Chapter LI.

Grey River Argus, Volume XIII, Issue 1666, 6 December 1873, Page 4

Chapter LI.

It is Sunday, nearly a fortnight after Dick's dccath. The Heathcotes, returned from church, are on the lawn in front of the house. The noise of wheels on the private road leading to the farm is heard, an unusual thing, unless when poor Dick Mortiboy drove over on Sunday. It was a town " fly" — one of thosft delightful vehicles which are found atcountry stations, which have all the bad qualities of the London growler without any of its good ones, always supposing that it has good ones. It drove i7p to the door, and a girl got down and looked timidly at the group on the lawn. A pretty girl, a wonderfully pretty girl, pale-faced, brighteyed, with regular if rather common- ' place features, and a great mass of rich brown hair; neatly dressed in a colored stuff frock, brown jacket, and a bundle of wild flowers in her hand. She could not resist the temptation of stopping the fly to pick them from the hedge. She opened the gate, and walked in, coloring painfully. Mr Heathcote and Grace slowly walked down the gravel path to meet her. "Mr Heathcote?" she asked, "oh! I don't want you — I want Miss Grace Heathcote. Which is Miss Grace Heathcote?" " I am Grace Heathcote. Pray what can I do for you ?" Patty — it was Patty Silver — looked at her for a few moments, and then, clasping hez - hands together, burst into i tears. For she contrasted herself with the girl who stood before her: herself, common, half educated, badly dressed, with this presence of a lady, glorious in her beauty and her grace. The unconscious rival looked ab her in wonder, but did not speak. "Let me speak somewhere alone with you, Miss Heathcote," said Patty — " quite alone. I have something very important to tell you." " Papa, I am going to take this young lady to the drawing-room. Do not wait dinner for me. Come with me, please." She sailed across the lawn, taking poor little Patty after her, into the drawing-room, when Mis Heathcote heard the door shut and locked. " John," she cried, putting her head out of the window, " pray who is that young woman ?" " I don't know," said John. " John, if you were half a husband, to say nothing of a father, you would have known that it was your duty to bring her to me first. Secrets, indeed ! — I will have no secrets in my house, I can tell you. Grace, let me in this moment." "Is tha+ you, mamma ?" answered her daughter, in the clear, resolute tones which made her mother quatl and give way — " is that you, mamma IGo on with your dinner; do not wait for me — I shall be ready presently." Mrs Heathcote knocked again at the door, but faintly, and finding no attention bestowed upon her, retreated again. Dinner was served but Grace did not return. So they sat down without her, John Heaih cote alone being able to take his meal with the usual Sabbath enjoyment. .•■:'; "I believe, John," said his wife, " that you would g® on eating if the world was on fire." . "Well, Lyddy, if my not eating could put out the fire, I would stop. If not, I dare say I should eat so long as I was hungry, unless the fire was burning my toes." . j "John, you are blasphemous- On ; Sunday, too, and your daughter locked up with a stranger, talking seei;ets !" " What if she is? Grace's secrets are not mine. There can't be any harm in Grace's secrets, poor girl; and she's welcome to a bushel of them. Something to do with Frank, I expect. I That reminds me, Lydia. A week before his death, Dick had a deed of partnership drawn out, but not executed, between himself, Frank Melliship, and George Ghrimes." " Not executed ?" said Lydia, "No; but the intention was the same. » I have had it drawn . out again between myself and Frank Melliship, and George Ghimes, on poor Dick's plan. I am going, to take them both into partnership with me." " $ ohn Heathcote," said his wife, ■Jf : it is a dreadful thing, a. really dreadful thing, to see the way you are gpiog PD. If this partnership is cai'ried ihtg

effect, I shall feel it my duty, as a wife and a mother — to — to — " " What will you do, Lydia ?" ;" To call in London doctors, and have your brain examined for Softening. It must be Softening, John." : John put down his knife and fork, and laughed till the tears ran down his face, The idea of his brain softening was so novel, so unexpected, so good, that he laughed again and again. He was not in the least angry. " You always would have your joke, Lyddy," he .said, with a choke. " Softening ! Ho! ho! ho! And you've always called me the hardest man you know. But I'm glad you approve of" the partnership — very glad. Because, though I am the administrator of all this money, I always feel that I'm doing it for you, Lyddy. It's well you're a good-hearted woman — very well. Some women would have made a fuss, and objected. Not you. That's what I like about you, wife, You "ever object when it's no good, and you're always ready to back me up when I'm doing what's right." I have never been able to make up my mind whether this speech of John's wa* stupid, or whether it was sarcastic. I fancy it was the latter, and that John was by no means so simple as his wife thought him. " Now," said Grace, leading Patty into a room, half boudoir, half dressingroom, "sit down, and tell me what you came to tell me." She sat on the bed, and Patty on the easy chair by . its side. The girl was lost in conteuiiDlating the length to which civilisation can go in furnishing .. a bed-room: the bright draperies, the dainty appointments, the looking-glass. She looked up hesitatingly. " Do all ladies have rooms like this?" " Yes, I suppose so. Why ? There is nothing very grand in this room, is there?" • | r Patty Sighed. " You should see mine," she said, " and you would know what I mean. Miss Heathcote, I came to-day from London. I cbrne from Mr Melliship." " From Frank." " "From Mr Frank Melliship. He does not know I've come. Let me tell my story from the beginning. He lives with my father. So we know him, you see. Last Monday week I saw him reading a letter, and looking bright and happy. You know, miss, he'd been terribly pulled down and woried of late. He told me he had got good news — the best of news — and he went out and up the street I saw him walking as if the ground was made of india-rubber. Then he came home, and sang all over the house like a lark. Next day— Tuesday that was — he said to me— " Patty ' — he always calls me Patty, miss, because father does, I suppose — — "Patty, I sha'n't write my letter till tq-naoiTOW, because; I'm.- waiting to find but how to answer the most generous man in the world.' . " And he pleased himself all day drawing pictures— such pictures^ I've got them all. . On Wednesday I went in at half.past two. Jle had his writing table before him, aud he had the " Echo " in his Land. " ' Patty/ he said, ' he's dead — and she is lost to me !" Grace turned colour. "Go on," she said. ! ■ - : ■ ' ; ' "'She's lost to me!' .. •" lhen .l^e -told me all about you-j Miss Heathidte— how ; lie loved you, and you loved him ; and how Mr Mortiboy was going to make them rich, so that you could marry, but he died and could not. And then he told me that he could never go to you now, because you were rich and he was a beggar. This was last Wednesday week. He told me with the tears running down his, .handsome face, where you lived, and all about it. Well, Miss Heathcote, he's been getting iower and lower ever since. He doesn't eat, he doesn't sing, he never draws. He sits at the window with his head in his hands, and never speaks at all. I couldn't bear to see . it ; so I bought a railway guide; and found out the Sunday trains, and made father give me money to pay my return ticket,; and came down here to . tell you all about it. Miss Heathcote,; it can't be that you're going to throw him over because you are rich. It can't be that you don't love him any more because he is poor 1 Don't tell me that ,go; ;;killingjliinlseit Don't be proud. Ladies are mostly too proud, I think-; and so are" gentlemen. He will never come to you. Oh, Miss Heathcote, if I loved — if he loved me — and I was rich, I would go to him andMss.Mmy-iand.say— -, • „i f' £. Fraaik^what l .does: it matter, whether you have any money; or ; not?"; —"Once a-Week."