Mary's patience was fairly well tried before she had an opportunity of seeing Mrs. Speed. She heard the latter cry out in astonishment at the sight of Lady Dashwood; she heard the two take their way up the uncarpeted stairs; she could hear restless footsteps overhead. It was quite an hour before they came down. Mary could not quite hear what was passing, but she heard enough to know that Mrs. Speed was in tears.
The tears gave way to a sullen red as Mary came out of the dining-room. She said nothing as the girl beckoned her into the room and shut the door.
"We need not waste any time," Mary said, "you will guess what I came for."
"Who told you where to find me?" was the terrified question in a whisper. "You don't mean to say that in Keppel Terrace they know already----"
"I am not concerned as to what Keppel Terrace knows or thinks," Mary said coldly. "I came back to our rooms last night very late with Miss Colam. To our great surprise and consternation we found the house empty. Our own things had gone with the rest. You might have left them, as they did not belong to you. Miss Colam, who has had more experience in the seamy side of life than I have, says that this midnight flitting is quite usual with a certain class of people. She gave me an experience of a friend of hers, but in that case her belongings were left behind. What did you suppose that we were going to do?"
The woman shook her head sullenly. With her wider knowledge of the world she seemed to think that she had an easy prey in Mary.
"Idon't know," she said, "and I didn't care. I've been too badly used by the world to have much sympathy left for other people. And I had to move. The agent told me that he was going to put an execution in today, and I had no time to lose. I don't want to keep your traps and things; I daresay they are here somewhere. Come again in a few days' time, and I will see what I can do for you. I'm busy now."
The speaker advanced half threateningly towards Mary, with an intention of bustling her out of the room. Mary's eyes flashed angrily as she stood before the door.
"Now listen to me," she said in clear, incisive tones. "As a landlady of experience in such matters you must know that it is almost impossible for Miss Colam and myself to obtain other lodgings without our boxes and things. Last night we slept out of doors because we had nowhere to go. You think that because you live so far away from Keppel Terrace you can do as you like. If I go from here now without our belongings I shall at once see the agent of the Keppel Terrace property and tell him where you are to be found. I can easily get the address of the agent from the people next door to your last house. I don't know much about the law, but you can be punished for this kind of thing, I feel quite certain. Now what are you going to do?"
The battle was over almost as soon as it had begun. The woman lost her threatening air and her face became pleading. The easy tears fell from her cheeks. "I'm sure I don't want to do anything wrong," she said, "only you don't know all the trouble and anxiety that I've been put to. When I came to London first I had money in the bank and a good house of furniture, very different from the miserable sticks I have about me now. I was doing well. Oh, you think you know what trouble is and misery, but wait till you see the son you have loved and slaved for grow up to be a curse and a blight to you; I sacrificed everything for that boy and he has ruined me. He gets money from everybody, he has had all mine, and I go on giving him more. He never comes near me unless he wants something. If you knew everything, you would be sorry for me."
Mary made no reply for the moment. She was piecing the puzzle rapidly together in her mind. She was wondering what the connection was between the erring son and the man who called himself Sir Vincent Dashwood. She would have asked a question or two, but it did not seem discreet to do so at this moment.
"At present I need all my sympathy for Miss Colam and myself," Mary said coldly. "You will be good enough to find our boxes. There is a desk of mine that I need, a little desk in a leather case. I shall be glad to know that it is safe."
"I think I saw it a little while ago," Mrs. Speed said eagerly. She seemed quite anxious to make amends now. "I fancy it was in one of the bedrooms. I hope you will believe me, miss when I tell you that I had clean forgotten all about you two young ladies. You see, I had to get away at a moment's notice. There was the house to find and the van to arrange for. One way and another I was fairly worked off my feet. If you'll come along with me now, I'll see what I can do for you. There's a great pile of boxes upstairs."
