"And so that is what you mean!" Mary said slowly when at length she had found sufficient breath to speak. "Stripped of empty phrases and diplomatic trappings, I am to make a bargain with Horace Mayfield to save the honour and reputation of our house."
"Let me point out to you that the thing can be done tonight," Sir George whispered.
"Oh, I know that. That is why Horace Mayfield is here. He has returned on purpose. He has carefully calculated the place where the wound is likely to hurt most. He knows the full extent of my pride, my idolatry for the old house and the old name. And I am to make a bargain with him. I am to exchange myself for freedom from the disgrace and humiliation. And that is a course that you seriously suggest."
"I have not said so," Sir George muttered. He held his head down. He could not meet the flashing blue scorn in his child's eyes. "These things happen every day. Look at Lady Cynthia Greig. She married Newman the financier, who started life goodness knows where. And she was supposed to be the proudest girl in London."
"Oh, I know. There was some whisper of a terrible family scandal involving a deal of money. And the last time I saw Cynthia, she looked like a beautiful white statue. There was a fierce, hard gladness in her voice when she told me that she was dying of consumption. Yet, so far as I know, Mr. Newman is an honest man."
"Does not the same remark apply to Horace Mayfield?"
"Certainly not. I judge him from your own lips. You declared that he had robbed you of a large sum of money, that he had deliberately worked it so that it appeared as if he had been defrauded by a dishonest servant. And all this to get me in his power. And you did not reply to that letter of Mr. Mayfield's with the scorn that it deserved; you waited to hear what I had to say about it."
Sir George protested mildly that he could do nothing else. But Mary was not listening. She glanced at the familiar objects about her; she passed over to the window and pulled up the blind. The moon was shining peacefully upon the rose garden and tinting with silver glory the old gates beyond, as it had done many times the last two hundred years. It all looked so sweet and graceful, so refined and restful. No shadow of disgrace had ever rested on the house before, no slander had ever made a target of the house of Dashwood. And now the tongues of the whole county would be wagging. The price to pay was a terrible one, but Mary did not hesitate. It never occurred to her that she was deliberately estranging the very pride that she hugged so closely to her heart, that trouble and misfortune could be borne with dignity and fortitude, that the gossip of the idle mattered nothing. She reached out a hand to her father, and he understood. He took a note from his pocket and passed it over to the girl. It was only a few lines that Mayfield had written, but there was no mistaking their meaning. Mary felt that the words had been written for her alone; very clearly the issue had been thrown into her hands. She crossed over to a table and began to write. She was burning and trembling from head to foot; therefore she was surprised to see that her handwriting had never been bolder and firmer. Without heading or ending of any kind she wrote this message to Mayfield:--
"It is getting late now, but it is not too late to talk business to a business man. I am sending you this at once, so that you may get it a little after eleven. If you will be so good as to come over tonight we may settle matters at once."
She read the letter aloud and folded it calmly. Sir George nodded a sort of shamefaced approval. Under his brows he had been watching Mary with the keenest anxiety all the time. He knew that the girl's scruples were justified; that he ought to have torn up Mayfield's letter and treat it with the contemptuous silence that it deserved. But he merely smiled and nodded his head.
"I have done it," Mary said. "God knows the price that I am likely to pay for my sacrifice, if the sacrifice is worthy of the occasion. Where is Slight?"
Slight replied to the bell in person. His small red face had an angry flush; his grey hair stood up all over his head like a clothes brush.
"Take this over to Swainson's farm," Mary said, "and wait for an answer. The letter is for Mr. Mayfield, as you will see, Slight."
The old butler drew back a few paces. He regarded the letter as if it had been something noisome to sting him; his face grew obstinate and dark and almost murderous. Slight was a fanatic in his way, as Mary had noticed many times.
"Beg pardon, miss," he said doggedly, "but I respectfully decline to do anything of the sort."
It was no time to argue with the old servant. And Slight was something more than an ordinary butler; he was a friend of the family. Despite his blunt refusal, his manner was as respectful as the most exacting could have wished. Then he seemed to forget everything; his passion broke out and burst all bonds.
"I've been here for more than forty years," he said. "I was bred and born on the estate, and on the property I hope to die. I know the Dashwoods better than they know themselves. It's all pride, pride, and nothing else matters. And it's part of your pride, Miss Mary, to make terms with Mayfield, who is one of the greatest rascals that ever drew breath. You may be surprised to hear me say this, but it's true. That man has brought all this about. He's done it for his own ends. He's waiting for you to own that he is master of the situation, and he dictates his terms. And that he shall some day come here and lord it over us is one of them. And it's your pride in the old house that is going to play into his hands. Don't you do it, Miss Mary, don't you let that scoundrel come here. If it happens----"
"Silence," Mary cried. "Slight, you are forgetting yourself."
