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[Illustration: frontcover]






THE NETHER MILLSTONE






[Illustration: She came slowly down the steps and stood between the two
men (Page 32.) _Frontispiece_]






THE NETHER MILLSTONE



BY
FRED M. WHITE
AUTHOR OF
"THE SLAVE OF SILENCE," "THE CRIMSON BLIND,"
"THE WEIGHT OF THE CROWN," ETC.


_ILLUSTRATED_



BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1907






Copyright, 1905,
By WARD, LOCK, AND COMPANY.
Copyright, 1907,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
---------------------
_All Rights Reserved_



Published September 1907



Printers
S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U.S.A.






CONTENTS

CHAPTER
        I. "The Caste of Vere de Vere."
       II. Dashwood Hall.
      III. Horace Mayfield.
       IV. A Leaf from the Past.
        V. The Sacrifice.
       VI. A Cruel Misunderstanding.
      VII. The Only Way.
     VIII. Found!
       IX. The Parting Guest.
        X. Skin Deep.
       XI. The Dowager Lady Dashwood.
      XII. Lady Dashwood Sees a Ghost.
     XIII. Desecration!
      XIV. A Fierce Temptation.
       XV. Not Quite Too Late.
      XVI. The Unfinished Word.
     XVII. Breathing Time.
    XVIII. A Flaming Sword.
      XIX. A Guardian Angel.
       XX. Half Told.
      XXI. Vincent Dashwood.
     XXII. Who Did It?
    XXIII. The Silver Clue.
     XXIV. A Fresh Calamity.
      XXV. Pride or Prejudice.
     XXVI. In Reckless Mood.
    XXVII. A Warning.
   XXVIII. Moral Force.
     XXIX. Strategy.
      XXX. The Heir of the House.
     XXXI. Under Which Lord?
    XXXII. Must This Thing Be?
   XXXIII. A Rebel Against Fate.
    XXXIV. Mistress Of Herself.
     XXXV. A Friend in Need.
    XXXVI. Connie Colam.
   XXXVII. The Unexpected Happens.
  XXXVIII. The Mystery Deepens.
    XXXIX. Homeless.
       XL. In Peril.
      XLI. The Lesson of Adversity.
     XLII. The Courage of Despair.
    XLIII. Getting Nearer.
     XLIV. The Dreary Way.
      XLV. The Walls of Pride.
     XLVI. The Head of the House.
    XLVII. "How Long, How Long!"
   XLVIII. Face To Face!
     XLIX. A Bolt From the Blue.
        L. Hard Put To It.
       LI. Cold Comfort.
      LII. The Spider's Web.
     LIII. The Web Tightens.
      LIV. "Eyes Clearer Grown----"
       LV. Not Dead.
      LVI. Found!
     LVII. A Clean Breast Of It.
    LVIII. "The King is Dead--"
      LIX. "Long Live the King!"
       LX. Open Confession.






LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

_Page_ 32 (_Frontispiece_). "She came slowly down the steps and stood
between the two men."

_Page_ 15. "She playfully asked him not to be too long."

_Page_ 272. "Under the shade of a tree Mary laid down and closed her
weary eyes."

_Page_ 397. "He had Mary's hand in his."






THE NETHER MILLSTONE




CHAPTER I.
"THE CASTE OF VERE DE VERE"


There were tears in the girl's eyes--tears of futile anger and
despair. The danger was so great, and yet safety was so near. If only
the black horse would stumble or swerve, if only she could work the
bit into that iron mouth and bring him to a standstill altogether. Her
gloves were cut to ribands now; the blue veins stood out on the
slender white wrists.

And still the horse flew on down the rocky path leading to the
lych-gate. He would charge through the gate into the green old
churchyard beyond, but no longer with his rider fighting for life on
his back. The arch of the lych-gate would sweep her from the saddle
with a blow that would crush the life out of her. Mary Dashwood could
see that plainly enough; she knew that she had only a few more minutes
to live.

She set her teeth and blinked the welling tears from her proud blue
eyes. She was not afraid--no Dashwood was ever afraid--but the pity of
it! She saw the great beeches rising on either side of the path, she
saw the blue sky beyond, the song of the birds came to her ears. And
she was only twenty-two, and life was very dear to her.

The moment was coming ever nearer. The black horse was thundering
along the straight downward path; the lych-gate was in sight. Mary
discarded the idea of throwing herself from the saddle; she would have
only been dashed to pieces on the rocks on either side of the road.
She had been warned, too, not to take the black horse. She bent low to
escape an overhanging bough; her hat was swept away; the shining
chestnut hair began to stream from her shapely head.

