A FRIEND IN NEED
It was a long telegram that Ralph despatched from the village, for he
only received a few pence out of the half-sovereign that he placed on
the counter. The operator sighed at the prodigious task before him.
Then Ralph went off in the direction of the Hall to wait for Mary in
the park. It was some time before she came; the children of the
villagers passed on their way from school, and presently Slight came
along, with something like a frown on his rosy, wrinkled little face.
He eyed Ralph with marked disfavour.
"What's this about Miss Mary, Sir Ralph?" he asked. "Perhaps I
shouldn't have called you by that name. But Miss Mary has been up to
the Hall to say goodbye. She says she is going to London for good, and
that she is not coming back again. Going to try to get her own living,
or some such foolishness."
"Your manner is not respectful, Slight," Ralph said coldly.
"I can't help it, sir," Slight replied. "Really, I can't. I love Miss
Mary as if she had been a child of my own. I taught her to ride, I
taught her--but there! If you only knew what a heart of gold she has!
And now to go and soil those pretty hands with work. And you could
prevent it by holding up your little finger. Thank God, there is no
occasion for me to stay at the Hall, for I've saved enough for my old
age, though I don't deny that it will be a wrench. And tomorrow the
whole lot of us are going to hand in our resignation in a body."
"Indeed, you are not going to do anything of the sort," Ralph said
sternly. "Don't let me hear any more of this folly. If you _do_ go,
you will not come back again when this present head of the family has
gone his way, which will be only a matter of a few months at the
outside. I look to you to stop the silly action, Slight. I have given
you my word before that this thing is not likely to be permanent. And
when you come to know everything, you will see how wisely I have acted
in the matter."
Slight's indignation cooled as quickly as it had heated. He scratched
his white head in some perplexity. And the look he turned upon Ralph
was one of fatherly affection.
"How like your father you do speak, sir," he said. "I suppose you must
have your own way as he used to. And if I hadn't been a wicked old
rascal these things would never have happened at all. My sin has found
me out sorely."
"I am getting tired of this," Ralph said impatiently. "What sin are
you alluding to? And Lady Dashwood is always harping on the same
string. What wickedness were you two up to in the old days? What does
it mean?"
"So her ladyship has not told you, sir?" Slight asked in a whisper.
"She never told you about the old Squire and your father's first wife
Maria Edgerton? She was the daughter of a farmer across the valley.
The most beautiful creature that I ever set eyes on. Well, well, to
think that you didn't know."
"I don't know," Ralph said. "My father never spoke of his first wife.
And yet I always felt that his love for her was the passion of his
life. He was a good husband to my mother, but still--and now you are
going to tell me that story, Slight."
"Begging your pardon, sir, I'm not going to do anything of the kind,"
Slight said shortly. "I couldn't dream of doing anything of the kind
without her ladyship's permission. You ask her, and she will tell you
everything; indeed you have the right to know. And don't you worry
about the servants at the Hall, because they will do exactly as I tell
them. Make it as soon as you can, sir, for the old place doesn't seem
the same without the lovely face and the blue eyes of Miss Mary
looking after us. I'm an old man, and for over fifty years I've served
the Dashwoods faithfully, and it does seem rather hard to think that I
shall have to go on fawning and cringing to an impostor like the man
who calls himself Sir Vincent Dashwood. There won't be much of the
fine old cellar left if he stays here any time, I can tell you."
"Patience, Slight," Ralph replied. "It is only a matter of months.
Here is Miss Mary coming down the avenue. I shall look after her, I
would not have one hair of her head injured. And some day perhaps,
Slight, if the fates are good to me, you will be serving me as you
served my grandfather, with Miss Mary as mistress of Dashwood by my
side. That is my desire. Slight, that is the one great ambition of my
life. And you can keep that secret with the rest."
Ralph turned away and joined Mary as she came down the avenue. She
tried to smile, but her lips were white and unsteady.
"That is finished," she said, with a brave attempt at cheerfulness.
"It is awful to think that I shall never see the dear old place again.