"Maybe," Slight responded; "but I'm not forgetting you. And I won't take that letter; not if I lost my place for it. Besides, I've got something else to do. I've got to save you from yourself if possible."
Slight turned quickly and left the room. With an exclamation of annoyance, Sir George crossed the lawn in the direction of the stables, with a view of calling upon one of the helpers there. By the time he had succeeded, Mary was ready with her letter. She looked very white and stern and proud as she stood there in the moonlight. The fading light fell upon her neck and shoulders and turned them to ivory. A fitting mistress for that grand old house, truly! She was like one of Tennyson's cold and immaculate heroines, she had a sort of fierce satisfaction in the knowledge that she came without a pang to the altar of the family sacrifice. She was quite blind to her own insensate folly; she would have been astonished to know that she was doing a wrong thing.
"Please take this note to Swainson's Farm for me, Walters," she said in her sweetest manner. "It has been forgotten, and I am exceedingly sorry to give you all this trouble. There is no occasion for you to wait for an answer."
Walters stammered something to the effect that it was a pleasure, and went his way. In the distance, old Slight was stumping off across the park with evident determination. A shade of annoyance crossed Sir George's face.
"We must get rid of that fellow," he said. "Really, the insolence of these family retainers is past all bearing. You will see to this tomorrow, Mary!"
Mary made no reply. She was not in the least angry with old Slight. She understood the old man's feelings exactly; she knew his love and affection for her. Sir George's vapid attempts at conversation almost drove her mad. She wanted to be alone to think. She passed into the drawing-room, muttering that she had forgotten something. The lamps were still burning, the great bronze clock chimed the hour of twelve.
The dreadful object on the satin couch had fallen asleep; his shock head was thrown back, and from his lips came a long and regular snore. A poisonous scent of foul tobacco filled the air. Surely no sacrifice would be too great to get rid of this, Mary told herself. Mayfield would come along presently like some malignant fairy; he would wave his wand, and this terrible invasion would disappear as if it had never been at all.
But Mayfield would demand his price. Of that Mary had no doubt. For a long time now the girl had known that he cared for her. He had made no effort to disguise his feelings from the time that they had met in Paris two years ago, when Mary was paying one of her visits to her father in the French capital. And Mayfield was of the class of men who always get their own way. Sooner or later Mary would be absolute mistress of Dashwood Hall, and it was no mean thing for a man to have the chance of sharing such a home with his wife.
But the cost of it all; the sacrifice entailed! From the bottom of her heart Mary loathed and despised the man who was plotting to make her his wife. She knew him to be an utterly unscrupulous rascal, a fitting instrument to sway the dishonour of the Dashwoods. A few days more of this unspeakable degradation and Mayfield would be powerless. It was only a matter of making the neighbours talk, of tittle-tattle at tea tables. And in a few days it would all be forgotten. Other people had gone through the same humiliation and had come out of it as if nothing had happened, but they were not Dashwoods. . . . A long snore came from the figure on the couch, and the man stirred uneasily.
Mary seemed to flame from head to foot. The momentary hesitation passed. No, it was quite impossible to support this kind of thing for the best part of a week; the thought of slanderous, wagging tongues was unendurable. At any cost these creatures must be removed; even the servants must know nothing. So far as Slight was concerned, he was absolutely to be trusted. Mary's mind was made up for good and all.
Time was passing more quickly than she knew. As she stood there the clock chimed the half-hour after midnight. A few minutes later and Mary heard her father calling her. She understood him to say that Mayfield had arrived.
"Let him come here," the girl said independently. "I am quite ready."
Sir George shuffled off again in the direction of the library, where Mayfield stood on the mat before the fireplace smoking a cigarette. There was not the slightest suggestion of triumph about him, his face was calm and set. He looked like some under-secretary who is about to read statistics to a House of bored listeners. He had left his eye-glass behind him, so that the cynical expression was absent.
"She's in the drawing-room," Sir George said. His manner was almost cringing. "She--she prefers to discuss the matter with you alone. Perhaps she thinks that you are more likely to listen to her than to me--Mayfield."
"She's right there," Mayfield said almost brutally. "It is a matter between ourselves. Sorry to put you to all this inconvenience, Dashwood, but there was no other way of teaching the lesson. But you need not worry, half an hour will see the whole matter settled, and even your servants will not be any the wiser. I arranged the thing so that you should have the maximum of experience at the minimum of inconvenience."
Sir George muttered something to the effect that his companion was very thoughtful. There was not an atom of fight left in him, and he took no heed of anything but his own personal comfort. The sooner Mayfield and Mary came to an understanding and those cattle were cleared out of the house, the better. After that Sir George could go to bed.