Most of the missing boxes were identified at last, but they were more or less buried under a great heap of things. Mary gave a sigh of relief to find that the precious writing-case was intact and the lock unbroken. And there was a box of hers on the top of the pile, and in that she knew was all that she would require for a day or two. If she could get that away she would be able to supply Connie with what was necessary in the way of linen. And it would be as well to leave the rest until she had procured fresh lodgings.
"Get your woman to call a cab," she said, "I'll take this box with me and the others can remain till we are ready for them. Directly we have somewhere to go I will send you a telegram with the address, and you will give our belongings to one of the carriers."
"You may depend on that, miss," Mrs. Speed said eagerly, "I'm sorry this happened, I am indeed. If I had only thought of it I would have given you a hint before. Now I'll go and see if I can get a cab for you."
The cab was procured at length and the precious box hoisted on the top. Lady Dashwood was patiently waiting at the end of the road. The cab pulled up, and Mary hailed her friend eagerly. A great weight had fallen from her mind, she could see the way clear for the future now. If misfortune dogged her, she had made up her mind to go back to the dower house. But now she was spared that blow to her pride.
She wondered, with a tender smile on her lips, if Ralph Darnley would call this the proper kind of pride. In her mind Mary decided that he would. It would be possible now to arrange to stay for the present under the same roof with Grace Cameron. Then Mary remembered with dismay that her ready cash had been locked up in a box, and that the box in question was not on the top of the cab. Not that she was afraid of anything happening to the money; still, money was urgently needed.
The jewels were safe anyway--they reposed in the cab on the seat opposite to Mary. And Lady Dashwood was seated by her side. The girl was in high spirits: tired as she was, she was happier than she had been for years. It came to her now that she had an object in life, something definite to live for. She was doing good in the world; her eyes had been opened to the nobility of life as lived by the brave poor. What a poor thing the Dashwood pride seemed by comparison.
"You must know that I have been entirely successful," Mary said gaily. Lady Dashwood had never heard her speak in this tone of voice before. "I have bearded the lioness in her den and actually got the better of her. I am more than pleased with the success of my scheme and the way in which I have worked it out, Lady Dashwood. Please don't tell me that you are going back home by an early train."
"I should like to go back at once and take you with me, child," Lady Dashwood said. "You don't know how lonely I am without you! And yet I am quite sure that you are learning a valuable lesson in these sordid surroundings."
Mary's face flushed with pleasure. A few days before she would have resented a suggestion like that from Lady Dashwood or anybody else. Her mind had been closed to everything, had been too proud to learn. And now Lady Dashwood's remark was a compliment.
"Yes," she said softly, "I am learning a great lesson--the lesson of humanity. It is astonishing how my mental vision has cleared already. I blush with shame to think of the uselessness of my past life. But you will come with me and see the dear companions who have taught me this lesson?"
"I think I will," Lady Dashwood said, "I need not get home till the last train. I have half promised to dine informally with an old friend of mine in Stratton Street. I shall have plenty of time to see your friends. I am quite sure that they are ladies; you could not be happy with them otherwise."
"Oh, they are," Mary cried, "and now I am going to tell you all about them and their hopes and ambitions. Grace's story is quite a pretty romance in its way. It will tell you all about her, so that you need not betray your lack of knowledge."
Mary rambled on in a pleasant way until the cab reached its destination. There was a pure, womanly ring in her voice that Lady Dashwood noted with gladness. She had always deemed Mary too hard and cold, too unsympathetic to the weaknesses and failings of other people. The elder lady's eyes were moist as she descended from the cab, and Mary guessed the reason. And then it came to her, too, that she would have been glad if Ralph Darnley had been with them.
"Now I must get you to pay for the cab," Mary went on in the same gay voice, "for I haven't the money, at least, not in my pocket. You will find the place very small and mean, but it is not quite so bad as some of the cottages on the Dashwood estate. If ever good fortune took me back there as mistress I should do a great deal with the cottages on the place. I begin to understand now how trying is the lot of the poor. But I am dreaming again. Please come this way."
