The Nether Millstone

by Fred M. White

"I'm afraid not," Mary sighed, "but won't you go and see Lady Dashwood? She is upstairs in her sitting-room. Of course, she is upset; in fact, she has been saying all sorts of strange things which are beyond my comprehension. Why has she taken such a strange fancy to you, I wonder?"

But Ralph did not appear to be listening. There was every prospect of a painful interview before him. He passed up the stairs to the pleasant room looking over the gardens which Lady Dashwood had made her own. She signed for the door to be shut; as Ralph came towards her, she advanced with both hands outstretched.

"You will guess why I sent for you," she said. "Mary has been telling me everything. So the man who calls himself Vincent Dashwood has made a bold move at last."

"He really didn't," Ralph smiled. "But had we not better sit down? My dear grandmother, you are going to become a party to the conspiracy. Let us no longer keep up the pretence of not knowing the relationship in which we stand to each other."

Lady Dashwood extended a shaking hand, and Ralph touched it with his lips.

"Perhaps I had better make a full confession," he said. "I am your grandson. I knew that you would recognise me by the likeness to my father. Old Slight did so at once and very nearly betrayed me. I had forgotten Slight. I pledged him to secrecy, I had nobody to fear but you, and it seemed to me that it was quite easy to keep out of your way. But circumstances were too strong for me. Then I saw that you were going to respect my wishes and I was safe. Forty years have gone by since my father left the Hall, so that nobody was likely to guess my identity."

"Yes, but who is this Vincent Dashwood?" Lady Dashwood asked. "Oh, I am not quite so foolish over that man as you may think. He came here and declared himself to me. He had the most absolute documentary evidence. He had many of the letters which I had written to your father--letters to which I never received any reply. Old Slight was more mistrustful, and submitted the claimant to a rigid cross-examination. The man was not to be shaken in a single detail. We were bound to accept his statements. But one proof was lacking, the certificate of his parents' marriage. He desired to have his claim kept quiet till that proof was forthcoming. This was after Mary and her father came into possession. You can imagine my distress and grief, seeing that I loved Mary so, and I hated the intruder in proportion. He preyed upon my weakness, he seemed to read me like an open book. If you had not appeared, he would have gone on blackmailing me till the end. But when that man came face to face with you, I knew that he was an impostor, that he had never seen my son Ralph. And now he has decided to play the bold game, seeing that nothing more is to be expected from me."

"Not quite that," Ralph explained. "Fate played into my hands. The man was more or less forced to disclose his identity. Let me tell you all about the matchbox. . . . Now you see exactly how it is."

"But this is monstrous," Lady Dashwood cried, "you have only to speak and the wicked scheme collapses. You will not let this go on, Ralph?"

"For the present, grandmother. For the present we are going to say nothing. A little time before my father died he told me who I was. We had lost our money, but that did not matter as my father was provided for here. When I came to find out how the land lay, to my surprise I discovered that the only woman I could ever care for was installed at the Hall as mistress. I had no idea that this was going to happen when I met Mary two years ago in Paris. Her father had not assumed the family name then. And when I came face to face with Mary and held her in my arms, I knew that the old love was stronger than ever. And here was a solution. Those people were occupying my place, the place that belonged by birth to me, Sir Ralph Dashwood. If I had proclaimed and asked Mary to marry me, she would have consented. She would have regarded it as her duty to do so. But that is not the marriage of my dreams. Perhaps I am romantic: I want Mary to marry me, me, plain Ralph Darnley, for love of me, and deem the family pride well lost for a good man's affection. It is the living, breathing woman I want, not the lovely mistress of that family who puts the pride of the Dashwoods in front of everything else. Suffering and trouble and poverty shall be her portion. She shall go out into the world and see what noble souls are there who rise superior to fierce temptation though they have no family pride to boast of. Then, when the scales have fallen from Mary's eyes, and she sees as I do, then will I ask her to share my life with me. My dream is to come back here with a bride who deems love and pity and sympathy to be far above the steady sentiment that says, 'I am a Dashwood, and the rest are as dirt under my feet.' You see what I mean, don't you? And that is why I am asking you to help me in the matter. Let this little imposter strut his passing hours on the stage; let him be our puppet. I shall know how to punish him when the time comes."