Without undue haste or eagerness, Mayfield passed into the drawing-room. There was just a sardonic touch in his smile as he noticed the snoring hog on the yellow satin lounge. He quite understood why a sight like that could touch Mary's pride to the quick. Strange what queer pawns in the game of life a clever man had to use at times! Mary was standing in the window-frame looking out into the night. Everything seemed so still and peaceful; there was no jarring note save the snore of the man in possession. Mayfield just touched Mary on the arm and she turned. Her face flushed for an instant, and then it became deadly pale again.
"Not in there," she said, "I cannot breathe in the house tonight. Do you know what I should have done had this happened a century or two ago?"
Mayfield did not know, but he could give a pretty shrewd guess as he glanced at the steely blue glitter in Mary's eyes. A certain pride of possession thrilled him.
"I think you know," Mary went on. "I should have asked you here to discuss the matter, to appeal to your better nature. And when I failed I should have killed you first and myself afterwards. I could do it now if I had the weapon to my hand."
Mayfield nodded. Far better to let Mary talk herself out, he told himself cynically. She was not the sort of girl to yield without a struggle, she was no frightened child to sue for terms. But in the letter she had written to Mayfield she had sounded the note of surrender. He was here now as conqueror; to see her walk out with all the honours of war. And surely she was worth all the strategy if any woman was, the tall, fair beauty with those flashing eyes and the skin of alabaster glistening in the rays of the moonlight. A prize worth the winning, a daughter of the gods, if ever there was one.
"But these methods are out of date," Mary went on in the same bitter strain. "I am told that they do things in different fashion today. You have done me the honour to ask me to share your future life and I refused the offer."
"Why?" Mayfield asked. "My family is equally as good as your own."
"I know it. Butnoblesse oblige. You are what you are. And so you planned and plotted for this; with diabolical cunning you saw where you could strike me in a fatal spot. You came here tonight in a position to make your own terms."
"Not quite," Mayfield said quietly. "There is another way for you. So far as I understand your father is in a position to make his holding sure in a few days. The house is large and the presence of a few guests, however undesirable, makes little difference. It is, I admit, not a nice thing to have one of the great unwashed smoking shag tobacco in the drawing-room, but it is only a matter of days. The matter is in your hands for you to decide as you please. I am not going to coerce you."
Mary laughed scornfully. The mirth sounded harshly against the silence of the night; the man on the satin cushions stirred and made a gurgling noise in his throat. Mary's mood suddenly changed and she shuddered. She was bitterly conscious of her complete inability to do anything. She had expected Mayfield to take his triumph openly; she was just beginning to understand what a strong and dangerous foe he could be.
"You know how to gloss it," the girl said. "But there is going to be no tacit ignoring of the real truth between you and me. You have brought this all about to force my hand. You have calculated upon my pride of race, and my pride of place. You know--nobody better--what suffering this is likely to afford me. And you are in a position to remove the pain and the humiliation with the stroke of a pen."
"Yes, I could do that," Mayfield said, speaking as if the suggestion threw an entirely new light on the situation. "As a matter of fact the thing is absurdly simple. I have only to send a telegram to my lawyer--one of your servants could take it to Longtown and despatch it even at this late hour. My lawyer could come down by the morning mail, getting here before six o'clock, and send those fellows packing. Then the incident would be forgotten as one forgets an unpleasant dream. You see, my resource is practically without a limit. I can meet you in any way that you please."
"I have felt that for some time," said Mary coldly. "And in return for this--kindness!"
"Surely there is no occasion for me to repeat my conditions! Besides, 'conditions' is not a pretty word to use in dealing with a lady. You will not find your bonds irksome, you will not find in me a very exacting lover. It can go out to the world that there is an engagement between us and in due course a marriage will follow."
Mayfield spoke quietly enough, but his looks belied his tone. There was a fierce volcano under that placid exterior, a strong, consuming passion, and a will to lead Mary when once Mayfield had the power over her. Some instinct told the girl this.
"It sounds prosaic enough," she said. "I suppose I must take you at your word. And yet all the time I know perfectly well that I am doing myself a great wrong in the eyes of God and man. I am not so strong as I think--I am not strong enough to place my happiness before humiliation. I must have time to think this over."
"Take as much time as you like. I will come again tomorrow, if you please. You shall not throw it in my teeth afterwards that I have hurried you in any way."
Mary sighed helplessly. The man was so strong and she was very, very weak. She might have gained the full advantage of her pledged word and broken it deliberately afterwards. It was the code of honour that Mayfield would have possessed himself if he had seen any advantage by so doing. "And suppose I play you false?" Mary asked.
"You will never do that, I am not in the least afraid; I trust you implicitly."
Mary turned back, baffled and defeated at every turn. The night seemed to have grown suddenly chill, for she shivered as she made her way into the drawing-room. It wanted but a feather in the scale now, to make up her mind for good and all. Her eyes were drawn by magnetic attraction to the sprawling figure on the cushions. The harsh note smote her like a thong.
