The Novelist.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 226, 8 January 1876, Page 3

The Novelist.

HEADY-MONEY MOHTIBOY A MATTER-OF-FACT STORY. (From Cassell’s Magazine.) Chapter XLII.

Frank sitting iu Mrs. Skimp’s drawing-room Avitli Captain Bowkev. It is in the morning, but the master mariner is smoking his long clierry-stiek pipe. Time hangs somewhat heavily upon his hands since ho has had nothing to do. Sometimes ho takes the boat and goes down to the docks, where he picks up old friends, and spins old yarns. Sometimes he pays visits to ancient haunts at Poplar. Sometimes he makes a morning call upon his cousin, who lives close by, to please whom he has come to live at Skimp’s. For the Captain has money—he got it in private ventures during liis many voyages—besides the little pension which his late employers have given him. It is not much ; but it is enough to make it desirable to retain him near the family, for fear of foreign and malign influences. More often than anything else, the Captain spends his mornings at the table in Mrs. Skimp’s drawing-room, with a sheet of paper and an inkstand, making innumerable blots as he corrects and adds to his poems. This work, indeed, constitutes the real pleasure of his life. To read his verses aloud, in the presence of a -man who will listen without laughing, such as Frank Melliship, is pure and unmixed happiness. To got them printed is a dream which lie just permits to himself. Some day, he thinks—some yet distant day—he will sacrifice the hundred pounds of capital needed to accomplish this object, lie must pinch to make up for the loss of five pounds a-ycar ; but what is a little pinching in comparison with so great an object ? To-day he has been reading a remarkable poem, liis chef d’ccuvre, on which he means to base his reputation. It is called “ The Captain’s Dream.” In this work, imitating, unconsciously, the example of Dante and several other distinguished “ makers,” lie has embodied in a vision the whole sum of his philosophy. Frank has been pretending to listen. The good-nature which prevents him from yawning in the honest Captain’s face, also obliges him to come from time to time, and pay Sir. Bowker a visit, in order to give him pleasure. I, who yield to no man in the quality of good-nature, have ruthlessly cut out the whole of the Captain’s poem, which is among the records from which this history is compiled, solely because it might bore my readers. lam far from saying the work is not remarkable in many ways : there is a flavor of the briny in it, a smell of pickled pork, occasional whiffs of rum, a taste of the pannikin, the breath of the ocean. Nautical metaphors alone are used—seafaring similes. AVe are on board ship, and the wind is whistling through the shrouds. But—but — truth compels me to add that the poet’s diction is commonplace, and his thoughts are not always exalted. Why do we not consider the varieties of the human mind in our estimate of poetry ? There are gradations of intellect, like terraces. Instead of measuring a newlyfledged poet with a stupid, Procrustean bed of criticism, reducing all to one standard, why not make an effort to classify intellectual produce, as merchants classify colonial produce ? I believe there are, in the single article of sugar alon§, about twelve gradations from treacle to crystal. Suppose wo made twelve grades or degrees in poetry ? Our greatest poets would belong to the twelfth—the supreme degree which embraces all the rest. As every poet must have some brains, if only a thimbleful, it follows that he must have a very large mass of mankind beneath him. Martin F. Tupper, for instance, might be numbered one, or perhaps two, on account of some gleams of scholarship. Captain Bowker xvould belong to the first grade, Avithout any possibility of promotion at all.

“ So, Mr. Melliship, there’s all my ideas for you. When I get more, I stick them in. As I go on living, the poem will go on growing—consequently improving.” “ Do not your ideas change sometimes ?” “ Never. When I get an idea, Mr. Melliship, it isn’t a flash in the pan, like some people’s. My ideas take me first of all unawares. They generally begin, like a toothache, when I least expect them. Perhaps when I feci a little bulFy, in the morning ; mayhap, after an extra go of grog the night before. Then one comes all of a sudden. I turn it over, and think it out. I’m rather a slow thinker ; but I’m an uncommon sure one, and I never let it go. I don’t read much, except the newspaper ; so that I’ve got a great advantage over most poets, all my ideas are my own. I don’t steal them and alter them. I let ’em grow. It takes me a long time—perhaps months—to work an idea into shape, but when I have got him, there he is, put into the poem neat and ship-shape, preserved for cure, like a bit of salt beef in a cask of brine. Woman, now—you remember the beautiful passage I read to you just now about woman ?” “ Yes—yes—. Oh ! don’t take the trouble to read it again, Captain Bowker,” cried Frank, hastily. “ A few lines to show my meaning,” said the captain, clearing his throat. “Here we are. Now listen :

