloister chambers, and I heard
your voice. I should have thought little of that, for you are
permitted to come and go as you like. But you were not alone, you had
a companion with you. And I heard his voice, too, Slight."
The withered old servant looked slightly confused. Then his dry face
grew hard and dogged.
"I am not going to deny it, my lady," he said. "A--friend of mine,
who----"
"Is a gentleman. No mistake about that, Slight, And the voice was so
like that of my poor dead boy that I almost died of the sound of it.
What does it mean, Slight; who are you hiding up there? I am going to
see."
"Indeed, your ladyship is not going to do anything of the kind," said
Slight hastily. "Besides, my friend has gone. There is another way
from the cloister chamber, remember. And your ladyship has just got to
come back to the house."
Lady Dashwood sighed impatiently. Slight had been her own servant for
nearly forty years, and she knew the dogged obstinacy of the man. She
knew his sterling honesty, too, and how faithful he could be to a
trust.
"Very well," she said. "If there is anything to tell me, you will tell
it in your own way. But that voice startled me--it was like a voice
from the grave. It was as if my boy had come back to me once more.
Slight, if you are deceiving me----"
"I'm not deceiving anybody," Slight said in an aggrieved voice. "I
leave that to my betters. If your ladyship will lean on my arm, I will
try to ease your foot as much as possible. The shortest way is to cut
across the grass."
It was rather a slow process, for Lady Dashwood's foot was getting
painful. She came at length to the great stone doorway leading from
the forecourt into the house; she looked back over her shoulder, and
as she did so she grew almost rigid.
"Look!" she whispered. "What did I tell you? Don't you see it,
Slight--the figure standing over there by the laurels in the
moonlight? See, the rays on his face. Don't tell me that my eyes
deceive me, Slight. It is my boy come back again."
Slight muttered something under his breath. In reality he was
objurgating Ralph Darnley for his careless imprudence in standing
there with his face turned to the dower house. Yet the old man's frame
never moved a muscle.
"What does your ladyship mean?" he asked. "I can see nothing."
"That is because you are not looking in the right direction, Slight.
Over there by the laurels. Do you dare to tell me that a man is not
standing there? It is my son Ralph come back from the grave! The fine
figure, the gracious open face, the determined eyes. Has time stood
still with him that he looks so young? And yet it is forty years
since. . . . Ralph, Ralph, it is your mother who calls to you."
The words rang out with startling stillness in the great cloister. The
young man standing there started and turned round. He had been
absolutely lost in a deep study, contemplating the old house. He came
tumbling down to earth again, and became conscious of a white-haired,
richly-dressed old lady who was holding out a pair of arms in his
direction. He could see the pleading, loving look on her face, he
noticed the menace and anger in Slight's eyes. Without further ado
Ralph stepped back into the bushes, his feet making no sound on the
mosy turf. It was like the slow diminishing of a dream.
"He has gone," Lady Dashwood cried. "I have frightened him by my
notice. Did you not see him, Slight? Did you not observe the
extraordinary likeness?"
"I saw nothing but a young man who was trespassing," Slight said
evasively. "Your ladyship is full of fancies tonight. You will laugh
at yourself in the morning."
Once more Lady Dashwood sighed impatiently. She managed to drag
herself back to the drawing-room without the aid of Slight. She
dropped into a chair white and quivering, whilst Mary regarded her
with eyes filled with deep concern.
"Something has happened to you," she said. "What is it? Can I do
anything?"
"Nobody can do anything," Lady Dashwood whispered. "Mary, I have
seen a ghost. I not only saw the ghost, but I heard the vision speak.
And they wanted to persuade me that it was an old woman's foolish
fancy. . . . I meant to have done something for you tonight, but I
forget what it is and where I put it. I can think of nothing but my
ghost. And I want to be alone, my dear, you cannot think how much I
want to be alone! Ring for my maid now and go. Don't think me unkind,
my child. Come back in the morning, and I will try to help you in the
way you need. Kiss me and say goodnight."
