Chapter XXXIX.

Grey River Argus, Volume XIII, Issue 1612, 4 October 1873, Page 4

Chapter XXXIX.

It was in a' very changed mood that Dick went back to Market Basing: one that boded little good to Polly. He went back rejoicing in his freedom. He could try once more form's cousin, Grace Heathcote. If accepted, he woul 1— what would he do ? — write to his lawyers to get his n.arriage, with Polly Tresler annulled in the quickest m inner, and at any cost. With him, of course, went little Bill. Dick had got him dressed in a fantastic garb of his own invention; consisting chiefly of brown velvet and gold, lace, in' which the child looked wonderfully well, lsaid before that he had the 1 look ; bf a gentleman. It was . more (tliari this : he had that look of refinement arid intelligence which might have been produced in a boy of extraordinary talent by a course of the most careful training, the highest kind of educatiori. He was now almost presentable : he had ascertained most "of the words which are tapu : he was convinced that his original theories as to the nature of women, based on his experience of Mrs Kneebohe, were erroneous, or at least not capable of general.application : he did not take to his heela I ■when he saw a policeman : he ate and drank like a Christian. The only thing which made him sometimes troublesome was that he really did not know how, without using iapu, words, to express his ideas. And he sometimes, by imitating 1 exactly what he saw others do; provoked the observer's smile, or stimulated his curiosity. : v ' ! .' ■ Dick denied himself his cigar in the train, thinking that the smell'of a smok.

ing-carriage might be bad for the boy. Consequently there were ladies in the carriage : two young ladies who whispered to i each other, and shot telegraphic signals about nothing out of the corner of their eye ; and an old one. The old lady fell to admiring the boy. She looked at him for a long time, and could not resist the impulse to talk to him. ." Your son, may 1 ask, sir?" she said to|Dick.: > -.:;■: ..:• i ;.■-.: j" My ward, madam." "Cometome, ; my dear: I've got a grandson something like him." She drew the child totter knee; Little Bill looked wistfully at Dick. "What is your name, my dear?" • ! ; ' "Bill." ' u Y—e— a— William-^-a, pretty name." f Taint William. It's Bill." f Dear me 1'?. thoiight -.the old -; lady— X'^hisisa very vulgar child. Now talk to Jtrie/'iriy deai?j"' o sKe said aloud. This was a staggerer for little Bill. He fwa^s 'hot anxious now to answer questions; being aware, that his previous Jiistory, though' riot discreditable perhaps, had yet been unfortunate. He was silent for a little while ; and then, unfortunately recollecting exactly what he. had seen his patron's landlady in Lbiidon/do .one afternoon when she brought up the bill, he slipped off the old lady's knee, arid, strik--ing an attitude, half deprecating: half assertive, he coughed behind 'his hand, and murmured— _ : ,,. : . . . . . „, , , „ • "It was riot always thus with me. I have had happier days." .' Then he placed his hand on hi 3 heart, and sighed deeply.; ; Then \:he Rooked at Dick to see if he had done anything wrong. In a word, the boy was like a monkey —just as imitative— just ; a* - quiet and clever. " God bless my soul I" cried the old lady ; what an extraordinary " child !" The two young ladies screamed. Dick laughed." And the boy, seeing their amusement, jumped up^ and down,,laughing too. ''''■"' ' "Pardon him, madam," said Dick, "By an unlucky seires of accidents, my ward's education ! has been ' totally neglected. Sit here, my boy, and do not let us talk anymore." , ' -. ;: No one was in the villa to receive them. Dick took the boy by the hand, and led. him into the •house; ' All the magnificence be-wiidered,him. / ■ \ , ; . ,^'Doyoulive here, TJncle Dick?" : .2 " This is my house, Bill ; and. here you and I will live together 'as jolly (as we can Come upstairs. Now "this, my boy, is to be your room. There isn't a bed in it at present, but I will get you one f . It ' is your own room. We,;;shall have you taught to read and write',; and then, you shall have books ? ttyoti.'jtake to books— , *as % expect ybu'will.' And now — I wish 'you could ride—we will have a little drive, into the cpuritry^together." , i/ ..;.,'. ■'-. > - ; . The groom brought round Dick s dogcart, and they drove off. ' 'First, to the; bank. V /Bfll;^trotted in after his protector, following him like a little dog. " Who is this ?" asked Gfhrimes. " This is little Bill— William Fliot, by name : adopted ward of Mx Dick Mortiboy. Don't: look suspicious, Ghrimes." '? Indeed, I was not thinking anything of the sort." , Dick transacted his business, which did nottakelong, and went out. He took the road to Hiinslbpe. People looked at the cart with .astonishment. What new thing has happened ? Young Mr Mortiboy with a child beside him ! Polly, standing at^the door iof her mother's cottage, saw him drive past.. .Saw /the boy, tooj and wondered. During this interval she had been full of fear, and uncertainty, and rage. It was not fear of " the other " ; turning up :it was; boldly r fear r of being killed if she offended her husband. She resolved, at least, to go to the villa that evening, arid 'have if out. Not a thought of little Bill! " Oh, what a pretty boy !" cried Grace. " Lucy, come and look. Who is he, Dick?" 