Grace Cameron lay on a couch in the window getting as much fresh air as possible. Towards her Lady Dashwood looked with special interest, for Mary had told Grace's story at some length. The girl flushed as she noted the striking personality of her visitor. She essayed to rise from the sofa.
"No, don't you move, my dear," Lady Dashwood said. "Quite by accident I met Mary here, and she insisted upon bringing me to see you both. I think she has told me everything about you. And it was quite natural that I should like to see you. So this is Connie Colam. I think you are a couple of very brave girls."
And Lady Dashwood proceeded to kiss them both in the most natural manner. She found her way into their hearts at once.
"You are a darling," Connie said in her candid manner. "It is good of you, Lady Dashwood. We were eating our hearts out with anxiety when Mary came in. And Mary looks quite the conquering hero, I declare."
"Victory!" Mary cried, "my clever detective scheme has been quite successful. I have brought all we need with me, and the rest will follow on the despatch of a telegram. I have had a long interview with Mrs. Speed, and so far as I can see----"
"I hope you gave her what she deserved," Connie cried.
"I'm ashamed to say I didn't," Mary confessed. "The poor woman appeared to be in distress. She said that she had forgotten all about us, and I believed her. It seems that she has a dissipated, selfish son who has brought her to this pass--Lady Dashwood, what is the matter?"
"The London heat always tries me like this," Lady Dashwood murmured faintly, "I daresay I shall be quite myself when I have had a cup of tea. Connie shall make it for me--Mary says that she has the real art of tea-making. So this is the place where you work. You look as if a good rest would do you good, Grace."
Grace Cameron smiled wearily. It was one of her bad days, and the heat had affected her. Her mind was filled now with pictures of the sea breaking cool over the rocks; she thought of deep woods where the breeze played in the trees.
"I can't afford to rest," she said; "if I did not go on working I should lose my reason. And I do hate London so. Still, I have a mother more or less dependent upon me, and for her sake I have to go on. If I could manage to get into the country for a few weeks I think I could regain strength. Connie is an angel of goodness, but I can't let her do my work for me much longer."
"That's sinful pride," Connie said with something between a laugh and a sob. "What vexes her is that her substitute is so poor a workman. Still, there is a deal in what Grace says, and if she could be in the country, not too far away from London, where----"
Lady Dashwood glanced up and met Mary's pleading eyes. She understood exactly what the girl meant without asking a single question. She crossed over to the couch and took Grace's thin white hand tenderly in her own.
"There is nothing easier," she said, "let me be the fairy godmother. I am a very lonely old woman, since Mary made up her mind that she would go out into the world and earn her own living. I was very sad about it at the time, but I am not so sad now. Because the day is coming when Mary will return to her old home, and be happier by far than she has ever been before. Still, I am very lonely now, and I should welcome some bright young face to gladden the whole home and make life more tolerable to me. The dower house is a grand old place, and any artist would soon fall in love with it. Bring your work down there, Gracie, come and live in the open air and forget your anxiety for the future. When I looked at Mary just now, her eyes asked me to do this thing. But I am not doing it to please Mary so much as to please myself. It is very selfish of me. I know----"
"Selfish!" Grace cried, "I could love you for what you say. The mere thought of it makes my heart beat all the faster. But for the sake of others----"
"Never mind the others," Connie cried, "go away and get well. I dare not think what I should do if I had the same opportunity. Go away and do your own work. How can you have the face to stay here and allow me to do your drawings for you? It is the most selfish thing I ever heard of in my life, and I decline to put up with it any longer. . . . Oh, my dear, it is the very thing that I have been praying for. Don't hesitate, Grace--think of your mother, of the grand future. If I loved you less than I do----"
The smile faded from Connie's face, she had hard work to keep back the tears. Lady Dashwood's smile, too, was watery and unsteady. She was glad to find that Mary had fallen in with companions like these. She could understand now why the girl had softened and improved. Hitherto she had regarded Mary as perfect, but this was a chastened and purified Mary of whom she had never dreamed. She could see the working of Grace's mind in her face.