"Look at him," Mayfield whispered, "does it not fill you with pain? And there he is likely to remain till the sight of him drives you beyond endurance. One word from you and the loathsome episode is past. Why do you not say the word and finish it?"
The words seemed to sink into Mary's soul. Ralph Darnley flashed into her mind, but she put his image resolutely aside. She pointed towards the door.
"You had better go," she said huskily, "go before I change my mind again. You will find some telegram forms in the silver case on the library table. Need I say any more than that? You can come back and show me what you have written."
Mayfield bowed and departed without showing the faintest indication of his victory. Mary staggered across to the window, with her hands to her dry, hot head. A shadow seemed to rise from the gravel of the terrace, a shadow with a white face framed in grey hair, the form of Lady Dashwood, limping a little, but otherwise strong and resolute.
"You have been there long?" Mary asked. "You have been listening."
"Yes, yes," Lady Dashwood said in a strange thrilling whisper, "listening, and waiting for my chance. It is not too late yet, my child. Thank God, I am in time. You must not do it, you must not heed, for the sacrifice would be all in vain. Come, let me tell you what I mean. You are not used to dealing with scoundrels--I am!"
Mary placed her hand to her head in utter bewilderment. The world seemed to have changed in the last few hours. Hitherto, life at Dashwood had progressed on oiled springs, calm and peaceful. There was the regular decently appointed day, with its routine of refined duties, the dinner and the pleasant contemplation of placid evenings. Mary had swung like a proud planet in the still atmosphere. And now everything had passed into the wildest topsy-turveydom.
Even Lady Dashwood had altered. The quiet, self-contained woman, whose very restfulness had been one of her greatest charms! The sweet expression of her face had vanished; she looked aged and anxious, almost fierce.
"What does it all mean?" Mary asked. "What has come to everything and everybody? It seems almost impossible to believe that here at Dashwood----"
"Trouble comes; but trouble comes everywhere. It enters the palace as easily as the cottage, my child. And my fault, all of it. But come outside and talk to me. Mary, you must have nothing to do with that man!"
"But how do you know?" Mary asked. "I--I am not yet certain myself. Who could have told you anything?"
"But you are certain, child. You had made up your mind. The misery of your face tells me so. And you sent a note to that man. Would you have done so unless you had made up your mind to surrender?"
Mary looked down, and the red of shame flamed into her face. Come what would, she could not turn to either side and escape humiliation.
"Slight told me," Lady Dashwood went on. "He came to me at once. My dear, you must not be angry with old Slight. He worships the very ground you walk on; he would lay down his life for you. And he knows everything; I shrewdly suspect that he knows even more than I do. Slight is something more than a servant, he is a valued friend of the family. And he came to me as I have said. He tells me that Horace Mayfield has got his wicked fingers in here; that he has plotted to make you his wife. That must not be, Mary, that must never take place. Surely you can defy that man, can order him out of the house."
"I could," Mary said slowly, "I am not afraid of him. As yet I have not pledged my word. Still, I am quite helpless. Look into the drawing-room and see for yourself. . . . That is what we have to put up with, three of them for the best part of a week. By eight o'clock tomorrow morning the servants will know everything; before the day is out we will be the talk of the county. I could not show my face after that. The degradation would make me old before my time. It is not as if I cared nothing for Dashwood. I love every stick and stone of it, the place is part of my being. It was your house for nearly forty years. Can't you understand my feelings?"
"I ought to," Lady Dashwood said bitterly. "It was I who first fostered those feelings. I tended them; day and night I watered them and fed them till they grew like a plant. With the lesson of the past before my eyes, I encouraged your pride. And now it is the master passion of your life. Everything has to be sacrificed to the old name and the old place. As for me, I should not hesitate for a single moment."
"And never know the feeling of happiness again!" Mary cried.
"Oh, my dear! happiness and I parted years ago. The old never expect happiness; there are too many ghosts, too many gaps, and too many memories. Peace is the greatest possession that one can expect at my time of life. And if you do this vile thing, then I shall have to go down to the grave without it. I am a wicked old woman; I am suffering now because I dare not tell the truth; but rather than this wrong shall be done, I will speak, though I made a death-bedside promise not to do so. Suppose I told you that you have less right at Dashwood than I have!"
The last words came with a fierce whisper that struck a cold chill to Mary's heart. Had Lady Dashwood suddenly lost her reason? But that white quivering face had no dull insanity upon it; the dark eyes were full of horror but not of madness.
"What do you mean?" Mary asked.
"I--I cannot tell you. I was sorry to say as much. Do you suppose that Horace Mayfield loves you in the ordinary sense of the word?"
"I believe he does, if that has anything to do with the question."
