THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE
The lights in the great silver candlesticks at the dower house shed a
soft radiance over the dinner-table where Lady Dashwood sat alone. It
was not yet dark, the saffron glow of the setting sun still struggled
with the candles. Most of the dishes had been removed, and little
remained but the peaches and the nectarines and the great bloom tinted
grapes in the silver baskets.
Lady Dashwood sat there alone. She had peeled one of the russet and
golden peaches, but the fragrant luscious fruit lay neglected on her
plate. Her mind was far away from her surroundings.
The peacefulness of the night suited her more or less painful
meditations. The same spirit of refinement and rest seemed to brood
over the house; it seemed hard to associate a place like that with
misery. And, perhaps, on the whole, Lady Dashwood was not altogether
unhappy.
She had more or less expected Ralph Darnley to dinner, but he had
declined at the last moment. He had written to say that he might have
the pleasure of coming later, but even as to that he was not quite
certain.
And so it came about that Lady Dashwood was alone. She had plenty of
food for thought. There was yesterday's adventure, for instance, the
finding of Mary in that unexpected way, and the visit to Grace
Cameron's rooms.
Well, Lady Dashwood was not sorry that she had been, she was not sorry
either that Mary had made up her mind to try her future in London. In
some subtle way Mary had vastly improved. She had always shown a
proper affection for Lady Dashwood, she loved her passionately, but
she had always been somewhat reserved. She had not thought it right
for a Dashwood to be demonstrative like other people. And she had
cared very little for the sufferings of other people.
And now all this was changed. Mary had made the great discovery that
she was only human after all, and had begun to take an interest in
sorrow, suffering and gladness, and pleasure. Lady Dashwood was glad
of that. Her own life had been one of constant self-repression.
Perhaps that was all the more reason why she longed for an open
display of affection now.
She was pleased to find that Mary was learning her lesson and that
Ralph Darnley had been right. Ralph had prophesied from the first that
all Mary needed was the fire of adversity to burn the alloy out of her
system, and leave nothing but the pure gold behind. And his policy had
been wonderfully successful.
But how much longer was this to continue? was the question that Lady
Dashwood asked herself.
How long before Ralph would declare himself, and sweep away the blight
that hung over Dashwood Hall at the present moment. Already people
were beginning to talk, already the servants had strange tales to
tell. Dubious men were staying at the Hall, a class of beings quite
unknown to that historic house.
Sir Vincent Dashwood was entertaining a party at dinner tonight; he
had brought his friends down from London with him earlier in the day.
As yet nobody had called upon the new owner of Dashwood Hall, for
people were holding aloof. They wondered, too, why the deposed head of
the house had cared to stay on there. What Mary was actually doing in
London was not known to anybody outside the home circle, but her
action was approved of. Lady Dashwood hoped that the present state of
things was not likely to last; she was going to ask Ralph to see Mary
and judge for himself whether the punishment had not already gone far
enough. Mary had had her eyes opened and would never be her cold,
proud self again.
The peach was finished slowly, and Lady Dashwood was thinking of
rising from the table. This solitary dining in state was a terrible
trial to her. She had reached the time of life when she craved for
young people to be about her. The house was very quiet, so quiet that
the loud clang of the front door bell fairly startled Lady Dashwood.
She placed her hand to her heart in some alarm.
Surely something dreadful had happened! No friend of the family would
ever ring the bell like that. It was, perhaps, a late telegram to say
that Mary--but the noisy voices in the hall did not suggest any
catastrophe. Two or three people were talking at once; Lady Dashwood
was sure she could smell tobacco smoke. Somebody laughed in a loud,
vulgar way. What could it all mean?
The staid butler came into the dining-room, his manner respectful as
always, but there was a flush on his face.
"My good Charles," Lady Dashwood exclaimed, "what is the matter?"
"Your ladyship may well ask that question," the aggrieved butler
replied, "but I beg your ladyship's pardon, I am forgetting myself. We
were sitting down to supper in the housekeeper's room when that ring
startled us. I went to the door. Sir Vincent Dashwood was there, and
those other men,--I mean gentlemen, together with Sir George,--I mean
Mr. Dashwood. And they want to see your ladyship."