“ ‘ AVoman is like a ship—new painted, gay. Fresh holystoned and scrapped, she sails away, Mannechby her captain. AVliile the weather holds The shiii sails trim, the woman never scolds, The dancing waves play on the starboard bow, Her sails fill out, her pennants gaily flow ; The captain takes his thankful grog below.’ That’s a good line, young man. That last is a very good line.” He read it over again, shaking his head slowly from side to side in admiration. “ ‘ Look where ahead the black ciouds vise, ami see How changed the lines of Ocean ;, on the lee The rocks rise threatening. Full the mainsail, stow All snug : here comes the tempest. Let her go.;

“I leave out the next fifty lines, where I follow up the comparison of a good woman to a good ship. She weathers the storm. Then I go on to talk of a bad woman ; and I end thus:— ‘“All lost—the ship obeys the helm no more. She strikes—she sinks. Her voyages arc o’er.” “Very fine,” said Trank—“very fine indeed.” “ Yes ; I flatter myself that there is good stuff there. They’ve compared women to all sorts of things. Look here. Here’s a bit I cut out of old play : “ ‘ A woman is like to—but stay— What a woman is like, who can say ? She’s like a rich dish Of ven’son, or iish. That cries from the table, “ Come, cat me !” But she’ll plague you, and vex you. Distract and perplex you, False-hearted, and ranging, Unsettled, and changing, What, then, do you think she is like ? Bike a sand ? like a rock ? Like a wheel ? like a clock ? “ Now, you know, it’s all very fine. That’s not my notion of a' simile. ."Don’t hurry about from one to another to show your cleverness. Stick to one. Woman is like a ship, isn’t she? Very well—there you are. Work it up, as I do. There’s her hold, must be laden or in ballast ; a woman without ballast is like a cork on the water. Her head is the captain’s cabin—only room for one. The captain is the man at the helm. As for the rigging, some of it’s ornamental, some of it’s useful. You’ve got the bunting, and you’ve got the sails. The sails is her petticoats, without which, d’ye see, she can’t sail out of port ; the bunting is her ribbons, because they all, ships as well as women, sail better if they’re proud of themselves. And as for her masts, her boats, her keel, her bowsprit, and her foksle, and all the rest of it—why, bless you, if I had time, I’d run through the whole and show you how the simile holds. Ah ! it’s a very delicate subject. Marriage, now. People all get married. Why ? The Lord knows. I did myself now, and a pretty market I brought my pigs to. Ease and comfort ! Quiet and tranquility for composing ? Not a bit of it. Morning, noon, and night went her tongue. It was ‘Jem, get this;’ ‘Jem, go there.’ And if I didn’t, squalls, I can tell you.” “ Well, but you were the man at the helm,” said Prank, with a smile. “ Man at the helm ! I might as well have been in the bows ; she stayed below all watches. She wouldn’t answer the helm nohow. Never took no notice of the helm. Kept her own course. Never was such a craft. Neat to look at, too. Painted rosy red in the bows ; full in the lines, but clean cut, down about the stern ; always neat and tidy in the gear. But come to command her—phew ! then you found out what a deceptive, headstrong, cranky, difficult vessel she was. Ah, well ; it’s fifteen years ago since I saw her.” “ Is she dead, then ?” “ Hush !” said Captain Bowker ; “ don’t speak so loud. If she ain’t dead, where is she ? She left me ; went cruising on her own account ; took in another skipper, may be. Anyhow, she went. We’ve gone away from each other. Head ? Well, she’s as good as dead. Don’t you ever marry, Mr. Melliship. You’re a young man, and the temptation will come strong over a young man at times. Eight it. St. Paul says himself it’s better not to marry. I heard that in church last Sunday morning. Say to yourself, ‘ Which shall it be ? Shall it be peace and repose ; or it shall be nagging, and pecking, and boxing of ears ? Shall it be your legs on the fender and your pipe in your mouth ; or shall it be the legs of the chair about your head, and the pipe smashed ? Shall it be fair weather, or shall it bo foul ?’ There’s more craft built for show than for use in these bad times. Don’t trust any. Stick to yourself, and be happy. As for me, Mr. Melliship, I’m a fixture. Nothing can disturb me now. I’m in port. I defy the storms. To quote myself, I sing—- “ ‘ Laid up in dock, serene I shake my fist, And fortune’s storms may thunder as they list.’ Those are very fine lines, Mr. Melliship,—very forcible, strong lines indeed—- “ ‘ Laid up in dock, serene, I shake my fist, And fortune’s storms—’ ”

