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.
[CHAPTER XV.]
NOT QUITE TOO LATE
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.