Mary bent down obediently and kissed the faded, unsteady lips. Her
errand had been more or less of a failure, but she could not pursue
the subject now. She could only ring the bell and depart as she had
come. To press the matter nearest her heart would have been wanting in
tact and delicacy. Very sorrowfully Mary took her way across the park
in the direction of the Hall. She would come back and see Lady
Dashwood after breakfast, and then if she could get what she required,
she would go to London at once and get matters settled by the family
solicitor. She might be an hour or two too late, but she had to risk
that.
The drawing-room windows were open; on the terrace in front Sir George
was passing up and down with a distracted air. Mary could see that his
tie was ruffled and that his hair had been stirred as if by a high
wind. He paused as the girl spoke to him.
"What is wrong?" she asked. "Has anything happened?"
"The very worst," Sir George groaned. "They came soon after you had
gone . . . three of them. One in the servants' hall, one upstairs, and
one in there, the drawing-room. A foul man with a foul pipe. Look and
see the creature for yourself!"
CHAPTER XIII.
DESECRATION
A feeling of almost physical sickness held Mary for the moment. She
had dreaded this thing, and at the same time she had hoped against
it--it had seemed almost impossible that such a calamity could happen
to Dashwood Hall. Mary would have scoffed the idea that she regarded
ordinary humanity as different clay to herself, but it was so all the
same. It did not seem right that one in her station of life should be
called upon to suffer an indignity like this.
And yet here it was, blatant and hideous, and so transparently vulgar!
Mary knew the full significance of the disaster; she had seen
something of it, two years before, in the house of one of the estate
farmers who had fallen into the hands of a money-lender. She had seen
the mother of the family bowed and distracted, whilst a gin-soddened
wretch sat in a priceless oak chair and puffed some dreadful tobacco.
And the man had been quite insolent when Mary had spoken to him.
That was bad enough, but to have the same thing at Dashwood was a
thousand times worse. It seemed to Mary that she could catch the reek
of that vile tobacco now. But something had to be done; it was useless
to stand there idle.
"Have you spoken to the people?" Mary asked. "The servants----"
"Are all in bed except old Slight," Sir George whined. "Slight managed
that. The other servants don't know anything for the present."
"Well, that is something gained. I have been to see Lady Dashwood. It
was the most shameful moment of my life, but I managed to ask for the
jewels. No, I did not get them--I don't believe that Lady Dashwood has
them. I believe that she has some secret trouble of her own; I begin
to believe that there is something terribly wrong with our family.
There is no hope from Lady Dashwood."
Sir George whined in a feeble kind of way. Mary's heart overflowed
with bitter contempt. This was the head of the family, the man to be
relied upon to uphold the traditions of a long line of glorious
ancestors! The girl steeled herself to face the inevitable; she knew
now that she would have to rely solely on her own exertions. She
passed through the open window into the drawing-room, which would
never be quite the same to her again. Nothing appeared to be altered;
the soft shaded lamps were here, the mellow subdued light playing on
old furniture and pictures, and the flowers artistically arranged in
their priceless vases. Surely sorrow and shame and humiliation would
not touch the picture with chill fingers!
There he was, lounging back on a Chippendale couch, with his muddy
boots on a hassock of Gobelin tapestry, his sullen face half-ashamed
and half-defiant. His profession would have been apparent to anyone
who had ever met one of the tribe before. Those men were of a race
apart, idlers and loafers, who can face sorrow and suffering and the
breaking up of homes without a spark of human feeling. The man looked
up at Mary's pale haughty face, with a certain dumb admiration in his
bleared eye.
"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" Mary demanded. "Tell me
that."
"It's all right," the object said, without removing his pipe. "There's
the docyment on that little marble table. Suit of Mayfield and Co.,
£5,193 17_s_. 4_d_., debt and costs. If you pay within seven days, all
right; if you don't then the auctioneer comes in. No use making a fuss
about it. Pay us and we go, don't pay us and we stay. Treat us well,
and we'll treat you well. It isn't the first time I've been in swell
houses like this."
The man was so coolly, unconsciously insolent that Mary could make no
reply for a moment. It seemed incredible that she, who had always had
the reverence of every man and boy in the village, could be treated
like this. Nothing seemed to pierce the creature's dull hide.
"But you can't stay here," she said. "That is impossible. I suppose
the idea is to see that nothing is taken away. Nearly all the
furniture belongs to the family; most of the things are what are
called heirlooms. We could not dispose of them if we wanted to. We
could make you all comfortable in one of the empty lodges."
