The Novelist.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 209, 11 September 1875, Page 3

The Novelist.

READY-MONEY MORTIBOY. A MATTER-OF-FACT STORY. (From Cassell’s Magazine.) Chapter X. continued. The sound of church bells beginning to chime fell ou their ears ; and Mr. Mortiboy, with a groan of disgust, rose to put on his overcoat.

“ They’ll be all here directly,” he said, “ Let us put these things away before they come, else they’ll very likely want to be presented with some. Help me to carry them to my bedroom.” Dick had not been in that room since his mother died. It was unchanged : the same red canopy to the bed ; the same hangings, only somewhat faded ; the same carpet, but worn into holes ; and the same chintz-covered chair by the bedside. Tlie only piece of furniture which had been added was a long oaken press, occupying half one side of the room.

Mr- Mortiboy opened it. Within were sundry boxes, drawers, and shelves, together with an iron safe.

“ Let us put the things here,” he said. “It’s the only place where they will he safe. Here are all your poor mother’s things, Dick. Sec” -—he opened a drawer in which lay packages in tissue paper—“ her jewels: they were all good, poor thing. This is her watch. All ! dear me. And here are Susan’s trinkets : I put ’em in here. I want to give something to Lucy Heath cote-—I promised Susan—but not to-day, not to-dav. There’s that present for Grace—l’ll promise it—-from Susan’s things. Susan was very fond of Lucy. The old man had contracted a habit of talking to himself, and sometimes forgot that a listener was present. Dick noted with curiosity the collection of odds and ends—old plate, old watches, rings, forks and spoons—which lay in the strong press, whose thick doors—iron lined —were able to turn tlie burglar's tools for many an hour. He looked and coveted. Then lie deposited his Mexican and Californian spoils with the rest, and saw his father safely lock all up. Ten minutes after, Mr. Mortiboy was on his way to church ; and at the last'sound of the parson’s bell, Dick lit his pipe, and strolled into the garden which lay at the back of tlie house.

_ “ It’s awkward”—strongly qualified—“ that girl turning up again. I must get her out of the way. Anyhow, tlie governor must not hear anything—not just as we are getting on comfortably, too, It only wants a week or two to make him open his mouth like an oyster, and take up the silver mine, and the sunken ship, and the cotton estates and all.

l lie long, old-fashioned garden was hounded by a high brick wall. There was a door in one corner, always kept locked—not even Dir. Mortiboy knew where the key was. Dick had forgotten this, and tried to open it. Then ho suddenly remembered, and burst into a laugh. “By Jove ! nothing is changed in the old place. And here’s the pump on which I used to step ; and here’s tlie vine by which I got to the pump. Let us climb over, as I used to do when I crept out at night to meet Polly. It’s exactly like the old times, only Polly’s gone off : and I wish she was dead—by gad !” Suiting the action to the word, by the help of the \ino and the pump, he gained the top of the wall, and threw his legs over it. Beneath him, in the lane, stood Polly—the first at the trysting-place, as she always had been. “ Aha ! ’ Cl ’>ed Dick, with his careless laugh —“ tllere y° u M-e, old girl. Isn’t it like twelve years ago !”

He leapt down, and stood at her side. A narrow path ran along by the side of a deep sluggish river, between twenty and thirty feet wide. Ihe path came from nowhere, and led nowhere, consequently no one ever walked along it; and particularly on Sunday mornin", it was as lonely as a track in the prairie. Across tlie river stood, quite alone, a small newly built villa, run up by an enterprising builder.. He had failed, as the result of Ids enterprise, and the villa was now the property of Mr. Mortiboy. But no one had yet taken it. Polly was dressed gaudily, in her Sunday host. A tall, finely shaped woman, with a face whose beauty was now on the wane : a welldeveloped, healthy creature, with those com-mon-place features—good enough in their way —which you often see in country women. Her expression was bad, however: low, cunnin" and animal. She held out her red, strong hand to Dick, who took it without any great show of affection, and returned it to its owner immediately. “Well, Poll?” “ Well, Poll ? Is that all you have got to say to your true and faithful wife ?”

