The Nether Millstone

by Fred M. White

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!"