Read Ebook: The Nether Millstone by White Fred M Fred Merrick

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Ebook has 1645 lines and 108119 words, and 33 pages

Loveral grinned his famous Loveral grin. "That's fine. What could it be?"

"None of your damned business."

The woman was behind them. Her voice screeched. "George, I told you. Why didn't you listen, George? You should have listened to me. You--"

Loveral held up a hand, still watching Atkinson. "Now tell me, George, what is it you're making for me?"

Atkinson raised the hammer slightly.

Loveral stood very still. "That's a nice hammer, George."

Atkinson's eyes were black beneath his thick brows.

"You made that, didn't you?" Loveral asked.

"Yes, I made that," Atkinson said. "I made that and I made something else. Another minute and I'll have that finished, too."

"George," said Loveral, stepping quietly forward, "I don't like to say this, of course. You've been one of our very best members. But nobody works here, George. We can't allow that. You know the rules."

"I know the rules, all right."

"Well, then," Loveral said, extending his hand toward the hammer, "we'll just destroy this and whatever else you might have been making. We'll just forget it ever happened. We'll get along real fine that way, George. We'll just be such good friends."

"We'll just go to hell," said Atkinson, snatching his hammer away.

Loveral's smile disappeared. "I'll tell you, George. I have to mean business with this. You know the reasons. If we allow anybody to work here, then there's going to be trouble. That isn't our plan. We're here to grow within ourselves and expand culturally. Not to commercialize a beautiful world like Dream Planet."

Atkinson stood unmoving, and Loveral could see the way the man's muscles were tight, like steel springs, and the way his eyes burned deep inside their blackness.

"We've given you everything you need," Loveral explained, trying to adjust the smile on his lips again. "Everybody has everything they want. But, you see, if you sit there and work and make something that someone else doesn't have, then the whole system is destroyed. Then someone will want what you've made. We'll have jealousy and hatred and fighting. This is the stuff of which wars are made, George. You know that. It starts with small things like this, but it grows. When it does, the structure of our life here will collapse. You wouldn't want that, would you, George?"

"Yes!" Atkinson said, his mouth white at the edges. "I'd like to see the whole rotten thing collapsed and blown to hell!"

Loveral's teeth snapped together and his lips grew tight. He could feel a muscle jumping along his neck.

Atkinson looked at him with furious eyes. "What do you think it's like, living this way? You're busy working twenty-four hours a day, while we wander around this damned prison like the breathing dead. You can feel sweat and aches in your bones from a hard day's work. Sleep is like medicine to you, instead of another stretch of torture. You can forget your own brain for a while by doing something with your hands. You can relax because you can get tired. Not us, by God. Not us!"

"I envy you, George," Loveral said through his teeth.

"Oh, like hell you do. You treat us like we were helpless infants. You feed and clothe us and do all our work, and you're so happy you damned near split your guts."

"I'll take that, if you don't mind," Loveral said, reaching for the hammer, his voice suddenly icy cold.

Atkinson slammed back against the table. "No, you won't. You won't take anything more at all. You've taken our spirit and our pride and the strength right out of our spines. You won't take anything more!"

"George?" Loveral said, but not moving any further.

Atkinson slid the hammer back of him onto the table, and his hands were searching among a dozen scattered pieces of metal and wood. He watched Loveral as he worked. "Let me show you what else I've made," he said.

"I'd hate to do it," Loveral said, "but I can stop your food, your water, everything."

Atkinson's hands moved swiftly, assembling the pieces. He nodded. "You can, but you won't."

"I have the only keys to the storage units. I control everything, George."

Loveral looked at what Atkinson had in his hands. He blinked.

"You're nearly dead," Atkinson said.

Loveral looked at Atkinson, into his eyes. "If you wanted to kill me, you could have and true, but you must make allowances for me. And besides, love is only a name to me. I owe my life to you, and believe me, I am too grateful for words. And if the time should ever come--oh, how selfish I am. Look at your arm. It is bruised and bleeding. It must have happened when you lifted me from the saddle. You must come up to the house and have it attended to at once."

"I don't think--" Darnley hesitated; "yes I will. It's really nothing. Let me catch your horse for you and we will walk across the path together."

There were the lodge-gates at last, with the arms of the Dashwoods carved in mossy stone, and the great iron gates from the cunning hand of Quentin Matsys himself. Beyond, the noble elms planted in the days of Elizabeth led to the house, a great Tudor mansion with gabled and latticed windows covered with ivy to the quaintly carved roof-tree. The gardens spread wide on either side; there was a thick hedge of crimson roses bounding the park, and in its purple shade the dappled deer reposed. Ralph Darnley drew a great breath as he took in the splendid beauty and serenity of it all. For three hundred years the reign of the Dashwoods had lasted, and not a stain had shown itself on the family escutcheon all that time. Darnley could excuse all Mary's pride.