"Won't do," the man on the sofa said huskily. "Had that game tried on
me lots of times. I sit up here all night, whilst my mates get a rest.
We take it turn and turn about. Better keep your breath to cool your
porridge. You can go to bed now without any fear of burglars. I'll see
that nothing goes away from here."
Mary turned away, sore and helpless and sick at heart. She, who
despised tears so heartily in others, felt like bursting into
hysterical weeping now. The humiliation was almost more than she could
bear. She would have welcomed any calamity that was likely to
overwhelm the old house and lay it in grey ashes at her feet.
Fiercely, angrily, she grasped her father by the arm and led him from
the room. Sir George trotted along feebly, muttering in a small voice.
He was as useless as a woman in a storm at sea. He sat down in the
library with his hands folded in his lap, and looked anxiously for any
suggestion from Mary.
"Is there nothing you can do?" she demanded impatiently. Could this
feeble, white-faced creature be the same jaunty, debonnaire figure
that had been so popular in the Paris salons? Mary asked herself. "Is
there no way out of the difficulty?"
"I--I am afraid not," Sir George stammered. "I am so dazed and
confused that I can think of nothing. Most unfortunate that business
about Lady Dashwood and the diamonds. Wonder what she has done with
them. Very selfish of her."
Mary suppressed a desire to scream. Ralph Darnley flashed into her
mind suddenly, and she wondered why. Anyway she could not ask him to
help her, even if he had the means to do so. She had repelled his
advances more or less scornfully, and one does not borrow money from a
man in conditions like that.
"Lady Dashwood is powerless to help us," she said with an effort.
"Unless I am greatly mistaken, she has a sorrow far deeper than
ours----"
"Impossible," Sir George said testily. "You are talking nonsense, my
dear. What blow could be heavier or harder to bear than ours? But I
trust that we shall meet it with proper dignity. Nothing can deprive
us of our dignity."
Mary laughed aloud. The echo of her mirth came back mockingly in the
silence and almost frightened her. Heavens! was it possible that Sir
George had no idea of the pitiable figure he presented at that moment?
He went on to suggest fortitude and calmness. He had heard of the same
thing happening in the castle of a duke. Worse things had taken place
in the chateaux of the aristocracy in the French Revolution.
"Ay, but they knew how to live and die like gentlefolk," Mary said
bitterly. "I understand that you are going to sit down and tamely
submit to this thing?"
"My dearest child, how impetuous you are! There is nothing else to do.
By the end of the week I shall have more than enough for all my needs.
Still I think, I think that there is a way to get out of the
difficulty, without anybody being any the wiser. The remedy, however,
lies in your hands. Of course, it requires a certain amount of
self-sacrifice on your part. I am bound to confess that I could desire
other channels for the amelioration of the situation. Still, as I said
before----"
The voice was cringing and fawning; there was something mean and
furtive on Sir George's face as he spoke his polished periods. A
certain sickness of heart gripped Mary; she was conscious of a
sensation of absolute fear.
"Pray do not be diplomatic with me," she said. "I have seen so much of
that kind of thing in Paris. What are you concealing from me?"
"Your tone is not filial," Sir George complained. "I did not mean to
tell you; I was going to spare you the pain. I thought perhaps you
would agree with me that patience was the best line to take. But I see
that you desire to strike a decisive blow; at any cost you long to get
those impossible creatures out of the house. Our boats are not
entirely burnt as you seem to imagine--one slender plank of safety
remains. Not to elaborate the thing too much, I may say I have had a
note from Mayfield. I should like you to read that note and consider
its inner meaning carefully. Mayfield has come down from London in his
car tonight, and is staying at his old fishing quarters at Swainson's
farm. He more or less apologizes for the course that he has taken, and
reminds me that friendship must not be mixed up with business. He does
not allude to the way in which I so flagrantly assaulted him, which
strikes me as being generous on his part----"
"But he has come here to gloat over our misfortune," Mary cried. "I
see that my instinct did not play me false when I estimated the man."