'f He's my ward, now. A week ago he was anybody's ward, running about the streets. I've had him cleaned t and new rigged, you see, and&don'£thirikhe looks amiss. Shake hands as I taught you 'Bill. Grace, come and talk to me for five minutes in the garden. Lucy, take care of the boy, wiUjyqui?j Givs-hinvaTlesson in good behaviour." Grace .saw that he had something of importance.to'say, and led . the; way ■ to the garden without another word. It was one of those old-fashioned gardens, where you are sure of firidirig'aU the old flowers side by side with the best of the new— migonette, wallflower, polyanthus, London pride, and the'resi- ■ At the end lay 'assort of little shrubbery, beyond which again was an arbour. "Come into the arbour, Grace," said Dick. He was looking wonderfully serious and thoughtful— his firm lips twitching with some anxieties, his eyes cast down. He motioned to Grace to go in and sit down ;, but she remained standing outside. • They were behind the 'shrubbery- arid hidden from the house. r ,. - " You remember the scene at the cross, Grace ?" '• I have spoken to no one about it." „ " I knew you would not. i You found out then two secrets 0f,., my life, both of which I wanted to hide from you 1 ' ; ;— one, that I love you ; the other, that lam married already. Since that night, ; Grace, I have made a discovery." ' " What is it, Dick ?" ■■•>'■■■■ ■.-■■■■"'■'■-- " " That I can free myself, iGrage-^that I am free already. I can 'be divorced, 'The marriage was riot a' real one— l ; ani certain of that. The obstacle exists no longer— or wilLexiat.no longer. in a very, short time; AIT that my "money can do to further the s'ep'eratibn of >ithat' women from me shall be done.. I have told the lawyers to spare no trouble—; to hunt up every atom and scrap of her' 'life— to ferret oiit.every.secret she ever.had. I shall hold myself Up to ridicule in the papers, perhaps. What does that matter?; Who ; cares for a day s notoriety ? Free I will be —free I must be." _" I should like to congratulate you, Dick ; but it seems all so dreadful. Are you quite sure ? Oh, Dick, don't be cruel to — to an innocent woman." "Am'l sure? Grace/ Fcbuld send her into court at once, to-day, with my evidence in my hand: But I will riot : I will wait for .nore. How bad that woman is, you can never know, you could even suspect. Bad wife of a bad husband. We werefitlymatedthen— wearenotfitlymated now. And she must go." His face was stern and hard. Suddenly ii lit tip again, and he burst into, one of those quaint, soft

laughs of his which made every one else laugh too. His laugh was as infectious as another person's yawn. "I forgot to tell you, Grace. Such fun ! After you went a\iray, I met her again by the river. She had been drinking more, and said something or other which made me in a rage, I believe. At all events, I took, her by [ the arms, and chucked her in." "Dick! — you might have drowned her." ;"Yes. I didn't think of that till she was at the bottom, and I saw the bubbles coming up —her bubbles ! But there were no fear. Bless you, she came to the top, and floated like a cork. You should have seen her face when she came out !"■ Dick told the story quite simply, as if it was the natural thing in the world that, he should throw Ms wife into the river. Grace looked at him with astonishment, and then began to laugh as well. It was, iriipossible to treat Dick like an ordinary , creature. Now, look here^ Grace, my dear," Dick I went on. ;" I offended you s at the i cross, and behaved like a— like i a-rr-meari Mcxi- , can, with my love, and my fury, and all the rest of it., I!m .very. sorry and ashamed. Tell me again I ani forgiven." "Of course your forgiven, Dick." I • ■ " Yes, I was mad then because of Polly. But she's as good as gone now, and lam mad no more. And the truth remains, Grace, that I love ypu— more than all the world together. It is all exactly as I told you a fortnight ago.", „ , . , v ' ' But you musn'ifc love me, Dick. I belong to somebody else." j " Must riot love you, my) dear? Why, Grace, you might as well tell me I must not eat and drink. Not love you when I see you, and talk to you, and take your hand in mme — this little hand— "he took it as he spoke, and held it in , his, Grace only looking him straight in the face : " this litde hand. Why, Grace, do you think I am made of stone 1" " Indeed, 1 am sure you are not, Dick. But do you think lam a woman to give her word one day, and recall it the next ? . Is that fair, Dick?" fit would be if you loved me. I should not care unless you were to take a.way your word from ; me, ; Grace. All is fairinlove." . . ;.. .