The Nether Millstone

by Fred M. White

"I don't think he would," he said. "Mayfield is sufficient of a business man to know the value of money. Of course he's fond of the girl, which is quite natural. But I fail to see what your question has to do with the matter."

Ralph was not blind to the hopelessness of his task. Truly it is difficult to know the real standard of even one's closest friend. Up to a certain point, Ralph had regarded Sir George as an honourable man, who would have shrunk from any act calculated to pain or harm any fellow creature. Dashwood would probably have protested himself that such was the case. And yet here he was, prepared to sacrifice his only child on the altar of his sinful selfishness.

A bitter contempt filled Ralph; he would have liked to turn on this man and tear him to tatters with sharp-edged words. Were all people alike when it came to the test? Ralph wondered. He half rose from his seat, and then sat down again. It was impossible to quarrel with Mary's father; there was nothing to gain by such a course. And Sir George seemed to divine little of what was passing in the mind of his young companion.

The elder man had regained his equanimity now. He was sure that Mary would do what he called the right thing. It was rather a nuisance, and so forth, but then it was absurd to imagine that any girl could imperil the good name of such a family as the Dashwoods. As Sir George sipped his wine, he caught sight of his own head and shoulders in a Florentine mirror on the far side of the room, and, unconsciously almost, set his tie straight. It seemed incredible to Ralph that the man could think of such things at such a moment. But there it was. Sir George poured out for himself another glass of wine.

"I can see that you are vexed," he said in his polished easy way. "As a friend of ours you naturally would be. In addition, you are naturally prejudiced against our friend, Horace Mayfield. So am I, but we must make the best of it. After all, there are many standards of honour. Mayfield is a business man; he has been trained to methods which are not in accordance with our views. All is fair in love and war, he would argue. We must not be too hard on our fellow creatures, Darnley."

"The fellow is a scoundrel," Ralph said hoarsely. "He is bad to the very core of his being. He would never see the inside of Dashwood Hall again if you could be free of him. And when I think of your daughter as that man's wife----"

Ralph paused. He was unable to proceed. His quick imagination travelled on ahead of him; he could picture Mary's future in the darkest colours. He knew only too well the fire and force and passion that lay under the cold exterior. He could guess at the unspeakable humiliation to come from Mayfield's very touch. And this would go on not for days, but for years. And Mary would never murmur, she would confide in nobody, she would hug the galling chains to her breast until the canker entered the heart of the flower and killed it ...

But Dashwood was talking again. Ralph was so lost in his own gloomy thoughts that he had some difficulty in picking up the thread.

"And there is another thing, my dear fellow," Sir George murmured. "You will excuse my saying so, but you are taking on yourself a little too much. Mary owes her life to you on two different occasions. I am sure that we are both of us exceedingly grateful to you. And you have proved yourself to be a real friend in other ways. Still, that does not give you the right to harp upon this topic quite so freely. When Mary marries Mayfield----"

"She never will do so," Ralph cried, forgetting himself for the moment. "Rest assured that this hateful marriage will never take place. You may look surprised, but wait and see. I have not finished with Mayfield yet. After this evening is over, and I have heard Miss Dashwood's decision for the last time----"