There was a crackling of sticks in the wood on the right; surely, a
hundred yards or so ahead, a face looked over the high fence, the
figure of a man was holding on to the overhanging bough of an oak
tree. Mary Dashwood wondered if the man realised her danger. Perhaps
he did, for he crooked a leg over the bough and hung arms downward
over the roadway. He was saying something in a smooth, firm voice.

"Pull to the side of the road," said the voice. It almost sounded like
a command. "Drop the reins and clear your stirrup as you near me. And
have no fear."

The big horse thundered on. Despite her peril, Mary did not fail
to notice how strong and brown and capable the stranger's hands
looked.... It was all done so quickly and easily as to rob the
episode of romantic danger--two hands, warm and tender, and yet firm
as a steel trap, grasped the girl's slender wrists, she was floated
lightly from the saddle, and in the next instant she was swaying
dizzily on her feet in the road. The pride and courage of the
Dashwoods availed nothing now--it was but a mere woman who fell almost
fainting by the roadside.

She opened her eyes presently to the knowledge that a strong arm was
supporting her. A bright blush mounted to her proud, beautiful face.
The colour deepened as she saw the look, half admiration, half
amusement, on the face of her rescuer.

"Mr. Darnley," she stammered. "I--I hardly expected to see you here. A
little over two years ago, in Paris, you saved my life before."

"It is good to know that you have not forgotten it," Ralph Darnley
murmured. "And yet the coincidence is not so strange as it seems. I
did not come to these parts moved by any unaccountable impulse--I
simply had business here. And I was told that a walk through the park
would repay me for my trouble. As I was making a start out, through a
copse I saw your predicament and hastened to your assistance. A handy
tree did the rest. The only strange part of the affair is that you
should be here, too."

"Nothing strange about that," the girl smiled, "seeing that the Hall
is my home."

It was a commonplace statement of facts, and yet the words seemed to
hurt Ralph Darnley as if they had been lashes to sting him. The honest
open brown face paled perceptibly under its tan hue. A dozen emotions
changed in those clear brown eyes.

"I--I don't quite understand," he remarked. "When we met in Paris two
years ago, Miss Mary Mallory----"

"Quite so. Mary Dashwood Mallory. But, you see, the head of the family
was alive then. He died nearly two years ago without any children, in
fact, his only son died years ago somewhere abroad--it was a rather
sad story--and my father came into the title and estates. He is Sir
George Dashwood now. You can quite see why he changed his name."

"Of course. Only you can see that I could not possibly know this. What
a grand old place it is, and what a grand old house! You must have
grown very fond of it."

"I love it," Mary Dashwood cried. The look of haughty pride had faded
from her face, leaving it refined and beautiful. "I love every stick
and stone of it, it is part of my very life. You see, I have
practically lived here always. As my father was in the Diplomatic
Service, and my mother died young, it was necessary for somebody to
look after me. I spent my childhood here with old Lady Dashwood, who
has now gone to the dower house--such a wonderful old body!"

But Darnley did not appear to be listening. He made an effort to
recover himself presently. He was like a man who dreams.

"I can quite appreciate your feelings," he said quietly. "I understand
that the Dashwoods have ruled here for three hundred years. It is a
fine estate; they tell me the heirlooms are almost priceless. And yet
I am sorry."

The girl looked sharply up at the speaker.

"Why should you be sorry?" she demanded.

"Because it is the end of a dream," Darnley said. "I rather gathered
in Paris that your father was poor. The fact levelled things up a
little. It is just possible that you may remember our last evening
together in Paris."

"I recollect," Mary said, the delicate colour flushing her cheeks
again. "But I thought that we had closed that chapter finally, Mr.
Darnley."

"No. That chapter can never be closed for me. I loved you from the
first moment that we met, and I shall go on loving you till I die. I
asked you to be my wife, and you refused me. The future mistress of
Dashwood could not stoop to the son of a Californian rancher, though I
happened to be an English gentleman by birth. I hope I took your
refusal quietly, though it was a great blow to me. There can be no
other woman for me, Mary."

"I am sorry," the girl said, "but see how impossible it is. Perhaps I
am a little old-fashioned, perhaps it is the fault of my bringing up.
That like must mate with like has always been the motto of the
Dashwoods. These new people, with their wealth and noise and
ostentation can never cross the threshold of Dashwood Hall. My father
is fond of finance, but he never dreams of bringing his City friends
here."

Darnley smiled to himself. He recollected the days in Paris, when
Mary's father had been hand-in-glove with many a dubious French
financier.

"We are wandering from the point," he said. "In any case your
strictures do not touch me, for I have no money. My poor father left
me comfortably off, as he thought, but my mine of silver is