Don t you think, Poll, you had better stow that ?”

Don t you think you had better do something for me ? A pretty thing, indeed, for the wife of old Ready-money’s son to be cleaning knives in the kitchen while her husband is singing songs in tlie parlor ! I heard you last night, and I had half a mind to spoil the sport.” Did you though ? Had you really ?” Dick laid his heavy hand on her shoulder. “Do you know, Polly, it’s devilish lucky for you that you stopped at half a mind ?” “ Now, look here, Dick. Don’t let’s have no chaff. What are you going to do ?” ' “ I tell you one thing I’m going to do, my girl. If you let out even by a whisper, or if I find you have let out, I’ll tell tlie governor everything, go abroad at once, and never come hack again. Now, you know if the governor’s the. kind of okl boy to tip up handsomely to his son’s wife—especially if she should turn out to be Polly Tresler. So be sensible, and let us talk things over.”

“I’m sure I only want to be friendly”— beginning to whimper. “ But it’s hard, when one sees her man after twelve years, not to < r efc so much as a kind word.”

“If that’s all you want,” said Dick, “I’ve got lots of them put by in. a box on purpose. 111 give you as many kind words as you like—and kisses, too, when no one’s looking.” “Xo one s looking now, Dick. And oh, how handsome you’ve got !” Dick .gave a look north, and another south that is, up and down tlie lane. After this concession to nuptial modesty, he bestowed a brace of kisses, one on eacli of his wife’s buxom cheeks. She returned them with a warmth that rather embarrassed him.

“ And you’ve never asked about tlie boy, Dick,” she said, reproachfully. “ Oh, damn it ! Is there a boy ?” “ A beautiful boy, Dick—the picture of his father.”

“ And the boy’s at Hunslope Farm, I suppose?”

“ Then you suppose wrong, because lie isn’t. I went up to London again directly after you went away and deserted me.” “Hang it ! I had to go.” “And never a letter, or a message, or a word, or a single sovereign.” “Hadn’t got any sovereigns.” “Well, I went up to London, and the hoy was horn there, and nobody ever knew anything about it, Dick. And there ho is now at school, bless his heart ! and nobody would ever believe lie was twelve years old.” Certainly there were more persons than one in the world who were ready to swear that tins hoy was no more than ten ; but then, Dick could not he expected to know that.

“ And I lived in London for eight years in service. Oh ! good, Dick—l was always good. You believe that, don’t you, my handsome husband?”

“ Humph ! Don’t see any reason for savin" ‘ No’ at present.”

“ And then I came back here, and I’ve been at Hunslope ever since. Anil oh ! Dick, it’s many a time I’ve been tempted to go to old Ready-money—” “Wouldn’t you have a better chance with him if you called him Mr. Mortiboy ?” “And say to him, ‘l’m your lawful daughter, and little Dick’—-only his name is Bill—‘is your true and lawful grandson, and if you’re a Christian you’ll do something for him.’ He’d have ought to have every fardeu of the old man’s money if you hadn’t a come hack. I’ve asked questions. Oh, Dick, I’m glad you’re come.”

.“ My father is a Dissenter, Polly. Perhaps his views of the duties of religion arc different from ours. You and I are simple Church folk, you know. . But I’m glad you didn’t.” “ Xo, I didn’t. But what are we to do now, Dick ■ Am Ito come and live with you, as in duty hound ?”

“Things are as they are,” lie said, repressing a violent inclination to use profane words. “We can t undo what’s clone. You know, Polly, what an unlicked cub I was when I married you.” “You won’t deny that, I hope ?’’

“That x was a fool?—oh ! that I was married ! No. I would if I could ; but I can't, because there’s a register at the church of St. Patients ; and though I was married—” “ That makes no difference, Dick. I found it out from a lawyer.” “ Did you ? Then you might have spared yourself the pains. No, I’m not going to deny it. And if you hold your tongue, and say nothing to anybody, now I am back—we can meet of an evening, you know, sometimes —I’ll do something handsome for you ; but if you talk, I’m off again. So there we are and make no mistake.”