"There you go, there you go," Sir George said testily. "I gather from
the letter that Mayfield regrets his precipitate action. But, on the
other hand, he fears to lose his money. He wants a substantial
security for it. He says in his letter, which is an exceedingly
gentlemanly one, that an amicable understanding is quite easy. He
suggests that if you like to send for him and discuss the matter, he
has no doubt that affairs may be arranged."
Mary started forward and laid a hand upon her heart. She was conscious
of a fierce pain there, as if the organ of her being had suddenly
stopped its beating. So this was the way out! She had only to smile,
to raise one pink finger, and the horrid miasma in the drawing-room
would fade like some unspeakable nightmare. Mary dropped into a chair
shaking in every limb.
CHAPTER XVI.
A FIERCE TEMPTATION
"And so that is what you mean!" Mary said slowly when at length she
had found sufficient breath to speak. "Stripped of empty phrases and
diplomatic trappings, I am to make a bargain with Horace Mayfield to
save the honour and reputation of our house."
"Let me point out to you that the thing can be done tonight," Sir
George whispered.
"Oh, I know that. That is why Horace Mayfield is here. He has returned
on purpose. He has carefully calculated the place where the wound is
likely to hurt most. He knows the full extent of my pride, my idolatry
for the old house and the old name. And I am to make a bargain with
him. I am to exchange myself for freedom from the disgrace and
humiliation. And that is a course that you seriously suggest."
"I have not said so," Sir George muttered. He held his head down. He
could not meet the flashing blue scorn in his child's eyes. "These
things happen every day. Look at Lady Cynthia Greig. She married
Newman the financier, who started life goodness knows where. And she
was supposed to be the proudest girl in London."
"Oh, I know. There was some whisper of a terrible family scandal
involving a deal of money. And the last time I saw Cynthia, she looked
like a beautiful white statue. There was a fierce, hard gladness in
her voice when she told me that she was dying of consumption. Yet, so
far as I know, Mr. Newman is an honest man."
"Does not the same remark apply to Horace Mayfield?"
"Certainly not. I judge him from your own lips. You declared that he
had robbed you of a large sum of money, that he had deliberately
worked it so that it appeared as if he had been defrauded by a
dishonest servant. And all this to get me in his power. And you did
not reply to that letter of Mr. Mayfield's with the scorn that it
deserved; you waited to hear what I had to say about it."
Sir George protested mildly that he could do nothing else. But Mary
was not listening. She glanced at the familiar objects about her; she
passed over to the window and pulled up the blind. The moon was
shining peacefully upon the rose garden and tinting with silver glory
the old gates beyond, as it had done many times the last two hundred
years. It all looked so sweet and graceful, so refined and restful. No
shadow of disgrace had ever rested on the house before, no slander had
ever made a target of the house of Dashwood. And now the tongues of
the whole county would be wagging. The price to pay was a terrible
one, but Mary did not hesitate. It never occurred to her that she was
deliberately estranging the very pride that she hugged so closely to
her heart, that trouble and misfortune could be borne with dignity and
fortitude, that the gossip of the idle mattered nothing. She reached
out a hand to her father, and he understood. He took a note from his
pocket and passed it over to the girl. It was only a few lines that
Mayfield had written, but there was no mistaking their meaning. Mary
felt that the words had been written for her alone; very clearly the
issue had been thrown into her hands. She crossed over to a table and
began to write. She was burning and trembling from head to foot;
therefore she was surprised to see that her handwriting had never been
bolder and firmer. Without heading or ending of any kind she wrote
this message to Mayfield:--
"It is getting late now, but it is not too late to talk business to a
business man. I am sending you this at once, so that you may get it a
little after eleven. If you will be so good as to come over tonight we
may settle matters at once."
She read the letter aloud and folded it calmly. Sir George nodded a
sort of shamefaced approval. Under his brows he had been watching Mary
with the keenest anxiety all the time. He knew that the girl's
scruples were justified; that he ought to have torn up Mayfield's
letter and treat it with the contemptuous silence that it deserved.
But he merely smiled and nodded his head.
"I have done it," Mary said. "God knows the price that I am likely to
pay for my sacrifice, if the sacrifice is worthy of the occasion.
Where is Slight?"
Slight replied to the bell in person. His small red face had an angry
flush; his grey hair stood up all over his head like a clothes brush.
"Take this over to Swainson's farm," Mary said, "and wait for an
answer. The letter is for Mr. Mayfield, as you will see, Slight."
