Mary placed her hand to her head in utter bewilderment. The world seemed to have changed in the last few hours. Hitherto, life at Dashwood had progressed on oiled springs, calm and peaceful. There was the regular decently appointed day, with its routine of refined duties, the dinner and the pleasant contemplation of placid evenings. Mary had swung like a proud planet in the still atmosphere. And now everything had passed into the wildest topsy-turveydom.

Even Lady Dashwood had altered. The quiet, self-contained woman, whose very restfulness had been one of her greatest charms! The sweet expression of her face had vanished; she looked aged and anxious, almost fierce.

"What does it all mean?" Mary asked. "What has come to everything and everybody? It seems almost impossible to believe that here at Dashwood----"

"Trouble comes; but trouble comes everywhere. It enters the palace as easily as the cottage, my child. And my fault, all of it. But come outside and talk to me. Mary, you must have nothing to do with that man!"

"But how do you know?" Mary asked. "I--I am not yet certain myself. Who could have told you anything?"

"But you are certain, child. You had made up your mind. The misery of your face tells me so. And you sent a note to that man. Would you have done so unless you had made up your mind to surrender?"

Mary looked down, and the red of shame flamed into her face. Come what would, she could not turn to either side and escape humiliation.

"Slight told me," Lady Dashwood went on. "He came to me at once. My dear, you must not be angry with old Slight. He worships the very ground you walk on; he would lay down his life for you. And he knows everything; I shrewdly suspect that he knows even more than I do. Slight is something more than a servant, he is a valued friend of the family. And he came to me as I have said. He tells me that Horace Mayfield has got his wicked fingers in here; that he has plotted to make you his wife. That must not be, Mary, that must never take place. Surely you can defy that man, can order him out of the house."

"I could," Mary said slowly, "I am not afraid of him. As yet I have not pledged my word. Still, I am quite helpless. Look into the drawing-room and see for yourself. . . . That is what we have to put up with, three of them for the best part of a week. By eight o'clock tomorrow morning the servants will know everything; before the day is out we will be the talk of the county. I could not show my face after that. The degradation would make me old before my time. It is not as if I cared nothing for Dashwood. I love every stick and stone of it, the place is part of my being. It was your house for nearly forty years. Can't you understand my feelings?"

"I ought to," Lady Dashwood said bitterly. "It was I who first fostered those feelings. I tended them; day and night I watered them and fed them till they grew like a plant. With the lesson of the past before my eyes, I encouraged your pride. And now it is the master passion of your life. Everything has to be sacrificed to the old name and the old place. As for me, I should not hesitate for a single moment."

"And never know the feeling of happiness again!" Mary cried.

"Oh, my dear! happiness and I parted years ago. The old never expect happiness; there are too many ghosts, too many gaps, and too many memories. Peace is the greatest possession that one can expect at my time of life. And if you do this vile thing, then I shall have to go down to the grave without it. I am a wicked old woman; I am suffering now because I dare not tell the truth; but rather than this wrong shall be done, I will speak, though I made a death-bedside promise not to do so. Suppose I told you that you have less right at Dashwood than I have!"

The last words came with a fierce whisper that struck a cold chill to Mary's heart. Had Lady Dashwood suddenly lost her reason? But that white quivering face had no dull insanity upon it; the dark eyes were full of horror but not of madness.

"What do you mean?" Mary asked.

"I--I cannot tell you. I was sorry to say as much. Do you suppose that Horace Mayfield loves you in the ordinary sense of the word?"

"I believe he does, if that has anything to do with the question."

"Dear child, that man is incapable of any such feeling. Love is a sacred thing. Horace Mayfield is a cold-blooded and designing scoundrel. Your beauty may inflame him, but there is no love behind. He calculates that it will be no bad thing to call this his home. He plays upon your sinful pride as a master plays the violin. He knows that you would............