Polly said nothing. All her hopes were knocked on the head. She stood twisting a riband in her red, ungloved hands, and looking at the big man, her husband, who enjoined his laws upon her. Put she was constrained to obey. There was something in Dick Mortiboy which made most people feel that it would be better for them to do what he told them. And all the time she had been planning a little design to make him pay for silence, or threaten to acknowledge him openly. It did seem hard, too. “ How are you off for money ?” “I’ve got none ; and Dill want’s new clothes.” “ I’ll go and see Bill some day—not yet. Here’s a tenpound note. Get the little devil—” “ What, Dick, your own son ?” “What’s the matter with the girl ? Get the young cuss a new pair of breeches, and don’t bother me about him.” He sat on a rail by the side of the lane—for they had been walking up and down—and put his hands in his pockets. “ Upon my word, Polly, I had almost forgotten you—l had indeed. And when I saw you at Hunslope, you might have knocked me down yourself, big as I am.” “And weren’t you glad to see me, Dick ?” “No—devilish sorry,” said her husband, truthfully. “ I expected to find you married again, of course.” “ Well, 1 am your wife.” “ You said that before.” “ And I mean to be, too.” “If you don’t mean to do what I tell you, it’ll be a poor lookout for you. So you’d better make no mistake on that point.” “ Don’t be cruel, Dick—the very first day and all,” said Polly, the tears of vexation rising to her eyes. The last hardening of a man’s heart is the incrustation of that place where a woman’s tears take effect. Dick relented a little, and restated his case—as a woman’s lord and master should ; but this time more kindly. “ Now, this is the first and last of it. If I’m to do anything for you, don’t interfere. Don’t come between me and the old man. I’m not going to be a brute. I married you, and we can’t get rid of that fact. So shake hands Polly, and go home. I’ll write you a letter to meet me again as soon as I see an opportunity. We’re all going to Hunslope Farm to dinner when they come home from church. But you must take no notice of me.” “No, I won’t—no manner of notice,” said Polly. “ I’m going to wait at table, and Mrs. Heathcote says I’m to look after you especial.” “ I knew a man down away in Frisco, Polly, who was married twenty years to a girl, without a soul knowing anything about it except the parson, and he got shot in a difficulty.” “Did you, Dick? It wasn’t yourself, was it?” “Now, how the devil could it heme, when I’ve only been away twelve years ? Well, they had sixteen children, two pairs of ’em twins. And nobody knew it, mind you. And then the man made his pot ; and now she rides about in her carriage. And the last time I saw her she had on a blue satin dress, and a red caehemire shawl, and gold chains as thick as rigging ropes. A pretty woman she is still, Polly, and able to enjoy it all. That was the reward of being silent, you see.” “ Lor !” said Polly. “ Dick, Old Readymoney —I mean, Mr. Mortiboy—is as rich as rich. And they say he can’t live long, because lie’s sold himself to the devil for all his money. Would you give mo a carriage and a gold chain ?’’ “ Half a dozen gold chains and a carriage and four. And all Market Basing shall know that you're my wife, Poll. Give me a kiss, old gal.” They parted friends ! The man went off in the direction of his father’s house : the woman to visit her mother at her little cottage in the town. Once they turned back to stare after one another. Their eyes met ! Could each have read the other’s mind ! Chatter XI. Mr. Mortiboy’s son was spending half an hour, for the first time in twelve years, with the wife he had married, whilst old lleadymoney himself was seated in his late sister’s pew in St. Giles’s Church. He looked round him with some curiosity. The church of St. Giles at Market Basing is the parish church, and is situate in the middle of the town, where the cross formed by the four principal streets—Bridge-street, Goldstreet, Sheep-street, and High-street—starts from. Within a stone’s throw of it are all the public buildings. Originally, the church was a Gothic edifice, the work of some architect whose name lias not come down to posterity. The tower looking west bears witness to his skill. The rest of the building was destroyed by fire in the reign of Charles the Second. That Christian prince thought proper to give a thousand tons of timber from a neighboring royal forest towards the rebuilding of the church. In return, a grotesque statue and a legend detailing the royal munificence were placed over the portico by the corporation of Market Basing. Sir Christopher Wren rebuilt St. Giles’s. He drew a square, with a smaller square running out of it—this was the chancel—for his ground plan, and added it on to the old gothic tower. He built four greatt walls, and pierced them with four ugly oblong windows, and then three small walls, and three small oblong

