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 time-table 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 time-table. 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."
"Hewilldo 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!"
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.
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."
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!"
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 17s. 4d., 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.