THE UNFINISHED WORD
Mary placed her hand to her head in utter bewilderment. The world
seemed to have changed in the last few hours. Hitherto, life at
Dashwood had progressed on oiled springs, calm and peaceful. There was
the regular decently appointed day, with its routine of refined
duties, the dinner and the pleasant contemplation of placid evenings.
Mary had swung like a proud planet in the still atmosphere. And now
everything had passed into the wildest topsy-turveydom.
Even Lady Dashwood had altered. The quiet, self-contained woman, whose
very restfulness had been one of her greatest charms! The sweet
expression of her face had vanished; she looked aged and anxious,
almost fierce.
"What does it all mean?" Mary asked. "What has come to everything and
everybody? It seems almost impossible to believe that here at
Dashwood----"
"Trouble comes; but trouble comes everywhere. It enters the palace as
easily as the cottage, my child. And my fault, all of it. But come
outside and talk to me. Mary, you must have nothing to do with that
man!"
"But how do you know?" Mary asked. "I--I am not yet certain myself.
Who could have told you anything?"
"But you are certain, child. You had made up your mind. The misery of
your face tells me so. And you sent a note to that man. Would you have
done so unless you had made up your mind to surrender?"
Mary looked down, and the red of shame flamed into her face. Come what
would, she could not turn to either side and escape humiliation.
"Slight told me," Lady Dashwood went on. "He came to me at once. My
dear, you must not be angry with old Slight. He worships the very
ground you walk on; he would lay down his life for you. And he knows
everything; I shrewdly suspect that he knows even more than I do.
Slight is something more than a servant, he is a valued friend of the
family. And he came to me as I have said. He tells me that Horace
Mayfield has got his wicked fingers in here; that he has plotted to
make you his wife. That must not be, Mary, that must never take place.
Surely you can defy that man, can order him out of the house."
"I could," Mary said slowly, "I am not afraid of him. As yet I have
not pledged my word. Still, I am quite helpless. Look into the
drawing-room and see for yourself. . . . That is what we have to put
up with, three of them for the best part of a week. By eight o'clock
tomorrow morning the servants will know everything; before the day is
out we will be the talk of the county. I could not show my face after
that. The degradation would make me old before my time. It is not as
if I cared nothing for Dashwood. I love every stick and stone of it,
the place is part of my being. It was your house for nearly forty
years. Can't you understand my feelings?"
"I ought to," Lady Dashwood said bitterly. "It was I who first
fostered those feelings. I tended them; day and night I watered them
and fed them till they grew like a plant. With the lesson of the past
before my eyes, I encouraged your pride. And now it is the master
passion of your life. Everything has to be sacrificed to the old name
and the old place. As for me, I should not hesitate for a single
moment."
"And never know the feeling of happiness again!" Mary cried.
"Oh, my dear! happiness and I parted years ago. The old never expect
happiness; there are too many ghosts, too many gaps, and too many
memories. Peace is the greatest possession that one can expect at my
time of life. And if you do this vile thing, then I shall have to go
down to the grave without it. I am a wicked old woman; I am suffering
now because I dare not tell the truth; but rather than this wrong
shall be done, I will speak, though I made a death-bedside promise not
to do so. Suppose I told you that you have less right at Dashwood than
I have!"
The last words came with a fierce whisper that struck a cold chill to
Mary's heart. Had Lady Dashwood suddenly lost her reason? But that
white quivering face had no dull insanity upon it; the dark eyes were
full of horror but not of madness.
"What do you mean?" Mary asked.
"I--I cannot tell you. I was sorry to say as much. Do you suppose that
Horace Mayfield loves you in the ordinary sense of the word?"
"I believe he does, if that has anything to do with the question."
"Dear child, that man is incapable of any such feeling. Love is a
sacred thing. Horace Mayfield is a cold-blooded and designing
scoundrel. Your beauty may inflame him, but there is no love behind.
He calculates that it will be no bad thing to call this his home. He
plays upon your sinful pride as a master plays the violin. He knows
that you would do anything, even to marrying him, to keep the scandal
away."