The old butler drew back a few paces. He regarded the letter as if it
had been something noisome to sting him; his face grew obstinate and
dark and almost murderous. Slight was a fanatic in his way, as Mary
had noticed many times.
"Beg pardon, miss," he said doggedly, "but I respectfully decline to
do anything of the sort."
It was no time to argue with the old servant. And Slight was something
more than an ordinary butler; he was a friend of the family. Despite
his blunt refusal, his manner was as respectful as the most exacting
could have wished. Then he seemed to forget everything; his passion
broke out and burst all bonds.
"I've been here for more than forty years," he said. "I was bred and
born on the estate, and on the property I hope to die. I know the
Dashwoods better than they know themselves. It's all pride, pride, and
nothing else matters. And it's part of your pride, Miss Mary, to make
terms with Mayfield, who is one of the greatest rascals that ever drew
breath. You may be surprised to hear me say this, but it's true. That
man has brought all this about. He's done it for his own ends. He's
waiting for you to own that he is master of the situation, and he
dictates his terms. And that he shall some day come here and lord it
over us is one of them. And it's your pride in the old house that is
going to play into his hands. Don't you do it, Miss Mary, don't you
let that scoundrel come here. If it happens----"
"Silence," Mary cried. "Slight, you are forgetting yourself."
"Maybe," Slight responded; "but I'm not forgetting you. And I won't
take that letter; not if I lost my place for it. Besides, I've got
something else to do. I've got to save you from yourself if possible."
Slight turned quickly and left the room. With an exclamation of
annoyance, Sir George crossed the lawn in the direction of the
stables, with a view of calling upon one of the helpers there. By the
time he had succeeded, Mary was ready with her letter. She looked very
white and stern and proud as she stood there in the moonlight. The
fading light fell upon her neck and shoulders and turned them to
ivory. A fitting mistress for that grand old house, truly! She was
like one of Tennyson's cold and immaculate heroines, she had a sort of
fierce satisfaction in the knowledge that she came without a pang to
the altar of the family sacrifice. She was quite blind to her own
insensate folly; she would have been astonished to know that she was
doing a wrong thing.
"Please take this note to Swainson's Farm for me, Walters," she said
in her sweetest manner. "It has been forgotten, and I am exceedingly
sorry to give you all this trouble. There is no occasion for you to
wait for an answer."
Walters stammered something to the effect that it was a pleasure, and
went his way. In the distance, old Slight was stumping off across the
park with evident determination. A shade of annoyance crossed Sir
George's face.
"We must get rid of that fellow," he said. "Really, the insolence of
these family retainers is past all bearing. You will see to this
tomorrow, Mary!"
Mary made no reply. She was not in the least angry with old Slight.
She understood the old man's feelings exactly; she knew his love and
affection for her. Sir George's vapid attempts at conversation almost
drove her mad. She wanted to be alone to think. She passed into the
drawing-room, muttering that she had forgotten something. The lamps
were still burning, the great bronze clock chimed the hour of twelve.
The dreadful object on the satin couch had fallen asleep; his shock
head was thrown back, and from his lips came a long and regular snore.
A poisonous scent of foul tobacco filled the air. Surely no sacrifice
would be too great to get rid of this, Mary told herself. Mayfield
would come along presently like some malignant fairy; he would wave
his wand, and this terrible invasion would disappear as if it had
never been at all.
But Mayfield would demand his price. Of that Mary had no doubt. For a
long time now the girl had known that he cared for her. He had made no
effort to disguise his feelings from the time that they had met in
Paris two years ago, when Mary was paying one of her visits to her
father in the French capital. And Mayfield was of the class of men who
always get their own way. Sooner or later Mary would be absolute
mistress of Dashwood Hall, and it was no mean thing for a man to have
the chance of sharing such a home with his wife.
But the cost of it all; the sacrifice entailed! From the bottom of her
heart Mary loathed and despised the man who was plotting to make her
his wife. She knew him to be an utterly unscrupulous rascal, a fitting
instrument to sway the dishonour of the Dashwoods. A few days more of
this unspeakable degradation and Mayfield would be powerless. It was
only a matter of making the neighbours talk, of tittle-tattle at tea
tables. And in a few days it would all be forgotten. Other people had
gone through the same humiliation and had come out of it as if nothing
had happened, but they were not Dashwoods. . . . A long snore came
from the figure on the couch, and the man stirred uneasily.
