The Novelist.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 229, 29 January 1876, Page 3

The Novelist.

READY-MONEY MORTIBOY. a matter-of-fact story. (From Cassell's Magazine.) Chapter XL VII. Dick's letter to Grace arrived at Parkside before the news of his death, which was brought by one of the bank clerks sent out by Ghrimes at eight o'clock. Grace was reading the letter which promised to find Frank in the course of a week, and had just passed it over to her father, who read it with much satisfaction. Mrs. Heathcote, too, read it, but with different feelings, which she was studying how to express with due effect, when the messenger of evil tidings from the bank arrived in Dick's own dog-cart. The farmer was with him for five minutes. He came back with pale cheeks and quivering lips. "Dick," he gasped, "Dick . . . he's gone . . . dead ... he shot himself by accident last night, and died an hour afterwards. Poor Dick ! jaoor Dick !" He recovered after a little. " Strange they both died at the same houi\ A telegram came to the police office this morning at eight. They sent round to Ghrimes. Ghrimes has sent for me. Poor Dick ! poor Dick !" The presence of a tragic event like this melted for a moment the animosity of her mother to Grace. They fell into each other's arms, sobbing and crying. Dick was dead. Dick the generous : Dick the noble : Dick the true and brave. Dick was dead. Nor was it for a full half-hour that Mrs. Heathcote, recovering herself the first, was able dimly to realize the change that this event might cause to her. Dick was dead —alas ! poor Dick ! But then—but then —all the fortune—the half million of money whose would this be ? Whose should it be, she asked herself, but her own ? And already beginning the imaginary rei"7i of splendour over which she had brooded so many years, a dream interrupted by Dick's return, she held her handkerchief to her eyes, and in the intervals of weeping indulged in delicious visions of grandeur. Mr. Heathcote found Market Basing literally in tears. The people, nearly all tenants of the great Mortiboy estates, were gathered in knots, discussing the event. No news was come except by telegram, but there was scarcely any room for doubt. Dick Mortiboy was dead. The women wept aloud : the men in silence : all had lost a friend, the kindest hearted friend they ever had ; the most ready to help, the most able to help. Not one to

whom Dick, in his short reign of four mont&s, had not done some kind action ! not one who could not speak from experience of his soft heart and generous nature ! As the farmer drove through the crowd that besieged tiw> bank with inquiries, the fresh tears rose to hi« own eyes, and he got down at the door almost crying like a child. No one cared about the old man now. Dead? Ready-Money dead ? Well, he had been a longtime dying. He had passed away, four monihy ago, from men's minds. John Heathcote arrived at the bank, went through to the manager's office, where he found Ghrimes was there with Battiscombe, to whoxo. Ghrimes had sent, after despatching b3«i message to Parkside. "Do you know of any will ?" Mr. Battiscombe asked Ghrimes.

" None ; I have the keys, I suppose -ore ought to look." In Dick's private safe, business papers in plenty, but no will. Stay, a packet label Jed " Private : to be opened after my death." " Open it," said the lawyer.