But I am not going to give way, I am going to show the world how a
Dashwood can behave when trouble comes."
The girl drew up her head with an air of pride, she never seemed
quite to forget what the family required of her. It was in moments
like these that Ralph loved her least. It was this very foolish
self-consciousness that he desired to conquer.
"It does not require a Dashwood to do that," he said. "Thousands of
people make these noble sacrifices every day, and take no credit to
themselves for it. When you get out into the world you will see
another kind of pride and courage and devotion that will put your
fetish to shame. If I were to say that this is the best thing that
could happen to you, you would laugh the idea to scorn. Nevertheless,
it is absolutely true. What money have you?"
"Perhaps thirty pounds," Mary explained; "and certain articles of
jewelry. But I am not going to part with them like the girl in the
story did."
Ralph felt by no means so sure of that, but he said nothing. He was
very silent till the dower house was reached, silent and a little
guilty too, for he it was who had brought this about. He was sending
Mary into the world to battle for her life alone. On the whole, he was
not sorry that the girl had refused Lady Dashwood's offer of a home;
_that_ was a specimen of the right kind of pride at any rate. And yet,
now that the hour of Mary's departure drew near, he dreaded the
parting. After all, the experiment was a cruel one, it was not yet too
late to save the situation.
Lady Dashwood was crying now; the dogcart stood by the great stone
porch; Dashwood fidgeted about in a half-shamed kind of way, yet
frowning disapproval of the whole business.
"Really, we are making a deal of fuss about nothing," he said.
"Anybody would think that Mary was being led away to instant
execution, instead of behaving in a way that makes me thoroughly
ashamed of her. It is my clear duty to exercise my parental authority.
As it is I am not going to do anything of the kind. Mary shall have
her lesson. She will very soon get tired of playing the part of the
unattached female. She will be back in a week."
And this was Mary's farewell greeting as she drove away from the dower
house. She kept her face steady, and looked neither right nor left,
not that she could see anything, for her eyes were blinded with tears.
Behind the tears, one vision stood out bright and clear--the strong,
reliant face of Ralph Darnley, the warm pressure of whose grip still
tingled on Mary's fingers. It was good to know that she had one true
friend.
The station was reached at last, and Mary was alone. She dismissed the
dogcart; she did not want the groom to see that she was going to
travel third class. It was rather a snobbish idea, and Mary despised
herself for it accordingly. The porter and the ticket officer looked
astonished as Mary asked the third-class fare to Victoria. How little
things seemed to remind her of what had been!
"I am going third," she said firmly. "Will you please to see that my
two baskets are placed in the luggage van, Gibbons?"
Gibbons touched his cap respectfully. It was the last outward
recognition of her social station that Mary was destined to receive
for some time to come. She had a vague idea of a carriage to herself,
where she could have an hour or so to regain her composure. She had
never had any difficulty in this way when travelling before. But
first-class passengers, liberal towards the guard, and third-class
trippers, are different things, as Mary speedily discovered. The train
was very full, so full that Mary was content at last to find herself
packed with nine other people in a stuffy compartment, including a
crying child and a surly workman, who smoked a foul pipe and spat
liberally on the floor. One window was closed for the benefit of the
fretting infant and the poisonous atmosphere of the place caused Mary
to turn faint and giddy. Long before she reached Victoria her head was
aching, her temples throbbing horribly.
_Noblesse oblige!_ It was by no means a promising start, but Mary was
not going to take her hand from the plough yet. And that dreadful
journey could not last for ever. Victoria was reached at length, and
it was possible to breathe a little comparatively fresh air again.
Mary saw her two dress baskets placed on the platform and looked at
them in a helpless kind of manner. Hitherto a maid or a footman had
done all this kind of thing for her. An impatient porter wanted to
know whether the boxes were to go on a cab or whether they were to be
left in the cloak room.
"Make up your mind, miss," he said rudely. "I can't stand here all
day."
"A four-wheeler," Mary gasped. "I--I'm sorry, but my head aches so
dreadfully that I can't even think properly. Will you call a cab for
me?"