windows to match, for his chancel. He roofed it over with a dwarfed dome and lantern —reminding you of St. Paul’s in a toy box—and left it to the people of Market Basing to worship in, in the stead of their old Gothic church.

So everything remained for a century and a half. Then came a change. We live now in the ago of church restoration ; but the fever struck the rector of St. Giles's when the nineteenth century was young.

T 1 in dome I have mentioned was supported by four great pillars of white stone ; up to these on each side of the church, came the front railing of a gallery. In 1806, the rector laid his plans for pulling down these galleries, slicing a few rows of pews off, and putting them up again clear of the pillars. This was only part of his scheme, though what else he wanted to do does not matter now. Of course he called on his richest parishioner—the third of the Mortiboy race—for a subscription. And “ the scholard ” promised him a hundred pounds on his assurance that a London architect had pronounced the galleries unsafe. To this promise Mr. Mortiboy added a condition. It was that he should not be asked for any more. Unluckily for the parson, Mr. Mortiboy’s own seat was in the front row of one of the galleries, and he had forgotten to mention that the new erections would not be precisely similar to the old ones. And the banker owned what he called a faculty pew ; a quasi freehold, to be bought and sold with his house, and for which no pew rent was to be paid. The very day he heard of the arrangement to sacrifice his seat, lie was asked by the rector for a second subscription, on the ground that there was so much more being done than was at first intended. This was more than Mr. Mortiboy could stand. Ilis gallery gone, his hundred pounds gone—this was much ; but to be asked to give more for further desecration of vested rights and spoliation of property, was more than he could bear.

So, followed by a good many of the parishioners, lie seceded to the modest Little Bethel which had hitherto sufficed for the Nonconformist; interest. They pensioned off, economically, the wheezy old man who had preached in it for thirty years—ever since he had given up cobbling on having a call —and sent for an eloquent preacher ; an awakener. Then came the tug of war; and Market Basing was divided pretty equally, and with more than the usual bitterness, between Church and Dissent.

Such is the history of the celebrated Market Basing schism, as notable in its way as many a better-known division in the Church.

With a display of that old dog in the manger spirit to gratify which a Shropshire nobleman spent untold sums in building round his great park a wall high enough to keep out the hunting field, Mr. Mortiboy never went to the church again, nor did he suffer any of lib family to go there. But the bitterness wore off gradually. And when he died, his son, our Ready-money—though lie never went to church —was not seen so often at cliapel; while Susan Mortiboy, his sister, went to every church service that was held, and to every meeting, and in all parish affairs was as good as ten deaconuesses to the parson. Mr. Mortiboy revolved all these things as he sat in the church that morning.

During the service—which was an unfamiliar thing to him, and touched him not—his mind ran back to old times, and he saw himself again playing with Francis Melliship, making love to his sister Rmily as he grew older, marrying at that very altar. For a moment the bitter feeling against Mr. Melliship died away—to revive again the moment after, when the thought occurred to him that in a few days his enemy would be at his feet, craving his forbearance and assistance.

The hymns affected him little, because Mr. Mortiboy had no ear for music ; and, besides, he was thinking how lie should behave when Mr. Melliship came for help. Should he remind him of slights offered five-and-twenty years ago ? Or should lie be content to take that moment as an acquittance in full, and be friends again as of old ! He inclined ever so little to the latter course.