Ghrimes opened and read it. It was .short and concise. It was the confession of Polly Tresler. As he read it, his face assumed a puzzled expression. He handed it over to Mr. Battiscombe, who read it unmoved. Lawers are seldom surprised at anything which appears? abnormal to the rest of mankind. Ghrimes was shoclcd at the idea of Dick's secret marriage. " That explains," he whispered, " the early quarrel between himself and his father. That is the reason why Dick ran away." "Perhaps. It is hard to eay. No great crime for a young fellow to be beguiled by a woman into making a fool of himself," said the lawyer. "It is as pretty a confession of bigamy —trigamy, even—as ever I read. Naraea, dates, churches, all given. Upon my word, this woman is an exceedingly clever person. It is signed by her, and written by poor Mr. Mortiboy himself, dated too, only a fortnight ago. Mary Tresler—Mary Tresler—l kno«r her, daughter of that drunken old gipsy woman who married my father's gardener, a long tim<* ago. Ah ! dear me !" "What is to be done ?" " Clearly, we must first establish the truth ox her statements. I think, Ghrimes, I had better go to town and see to this myself, to prevent complications. Meantime, say nothing to the Heathcotes —to anybody. There may, besides, be a will. To prevent raising hopes in their minds, tell them, what is quite true, that you don't know whether any Will was made or not. You know, of course, that if there is no will, Mrs. Heathcote is the sole heiress—she inherits everything—everything. Then Mr. Heathcote arrived. "We must have a coroner's inquest," said Mr. Battiscombe, " there must be a funeral—there is everything to be done. Will you come to town with me ?" " No—yes—what shall I do, Ghrimes V " Go, by all means. The train starts in half an hour. I will send a message to Parkside. Go up to town and see the last of your poor cousin." They went to London : down to Dick's chambers, where they found the doctor and the old woman in charge. The doctor was standing by the bedside, with his chin on his hands, thoughtfully gazing on the stark and stiff form which lay covered with a sheet. He gently took off the sheet from the face. " You are his cousin ?" he said. " I am taking a last look at the unfortunate man. It is a singularly handsome face; a face of wonderful sweetness and goodness—a good man, I should say. And the most splendidly built man I ever saw. How could he have done it V The lawyer was reading Dick's last words* his only will and testament. John Heathcote solemnly looked upon the features of him who had been almost his own son. "He says he did it by accident," said Mr. Battiscombe. "Yes—yet—but how? how? Look here," the doctor drew back the sheet and showed the spot where the wound had been inflicted. "You see the place. Very well, then ; now take this pencil, hold it any way you like, and see if you could shoot yourself in the left side, so far back, if the pencil was a pistol. I defy you to do it. It is very odd, yet he said he did it."

Coroner's inquest that evening. Intelligent jury, after viewing the body, and reading the paper, Dick's last imposture heard the doctor's doubts, and pooh-poohed them. Shot himself ? of course he did. What did it matter how ? As if a man would lie about such a thing as that. Verdict —" Accidental Death." The worthy coroner adding some severe strictures upon the frequency of gun accidents, and men's carelessness in the handling of

weapons. Dick was dead. The good that he had time to do lives still ; the lives that he quickened, which were dead under the weight of grinding poverty and servitude, if they have relapsed to their old misery, which some may have done, have still the memory of better times, the knowledge of better things, and therefore nourish a healthy discontent. The stirring of the blood which his example and his word* caused : his oration to the children which wiD. never die out of their minds : his charity, for the first time in Market Basing, unconnected with religion and three sermons every Sunday: his sympathy with the fallen : his tenderness to the falling : his kind and rough wisdom : his unbookish maxims: his ready hand : his quick insight into humbug—all these things, and many more, make him to be remembered still. These live after him : the good that he did was a seed sown in fruitful soil, still growing up, destined to be in the after-years a goodly tree indeed. And the evil, does that still live ? I know Palmiste pretty well, bocause I've lived in the island—he never did harm there, except to himself ; well, you see, I haven't been to California, or to Texas, or to Mexico, so I do not know. If ever I do go to either or any of these places, I will inquire. Poor old Ready-money was buried three days after his death in the family vault, unostentatiously, quietly, No one was present at his