"Dear child, that man is incapable of any such feeling. Love is a sacred thing. Horace Mayfield is a cold-blooded and designing scoundrel. Your beauty may inflame him, but there is no love behind. He calculates that it will be no bad thing to call this his home. He plays upon your sinful pride as a master plays the violin. He knows that you would do anything, even to marrying him, to keep the scandal away."
"It is the only way," Mary said; "Horace Mayfield is too strong for us. What is that?"
Something stirred in the bushes close by, a crooning song was but half audible.
"It is your old nurse, Patience," Lady Dashwood explained. "She was sitting with me tonight when Slight came over hot-foot with the news. Patience has one of her lucid moods tonight. And Patience knows everything. The secret is hers, too."
"I am tired of this mystery," Mary said; "why is Patience Ray hiding there?"
A thin, bent figure emerged from the bushes; a dark withered face in a frame of thin grey hair looked out. It was an old woman, toothless and haggard, yet the eyes were sharp and shrewd now. For some years past the aged creature had been suffering from decay, but there were moments when her wit was as sharp and shrewd as ever.
"I couldn't stay away, dearie," the thin piping voice said. "It was like a mercy that God gave me back my mind tonight. The wicked old woman may do a lot of good before she dies yet. Don't you do it, dearie. Tell him that the proper owner is coming back to Dashwood, and that your face is your only dowry. Because I've seen the heir, as I knew that I should do before I die."
"What is she talking about?" Mary asked in utter astonishment. "Patience, explain yourself."
But the old woman shook her head and refused to say any more. She muttered to herself something about disgrace and the house of Dashwood.
"Smoke the rats out!" she cried shrilly and suddenly, "smoke them out! It is the only way to clear Dashwood of such vermin. Put the match to the faggot and burn them out. That's what I would do if I had my way. And to think that it should come to this after all these years. Mistress, mistress, what a couple of wicked old women we are."
"We are that," Lady Dashwood said mournfully. She did not chide the wild speaker's words as Mary had expected. "Our sin is going to find us out, Patience. Mary, I implore you to do what I ask you. I implore you to spare me the pain of a full confession. Send the man about his business and have none of him."
There was passionate entreaty in Lady Dashwood's tone, so that Mary was troubled in more ways than one. The heart pulled her one way, pride and reason another. And behind it all was a haunting sense that something was terribly wrong here. There was some dreadful meaning underlying the wild words of old Patience. As Mary stood there, cold and dispassionate in the moonlight, Horace Mayfield emerged with a telegram form in his hand.
"I have been some little time," he explained, "the forms were mislaid. But what is the meaning of this, Miss Mary? Surely it is late for Lady Dashwood to be abroad."
Mayfield spoke calmly enough, but his eyes looked troubled. He glanced from one to the other of the group anxiously.
"I came to see Mary," Lady Dashwood said coldly. In some magical way she had recovered her self-possession. She was cold and collected, a veritablegrande damein the presence of an inferior. "I had received certain information as to what has recently taken place here. It seems that Sir George Dashwood is under obligations to you, and that as these obligations have not been satisfied, you have put the law in motion. In the language of unfortunate people in a lower walk of life, you have 'put the bailiffs in.' It probably occurred to you that this would cause Miss Dashwood a deal of suffering!"
Mayfield bowed with exaggerated politeness.
"We have known each other a long time, Lady Dashwood," he said. "We have had some business transactions together, and you have never been at any great pains to conceal your opinion of me. Therefore, I should gain nothing by an endeavour now to appear in a more favourable light in your eyes. To be candid, when I set the law in motion, I was not blind to the fact that my action would cause Miss Dashwood a certain anxiety."
"Shameless!" Lady Dashwood cried, "more shameless than I expected."
"Smoke them out!" came shrilly from the lips of the old woman, "Burn the rats out! Put the firewood and the candle together and burn out the vermin! Burn Horace Mayfield! Burn him and the other rascals in a pile together!"
Mayfield started, he seemed as if about to say something, then apparently he changed his mind, and ignored the speaker altogether.
"As you please," he said, "I shall be glad to have your views on the matter."
"I had no intention of seeing you," Lady Dashwood said. "To think that you are the son of my dearest friend! It is well that she died before she knew. I came here to see Mary, because I knew exactly how you had played on her feelings. For purposes of your own, you have been diving into the family history. Many things you have discovered, but many things remain a secret to this day. Clever as you are, you have no inkling of the shameful truth. If I chose to speak now, I could disperse several of your pleasant dreams. I took an oath by the bedside of a dying man to say nothing, and I have regretted my promise ever since. A promise like that is a sacred thing; to break it is a deadly sin. Yet there are some promises that God never intends one to keep. Mine is one of them. So long as I alone suffer, it matters little. But when others are to suffer for my silence, others whom I love more than I love myself, then it is time to break the vow and let the world know everything. By my silence I doom yonder beloved child to lifelong misery. If you cared for her----"
"Pardon me," Mayfield interrupted, "that is what I am trying to prove. My methods may not commend themselves to you, but I hold that everything is fair in love and----"
"Hold," Lady Dashwood cried; "you pollute the word with your tongue. What can you know of love in its better and higher sense? Would you be standing here tonight if Mary were a pauper instead of heiress to Dashwood Hall?"