In that place lie was such an unusual sight, that the people all stared at him over their prayer books. They thought him very much affected by the loss of his sister, because he looked neither to the right nor the left, but gazed straight before him. Presently, looking forward in this way, his eyes caught the face of the preacher, and he was constrained, in spite of himself, to hear the text. Market Basing is one of those places where funeral sermons are still preached. The text chosen by the friend of Susan Mortiboy, as the theme for his tribute to her memory, was the thirty-eighth and thirty-ninth verses of the eighth chapter of Romans. The preacher spoke out the words in a clear and penetrating voice : “ For I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor tilings to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

I have given the text. I will not attempt to reproduce the sermon. I should only do injustice to it. But it seemed to Old Readymoney that it was directed personally at him.

It told of the sin of self-seeking, in its various forms. It showed how the good woman whose death had made a gap in their midst lived wholly for others ; and though she could not take her wealth with her—here a warmth crept over the brother’s heart, because he knew it was all liis—she had made it a blessing to the poor, and used it as if it were a trust. Here Mr. Mortiboy felt aggrieved. And the preacher, waxing eloquent with his theme, showed that the worship of self is shown in more ways than in the hoarding up and misuse of money—here Mr. Mortiboy felt uncomfortable, because the clergyman was really looking at him ; why could he not look at Heathcote? —how by disregarding the interests of others, by ignoring their wishes, by pursuing a line which brings misfortune on them, by failing to anticipate their desires, and by countless other

ways, the selfish man makes the paths of others hard for them. Mr. Mortiboy thought of his rival, Mr. Melliship, whose path he was about to make very hard, and almost wished, for a moment, that it was not so. And then he drew two pictures—one of him who had no money, but yet had in his heart charity, and sympathy, and thoughtfulness for his neighbor; and one of the rich man who had these virtues in addition to his wealth ; and ho showed how each in his way was a kind of Providence to the place—preventing more than healing : making men continue in goodness, rather than repent of evil. And then Mr. Mortiboy turned pale, and a chill fell on his heart, because he knew that he had done no good to anybody else —not so much as to one neighbor, and that the only good he had done to himself was to amass money and increase his wealth. Then the preacher generalized ; and such is the power of a contented mind, that Mr. Mortiboy forgot a few moments after where he was, and lost himself in thought about what he should do with Dick.

It was Sacrament Sunday. The plate came round, and caught him unprepared : at another moment, Mr. Mortiboy would have taken no notice of the intrusion. Now he was softened a little, and recollected he meant to give something when lie came ; so he dropped a coin into it, with a conscious glow of one who does a good action. Mr. Heathcote, who had been asleep, as was his wont during sermon—not from any disinclination to listen, but from sheer force of long habit—woke up, put a crown piieco in the plate, and church was over. Dinner at Parkside. It had a threefold aim. First, as Mrs. Heathcote observed, it would help to divert that melancholy with which she was persuaded her cousin Mr. Mortiboy was afflicted at the loss of his sister ; secondly, to welcome Dick back to England ; and thirdly, because it was Grace’s birthday, and Grace was twenty-one. There was another reason, which she kept to herself, that on Sunday Mr. Melliship always remained at home and dined cn finnillc ; so that there was no chance of 1 rank calling in the evening, and a reasonable excuse for not asking him. Mr. Mortiboy’s dislike to his brother-in-law extended to his nephew as well.