CHAPTER XV.
NOT QUITE TOO LATE
Mary seemed to flame from head to foot. The momentary hesitation
passed. No, it was quite impossible to support this kind of thing for
the best part of a week; the thought of slanderous, wagging tongues
was unendurable. At any cost these creatures must be removed; even the
servants must know nothing. So far as Slight was concerned, he was
absolutely to be trusted. Mary's mind was made up for good and all.
Time was passing more quickly than she knew. As she stood there the
clock chimed the half-hour after midnight. A few minutes later and
Mary heard her father calling her. She understood him to say that
Mayfield had arrived.
"Let him come here," the girl said independently. "I am quite ready."
Sir George shuffled off again in the direction of the library, where
Mayfield stood on the mat before the fireplace smoking a cigarette.
There was not the slightest suggestion of triumph about him, his
face was calm and set. He looked like some under-secretary who is
about to read statistics to a House of bored listeners. He had left
his eye-glass behind him, so that the cynical expression was absent.
"She's in the drawing-room," Sir George said. His manner was almost
cringing. "She--she prefers to discuss the matter with you alone.
Perhaps she thinks that you are more likely to listen to her than to
me--Mayfield."
"She's right there," Mayfield said almost brutally. "It is a matter
between ourselves. Sorry to put you to all this inconvenience,
Dashwood, but there was no other way of teaching the lesson. But you
need not worry, half an hour will see the whole matter settled, and
even your servants will not be any the wiser. I arranged the thing so
that you should have the maximum of experience at the minimum of
inconvenience."
Sir George muttered something to the effect that his companion was
very thoughtful. There was not an atom of fight left in him, and he
took no heed of anything but his own personal comfort. The sooner
Mayfield and Mary came to an understanding and those cattle were
cleared out of the house, the better. After that Sir George could go
to bed.
Without undue haste or eagerness, Mayfield passed into the
drawing-room. There was just a sardonic touch in his smile as he
noticed the snoring hog on the yellow satin lounge. He quite
understood why a sight like that could touch Mary's pride to the
quick. Strange what queer pawns in the game of life a clever man had
to use at times! Mary was standing in the window-frame looking out
into the night. Everything seemed so still and peaceful; there was no
jarring note save the snore of the man in possession. Mayfield just
touched Mary on the arm and she turned. Her face flushed for an
instant, and then it became deadly pale again.
"Not in there," she said, "I cannot breathe in the house tonight. Do
you know what I should have done had this happened a century or two
ago?"
Mayfield did not know, but he could give a pretty shrewd guess as he
glanced at the steely blue glitter in Mary's eyes. A certain pride of
possession thrilled him.
"I think you know," Mary went on. "I should have asked you here to
discuss the matter, to appeal to your better nature. And when I failed
I should have killed you first and myself afterwards. I could do it
now if I had the weapon to my hand."
Mayfield nodded. Far better to let Mary talk herself out, he told
himself cynically. She was not the sort of girl to yield without a
struggle, she was no frightened child to sue for terms. But in the
letter she had written to Mayfield she had sounded the note of
surrender. He was here now as conqueror; to see her walk out with all
the honours of war. And surely she was worth all the strategy if any
woman was, the tall, fair beauty with those flashing eyes and the skin
of alabaster glistening in the rays of the moonlight. A prize worth
the winning, a daughter of the gods, if ever there was one.
"But these methods are out of date," Mary went on in the same bitter
strain. "I am told that they do things in different fashion today. You
have done me the honour to ask me to share your future life and I
refused the offer."
"Why?" Mayfield asked. "My family is equally as good as your own."
"I know it. But _noblesse oblige_. You are what you are. And so you
planned and plotted for this; with diabolical cunning you saw where
you could strike me in a fatal spot. You came here tonight in a
position to make your own terms."