"At this time of night! Are they mad, Charles? Is it possible that
gentlemen who are perfect strangers to me--are smoking in my hall? Are
they--are they--sober?"
"I think so, your ladyship," Charles said dubiously. "Mr. Dashwood is
all right. As to the rest, I really cannot say. But they are bent
upon seeing you, at least Sir Vincent is. He--he seems to think that
you would find it nice and informal."
"Informal, certainly," Lady Dashwood said frostily. "Ask them into the
library."
The speaker was outwardly calm. But she was shaking with a righteous
indignation; a brilliant red spot flamed on either cheek. It was a
very haughty, stately figure that entered the library, a few moments
later.
"This is an unexpected pleasure," she said. "You will pardon my
old-fashioned ways, but I am not accustomed to entertain strangers at
this hour."
"That's all right;" the head of the house laughed unsteadily. His eyes
were slightly glazed and he had some difficulty in balancing himself.
"It's all right, grandmother. Mr. Dashwood did not want to come; he
said it wasn't quite the thing."
"I'm glad of that," Lady Dashwood said haughtily. Her cold eyes swept
over the figure of George Dashwood, who stood by the doorway a picture
of confusion. "Mr. Dashwood was right, and as to these friends of
yours----"
"They're all right," the head of the house went on. "Mr. Cotton and
Mr. Newfell, my grandmother. Cotton is something in the City, made a
pile of money there. When he isn't making money he spends his spare
time in going over old houses. I told him about this one, and he is
anxious to see it. It is just the kind of place he wants to buy, and
if he offers me a fancy price for it, you will have to find somewhere
else to go, old lady."
Lady Dashwood stood there trembling. She had no words to meet this
unpardonable insult. And the speaker was quite within his right. He
was in a position to sell the dower house if he chose. The head of the
family had that privilege, seeing that the little property formed no
part of the settled estate.
"I am afraid Lady Dashwood objects," the man called Cotton said.
"Indeed I should, sir," Lady Dashwood replied. "I am afraid I can't
blame you so much as my--my grandson for this unpardonable intrusion."
The City man flushed, but he had the grace to say nothing. The head of
the house fairly tingled.
"Insult be hanged," he cried, "what are you talking about? We only
looked in just to give my friend Cotton some idea of the place. _I'm_
not anxious to sell. It's a thirsty night, you fellows. Ring the bell,
somebody, and ask the butler for a whisky and soda."
"Better not," Cotton said, "it isn't quite the thing. Besides, you
have had enough already. I can see that we ought not to have come here
at all."
Lady Dashwood felt almost grateful to the speaker. There was silence
for a moment, and then from the hall came the sound of Ralph Darnley's
voice. Here was somebody at any rate who could grapple with the
situation. Forgetful of her real dignity, Lady Dashwood turned away
and crossed over to the hall. She was shaking from head to foot now
and the tears had gathered in her eyes.
"You poor dear soul," Ralph whispered, as he kissed the trembling
lips. "Charles has been telling me all about it. He was so full of the
matter that he almost forgot himself. So you are already enjoying the
fruits of the change of proprietorship. Go back to the drawing-room
and compose yourself. I will soon get rid of those men for you."
Ralph strode into the library. His fingers were itching to be at the
throats of the men. But that could not be. He was so angry that his
politeness was exaggerated.
"Lady Dashwood is very sorry," he said, "but you will have to excuse
her tonight. She is not accustomed to visitors, especially at this
time in the evening. Sir Vincent, your display of family affection is
a little too exuberant."
"_I_ did not want to come, sir," Cotton said sulkily.
"Thank you; therefore you will not mind going. Goodnight, gentlemen.
Goodnight, Mr. Dashwood. You will pardon me, I am sure. Well?"
For the head of the family sat sullenly in his chair though the rest
had got beyond the shadow of the front door by this time. He looked up
defiantly at Ralph.