"It is exquisitely beautiful," he said, with a queer catch in his voice. "How vividly it recalls Tennyson's line--'a haunt of ancient peace.' I am trying to make due allowances for your feelings, Miss Dashwood. If I had been brought up here, my views might be the same as yours. I love old houses."

Mary smiled one of her rare tender smiles. Darnley's eulogy touched her. She led the way through a great flagged hall, the walls of which were a perfect dream of carving; from their frames dead and gone Dashwoods looked down. There was oak carving everywhere, the ceilings were panelled, in the stained glass windows masses of flowers stood. Ralph would have stopped to admire it all, but Mary hurried him on.

"We will go into the breakfast-parlour," she said. "Then I will endeavour to show you that I can be useful as well as ornamental. Excuse me one moment--I must get rid of these torn gloves. Ring the bell, please, for Slight, the butler, and ask him for warm water and towels."

Ralph laid his hand on the bell as Mary flitted away. The old butler came presently, a thin little man, pink and white, the embodiment of what an old servant should be. Ralph gave his directions clearly enough, but the man stood there shaking from head to foot. There was joy and terror and amazement on his face; the tears gathered in his rheumy eyes.

"Mr. Ralph!" he whispered, "Mr. Ralph come back from the grave! Come back after all these years! What will the master say if he knows? I'm dreaming, that's what is the matter; I've gone off my head or I'm dreaming. And after forty years!"

The speaker came forward tremblingly and touched Ralph's hand. Apparently the contact with warm flesh and blood reassured him, for the pink apple bloom came back to his cheek.

"The same and yet not the same," he went on. "Stands to reason as forty years must make a deal of difference. But you are Mr. Ralph over again all the same. I loved him, sir. I mourned for him like a child of my own. I taught him to ride; I taught him to use a gun. I had to stand between him and Sir Ralph when the crash came. And you are his son as sure as there is a Heaven above us."

"Not quite so loud," Ralph said. "Pull yourself together, Slight. I take it you are old Slight about whom my father talked so often. He did not forget you, Slight. On his deathbed he gave me a message for you."

"And so my dear Mr. Ralph is dead. Dear, dear. What shall I call you, sir?"

"You are to call me nothing for the present," Ralph said. "I am Mr. Darnley, Slight, and you are to be discreet and silent. I had quite left you out of my calculation when I came here today; in fact, I had forgotten all about you. It never occurred to me that you would discover the likeness to what my father was forty years ago. I will ask you to meet me this evening, say, at half-past ten at the lodge-gates, for I have much to say to you."

"And, meanwhile, is nobody to know anything about you, sir?"

"Not a soul. The present head of the house never saw my father. The only one likely to recognize me would be the dowager Lady Dashwood, who is at the dower house. I am placing myself and my happiness entirely in your hands, my faithful old Slight, and I ask you not to betray me. Rest assured that it will all come right in time. Meanwhile, I have hurt my arm, and I require towels and soap and hot water."

Slight went his way with the air of a man who dreams. He came back presently, followed by Mary Dashwood. She dressed Darnley's arm skilfully enough. The touch of her fingers was soft and soothing. She was a tender and feeling woman now, without the slightest suggestion of cold pride on her face.

"I think that is all," she said quietly. "How brave and strong you are: how little you make of your courage. And yet few could have done what you did for me today. But I am forgetting that my father will be glad to see you. Let us go to the library."

A tall figure rose from a mass of papers heaped on a table. Here in the library was the same restful air of calm repose, the same patrician silence that brooded over everything like the spirit of the place. A flood of sunlight, tempered by the amber and blue of the stained glass windows filled the room; the rays centered upon the tall figure with the thin white face and grey hair, standing by the table.

"My daughter has been telling me everything, Mr. Darnley," Sir George said. "It was well and bravely done of you. . . . I am glad to see you in my house."

Darnley murmured something appropriate; he hoped that the expression of his face was not betraying his emotions. For the change in Sir George since they had last met was startling. The old, jaunty, easy manner was gone, the straight figure was lost, the iron-grey hair was white as snow. There were deep lines of care and suffering graven on the pleasant face, a suggestion of fear, or fright, or remorse. This was a man who carried some secret in his heart. Darnley felt that he would have passed Sir George in the street unrecognized. And yet the man appeared to possess everything that made life worth living. Ralph ventured to offer some suitable comment on the house and the beauty of the surroundings. A look of infinite sadness overcame the features of Dashwood for the moment. The slender fingers clutched as if at something unseen, as the fingers of a drowning man might clutch at a straw.

"Yes, it is perfect enough," he said dreamily. "A perfect house in a perfect setting. And Mary loves it even more than I do. It seems almost impossible to connect this place with sin and suffering and the sordid cares of life--what is it, Slight?"

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