Mayfield had no reply for the moment. Clever man of the world as he was, the question found him dumb. He could only fall back on the commonplace.
"Why put an impossible case?" he asked. "If it comes to that, why are you here at all? Miss Mary and myself have come to an understanding--the understanding will be complete as soon as I have dispatched this telegram. We are going to stifle the voice of scandal between us. Where is the young footman who was going to take the message to Longtown?"
"The message is not going to Longtown," Lady Dashwood whispered hoarsely. "I can guess what that message means to my beloved child. Mary, fetch your father here. The hour has come when God tells me that I may break my word and speak."
The flimsy telegram form crumpled in Mayfield's grip. His face had turned deadly white with baffled fury. He fought down the anger in his heart and forced a smile to his lips.
"I am afraid we are all going too far," he said. "Let us wait till the morning. Lady Dashwood gives me no credit for magnanimity, I know. I am going to prove that she wrongs me. After all, I have other resources. There are other ways than this."
He tore up the telegram deliberately, and dropped the fragments on the terrace. He must conciliate the old woman at any cost. It would not be difficult, once she had gone, to get Mary to pledge her word. Deep down in his heart, Mayfield was angrily wondering what secret Lady Dashwood had to disclose. He could tell by the expression of her face that it was something dramatic. He turned to Mary who was regarding the fragments of the telegram with anxious eyes.
"I am afraid I do not understand," she said, "I am so worn out and tired that my brain seems incapable of grasping anything. I thought that that telegram was going to be the means of removing those men and averting scandal. If there is any other way of saving our house from such a calamity----"
"That can be managed," Mayfield smiled, "nothing easier. Come with me a moment and I will show you how it is done. Perhaps Lady Dashwood would also like to see----"
"No, I am quite satisfied for the present," Lady Dashwood said coldly. "Thank God, I have been able to save the situation. I understand that you are staying at Swainson's Farm for tonight. As the farm is on my way home, I shall be glad of your company so far, as there is something that I wish to say to you. I will wait for you at the bottom of the rose garden. Come along, Patience."
The old bent woman muttered something and shook her head. She stood there with her cunning, beady eyes fixed on the noble façade of the old house. There broke from her a dry chuckle, as if her inmost thoughts were not displeasing.
"You let me alone, my lady," she said. "It isn't often as my mind is as clear and bright as it is tonight. And don't you worry about Miss Mary. I'm an old woman, and I'm not good for much, but I can prevent that."
A haggard, shaking hand was pointed to the entrance of the drawing-room where Mary's figure stood out under the soft light of the shaded lamps. Then Patience turned away and plunged into the bushes. Again and again Lady Dashwood called softly, but no answer came. It was peaceful and silent once more under the light of the waning moon.
Mary had passed back into the drawing-room with Mayfield. The girl's head was in a whirl. At the same time she could not forget Lady Dashwood's warning and the strange hints she had dropped. Mayfield had been impressed also, or he would not have been in such haste to tear up the telegram. Why was he afraid of Lady Dashwood? How could he tell that there was something under the surface?
"Perhaps you had better explain to me," the girl said. "The events of the past hour have puzzled me. You went to the library to procure a telegram form. You were going to send a message to your solicitor asking him to be here in the morning with authority to remove those men. As they are your creatures, is it not possible for you to get rid of them?"
"No," Mayfield explained, "these people represent the sheriff. My solicitor is acting for me in the matter, and there would be certain formalities to go through before I could take matters out of his hands. But there are ways of keeping such matters quiet that you little dream of. . . . Wake up."
The snoring creature on the yellow cushions turned over uneasily at a vigorous application of Mayfield's foot and opened his eyes. He sat up presently and demanded to know why he had been interfered with. There was no civility in the man's manner; he evidently had no sympathy with misfortune.
"Speak in a proper manner," Mayfield said sternly. "I happen to know that you will be out of this house in a few hours. There is nothing to grin about, fellow. I suppose that you would not have the slightest objection to earning £5?"
"So long as it's all right, mister," the other growled, "but if you've got some little game on and think that you are going to get me out of the house----"
"Nothing of the kind. Do I look like that kind of person?"
"Never can tell, mister. I've had the dodge tried on with me by them what has handles to their names. Still, there is no objection to hearing what you've got to say."
"That is very nice and obliging of you," Mayfield said grimly. "I am going to make no effort to undermine your virtue. We do not want the servants to know who you are or what you are doing. There's £5 cash for you if you can manage this. I'm told it is often done. What do you suggest?"
