"and so that is what you mean!" mary said slowly when at length she had found sufficient breath to speak. "stripped of empty phrases and diplomatic trappings, i am to make a bargain with horace mayfield to save the honour and reputation of our house."
"let me point out to you that the thing can be done tonight," sir george whispered.
"oh, i know that. that is why horace mayfield is here. he has returned on purpose. he has carefully calculated the place where the wound is likely to hurt most. he knows the full extent of my pride, my idolatry for the old house and the old name. and i am to make a bargain with him. i am to exchange myself for freedom from the disgrace and humiliation. and that is a course that you seriously suggest."
"i have not said so," sir george muttered. he held his head down. he could not meet the flashing blue scorn in his child's eyes. "these things happen every day. look at lady cynthia greig. she married newman the financier, who started life goodness knows where. and she was supposed to be the proudest girl in london."
"oh, i know. there was some whisper of a terrible family scandal involving a deal of money. and the last time i saw cynthia, she looked like a beautiful white statue. there was a fierce, hard gladness in her voice when she told me that she was dying of consumption. yet, so far as i know, mr. newman is an honest man."
"does not the same remark apply to horace mayfield?"
"certainly not. i judge him from your own lips. you declared that he had robbed you of a large sum of money, that he had deliberately worked it so that it appeared as if he had been defrauded by a dishonest servant. and all this to get me in his power. and you did not reply to that letter of mr. mayfield's with the scorn that it deserved; you waited to hear what i had to say about it."
sir george protested mildly that he could do nothing else. but mary was not listening. she glanced at the familiar objects about her; she passed over to the window and pulled up the blind. the moon was shining peacefully upon the rose garden and tinting with silver glory the old gates beyond, as it had done many times the last two hundred years. it all looked so sweet and graceful, so refined and restful. no shadow of disgrace had ever rested on the house before, no slander had ever made a target of the house of dashwood. and now the tongues of the whole county would be wagging. the price to pay was a terrible one, but mary did not hesitate. it never occurred to her that she was deliberately estranging the very pride that she hugged so closely to her heart, that trouble and misfortune could be borne with dignity and fortitude, that the gossip of the idle mattered nothing. she reached out a hand to her father, and he understood. he took a note from his pocket and passed it over to the girl. it was only a few lines that mayfield had written, but there was no mistaking their meaning. mary felt that the words had been written for her alone; very clearly the issue had been thrown into her hands. she crossed over to a table and began to write. she was burning and trembling from head to foot; therefore she was surprised to see that her handwriting had never been bolder and firmer. without heading or ending of any kind she wrote this message to mayfield:--
"it is getting late now, but it is not too late to talk business to a business man. i am sending you this at once, so that you may get it a little after eleven. if you will be so good as to come over tonight we may settle matters at once."
she read the letter aloud and folded it calmly. sir george nodded a sort of shamefaced approval. under his brows he had been watching mary with the keenest anxiety all the time. he knew that the girl's scruples were justified; that he ought to have torn up mayfield's letter and treat it with the contemptuous silence that it deserved. but he merely smiled and nodded his head.
"i have done it," mary said. "god knows the price that i am likely to pay for my sacrifice, if the sacrifice is worthy of the occasion. where is slight?"
slight replied to the bell in person. his small red face had an angry flush; his grey hair stood up all over his head like a clothes brush.
"take this over to swainson's farm," mary said, "and wait for an answer. the letter is for mr. mayfield, as you will see, slight."
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!"
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.