"It is the only way," Mary said; "Horace Mayfield is too strong for
us. What is that?"
Something stirred in the bushes close by, a crooning song was but half
audible.
"It is your old nurse, Patience," Lady Dashwood explained. "She was
sitting with me tonight when Slight came over hot-foot with the news.
Patience has one of her lucid moods tonight. And Patience knows
everything. The secret is hers, too."
"I am tired of this mystery," Mary said; "why is Patience Ray hiding
there?"
A thin, bent figure emerged from the bushes; a dark withered face in a
frame of thin grey hair looked out. It was an old woman, toothless and
haggard, yet the eyes were sharp and shrewd now. For some years past
the aged creature had been suffering from decay, but there were
moments when her wit was as sharp and shrewd as ever.
"I couldn't stay away, dearie," the thin piping voice said. "It was
like a mercy that God gave me back my mind tonight. The wicked old
woman may do a lot of good before she dies yet. Don't you do it,
dearie. Tell him that the proper owner is coming back to Dashwood, and
that your face is your only dowry. Because I've seen the heir, as I
knew that I should do before I die."
"What is she talking about?" Mary asked in utter astonishment.
"Patience, explain yourself."
But the old woman shook her head and refused to say any more. She
muttered to herself something about disgrace and the house of
Dashwood.
"Smoke the rats out!" she cried shrilly and suddenly, "smoke them out!
It is the only way to clear Dashwood of such vermin. Put the match to
the faggot and burn them out. That's what I would do if I had my way.
And to think that it should come to this after all these years.
Mistress, mistress, what a couple of wicked old women we are."
"We are that," Lady Dashwood said mournfully. She did not chide the
wild speaker's words as Mary had expected. "Our sin is going to find
us out, Patience. Mary, I implore you to do what I ask you. I implore
you to spare me the pain of a full confession. Send the man about his
business and have none of him."
There was passionate entreaty in Lady Dashwood's tone, so that Mary
was troubled in more ways than one. The heart pulled her one way,
pride and reason another. And behind it all was a haunting sense that
something was terribly wrong here. There was some dreadful meaning
underlying the wild words of old Patience. As Mary stood there, cold
and dispassionate in the moonlight, Horace Mayfield emerged with a
telegram form in his hand.
"I have been some little time," he explained, "the forms were mislaid.
But what is the meaning of this, Miss Mary? Surely it is late for Lady
Dashwood to be abroad."
Mayfield spoke calmly enough, but his eyes looked troubled. He glanced
from one to the other of the group anxiously.
"I came to see Mary," Lady Dashwood said coldly. In some magical way
she had recovered her self-possession. She was cold and collected, a
veritable _grande dame_ in the presence of an inferior. "I had
received certain information as to what has recently taken place here.
It seems that Sir George Dashwood is under obligations to you, and
that as these obligations have not been satisfied, you have put the
law in motion. In the language of unfortunate people in a lower walk
of life, you have 'put the bailiffs in.' It probably occurred to you
that this would cause Miss Dashwood a deal of suffering!"
Mayfield bowed with exaggerated politeness.
"We have known each other a long time, Lady Dashwood," he said. "We
have had some business transactions together, and you have never been
at any great pains to conceal your opinion of me. Therefore, I should
gain nothing by an endeavour now to appear in a more favourable light
in your eyes. To be candid, when I set the law in motion, I was not
blind to the fact that my action would cause Miss Dashwood a certain
anxiety."
"Shameless!" Lady Dashwood cried, "more shameless than I expected."
"Smoke them out!" came shrilly from the lips of the old woman, "Burn
the rats out! Put the firewood and the candle together and burn out
the vermin! Burn Horace Mayfield! Burn him and the other rascals in a
pile together!"
Mayfield started, he seemed as if about to say something, then
apparently he changed his mind, and ignored the speaker altogether.
"As you please," he said, "I shall be glad to have your views on the
matter."