"You are very good to me," the girl said slowly, "everybody is good to me. I never knew how much goodness there was in the world till my health began to fail. It made me hard and bitter to see those frivolous society people roll by in their carriages, and think that the money they wasted on one abandoned toy would have sufficed to give me back the strength I needed. Mary knows what I mean."
"I do, indeed," Mary said with a flush on her face, "but I had to pay for my knowledge of my selfish folly by the loss of everything that I held most dear. And now that I have learned my lesson, I have nothing to put it into practice with. Still, the point does not refer to Lady Dashwood, who is quite sincere in what she says. If you hesitate any longer, Grace, I shall regard myself as a murderess. You will not carry your pride so far as to endanger your life."
"No, no," Grace cried, "you are all right and I am wrong. I know perfectly well that if I stay here like this I shall die. Therefore, with the deepest gratitude, I have decided to accept Lady Dashwood's offer. Oh, if you only knew how I long for the sight of a green tree----"
"Then that is settled," Lady Dashwood said, "you are to come and take Mary's place without delay. I will come up on Saturday and fetch you. And I decline to hear a single word of thanks--it is a mutual pleasure, Grace. Now, let us have the cup of tea, and then I must be going. And I am very glad that Mary has made friends with you girls."
Lady Dashwood departed presently, and for a little time the girls were silent. Grace lay there looking out of the window, her eyes filled with happy tears. Already in her imagination she could hear the murmur of the trees over her head.
"I can't help it," she said presently, "I feel as if a great doctor had told me to live after another surgeon had passed the sentence of death. An hour ago I did not seem to care what happened, now I can feel the joy of life in my finger tips. My ambition is singing a tale of hope in my ears. . . . But what about you both? What are you going to do?"
"Yes, what are we going to do?" Connie said in tones of dismay, "we have no money. Mary was too proud to ask her relation for any, which was quite right. Unless, perhaps, Mary has recovered her purse, in which case----"
"Well, I haven't," Mary explained, "I forgot all about it. Still, it is only a matter of a day or so, and, meanwhile, I have something that will do quite as well. I daresay Grace's landlady will find us a spare bedroom."
"I believe there is such a thing in the house," Grace said dubiously, "but my landlady is by no means a nice person, and she has done very well lately. She is sure to ask to see your boxes, and if you tell her the truth she will not believe you. Still, you must find quarters somewhere for tonight, and it would do no harm to have the woman up and see her."
The landlady came, hard of face and none too pleasant of manner. She listened in grim disapproval. She did not wish to insinuate anything, but she had suffered in the past. She attached a value to the possession of personal belongings, she had little faith in lodgers who came without them. To all this Mary listened with a heightened colour and a rising temper.
"I suppose a week, or say a fortnight's rent in advance would do for you?" she asked. "It seems the likeliest arrangement for a woman of your stamp."
"Nothing better, miss," the woman retorted, "money talks. Pay a sovereign on account, and I shall have no more to say. Pay me, and I'll treat you well; on the other hand----"
"There is going to be no 'other hand,'" Mary replied with her head in the air. "Perhaps you will be so good as to change me a five-pound note?"
The woman gasped. She could not possibly do such a thing.
"Very well," Mary went on, serene in her victory, "you need not stay any longer. I'll go out and get change, and let you have the sovereign without delay."
The woman vanished with a respectful salutation. Mary crossed over to her writing-case.
"My education is growing apace," she laughed, "my dearest Connie, will you be so good as to tell me the way to the nearest pawn-broker's?"
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'mnot 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."
"Idid 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.
"If it isn't a rude question," he said, "who are you? What do you mean by interfering in this way?"
