The Nether Millstone

by Fred M. White

Mary's cheeks flamed at the unconscious humiliation. She was being offered a home as a pauper and a dependent; it was infinitely worse than going into a workhouse. Mary had never dreamed of being humbled and crushed in the dust like this. Before she could reply, Slight looked into the doorway, his dry, red face screwed up into the semblance of respect. He announced Horace Mayfield in a loud voice.

Mayfield came in, glass in eye, serene and self-confident, his hard mouth looking more like a steel trap than ever. The quiet triumph in his eyes was not lost on Mary; she did not fail to note the gleam of possession as he glanced at her. There was cold consolation in the knowledge that after all Mayfield was powerless to hold her soul and body in thraldom any longer.

"I beg your pardon," Mayfield said, "I seem to be intruding on a family conference or something of that kind. Slight did not tell me, though I have every reason to believe that he was listening outside the door. What are you doing here?"

The question was flung headlong at Vincent Dashwood, who had started and changed colour as Mayfield came in. Evidently these two knew one another, for Mayfield was rudely contemptuous, Dashwood cringing yet defiant. Was there yet another vulgar mystery here? Mary wondered wearily.

"Perhaps I had better explain," Ralph said. "This, Mr. Mayfield, is an unexpected, but nevertheless dramatic situation. Let me present you to Sir Vincent Dashwood, only son and heir of the late Ralph Dashwood, who died some time ago. Sir Vincent had some natural hesitation in declaring his identity; he was loth to upset existing arrangements. We must all respect proper feeling of that kind. One reason Sir Vincent had for keeping his personality a secret was the fact that he lacked the legal proof of his parent's marriage. By a fortunate chance I was able to supply the omission. Still, we need not go into that. The fact remains that Sir Vincent has now established his claim, as the family solicitors will admit without unnecessary delay. Unhappily, this new condition of affairs makes it very awkward for Sir George--I mean, Mr. George Dashwood. By this cruel stroke he finds himself practically a pauper. And on Miss Dashwood the blow falls with the same heavy weight. The heiress becomes dependent upon the charity of the head of the family."

As Ralph spoke his eyes were fixed on Mayfield's. He was searching keenly for any sign of anger or emotion. But Mayfield did not betray himself. There was a red spark in his eyes and the big veins stood on his forehead, but nothing further. And as Ralph proceeded a faint smile grew at the corners of the cruel mouth.

"This is exceedingly interesting," he said, "and to think that Sir Vincent should have kept this from so old a friend as myself."

There was mocking bitterness in the speech and Dashwood fairly writhed under it. He seemed to hang in a kind of agony on the next word. His sigh of relief as Mayfield turned from him was not lost on Mary. Mayfield turned abruptly to the girl.

"This will make a great difference to you," he said. "For my own part, I am disappointed at the strange turn of affairs. Still, I am philosophic enough to take my chances. In reality I came here to say goodbye to you. I will not see you for some time to come."

The whole thing was so cool, so icily audacious, that Mary had no words for reply. This man had accepted the change in the situation with instant readiness, there was not so much as a shade of regret in his voice. Mary had gone out of the sphere of his affection, and he was prepared to drop her like an old glove. The blood flamed into her face at this fresh humiliation; the pride of the family was serving her badly now. Her trembling hands went out to Ralph. He saw what was passing in her mind.