“Please, Cap’n Bowker,” —it was the redarmed Mary Ann who interrupted him, — “there’s a lady wants to see you.” “I suppose it’s my cousin,” growled the captain. “Why can’t she wait for me to go and see her ? It’s my turn, too.” “No ’taint Mrs. Bobins,” said Jane, who knew the Captain’s belongings ; “this lady says she’s your wife ! ” —grinning all over. The captain’s arms drooped, and his face turned an ashy white. Prank laughed at first; but the poor man’s distress was so great that his sense of the ludicrous was lost in pity. “Found me out, has she?” lie murmured. “ After fifteen years— ‘ Laid up in dock, serene’ No ; that won t do. Mr. Melliship, wait a moment. Don tgo and leave me in this pinch. Can’t nothing be done ? See her. After fifteen years, to go back to prison ! It’s more than -I looked for. Tell me what to do. Help me to ride out the gale.” “ There is nothing to be done,” said Frank. “ But perhaps you had better see her. Suppose she is not your wife, after all ?” “ Stay with me. Stand by an old shipmate. Don’t desert me, Mr. Melliship.” “ But I can’t interfere between you and your wife. Be brave, man. You ought not to be afraid of a woman.” “As an ordinary rule,” said Captain Bowker, clearing his throat, “ there ain’t a braver man going than me. Not another woman in the world I’m afraid of. But this one’s an exception. You didn’t know my Polly. I don’t care for the rest of ’em, if they were all to come together. But Polly’s too much for any man.” There was a rustling of a dress on the stairs, and Frank waited for a moment. _A tall figure in black silk, with a thick veil, glided in. As I rank glanced at lu-r, somehow lie thought of Market Basing and Parksidc. “Don’t sheer off,” murmured the captain, in an ecstasy of terror.

But Frank stole softly out of the room, and closed the door, bringing the red-armed one down with him. She had followed Mrs. Bowker up the stairs, with intent to listen at the keyhole. Mrs. Skimp and her daughter were at the bottom, with the same laudable object. “Now, Mrs. Skimp,” said Frank; “no listening.” And he sat down on the bottom steps by way of precaution. “ O Jem !” cried Polly, falling on the Captain’s unresisting neck, and kissing his grizzled forehead—O Jem ! to think I should find you, and after so many years, and your dreadful cruel conduct. Oh, this is a blessed day !” “How did you find me, Polly ?” asked her husband. “Went to Leggatt & Browne’s—your old firm. The clerks told me. This is a blessed day !” “ D the clerks,” said the captain. “ And why didn’t you go before, if you wanted to find me ?” “Because I thought you were dead, Jim. I’ve wore black ever since in mourning for you. See here. They told me at Poplar that you was alive, and where to ask for you. Oh, what a joyful thing to find your husband after fifteen years !” She pulled out her handkerchief, and began to weep ; but not plentifully. “Well, what’s to be done now ?” asked the captain. “ That’s a pretty thing to say to your wife,” she answered. “ Done ! What should be done ? I’ve come to live with you.” “Oh !” groaned the captain. “ I’m not going to live in a boarding-house. How much money have you got ?” He named his modest income. “ That will do. We shall have lodgings. What’s the name of the woman of the house ?” “Skimp.” “ She went to the head of the staircase, and called out—“ Mrs. Skimp ! You Mrs. Skimp ! Come iip here at once.” Frank quietly went away. “ We’re going to leave this to-day,” said Polly. “ A week’s notice. Bring the bill in ten minutes. I’ll pay it. And none of your extras for me.”

“You don’t stay in my house another hour,” said the aggrieved Mrs. Skimp. “ Cap’n Bowker, I’m ashamed of you. I pity you, I do. Paying attentions to my daughter, too.” “Eh!” said Polly. “What’s that?” “ I never did,” said the Captain, outraged and insulted. “ They’re all upon me, together. I never did. I’m—l’m—l’m damned if I did ! Mrs. Skimp, what do you mean by saying such things ? And you a married woman yourself, and know the misery of being married. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I never looked at your daughter, even. I never look at any woman.” “You won’t pay her any more attentions, for you shall come out of this place in quick sticks,” said Mrs. Bowker. “ How long will it take you to pack your things up ?” “Well,” said the unresisting seaman, fairly overstunned by the logic of facts, “ I think to do it comfortable, you know, it might take a couple of hours.” “Very well,” said the lady. “You pack everything up—mind you don’t leave nothing behind you in a place like this—and I’ll just go down to Poplar and let ’em know as I’ve found you, and I’ll be back here before the two hours are up. This is a blessed day !” She gave the Captain one chaste salute, shot a look of anger at Mrs. Skimp, and marched out of the room. Chapter XLIII.

One fine morning at this time, Dick Mortiboy said to his ward, when they were out for a ride together—- “ Bill, I do you the justice to believe that you don’t care very much about your mother.” The boy shook his head. “ And you would not want to go away with her—to live with her, I mean ?”