"It does not matter in the least who I am," Ralph replied. "To put it bluntly, Lady Dashwood has asked me to get rid of you. Until you have disposed of this portion of the property, the house belongs to her ladyship. Your dissolute companions have already gone. I don't blame them, however. I have no doubt that they expected a congenial welcome here. They probably drew a wrong picture altogether of Lady Dashwood. They had the grace to be ashamed of themselves."
"Once more," Dashwood said with drunken gravity, "who are you?"
"As I said before, it does not in the least matter," Ralph replied. "At the present moment I am acting on behalf of Lady Dashwood. I know that it is not the slightest good to appeal to your better feelings, for the simple reason that they don't exist. Will you be so good as to go, or am I to resort to force?"
Dashwood laughed. The hot blood mounted to Ralph's face and the full force of his passion tingled to his finger-tips. He threw open the long window that led to the lawn; then he advanced to the figure lounging in the chair. He wasted no time in argument, but bent over the chair and dragged Dashwood out by the throat. A moment later the latter was flung violently on to the grass, where he lay dazed and confused for a moment. Presently he picked himself up, and loafed after his companions, who were noisily walking down the avenue. It was a relief to Ralph to know that the fellow was not seriously hurt.
As if nothing had happened, he made his way to the dining-room. Lady Dashwood was pacing up and down the room, her face white and set, her eyes full of flaming anger. All the fiery blood of the race was raging in her veins now.
"So they have gone," she cried. "A pretty outrage indeed! I shall have the villagers here next dropping in on their way from the inn of a Saturday night. Have men of that class no manners, no respect for the feelings of others?"
"You can't altogether blame them," Ralph said soothingly. "Probably they took you to be what that drunken ruffian yonder would call 'a good sort.' They judged you by him, and I am quite sure that Mr. George Dashwood did all he could----"
"He didn't," Lady Dashwood flashed out. "He is a coward and a poltroon. He is not worthy to be the father of a girl like Mary. Fancy him cringing and fawning on a man like that for the sake of a good home and the dainty food that he loves better than his independence! But I don't blame him and the man who calls himself Sir Vincent Dashwood so much as I blameyou."
"_Me!_" Ralph asked in some surprise, "what have I done?"
"Everything. You have brought all this about. If it had not been for you, this disgraceful scene could not have happened. For purposes of your own, you have placed a puppet on the throne at Dashwood--a disgraceful, drunken image, that is not worthy to be called a man. Why do you do it?"
"I think you know perfectly well," Ralph, said gently. "I am very, very sorry; I could not have foreseen anything like this. Won't you forgive me?"
All the hot, rebellious anger died out of Lady Dashwood's heart.
"I must, when you speak to me like that," she said. "When you look at me with your father's eyes, and speak to me with his voice, I could find it in me to forgive you anything. But you must own that it is very hard to bear, Ralph. When you came back here like a figure from the grave, I began to hope that God was going to be good to me in my declining years. I have sinned heavily, but I have paid the penalty. When I saw you that day at the fire I recognised you at once, as Slight had done. My prayers had been answered, and one of my flesh and blood had come back to claim the old inheritance. And you had come to free me from the hateful attentions of the impostor who so grievously insulted me tonight. But you did nothing of the sort; you tried to hide yourself from me as if you were guilty of something shameful."
"But, my dear grandmother, I told you why," Ralph protested. "I had to work out my life's romance in a way that seemed best to me. And Fate played into my hands--the little affair of the silver matchbox forced the so-called Dashwood to speak. Still, it will not be for long. I saw the family solicitors yesterday--are by no means disposed to let matters remain as they are. Have you any idea as to the real identity of the man who calls himself Sir Vincent Dashwood?"
"Ihad," Lady Dashwood said. "But I was certain yesterday. I saw his mother. Oh, but yesterday was a day of surprises."
"His mother," Ralph cried. "Is she still alive? She was Agnes Edgerton, sister of my father's first wife. Is not that so?"
"Absolutely correct, but I did not know it till yesterday; I thought that she was dead long since. I have never heard a word of her since she left the village seventeen years ago. And because she knew of my crime, because she knew of the great sin that hangs over the house, she wrote to me and asked me to help her. It appears that she had been residing in London at a place called Keppel Terrace, where she has tried to live by letting lodgings."