funeral but Ghrimes and Mr. Heathcote, with the laywer. No one followed in token of respect. All his money had gone from him before he died. Therefore, all his respect. No property left ; of course, he was no longer of any account. It was felt that a public funeral was due to his son Mr. Hopgood, the Mayor, had orders to prepare a simple funeral. But all Market Basing turned out to it. There was no mock mourning. It was no feeling of simple respect for property which brought all the women with the men to see the last of one who had been with them so brief a space, and had made himself so loved by all. Not one but had a kind word of his to remember him by : no poor man but had more than a kind word : no eye that was dry when the earth rattled upon his coffin, and the sublime service of the Church was read over his remains. His pensioners, the old men and women, were there, loudly wailing. Those whom he had saved from starvation, like old Mr. Sanderson, the cashier of Melliship's bank, were there ; those whom he had saved from ruin, like little Tweedy, the builder ; those whom he had saved from shame, like Sullivan, the clerk ; those for whom he had ever found a word of rough sympathy, and a hand ready to help ; above all, the children, awe-stricken and terrified, in whose memory he lived as the universal friend and benefactor. From highest to lowest, from Lord Hunslope to the beggarman all came to shed tears over the untimely death of Dick Mortiboy. " Truly," said the rector, " charity covereth a multitude of sins." ~.. , , r It was all over now. His burly form was with them no more : the vault was closed ; the service read ; they would never again hear his ringing laugh, his soft and sympathetic voice. The women would no longer, if they were poor, go to him to pour out their talesof want; if they were well to do, look after him in the street, so handsome, so good, so softhearted, so strong. The men would no longer admire him for his skill and strength, or envy him for his prosperity. All was over. Dick Mortiboy was buried. Chapter XLVIII. If it was hard for Ghrimes, what, as the lawyer said, would it be for Frank ? He received the letter containing Dick Mortiboy's offer. It came on the Monday evening, the day before Dick's murder. He read itTwith an emotion which he thought he had almost conquered ; for he read in it the signal to him to leave his uncongenial life, and cro back to his own position. His heart beat high with joy. It was not only Dick's free and generous offer. It was Grace's command that he should take it. It was the recall of his sister and mother to the place where all their friends lived, and all their interests were centered. A letter of recall and pardon to an exile ; the restoration of a prince to his own again. . . ~ "You've got good news, Mr. Melliship ? asked Patty, looking at his heightened color, and flashing eyes. " Good news ? Yes, Patty, very good. Ihe best possible. The best news that ever was brought to any poor, unlucky beggar." But his pride. How was he to reconcile his pride to accepting help from the son of his father's enemy ? Pride—yes—he had some slight grounds for pride. In the first place he could be independent so long as his voice lasted. That great and splendid gift, a tenor voice, was his. It lay with him to accept Mr. Leweson's offer to go to Italy and study for a year or two, and then to return and make his fortune. It was certain that he could do so. But to return to the bank —to go back to the old life again ! He walked out to call on Mr. Eddrup. The old man was dressed, and sitting on his chair, too feeble to move. Frank told him the great offer which had been made him. Perfect confidence existed between the two by this time. Frank had told him all his life, with its disappointments and misfortunes.

" Take it," said Mr. Eddrup. "I, too, have an offer to make you. I shall make it with all the more confidence, if I know that you are rich, and therefore can command the influence of wealth." "What is it?"

" I have no children, no relations, except a few cousins, who are already wealthy, and who have lost sight of me for many, many years. I want to leave you all my money—in trust—in trust to find some one, if you can, to carry on the work which I have done. Would that you could carry it on yourself !" " But how shall I find a man ?" " Silver is the man for you. He has enthusiasm : he has energy ; he has the power of administration ; he has sympathy. Let Silver be my successor." " Then why not leave him the money in trust ?"

" Because he would not quite understand ; he would be trying to make it a means of forming a society with rules and creeds, and so crystallize and kill what I want to grow and develop. Bemember, young man, faith is the fertilizer ; creed is the destroyer. Further, I want you to bequeath the property, after your death, so that it may be used by your successor whom you will have to find in the same spirit. I will not lay down rules. I will not add another to the Charities which do already so much harm. I want my money to be used always in the most intelligent manner possible to the time :—never by a committee."

On "Wednesday afternoon he sat down to write his letter. ' As he began—"My dear Dick," a boy came shouting down the street, with an early edition of the Echo. Prank, moved by some impulse, opened the window and beckoned the boy. Then he left his letter-writing for a while, and leisurely began to read. Presently, Patty knocked at the door. She found him staring vacantly before him, with the paper in his hands. The last two davs had been a time of trial for the poor girl. She saw, by Frank's manner, on Monday, that

