The Nether Millstone

by Fred M. White

But he was free now, fortune was on his side. His great good luck sent him trembling from head to foot like some amazed criminal who has been discharged by a stupid jury. He would have to give up nothing. He was still Sir George Dashwood with a grand estate, and a house with a history of three hundred years behind it. He would go to London tomorrow with those papers in his possession and his bankers would be ready to accommodate him to any amount in reason. He would pay the sum that Mayfield had mentioned, and wash his hands of the whole transaction. He would show the world how a country gentleman deals with these things. It never struck Dashwood that he was a feeble creature who had juggled with the good name that he proposed to hold so highly; he little realized the deep self-abnegation that had led to this dazzling piece of good fortune.

"Kick Mayfield out," he repeated, "after breakfast. Let him see that I am not in the least afraid of him; make him understand that we are little better than strangers for the future. Ah, that will be a triumph."

He hugged the papers to his breast, like a mother with a child. There were weak and senile tears in his eyes. He had lost nothing after all; the fine old house, the wide and well-kept estate, the great timber in the park and the deer there, were all his. He started as the sound of a footstep fell upon his ears. It seemed to him that somebody was creeping along the corridor. Perhaps it was Mayfield, who had found out what had happened. Mayfield was strong and unscrupulous, and he might try to gain possession of those papers by force. Sir George would have hidden himself, but it was too late, and besides it was broad daylight now.

The first rays of the morning sun shone on the old man as he stood there huddling those precious papers to his breast. He might have been some clumsy thief detected in the act. With a sigh of relief he recognized the figure of Slight coming in his direction. The old butler only looked a shade less distracted than his master, and his eyes were drawn and haggard; obviously he had not been to bed.

"What--what are you doing here?" Sir George stammered. "Why are you spying upon me like this? Why are you down so early?"

Slight made no reply. His gaze was fixed in a dazed kind of way on the papers which Sir George was still hugging to his breast. There was something like horror in the old man's eyes. There might have been the proofs of murder there.

"So you've got them," he said in the voice of one who talks to himself. "So he has carried out his threat and they have passed into your possession. Take and burn them, take and pitch them on the fire, and watch them till the last ash has vanished. You will be a happier man for it, Sir George, and a great wrong will be averted."

"What does the man mean?" Sir George cried in astonishment. "Slight, what are you talking about? Say it all over again. If you are mad or drunk----"

"Not mad," Slight said mournfully. He seemed to have come to his senses suddenly. He spoke now as one does when acting under a great restraint. "Not mad, Sir George, and as to the other thing, why. . . . But the secret is not mine. I promised solemnly not to open my lips. I have given you the best advice one man can give another, but more I dare not say. Burn them, burn them, burn them, for the love of Heaven!"

Slight turned away and seemed to totter down the corridor. The full light of the strong morning sun was shining through the gold and crimson glories of the great stained glass window now, the birds were singing sweetly outside. The park grew fair and green as the dew rolled back across the fields; the garden blazed in the sunshine. Sir George saw all this as he looked through his bedroom window. The fierce joy and pride of undisputed possession were upon him; everything was safe now.