"That much I know," Ralph said. "She wrote to my father from time to time. What I did not know is that she had a son. Please go on."
"It was a most pitiful letter she wrote me. She was going to lose her home if she did not receive a certain sum by a certain time. The letter came too late for me to help. It was followed by a telegram asking me to send the money to another address. Had you not come into my life, had things been different, I should have sent the money and thought no more about it. But things came into my mind and a vague suspicion that I felt bound to verify. I went to London yesterday and I saw Mrs. Speed. She told me that it was her son who had brought her to this pass. Of course, up to that time I had no idea she had a son. I asked her to show me his photograph, and she did so. You can guess whose likeness it was?"
"I can guess now," Ralph said. "Of course, it was the man who is at present master of Dashwood Hall. Did the woman know that?"
"Oh, dear, no. She has not the least idea. But you can see now where the impostor got all his knowledge, and how he came into possession of so many documents."
"Not quite," Ralph said, "I want a little light on this particular spot."
"Well, that is easy. When your father fell in love with his first wife, Maria Edgerton, they took the sister Agnes, now Mrs. Speed, into their confidence. She received and kept all the letters, at least, she seems to have kept the letters after Maria Edgerton died. Of course, when the affair came to the ears of your grandfather and myself we were terribly annoyed. Mind you, I had nothing whatever to say against Maria Edgerton. She was very good and beautiful, but very simple indeed, and ignorant of the ways of the world. We thought that we had put an end to the affair, but we failed, and your father and Maria Edgerton were secretly married. Even then we had hopes of hushing up the scandal. Your father had to go away with his regiment, and we persuaded his wife that he was dead. I did that, and old Patience helped me. And so did Slight--we were all in the disgraceful business. Don't ask me why I did it; call it the curse of the family pride if you like. We thought the woman would go away and forget. Instead of that she pined and died. When the news came to me I felt like a murderess. I have never been the same woman again, I never shall be. And your father found it all out, he came home, and there was a dreadful scene. He went away declaring that he would never come home again, and he kept his word. I dared not write to him directly, but sent my letters through Mrs. Speed. Now you can understand how her son has come to be so well posted in the secret history of our house. He must have read and re-read those letters till he had them by heart. But his mother did not know, she does not guess. How much longer is this state of affairs to continue, Ralph?"
Ralph shook his head. These revelations came as a surprise to him. And it was a very sad and very dreadful confession that Lady Dashwood had made to him.
"All that I have heard confirms me in my opinion that I have acted for the best," he said. "I cannot absolve you from blame, grandmother, indeed I cannot. For the sake of the family pride, you have suffered this remorse for nearly forty years. And yet, in the face of it all, knowing that Mary was coming into the property some day, you fostered the same spirit in her. I love Mary, and the one great object in my life is to make her my wife. But I wanted to be loved for my own sake, and not for the sake of the family fetish. My plan----"
"Is succeeding," Lady Dashwood cried. "Nay, it has succeeded already. Go and see Mary, call on her and ascertain for yourself whether I am speaking the truth or not. She has only been gone a few days, but already the change has worked wonders. Put your future to the touch, and you will not be disappointed. Only end this dreadful state of affairs, turn that man out of the Hall, let me see the place sweet and wholesome again before I die."
Ralph hesitated. It was a tempting picture that Lady Dashwood had drawn for him. But he could not quite entertain the idea that already Mary had changed her nature entirely, as a grub turns to a butterfly. At the same time Lady Dashwood's plea was not one to be turned from lightly.
"I will see Mary," he said, "I will go to her tomorrow. I must see Mrs. Speed also, for I have a message to deliver to her from my father. You see, I had no idea where to look for her. Patience my dear, dear lady, patience. After the lapse of forty years you will not mind waiting for a few days longer."