something was going to happen—she knew not what—which would sever him from her. She had been striving herself, bitterly, but steadily, to look the truth in the face. Frank did not love her. In spite of his kind ways and little attentions, the sweeter to Patty because she had never known them before, and was never to know them again, he had never loved her. And she, poor girl, had given all her heart to him. For his sake she spent sleepless nights, devising things which would please him ; and careful days watching to see if she had pleased him. All the little arts which she knew, few enough, she practised to catch his eye. For him she had learned to despise the calling in which she had once almost glorified, and herself for practising it. She sat down before him, and waited, hands clasped, for him to speak. "Patty," he said at last, seeing her beside him, " a dreadful thing has happened. Bead that. He was my cousin—l was to have been his partner—and now he is dead. I was writing to him when I bought the paper—l am a beggar again !" " Then you are just the same as you were last Sunday," Her heart gave a little exultant bound. " The same ? No. Are you the same it, when you are thirsty, some one dashes the cup from your lips ? You are thirsty still, you say. Yes, but you are more than thirsty. You are maddened. Patty, I have had the cup dashed from my lips. I cannot think of poor Dick Mortiboy. I can only think of myself. I am only selfish in my sorrow." The final blow had fallen. Patty turned white, and bit her lips ; for the blood left her cheeks, and she felt as if she would faint. Presently he made an effort to speak. " How can I go to her now—to the girl I love ? How can I say—take me—l am a beggar, and you an heiress—take me ?" " If she loves you, what matter does it make ? If I loved a man do you think it would matter to me that I had —oh ! hundreds of pounds and he had nothing ? Mr. Melliship, if she loves you, you must go to her. Perhaps I don't understand. I always thought that when people loved each other they don't care for money. Is it not so ? I mean rich people ; of course we poor people never think about it, because we never have any money to think about at all. That is a good thing for us, so far. Tell me more, Mr. Melliship. Does she know that you love her still ? Have you promised each other ?" »Yes —too late! Yes—long ago—when I was rich." " And—and —but I suppose I can't understand. Are you too proud to go to her ? But she knows you have no money—there is nothing to hide. If you loved her before, of course you go on loving her now. Do all ladies' hearts change when they have money ? What is her name ?" " Grace Heathcote." "Grace Heathcote —a pretty name—Grace Heathcote. Does she live in the same town with your cousin who is dead? —what is it ?" She looked at the paper again : " Market Basing ?" "Near it; ten miles out, at a, place called Hunslope. At Parksiele Farm." " At Hunslope, ten miles out. At Parkside Farm," she repeated. Then she got up, with lips that quivered in spite of her courage, and went away. On Saturday, after their early dinner, she plucked up courage to speak to her father. " Father —I want to say something to you —two things—l can no longer go on at the Palace. Don't call me ungrateful, after the pains you've took, and all that—l'm not ungrateful, but I can't bear it any longer. I didn't know, till Mr. Melliship came and talked to me, that there was anything in it. I thought it was something to be proud of. But now I can't bear the dress, and I see the women in the place sneering, and the horrid men laughing, as I never saw them before—before Mr. Melliship came." " Mr. Melliship ? Mr. Melliship ? Is he in love with you, Patty ? " No, father," she answered, bursting into tears ; " he never loved me ; he never said, a word of love to me. But, I—oh ! I'm only a silly girl—and I fancied he might take a fancy to me. Forgive me, father. It is all folly and wickedness. He loves another girl—a lady. What am I, that I should take the fancy of a gentleman ? Only a poor trapeze girl ; only a, common thing. I can't write well ; I can't dress well ; I can't do anything—l don't know how —that he likes. I have tried-—oh ! how I have tried—and he so good. He never laughed at me. But I could see the difference that he felt. Let him go back to his own people, and let me be alone." The prophet turned his eyes upon the portrait. "Jephthah's daughter," he murmured. "Jephthah's daughter—l knew it all along." "And I can't act any more," said Patty. " Tell Mr. Leweson so. He is very good to us. But I can't do it." " I've told him, Patty. I've told him. For I had some news for you that I thought would keep till to-morrow. See, now. This is the last night of our performance. You and I and Joey act to-night for the last time. They've got another family—a poor sort, Patty, compared to you and me—but there they are. They begin on Monday. I meant to tell you tomorrow. But I can't keep it. I am to be Mr. Eddrup's clerk. His clerk, Patty, so long as he lives. Think of that. With a salary. I'm to preach every Sunday. And when Mr. Eddrup dies, Mr. Melliship is to have all his money, in trust for the poor people. For these, and all other mercies, God's holy name be praised." Patty was silent for a moment. "I've-been very selfish and vain with my foolishness, father. Now the other thing I had to say : I want a whole sovereign, father, and I want to go away early to-morrow, and be away all day ; perhaps all Sunday night and Monday morning. Let me go, and don't ask me the reason why. That is my secret. Give me the money and let me go. I must go. My heart is breaking till I go. Mr. Eddrup