• „' ,; ■ " No, but Ido not love you, Dick— l ! can never, love you. , Listen, and; I will tell you all my secrets. I talk to you, because you love me, as I can talk to "no one else. And because I trust you, Dick, I tell you what I can hardly tell my own sister. Indeed, she would nptunderstandrile." She laid her hand iri' his— it rested" on the back of the garden seat. ''Dick, dp you remember what you told me— how you tremble when I touch you 1 It's all exactly the same with me. T When I hear , Frank's; st^prr-I- never do now ; but .1 say 'nqyr'j because I dream of it' still — I tremble all over. When he comes near me} I feelthe blood rushing to my face. If he touches me, my pulses beat. If I see his handwriting, my hand shakes. If I wake at night, thinking of him, Ido not want to sleep any more, and lie patiently, praying to God' for him; When I pass their dear old house, I cannot keep my tears down. When I have nothing to do, Igo Ito the lane— see there : you are tall, and can look over the hedge : itia the lane beyond the next field — where he first told mm he loved me, and sit down, and think it all over again. jOhJDick, such a cold day it was !— and yet we were so warm : such a snowy, frosty, windy day in Janu- | ary, and yet I was so glad and happy ! I [ never knew that I loved him until he told me that loved me, and then I knew— oh ! in a moment 1 knew that there could be no richer man in the world for me but Frank. Dear Dick, I love you too, but not in this way. See — I can give you my hand without trembling. I can see you coming without my pulses heating faster. I read you all my heart: more, more than I could ever, I think, tell to Frank. I tell you to make you leave off loving me." i Dick shook his head. He was sitting j down now, on the garden seat, holding her hands in his. He stooped, and kissed it. „ U .-''•,_ _,•'• < ... y\[ j/; „ " Dick— dear Dick !— don't be cruel to me. Mamma is unkind because she wants you to marry me, and says -that. I i don't encourage you." Dick laughed ruefully. "I don't want any encouragement, Grace.?; ; ; , ; AX; - a seems somehow dark and gloomy. Don't be cruel, Pick..., Be my dear old Dick, like you were years ago, before you.jwent away, when.t.was a little thing and you ;a- big; boy.\ I can never love you, Dick. Let me say it again and again, and over and.oyer, so that you may believe me at last. Then, if I were to marry you, how would it be with you? How should you like your wife, to be brooding over her ruined lover, arid trying to do a cold-hearted duty by her husband ? Dick, it would be wicked. It would kill me— it would drive you mad. Don't ask me— don't ask me, my cousin, for I loye my Frank." . She stopped now because she could not go on any longer, and her voice broke down. Dick's head was bent above her hand, and he said nothing. Presently a tear — only one -of the largest size consistent with the laws which guide the formation of Drops, 1 fell upon her hand. Grace: had made her lover, ; weep. Since his mother died, he'had shed no tear. They stood so for some minutes. ; Five lnimites/before this, Mrs Heathcote, returning home? found Lucy with' the boy. ■ J. ! .< f > '■■ ■' '■ ■■'■'■'■ <"■<■■'■-" \■■ ■■ "It is Dick's mew, protege," she ex-, plained. ' * Grace and he are in the gar- " Protege .'—stuff and ; nbnsence !M ; said Mrs Heathcote. f, What, does Dick want with children?" ' " She wentito 'the back of the house I ,' and^ looked out into the garden. No Grace there. Then she stepped softly across the' lawn, aridheard voices behirid the' shrub- ! bery. She stopped and listened.. She heard the words— " Don't ask me my cousin. - 1 love my Frank ;'' aritl, turning 1 pale, hurried back to .'-the libuse. 7 She could not speak. Presently, Dick lifted his head witli a smile. Grace- knew thenthatshehadwori 1 the battle. ; ■ : . f'-I give you up^ t^race, Sear: . All the sariie, I love you still.' But I will : never speak of love to you.. That, at least, I promise." ' " You must promise me more, Cousin Dick." ■ 'V . ' ■■• .-; - %. "What more 1 ? I will promise you anything you like to ask, child Grace." f Help Frank." "Yes, my sister," answered Dick, humDiy.iv» i :-. = :-.'''- - )-<■ ,•' .■:■,■■'■■ -.:.'■. 11 Am I -your sister? Then Frank is