"You are getting on," Connie cried, "after a time you will become a Radical. Already you are fast forgetting the caste of Vere de Vere, especially after your visit to the pawnbroker's yesterday. Tell me, did you feel very much afraid?"
"Well, no, I didn't," Mary laughed. "It was not such a dreadful experience after all. You see, I had the face of our landlady before my eyes. I tried to think of nothing but the fact that we had another night out of doors before us. I don't believe I even trembled as I placed a diamond ring on the counter and asked a loan of five pounds on it. Perhaps I was just a little afraid of being given in custody on a charge of dealing with stolen goods. Ah! the glow of satisfaction when I found that money in my pocket! Will you believe me, Connie dear, I was thinking nothing about myself, but about you and Grace. And when I got back here and saw your faces it was the happiest moment in my life."
Connie kissed the speaker affectionately. She was genuinely touched, though she did not care to own it. She pointed to the brushes and paints on the table.
"Well, don't be prodigal," she said. "I've managed to get you five hundred cards to paint and they will take you a whole week. And now I'll go and find some fresh work to do. Thanks to Mrs. Speed's exit, I have lost myWheezerjob. As the drawings were not on time I've been told that I need not ask for any more work. It is such a pity, because it was such regular, steady employment."
Connie spoke lightly, but Mary could see she felt it. She painted on at her cards till nearly luncheon-time, until her back ached and her fingers were almost too stiff to hold a brush. But there was peace and contentment in her heart, a feeling of happiness and gladness that she had never felt before. She took a glass of milk and a bun presently, and then put on her hat to go as far as Mrs. Speed's. Though the promised telegram had been sent, the necessary boxes had not turned up yet. And Mary was getting anxious. She would go and fetch the boxes; in the circumstances, the luxury of a cab would be justified.
Mary swung along the street with a free step and a sense of joyful elation. She had not gone far before somebody touched her lightly on the shoulder. She started and turned to find herself face to face with Ralph Darnley. He looked bronzed and well. The tan on his handsome face brought with it a whiff of the country. There was no mistaking the genuine pleasure that shone in his eyes as he held Mary's hand in his.
"I called at your rooms," he said, "and they told me that you had just gone out. I followed quickly with wonderful luck. Where are you going?"
"Off to the wilds of North London," Mary laughed. She felt a strange sense of gladness in the presence of Ralph; a certain shy happiness possessed her. "Our late landlady went off with our boxes. We had to sleep out the night before last."
"So Lady Dashwood told me," Ralph replied. "It must have been a dreadful experience. And yet you look very well and happy, Mary."
The girl laughed in a shy kind of way.
"I really believe I am," she confessed. "Mind you, it was very dreadful at first. I felt so utterly lost and sad that I very nearly came back and proclaimed my defeat."
"At the expense of the family pride?" Ralph laughed.
"Yes," Mary said quietly with a flush on her face. "I am coming to the conclusion that the family pride is a great mistake. It made me so cold and self-contained. I never seemed to know what it was to have sympathy for anybody. To be a Dashwood is a great thing, of course. But there are far higher and nobler aims. Those two girls I live with made me thoroughly ashamed of myself. They are ladies who get their own living by art work--but, of course, you know all about Connie Colam. What a nature she has!"
"One of the noblest in the world," Ralph said quietly. "Mary, I hoped that you would grow like her. I hoped that her example would be a benefit to you. With your beauty and her disposition, you would be one of the most perfect women that God ever made. Ah, the man will be lucky indeed who calls Connie Colam his wife."
Mary assented warmly enough, and yet at the same time she was conscious of just a tinge of passing jealousy at the high praise of her friend. Ralph had told her all along that he loved her, that there was no other girl in the world for him. Had her coldness killed that love? Then she told herself that it did not matter, seeing that the affection was not returned in the way that Ralph meant. All the same, she could not rid herself of the impression that such a thing would take all the light out of her life, and leave her alone and desolate indeed.