Dick was the quietest of the guests, partly because he was still unused to the society (if ladies, and felt it was desirable to keeji a curb upon his tongue—which had a habit, indeed, of dropping pearls of conversation, but roughly set. The girls, too, were quiet: Lucy, because she was still full of grief for her friend, Aunt Susan, as she was always called ; and Grace out of sympathy. But Mr. Mortiboy was in high spirits—perhaps from the influence of that glow of virtue of which we have spoken before, and perhaps from the revulsion of feeling which comes after a time of gloom and troubled lie sat with his chair a foot from the table, leaned forward at an unpleasant angle, and said, “Beautiful, beautiful !” to everything eatable presented to his notice. When the pudding was brought in by Polly, he remarked that it shook, and he liked to see a pudding shake—it was a good sign ; and as he drank half a glass of port, with a bit of blue Stilton, he was pleased to notice that the cheese was the only bad thing about the dinner. His chief topic of conversation was his son, of whom he spioke as admiringly as if he had not been present at the table, and frequently patted his broad back. Mrs. Heathcote encouraged him, put in little ejaculations of “La ! now, uncle !” “Is it possible ?” and so on ; while the old man garrulously prated of the good days he was going to have now Dick was come back. Mr. Mortiboy, in spite of his penurious ways at home, was by no means averse to the good things of life. He had schooled himself to believe that it was waste of money to have a decent dinner cooked for himself every day ; but it would have been a waste of opportunity to refuse whatever good things were offered by others. So the dinner passed off very cheerfully. It was not exactly pleasant for Dick to have his own wife waiting on him—she had ridden back on the box of John Heatlicote’s sociable—nor was he altogether free from alarm when his cousin asked him if he had left his heart behind him, knowing that Polly had a fine high temper of her own, which could not at all times be trusted. Nothing, however, happened to disturb the peace between them. When the table was cleared, Mr. Heathcote, in a tone of much solemnity, _ called upon all to fill their glasses. Health-drinking was a ceremony which he would not have omitted for worlds on such an occasion. He began a little speech.

”Bygones, he said, “should be bygones. There is no occasion for crying over what can’t be helped. We’ve had to grieve, and we may now rejoice. Let us drink the health of—”

“My good gracious ! what a dreadful thing !” cried Old Ready-money, falling back in his chair, his face was pale as ashes. Mr. Heathcote stopped suddenly. They all started.

“YV hat is it, Undo Richard ?” cried Mrs. Heathcote.

“ Well, I shan’t forget this !” He was looking at something in his hand. “ What is it, uncle ?"

“I have done it!” he replied, solemnly. “ I’ve put a sovereign into that plate at the church instead of a shilling.” _lt was true. In the confusion of the moment, his thoughts distracted from what he was doing, he had put his fingers iuto the right waistcoat-pocket, where were five sovereigns, instead of the left where were as many shillings. Mr. Heathcote repressed an inclination to roar, as at one of the best jokes he had ever heard—before lie caught, just in time, a look of admonition from his wife. “Wliat is to be done? I never made such a mistake in my life before,” cried Mr. Mortiboy.

“ W hat can be done ?” cried Mrs. Heathcote,

“ \ oil have done more good than you intended, Uncle Richard,” said Lucy. “ Some poor persons will have a better dinner next Sunday.” “ Better stuff and rubbish !” said Mr. Mortiboy.

“Well then, said Dick, whose ignorance of church customs must be pleaded in excuse for the hardihood of the suggestion, “write to the parson, and make him give back your change.” “ Well—why not ? It’s only right,” said his father.

“Oh ! —uncle !” Lucy expostulated. “111 send John,” said Mr. Heathcote, “if you like.”

He saw here the materials of as good a thing as had ever come under his notice, and was determined to make the most of it.

.1 hey got paper, and Mr. Mortiboy was going to write, explaining that, in the hurry of the moment, he. had made a mistake of some importance—viz., the substitution of a sovereign for a shilling—and begging the rector to return to him the balance due.

But Mrs. Heathcote contrived to make her uncle postpone this till lie got home. She did not want the letter dated from Parkside.

Then Mr. Heathcote went on with his speech. “ 1 have forgotten, now, what I intended to say specially. But I was going to propose Dick’s health. Dick, my boy, we’re glad to see you, and proud of you ; and you’re always welcome, as you always were, at Parkside.” Mr. Mortiboy’s voice shook a little as he raised his glass and said—- “ We’ll drink, Dick !—we’ll drink, Dick ! your health, my son.”