your brother. Dick, you must help your j brother." s " Let me kiss you once, my dear. Let me have one kiss," He tookherhead in his hands, and kisßed her — solemnly, not passionately — on forehead and cheek She disengaged herself, blushing and confused, with the tears in her eyes. What was she that this man —so good, so kind — should love her so ? " Thtre was a solemn oath in every kiss, Grace. You may trust me, for Frank and yourself, to the death. You are both mine. Tell riie only what I am to do first." " i will find- Iris address from Kate, Dick, and then— oh, then we shall know what to do." "I know what to do already," cried Dick, his face brightening up like a corn tield after a cloud had passed over it. •' I know already what you would all like. We will make him a partner in the bank — Ghrimes and Frank together— and revive theold name., It sh.aU be Melliship, Mortiboy, & Co.— just as;i |ef ore. Eh, Grace 1 What a rage!the oldftiian would' be: in if he only knew it ! Ho ! ho !". : He ; laughed— with,, jolly,- mellow voice— as KglitlyWa boy, arid with no sign of the emotion which had just possessed him ; and left her. Mrs Heathcote was gone to her own room. Lucy was sitting with the boy, who stared at her with great eyes, as at a vision of another world. Taking him away, he drove back ; to Market Basing. ; r : ■, • ' ''■'.'■■ Mrs Heathcote, too angry at first to speak, went back to the house, and tried to think. Should she tell her husband? Should she reriiohstrate with Grace? What good would it do 1 They were both too obstinate to receive remonstrance with favour. She would only make things worse. Should she speak to Lucy ? What use? So she had' to keep it to herself, consoling herself with the thought that, after all, it was early days ; —perhaps Dick might propose again-; perhaps Grace might not be • always obdurate ; perhaps Frank Melliship would "do something." Nevertheless, it was a cruel blow to overhear the rejection of half a million of money. _ : Li the everiing T of the same day, Polly, not. without, a good deal of misgiving and consultation with her mother, went up to the villa, in order to have it out with-, her husband; She resolved for herself to assume an aggressive attitude, and meditated a line of action which she considered would prove most effective with Dick. .First, she puts on. all .^ her best things ; ;! theri ; shVstucka ■pistols-it^ was only an oL< single- barreled thing which she had by her — in her pocket ; and under her shawl she carried the family carving knife. Then she walked boldly across the bridge which arched the river, half amile abover the villa, "stepped across the fields, and knocked at/Dick's door. The proprietor bf the house opened it. ' ' I thought you would turn up to-night. Pray come in, Polly. We will talk inside." He spoke with so much .politeness, that Polly smelt mischief, .-' But she followed without a word. He led the way to • the smoking-room, where sat little Bill in his gorgeous attire. " Who's that boy ?" asked Polly. "We'll come to him directly," said Dick. " Now, Polly, the game's played out, and you'd better throw up the cards." "What do you mean, Dick? If you think I'm going to be murdered quietly, you're just mistaken ; so see here !" - She took out her pistol and •» carvingknife, and, standing with the table between them, brandished the weapons in his face with the air of a heroine at the Adelphi. " Pretty toys — very pretty toys," said her husband. "No Polly, I'm not going to murder you. As an old friend, I should perhaps advise you to make tracks. . But, after all, you needn't do that, because you are quite certain to be followed." She stared at him, wondering, with a sinking heart, what was to follow. . "Carry your-mem f pry.back twelve years and three-quarters; jjs^it done;?",. "It is. What little lark are you up to now Dick?" " What did you sefe?'?:i - > i. "I see you and me walking up the aisle of St. Pancake's Church." *' St. Pancras's Church. Very good indeed. Now; carry ypu'p memory two year's and three-quarters or so' farther on. Where are we on "a certaih Monday about thattime?" / l ' " ; '^ : ' : ' '' ! " ■ ' She assumed a sulky . and stubborn air. But she turned pale, notwithstanding. ':.' . "I don't know. 0 How am Ito remember so long ago ?" ..,:'■.:•;;.. •;..;(•. "You need not remember unless you like you know. Well, let us have another question, and I have done. Carry your meriiory back to Liriiehouse' Church, two years before the St, Pancras business." This time she reeled as if she had been struck. For a space she did riot answer. Then she murmured, with dry lips — "Prove it— prove it. You can't do it." ' f Polly, the game's up. It's , all come out. I'm trying now to find out the best way of getting rid of my marriage without, if you fall in with my views, bringing you before a court of law. Because, you see, Polly, you've committed a very pretty bigamy. Bowker was alive, when you married me, and you knew it. I can prove it. He's alive now !" — Once a- week.'