"Not quite," Mayfield said quietly. "There is another way for you. So
far as I understand your father is in a position to make his holding
sure in a few days. The house is large and the presence of a few
guests, however undesirable, makes little difference. It is, I admit,
not a nice thing to have one of the great unwashed smoking shag
tobacco in the drawing-room, but it is only a matter of days. The
matter is in your hands for you to decide as you please. I am not
going to coerce you."
Mary laughed scornfully. The mirth sounded harshly against the silence
of the night; the man on the satin cushions stirred and made a
gurgling noise in his throat. Mary's mood suddenly changed and she
shuddered. She was bitterly conscious of her complete inability to do
anything. She had expected Mayfield to take his triumph openly; she
was just beginning to understand what a strong and dangerous foe he
could be.
"You know how to gloss it," the girl said. "But there is going to be
no tacit ignoring of the real truth between you and me. You have
brought this all about to force my hand. You have calculated upon my
pride of race, and my pride of place. You know--nobody better--what
suffering this is likely to afford me. And you are in a position to
remove the pain and the humiliation with the stroke of a pen."
"Yes, I could do that," Mayfield said, speaking as if the suggestion
threw an entirely new light on the situation. "As a matter of fact
the thing is absurdly simple. I have only to send a telegram to my
lawyer--one of your servants could take it to Longtown and despatch it
even at this late hour. My lawyer could come down by the morning mail,
getting here before six o'clock, and send those fellows packing. Then
the incident would be forgotten as one forgets an unpleasant dream.
You see, my resource is practically without a limit. I can meet you in
any way that you please."
"I have felt that for some time," said Mary coldly. "And in return for
this--kindness!"
"Surely there is no occasion for me to repeat my conditions! Besides,
'conditions' is not a pretty word to use in dealing with a lady. You
will not find your bonds irksome, you will not find in me a very
exacting lover. It can go out to the world that there is an engagement
between us and in due course a marriage will follow."
Mayfield spoke quietly enough, but his looks belied his tone. There
was a fierce volcano under that placid exterior, a strong, consuming
passion, and a will to lead Mary when once Mayfield had the power over
her. Some instinct told the girl this.
"It sounds prosaic enough," she said. "I suppose I must take you at
your word. And yet all the time I know perfectly well that I am doing
myself a great wrong in the eyes of God and man. I am not so strong as
I think--I am not strong enough to place my happiness before
humiliation. I must have time to think this over."
"Take as much time as you like. I will come again tomorrow, if you
please. You shall not throw it in my teeth afterwards that I have
hurried you in any way."
Mary sighed helplessly. The man was so strong and she was very, very
weak. She might have gained the full advantage of her pledged word and
broken it deliberately afterwards. It was the code of honour that
Mayfield would have possessed himself if he had seen any advantage by
so doing. "And suppose I play you false?" Mary asked.
"You will never do that, I am not in the least afraid; I trust you
implicitly."
Mary turned back, baffled and defeated at every turn. The night seemed
to have grown suddenly chill, for she shivered as she made her way
into the drawing-room. It wanted but a feather in the scale now, to
make up her mind for good and all. Her eyes were drawn by magnetic
attraction to the sprawling figure on the cushions. The harsh note
smote her like a thong.
"Look at him," Mayfield whispered, "does it not fill you with pain?
And there he is likely to remain till the sight of him drives you
beyond endurance. One word from you and the loathsome episode is past.
Why do you not say the word and finish it?"
The words seemed to sink into Mary's soul. Ralph Darnley flashed into
her mind, but she put his image resolutely aside. She pointed towards
the door.
"You had better go," she said huskily, "go before I change my mind
again. You will find some telegram forms in the silver case on the
library table. Need I say any more than that? You can come back and
show me what you have written."
Mayfield bowed and departed without showing the faintest indication of
his victory. Mary staggered across to the window, with her hands to
her dry, hot head. A shadow seemed to rise from the gravel of the
terrace, a shadow with a white face framed in grey hair, the form of
Lady Dashwood, limping a little, but otherwise strong and resolute.
"You have been there long?" Mary asked. "You have been listening."
"Yes, yes," Lady Dashwood said in a strange thrilling whisper,
"listening, and waiting for my chance. It is not too late yet, my
child. Thank God, I am in time. You must not do it, you must not heed,
for the sacrifice would be all in vain. Come, let me tell you what I
mean. You are not used to dealing with scoundrels--I am!"