As he spoke, Mayfield played thoughtfully with some sovereigns. The big man grinned.
"Now you are speaking fair," he said. "If people meet us all right and don't regard us as convicts or bushrangers, why, we can meet other people. The three of us have been in many a good house together. The last time we came down to go over the place to give a proper estimate for electric light. You've only got to look wise and potter about with a foot rule and a notebook, and there you are! We can pretend to be measuring outside when the servants come down in the morning, and I daresay Sir George can arrange for our food to be given us somewhere handy. Bless your life, there's many a way of doing it, if you'll give me the brass for the other two chaps and settle it at once."
Mayfield handed over a little pile of sovereigns and the man shuffled off in the direction of the kitchen. Mayfield smiled at the success of his errand.
"There," he said; "I fancy that is all right. Only you must tell Sir George exactly what has happened so that there is no confusion in the morning. Sir George is thinking of having the electric light installed. The men are here to take measurements. They will keep the joke to themselves. You ought to be very much obliged to me."
But no protestation of gratitude came from Mary's lips. The light of a great scorn was still in her eyes.
"Lies and prevarication and deceit," she said. "I seem to have found myself in a very network of falsehood. The poorest girl on the estate is happier than I am. It may be as you say, it may be that we shall escape the tongue of scandal. But what are you going to do--how long is the deception to go on?"
"That depends on yourself," Mayfield said coolly. "You can defy me if you like, and take the consequences. But it shall not be said that I have treated you unfairly. That is why I am giving you another night to think the matter over. Now go and tell Sir George what has happened."
Mary turned on her heel and left the room without another word. There was a sinister smile on Mayfield's lips as he watched the girl's drooping figure.
"The thing will pass as far as she is concerned," he muttered. "And now to tackle Lady Dashwood and have matters out with her."
Mary dragged herself as far as the library. Sir George was pacing up and down the room, trying to soothe his nerves with a cigar.
"What a time you have been!" he said impatiently. "Why did you not return before, knowing how anxious I should be? Mayfield came for a telegram form, so I presume he has made matters right with you? Did Walters take it?"
"So far as I know, Walters has gone back to bed," Mary explained. "The telegram was not sent, for reasons best known to Mr. Mayfield. There is no occasion to be angry. It was no fault of mine--and has nothing to do with me. Mr. Mayfield suggested that I should have another night to think it over. It is not his code of honour----"
"Code of honour! The fellow hasn't got one! There is no trusting him! And now everybody will know of this disgrace of ours."
"They won't. Mr. Mayfield has arranged all that. He seems to be clever at this kind of thing. But perhaps I had better explain."
The anger and irritation died out of Sir George's face as he listened. He expressed no feeling of disgust or abhorrence at the trick to be played upon his household; on the contrary, a suppressed chuckle broke from him, a chuckle instantly smothered as he noticed the white scorn on Mary's face.
"I beg your pardon, my dear. Of course, it is all very wrong, but in the circumstances, what else could we do? I have not the slightest doubt that Mayfield will make it all right tomorrow. And now we must go to bed."
Mary turned aside and went wearily in the direction of the hall. Usually, she gave her father a warm and dutiful kiss before retiring, but she really felt that she could not do so tonight. She had always freely expressed her contempt for tears as a woman's weapon and as a solace in the hour of trouble. But the tears rose to her eyes now as she thought of her father and the sorry part he had played. It seemed almost incredible that the head of the house of Dashwood could act so meanly.
And she herself! How much better was she behaving in the hour of trial? The girl's face flamed as she thought of it. In her heart of hearts she knew that the proper thing would have been to face the matter and see it out to the end. Yet her pride had impelled her to make an appalling sacrifice to silence tongues that did not matter in the least. What would Ralph Darnley have thought of it all had he known? How strange that Ralph should come into Mary's mind now, she told herself, strange that she should revert to him when danger threatened.
"You need not wait on me tonight, Kelly," Mary told her maid. "It is so very late and I want to be alone. Have you been asleep in my chair all this time?"
The pretty little maid admitted that she had. She went her way presently and Mary began slowly to undress. But tired as she was she felt that somehow sleep tonight could not be for her. Usually, she dropped off directly her head touched the pillow; the silence of the old house was very soothing. But not tonight, for the place seemed full of weird noises, the noises that the invalid hears when pain prevents slumber. Mary lay there, but she could not sleep. It seemed to her that somebody was moving about the corridor. Surely she heard a footstep, and something like the scratch of a match.
Mary rose and slipped on a dressing-gown. Candle in hand, she opened the door. And, surely enough, she was not mistaken. A dark figure was there, a figure that muttered and crooned, as if seeking something. Mary approached the intruder.