would say I am right. I know he would. Father, if you doubt me, I will go and ask him myself if I am not right." " Nay ; if he thinks you are right, I've got nothing to say. Does Mr. Melliship send you ?" « j$ 0 no no " she crimsoned violently. " Don't say a word to him about it. A secret, father, and not my own. Oh, don't say a word against it. Because I must do it. I must, indeed. It is somebody else's secret. And even he doesn't know." " I suppose it is Mr. Melliship's, then ?" She turned scarlet. " It is, father," she whispered, " and it is for his good. Give me the money and let me go." " A great sum, Patty. But you're a good girl, and you shall have your own way. I wish it wasn't Sunday, because I'm going to tell the story, in the afternoon, of the Roman Catholic priests. I've been getting it out of Ezekiel; and you'd have liked to hear it, no doubt." Chapter XLIX. Mrs. Heathcote is heiress to all. The gigantic estate of the Mortiboys, little impaired by Dick's lavish expenditure, is hers, to have and to hold. The fact has been communicated to her officially by Mr. Battiscombe. No will had been made. No frittering away of a great property by miserable bequests : nothing left to collateral branches of the family ; Ghrimes and the Melliship's out of it altogether. All Mrs. Heathcote's.

In the first stupor of delight she sat tranquil, scarcely able to face the fact that she was rich beyond her dreams. Then, and before poor Dick was buried, she began to make plans and settle how they were in future to live. She talked, the sealed fountain of her ambition once set moving again, perpetually on the one topic—what they should do, what changes they were to make in their style of living, how they were to astonish the world. "We shall, of course," she said to her daughter, "go to London to live. Your father must give up his vulger habits." "My father has no vulgar habits," said Grace, always rebellious. " Grace, don't contradict. Is it, or is it not, vulgar to smoke pipes after dinner ?" No answer being given to this clincher, she went on. "We shall dine at half-past seven ; go into society ;. balls, I suppose, every night ; we shall be presented at court, of course ; your father will give up his poky farm, and we shall buy an estate somewhere. Ghrimes will go on managing the bank, though I must say the salary he draws seems ridiculous. Pictures again : I suppose we must patronize Art. My dear, it will be very hard work at first, but you may trust your mother to do the best for you ; and when my girls do marry—if they marry with my approbation —" giving a glance at Grace, "they may depend upon my generosity." " I am going to marry Frank Melliship," said Graie, quickly. Lucy said nothing. It was a constant trial to the poor girls to bear this grating upon their nerves ; the more trying because they had to disguise it even from each other, and because it was so essentially different to that straigntforward, honest simplicity, and even delicacy of their father. There are some men withoutthe slightest refinement in manner, not at all the men to be invited to dinner, who are yet the most perfect and absolute masters of good breeding, inasmuch as they never offend in their speech, and go delicately about among the tender corns of their friends. Such was John Heathcote. To him the doctor communicated the three or four lines which Dick had forced him to write. John took them to lawyer Battiscombe, in hopes that they would give his girls a claim to the estate which else his wife would have. What manner of life his would be if Lydia Heathcote got it all, he trembled to think. No use ; the money was all his wife's. Battiscombe told him of Polly ; he explained the law of the land as regards married women's property ; and advised him as to the carrying out of Dick's intentions, in the spirit, if not in the letter.

Thus fortified, Farmer John felt himself strong enough to fight his battles, and began to put his foot down. He let his wife run on till she was fairly exhausted, on the subject of improvements and charges, then he quietly asserted himself :

"When you've done making your plans, iLydia, you may as well consult me, and ascertain what I am going to do." "John Heathcote, who is the owner of the Mortiboy property ?" asked Lydia with withering contempt. " I am. Your husband is." She gasped -with astonishment. " Do you mean to tell me, John Heathcote, that I am not the possessor of everything." " Certainly not. All the personalty is mine absolutely. All the realty is mine so long as you live. When you die, you may bequeath it to whom you will." " Is that the law ? Do you dare to assert that the law of England allows that ? And they call this a Christian and a Protestant country." " Let us understand one another, Lydia. We are plain people, and intend to remain so. You and I are old, and unfit for the society to which we were not brought up " " John —I unfit. Pray, do you forget that I was seven years at the best and most select boarding-school in Market Basing ?" " I dare say they finished you very wall for a farmer's wife, such as you've been for five-and-twenty years. No, no ; we are too old and too wise to change, Lyddy. No town life for us. I mean to go on exactly the same." "You imagine, John, that I am going to consent to live like that, with all the money coming in ? Do you call yourself a churchman, John ? Do you know that it is your duty—your positive duty —to keep up your station ? I, for one, shall not consent. So there." "You need not, Lyddy," said her husband, quietly. " If you refuse, you must live elsewhere. And 1 don's know where you'll find the money. Don't be downcast, wife. A little extra finery you can have, if you like, and spend anything in reason, consistent with your

position. I'm a farmer. The girls can spend the money when they marry. Another thing ? whatever Dick intended to do, it is our duty to do. Now read that."

