Читать книгу The Nether Millstone - Fred M. White - Страница 14

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."