"Patience!" she exclaimed, "what are you doing here? And how did you get into the house? I thought that you had returned to the dower house with her ladyship."
Patience looked up and smiled in a weak, watery kind of way. She was not in the least afraid, and there was just a suggestion of slyness in her aged, faded eyes.
"I forgot something, my dearie," she said. "There was something that I made up my mind to do and then I forgot clean about it. It was one of my good nights, and my head was as clear as yours. Her ladyship told me everything. But she didn't tell you everything because she dared not. Ay, we are two sinful old women for certain."
"Never mind about that," Mary said soothingly, "I daresay it will all come right in the morning. But you should not have come here like this. You had better lie down on the couch in my dressing-room and go to sleep."
"But there was something that I wanted to do," the old woman whined. "I thought of a way of saving you, of saving everybody. And then it clean went out of my head."
Patience wrung her hands and the tears stood in her faded eyes. She appeared to be deeply distressed about something. She stopped suddenly, and stood alert and listening.
"Did you hear that?" she demanded. "They are in the kitchen. All three of them together! I saw them just now, but they did not see me. They were laughing together, and one of them had gold, which he was dividing with the rest. And they have come here to bring disgrace on this noble house. And there was I standing close by with a way to get rid of them in my head. . . . There was something that I wanted, and I couldn't find it. So I came to look, and I forget what it was. Such a beautiful plan, too, so very simple and yet perfect. My dearie, can't you help me to think what it was? If you can only help me we shall get rid of these men, and the trouble and disgrace will vanish, never to return. It isn't often that I get a good idea in this poor head of mine, and to forget it like that is cruel, cruel!"
Patience wept a little, and began to wring her hands again. Mary's old nurse had been in this state now for some years, though there were times, for longer or shorter periods, when she was in possession of all her faculties. She was not in the least dangerous; as a privileged old servant she had been allowed to wander from one house to the other at her pleasure. But Mary had never seen her so wild and excited before, and the thing troubled her.
"What do you know of our trouble?" she asked.
"Her ladyship told me. It was something to do with some money that Sir George owed to Mr. Mayfield, and which those men had come to get. And her ladyship could not help you, for Mr. Vincent has made her sell all her jewels already."
Mary fairly started. Was it possible that she was on the track of another family trouble, some new and black disgrace of which she had hitherto known nothing? It seemed hardly fair to take advantage of a weak-minded old woman in this, and yet--
"Who is this Mr. Vincent that you speak of?" Mary asked.
"Her ladyship told me. It was something to do with some money that Sir George owed to Mr. Mayfield, and which those men had come to get. And her ladyship could not help you, for Mr. Vincent has made her sell all her jewels already."
Mary fairly started. Was it possible that she was on the track of another family trouble, some new and black disgrace of which she had hitherto known nothing? It seemed hardly fair to take advantage of a weak-minded old woman in this, and yet--
"Who is this Mr. Vincent that you speak of?" Mary asked.
"Mr. Vincent--that is all I can tell you. He is young and handsome, and yet so wicked and unscrupulous. And it is to prevent him from speaking out that my lady has sold all her jewels. They are not hers to sell, but they have been disposed of all the same. I really do know who Mr. Vincent is, and why he has such a hold over her ladyship, but something gets in the way of my brain and I can't think what I ought to say. And I'm so tired."
The old woman suddenly dropped into a chair and began to whine like a child that has walked too far. Mary was accustomed to these sudden changes and knew how to humour them. She fairly lifted the old woman from her seat and led her to the dressing-room. Obedient as a child now, Patience lay down and closed her eyes. A moment later and she had fallen into a placid sleep. Mary regarded her with eyes of envy.
"After all she is better off than I am," she murmured, "and her troubles are nearly over. What a blessing it is to be able to sleep when you want to! And here am I on the brink of a fresh and darker mystery than my own! I begin to understand now why Lady Dashwood looks so haggard and worried. And what does this Vincent know, who can blackmail my poor old second mother in this way! All the family jewels, over £30,000. Oh, how sad it is to be almost without a friend in the world! And yet Ralph Darnley promised me----"
The colour rose to Mary's face as she pronounced Ralph's name. It was the one reflection that sweetened her thoughts as she lay on her bed waiting for the sleep that would not come. She turned from side to side; she could see by the saffron gleam on the blind that the summer dawn was close at hand.
Then at last she fell off into a kind of fitful slumber that was a mass of confused and hideous dreams. She was in some vague, indefinite kind of trouble, tangled up with a scheme of Mayfield's, and across a yawning gulf Ralph Darnley was holding out his hands to save her. And then it seemed to her that Ralph kissed her, and that she did not in the least mind it. After that they drifted apart again, and once more the baleful influence of Mayfield was uppermost. They were falling together down a deep pit with flames at the bottom; the fumes were so great that Mary could not breathe.