He put into his wife's hands Dick's last few words. " Poor Dick ! His last wishes. We must obey them."

"Papa," said Grace, eagerly, " you are really going to do all that Dick intended should be done ?"

" All, Grace. Everything." "Then consult George Ghrimes about another thing, papa. Ask him what Dick was going to do about him ; and—ask, papa " " If there's secrets going on, I suppose I had better go," said her mother. " John Heathcote, when I married you, little did I think that I was marrying a man capable of sheltering himself behind the law, in order that he might continue in his low and grovelling position." John Heathcote laughed. It was never his plan to argue with his wife, else the argument would have been perennial. The next day, being three days after the funeral, Mrs. Heathcote thought she might as well make a visit to Derngate and the villa, and take possession of the things there, whatever there might be to have. The garden door was open, and the front door was open. She walked into the dining-room—no one there—and into Dick's smoking-room. In his easy chair, in deepest widow's weeds, with a handkerchief to her eyes, sat Polly. It was her greatest coup, though it failed. She learned the death of Dick from the papers, and instantly made up her mind what to do. Without going through the formality of acquainting Captain Bowker with her intentions, she bought a widow's cap and crape, got into the train, and came to Market Basing. She would get her confession back first, and then, after laying hands on everything portable, would come on such terms as could, in a short space of time, and before the thing was found out, be obtained. " Mary !" cried Mrs. Heathcote, " what is the meaning of this ?" " Mrs. Bichard Mortiboy, Mrs. Heathcote I should say Captain Heathcote," said Polly, wiping her eyes again. •" Oh, what a dreadful thing it is to lose your husband, and him but just returned from* foreign parts and savages." " Mary ! women ! you are mad !" She shook her head, and sobbed the faster. "Poor Dick! I shall never see his like again. Mrs. Heathcote, won't you sit down ? It's my house, and all Dick's money is mine ; but we shan't fall out. Families ought to live peaceful. Sit down, young ladies." Grace knew that she was speaking the truth, but silence was best. They remained standing. Polly still gave from time to time a conclusive heave, by which she meant to express the poignancy of her sorrow. "Perhaps you will explain yourself, Mary Tresler," said her late mistress. "Ho ! there's no objection of explaining. None in the world, Mrs. Heathcote, Cousin. Heathcote. I've been married to Dick Mortiboy for twelve years and more, married in London, at St. Pancridge's Church, where you may go yourself and look. And now I'm come to claim my rights, as in duty bound, and an honest woman should. Don't think I'm bearing any malace for old times, Mrs. Heathcote, though you always were a screw, and you know it. It isn't the place now nor the time, when I'm weeping over the last bier of my poor dear lost Dick, to throw your cold mutton and your broken victuals in your teeth ; no, nor your eight pounds a year, paid to your cousin's lawful wife, nor your flannels at Christmas. No ; let's be friends all round, I say. I only come up this morning, and here I'm going to stick. Perhaps, as you are here, you'll tell me where Dick's safe is, where he keeps his papers, because that's mine, that is, and there's something particular of my own that I want back again." It was awkward for Polly, in the execution of her grand coup, that she had no conceptiou where the safe was, in which she knew that her written confession lay, nor indeed what a safe was like when she saw one. She had a notion that it was a wooden box, kept probably in his bedroom, the breaking open of which would put her in possession of the dangerous document. But she could find no wooden box, though she had searched the whole house through, and she naturally began to feel uneasy. Where had Dick put it ? Mrs. Heathcote was speechless. This, indeed, was a calamity far worse than the obstinacy of her husband. That the perfidious Dick should actually have had a wife, her own servant, and have said nothing to anybody, was a thing so utterly beyond the scope of her experience, that her brain seemed to be wandering. Her lips parted, but she said nothing. " Oh, it's a dreadful thing," Polly went on, "tobe a widow. And me so young ; and such a good husband. I hope you may never experience it, Mrs. Heathcote ; never, Cousin Heathcote. It's a dreadful thing, and money won't make up for it. What's money to the loss of my Dick ?" " Grace," said Mrs. Heathcote, " am I in my senses ? Is this woman mad ?"

