The Nether Millstone

by Fred M. White

"We could tell a different story, the old lady and self," he went on suggestively. "I shall have a pleasant surprise for Sir George some of these days. I'm only waiting for some papers from the other side and I shall move. My father married a Californian lady, you see, and they are pretty careless there in their keeping of records. Still, it is only a matter of time."

"That is very strange," Ralph said grimly. "My father also married a Californian lady. Oh, you need not look so uncomfortable; I am not likely to interfere with your claim. Indeed, I may be in a position to assist you a little later."

Just for the moment there was a queer grey tint on Vincent Dashwood's face. He seemed to be horribly frightened about something. But the expression passed, and his old saturnine look returned. Ralph was smiling, too, as if something amused him. Lady Dashwood glanced from one to the other furtively, as if she feared some outbreak of violence. There was no means of reading Ralph's thoughts from the expression of his face, or Dashwood would not have been standing there so utterly at his ease. For he was a scoundrel of the vilest type, the class who do not hesitate to blackmail women.

"Well, I'll just go and look round till you have finished with the gentleman," Dashwood said airily. "Then mind that you are ready for our little business, old lady. I've got to be in London this evening, and no mistake about it. By the way, the Hall is in the hands of the firemen and police, but I'm told that no great damage has been done."

The speaker swaggered from the room with his hands in his pockets, whistling as he went. Ralph's expression grew stern and hard.

"So this is one of the crosses that you have to bear," he said. "At the risk of being curious, I must ask you a question. Is this the man for whose sake you have been raising money on the family jewels? How long has it been going on?"

Lady Dashwood clasped her hands and the tears came into her eyes.

"Nearly two years," she whispered. "Thank God, you have come to me, for my strength would not have borne the burden much longer. Nobody knows anything; nobody suspects but Slight. And he pretended to be my grandson. We were both utterly deceived. He knows everything, he told me all about the original quarrel, he had letters which I had written from time to time to your--to my son. And he is an infamous scoundrel. He desired me to keep his presence and his claim a secret, and for the credit of the family I did so. The few who know him think he comes from the Yorkshire side of the house. He traded on my fears; he knew what I thought of him. And when he had drained me of thousands, and in sheer despair I pressed him to push on his claim, he always pleaded that he could not get certain papers--his mother's marriage certificate, I think it was. Mind you, I believed in him implicitly; with all the sacred private information he had, I could do nothing else. And Slight also was equally deceived. He has had nearly everything of mine that he could lay his hands on. You see that I am powerless to protest; if I had forced him to speak, there would only have been a scandal. He has been getting bolder lately or he would not have spoken so freely to you just now. And directly I saw your face today I knew at once that it had all been a hideous mistake. You will free me from that man, Ralph?"

"Not quite yet," Ralph replied. "You must play your part a little longer. If, as you say, you have nothing more to bestow, you need not be afraid of him. That man has given me a new idea for bringing about the object that I have most closely at heart. I am going to make use of him, if necessary. If it is not necessary, then I shall make very short work of Mr. Vincent Dashwood. But before that you must tell me everything. Mind, I say everything as regards my--your son's marriage with Maria Edgerton. I believe that marriage was the cause of all the mischief."

"Indeed it was," Lady Dashwood said. Her voice was filled with the deepest sadness. "What will you think of me when you hear of the part I played in that unhappy affair? But I cannot tell you now, I am unfit to go into the matter at present. The shock of meeting you has been almost more than I can bear. Come and dine with me here on Saturday night, and I will tell you everything. My dear Ralph--if I may call you so in private--is it possible that your coming is the augury of a happier time for me? Happiness I won't ask for, but I should like to go down to the grave in peace."