"Connie thinks very highly of you," she said shyly.
"That is very good of her," Ralph replied with something like a sigh, "but we are too good friends ever to care for each other in any other way. Still, she is doing you good, Mary. There is something about you that I can't describe, some subtle change for the better. I never noticed till now that you had such a sweet and tender smile and there is a thrill in your voice that makes you pure and womanly. My experiment has been a success."
"What experiment is that?" Mary asked innocently.
"What am I saying?" Ralph laughed. "I have a confession to make later, but it is not the time to go into that. It is good to be by your side again, listening to your voice. Now, tell me all that you are doing."
Mary did not need to be asked. She fairly bubbled over with delight. The deep thrill that Ralph had noticed in her voice touched him and caused a chord to throb in response. It seemed almost impossible to believe that this was the Mary of the old days, the proud, distant creature whose head was in the clouds contemplating the glory of the family. She was tender and warm and confiding, and the flush on her face gave the one thing needed to make her fair and radiant beauty complete.Thiswas the girl that Ralph loved, the woman of his fondest dreams. He felt as if he could walk by her side for ever.
"But you will think me conceited," she said presently; "I have talked of nothing but myself for half an hour or more. Please do not laugh at me."
"Certainly not," Ralph said indignantly. "I have no intention of laughing at you, Mary. It is a positive joy to me to hear you talking like this! And so there are better, truer things than the Dashwood pride and the family pedigree. You have seen what noble womanhood can do for itself, what a dignified thing honest labour is. Do you remember what I said to you the night that you came to London, Mary?"
"I recollect," Mary whispered softly. "You prophesied for me. You said that I should be better and purer for the sacrifice. You said that I should see life as it is, and learn what a poor thing the family glory was by the side of humanity. And I have learned the lesson, Ralph, I am quite content now to work for my living; I am trying to forget Dashwood and all its glories. Why, I have even become accustomed to London bread and butter."
The girl burst into a merry laugh in which Ralph joined from pure sympathy. Here was the model wife for which he had been looking.
"That is important," he said, "but there is another lesson that I am anxious about. You have become a child of the people now, a recruit in the great army of labour. But with your new womanhood has there not come another and sweeter dream to you, Mary? Have you not pictured someone by your side to help in the struggle?"
The girl's face flushed crimson, but she bravely met Ralph's eyes.
"Yes," she said frankly, "we were only talking about it last night. Oh, I have gone a long way indeed since I saw you last."
"That is good to hear. And when the right man comes along you will not refuse him simply because he does not have a long pedigree?"
"Please do not say too much about it," Mary pleaded. "If you only knew how dreadfully ashamed you make me feel! As if it mattered, as if anything mattered, so long as the woman loved the man and he was worthy of her affection. There, Ralph, do you need me to say any more than that! A man does not need a long pedigree or a fine estate to be a gentleman. But, really, you are making me false to my creed, and I shall not tell you anything else till I have seen Mrs. Speed. This is the house. Will you wait outside?"
"Certainly not," Ralph said, "I have something to say to Mrs. Speed as well as you. You will perhaps be surprised to hear that she is an old friend of my father's. Come along."
Mrs. Speed came up from the kitchen very hot and very red, and inclined to be angry at being disturbed at this time of the day. She began to explain volubly to Mary why the boxes had not yet been sent off. In the hall a man was calling for the landlady. She broke off in her exclamations and stared at Ralph. She seemed terribly agitated, her face grew white, her eyes astonished, as Ralph held out his hand.
"A ghost!" she said, "a ghost from the grave. And yet it could not be; after all these years, it is impossible that the form of--well, what is it?"
The man in the hall came swaggering into the room. He glanced at Ralph, and would have vanished had not the latter detained him.
"This is an unexpected meeting," he said. "I did not expect to see you here so far away from home, Sir Vincent Dashwood."
"Sir Vincent Dashwood!" Mrs. Speed cried. "Then who, sir, areyou, I'd like to know?"