The big prodigal had found his way to his heart ; and he loved him better now, far better, than he had ever loved him as a boy. Dick saiil a few words ; and then Mr. Heathcote filled his glass with an air of business, and looked at his wife, who pulled out her handkerchief. I hey knew what was cornin' f . Lilt Mr. Mortiboy astonished them all. “Let me, lie said, “say a few words.” He turned to Grace. “ Grace, my dear - , we are going to drink your health, and many happy returns of the day. For twenty-one years, I think, I’ve dined here on every birtlidify of yours, and drunk a glass of port to you every year. Lydia, your children are good girls. Had things been different with me—had Dick not, happily, come back to us—l should . But there is no telling what might or would have been done ”

Hero Mrs. Heathcote buried her face in her handkerchief.

“ And now, my dear, I wish you a long and happy life, and a careful husband, and ’’—here he hesitated a little, and pulled out his pocket book—“here, my dear,”—he took out a crisp and new bank note, and looked at it admiringly for a moment ; then he put it from him as if the action cost him something'—-“ here, niy dear, is a present for you.” It was a hundred-pound bank note. Grace read the amount with a sort of stupefaction, and passed it to her father. Mr. Heathcote took it gravely, and gave it back to his daughter. And then, it went round, and there was a simultaneous cry of gratitude and surprise. They were shocked at the old man’s unlikeness to himself. “ But what in the world will you do with it Grace ?” said her mother. “You will have to put it into Uncle Mortiboy’s bank.” “Y. es—do, Grace, said the donor ; “ and I’ll see if I can’t give you interest for it.” 1 ive minutes after she had received her present, Grace handed it back to her uncle to " take care of ” for her ; and he received it with a gasp, and returned it to his pocket-book hastily. Poor Grace ? It did seem rather hard to her to be tantalized by the sight of such a splendid sum of money, and then to have it suddenly ravished from her sight, and consigned to the dark dungeons of the bank—a prisoner not to be released.

In the evening, Mr. Mortiboy sat in the easiest chair by the lire, and next him Mrs. Heathcote. And he conversed with her about liis son Dick, telling her over and over again how great a comfort to him the boy already was ; laying out his schemes for an easier life, and planning the happiness that was to be his, now Dick was come home again. Dick, for his part, was listening to the girls as thev sail"' hymns.

“ Your nose, my lady,” said Sir. Heathcote that night, laying his manly head upon the pillow, “ appears to me to be put out of joint.” “ Don t be coarse, John,” returned his partner.

“ Anyhow, old Ready-money has broken out in a new place. That hundred pounds of his is all our girls will get. But the old man is improved by it, and I’m glad Dick has turned up again.”

“ Boor boy !” said his wife, with feeling. “So am I. John, mark my words —thou Hi you must have seen it—Dick’s setting his cap at Grace already.”

John was coarse enough to laugh at this remark, and to continue silently shaking till slumber smoothed out his limbs, and composed them for rest.

As for Mr. Mortiboy, lie went home well satisfied, and not the less pleased because the morrow would bring his brother-in-law, for the first time in his life, for assistance and forbearance. For he knew well enough that it was quite beyond the power of Francis Melliship to meet his liabilities. It would be something like a .new pleasure to see his proud brother-in-law open his case, and admit that lie wanted time. It would lie a real new pleasure to have him, like all the rest of Market Basing, secretly under his thumb. Mr. Mortiboy rubbed his hands when he thought of it. Ho would not ruin Melliship : he would even help him. But ho would help him at a price, and that price should be his own aggrandizement. To have both the banks at liis command would be almost to rule the county as well as tlie town. To make of Mr. Melliship a superior Ghrimes would bo an ample return for those slights he had endured at his hands so long ago. And it fell out so well for Dick too. He could go back, arrange his affairs abroad, and return in a year or two to leave Market Basing no more, and to succeed him in all his wealth—and even Mr. Mortiboy himself did not know how much that wealth amounted to by this time. So he, too, went to sleep ; and all Market Basing slumbered—except one man.