"Woman !" cried the bereaved one, starting up in a violent rage. "No more woman than you are. How dare you call me woman ? For two pins, Mrs. Heathcote, I'd scratch out your eyes. You and your cold mutton, indeed, and no followers allowed. But I'll comb you down yet, you see if I don't." The door opened, and Mr. Ghrimes appeared. In his hand a bundle of papers. " Oh," he said, coolly, seeing Polly, " Joe, the stable boy, told me you were here. Now what may you be wanting in this house ? No nonsense, you know, because it won't do with me." " Mr. Ghrimes, my clerk," said Polly, " my servant and the manager of my bank ; don't be insolent, young man, or I'll give you warning, and send you about your business, sharp enough ; so down on your knees, if you please. Other people can manage a bank as well as you." All the same, her heart misgave her afc the sight of the calm cold man of business, who

evidently knew exactly what" he was saying, and was not a whit moved at her brave words. " We wilt talk about discha-ging afterwards. At present, you had better go yourself. Yes ; I mean that you must go, and that at once. Any insults to these ladies will be severely punished. Now go, or I will speak more plainly." " I shan't go." Polly sat herself down in the armchair, and spread out her skirts in a very determined manner. "You won't? "Very well." Mr. Ghrimes stepped outside. Voices were heard, aud steps iu the passage, and Polly's cheek visibly blanched. He came back. Behind him were Mr. Battiscombe, Farmer John, and a third person, a stranger to the rest, at sight of whom Polly sprang up and sat down again, as if she had received a mortal blow. He was a middle aged man, with a red beard, and blue eyes, and a nervous hesitating manner, who came with the others half unwillingly ; no other, in fact, than Captain Bowker. ,„,-,. « * • "Now, madam," said Mr. Ghrimes, "who is this gentleman ?" " Oh," said Polly, " I'll take it out of you for this'. Only you wait." "Let me explain, said the lawyer. We suspected your little game, you see, and we took our steps—had you watched, followed you to the station, found where you were going to, and brought Captain Bowker, t your husband, d own after you by the next train." •' Her husband !" cried Mrs. Heathcote. " You wicked, wicked woman ! Mr. Battiscombe, what is the extreme penalty which the law exacts for this offence? Is it twenty years, or is it fifty ? I forget at this moment. I know they used to hang for it in the good old days." ~ , L . . . , " What's more," said the captain m a husky voice, "they've told me your whole history, and I find I can be free whenever I like. So, Polly, you may go your own way._ By the Lord, if you come near me again, I will be free, and you shall be in a prison. I'm going back to Skimp's. You shan't say I hid myself. There I stay—find me out there if you dare." " You calf of a sea captain, do you think I want "to come after you? I despise you too much," said Polly grandly. " And her mother in the workhouse !" ejaculated Mrs. Heathcote, as if the fact had an important bearing on the case. " Had you not better go now ?" asked Ghrimes. "It will be well for you to go by the next train ; it leaves in twenty minutes. I will drive you to the station." Polly removed the white cap of widowhood, and laid it oo the table. " You may have it, Mrs. Heathcote, mum. Keep it for my sake, and be very careful about your cold pork. Go on locking up the key of the beer cellar, and don't let the maids have no followers, then you'll go on being as much beloved as you always have been much beloved, if you go on, that is, as you always have been a poing oa. Good-bye, young ladies. Miss Grace, I'd do you a good turn if I could, because you deserve it, and you know why : you was always the best of the bunch. _ Goodbye, Miss Lucy ; eat and drink a bit more, and don't read too many tracts, and you'll be as pretty as your sister some day, but never so good. She knows how to hold her tongue, she does. One good thing," she concluded, looking at her husband with a gaze of concentrated hatred, which caused his knees to shake beneath him, "one good thing, one gracious good thing, I'm rid of a poor-spirited barrel of salt sea pork. I sha'n't see you no more. Ugh ! you and your verses ! If I get home first, I'll burn 'em all." " You can't, Polly," said her _ husband meekly ; "' I've got 'em in my coat-tail pocket, euery one, with a new * Ode to Resignation,' which I composed when you were asleep." She passed out, holding her head high. Ghrimes followed her, and drove her to the station.