Little Bill’s cheeks changed color, and he turned his blue eyes appealingly at Uncle Dick. “Very well, my boy, then never say anything about her.” The boy was mounted on an old pony that had been used occasionally to carry old Beadymoney. It was very quiet and easy in its paces, and Dick had given his protdge a few lessons in horsemanship before they had ventured so far into the country together. Of course, in a gossiping, tittle-tattling little place like Market Basing, there was an abundance of rumors rife concerning the parentage and history of little Bill. Widely as some of these reports differed from others in many particulars, they were all agreed as to one essential : it was that he was young Keady-money’s son. I have never heard that anybody connected the boy with Polly. Now, I do not say that Dick Mortiboy’s argument concerning his ward was sound or just ; but it was charitable. He argued thus : —“A few months ago I was told this was my son. I had not seen him. I did not love him. I was a poor man, and I contributed what I thought sufficient to his support. The boy had the reputation of being my son. Now I have seen him, and know that ho isn’t mine. I like him, and I’ll take care that he gets some of the benefits he would have got if his mother’s tale had been true.”

It was rather from impulse than from reason that Dick Mortiboy had acted. He was big, and rough, and generous. He had taken the boy from Mrs. Kneebone’s tender care, and brought him home with him. He had hardly thought of what he should do with him. He meant, after a time, to send him to school ; for the boy was bright and sharp as a needle, and, till he talked, was quite a little gentleman in his new clothes. As he looked down at the child’s thin face and deep blue eyes, his heart grew soft. It seemed as if he had missed something all his life, which he was finding now. What he had missed were the influences of love : now they were upon him. He loved a woman. True, she did not love him ; but she cared in a way for him. It was something to know that Grace

loved him “as a brother ” —as girls are fond of saying when they moan that they feel a friendly interest in a man, but would rather not have him making love to them. Then came the boy. His love for Dick was wonderful. His loyalty and obedience to what Dick told him, the pains he took to do everything that Dick said was right, his confidence and trust—all this touched Dick, and moved him : it was the first step upwards—to something like repentance. Only as yet, the faintest glimmer, like the first grey streaks of light in the east. So Dick Mortiboy rode along gently on the strip of grass by the side of the turnpike road, thinking of many things, when he became aware that his ward was calling out lustily—- “ Mikey O’Grady ! Mikey O’Grady !” The boy was in the middle of the road, some twenty {yards behind. He had reined in his pony, and was addressing by name a ragged, shoeless, dust-covered tramp. Dick stopped his horse.

“Mikey o’Grady,” the boy called out again. “ Shure enough it’s me name, your honor,” said the man, hat in hand. “Don’t you remember me, Mike ?” The boy took off his cap, and shook his light hair over his eyes. The Irishman gave a yell of delight. “ It’s little Bill,” he cried. Dick listened to this colloquy, and said nothing. “ You’re going to London, Mike, ain’t you ? Go to the old place, and find out Thoozy. You remember Thoozy, don’t you ? Well, then give Thoozy my love—tell him I am very well, and very happy, and—and I wish he was.” Poor little Bill’s eyes began to fill with tears. “ Give him the message, my man,” said Dick. “Tell him, too, that when I come to town I shall go and see him. Perhaps I shall have something for him. And here’s something to help you on your way.” The Irishman promised, and went on his way. Dick said nothing till bed-time came, when he patted his ward on the head, and said—- “ Good boy, good boy. Another commandment, Bill. Never forget old friends. What is the whole duty of a boy ?”

“ Never steal—never tell lies—never swear —hold his jaw—do his work—go away from England—always be ready to fight—look out for shams—never be satisfied—never forget old friends. Ten of ’em now, Uncle Dick.”

“ That’s a curious coincidence,” said Uncle Dick.

On the morning after his refusal by Grace Heathcote, Dick Mortiboy went down to the bank full of his new purpose. It was to make George Ghrimes and Frank Melliship his junior partners in the concern. The foundry and the brewery would still be managed by Ghrimes for Dick’s sole benefit ; but he had made up his mind to rehabilitate Frank’s fortunes, and reward the honest and able services of Ghrimes, by doing what he thought was to both a simple act of justice.

Young Beady-money was not an adept in the art of speechifying, and did not know exactly how to begin. He set forth his intention to Ghrimes in a sort of preamble about Frank.

“Ghrimes,” he said, “I’ve been thinking things over a goodish deal of late, and I’ve got a proposal I want you to consider. When I was a boy—before I went away from the governor—if I had a friend to say a word for me and give me a hand, besides John Heathcote, it was my uncle Melliship.” “He was a very good sort, poor man,” said Ghrimes, guessing half of what was about to come from his employer. “Hewas,” Dick assented. “Well, Ghrimes,” he went on, “ they’ve got a sort of rough notion in those rough parts I lived a good many years, that one good turn deserves another. The very roughest there act Tip to it. It is not a bad maxim, Ghrimes, anywhere. It seems to me that it is not affected by climate. My uncle Melliship did me many good turns.. Now I am going to do his son one good turn : for I’m bound to help Frank. That’s all clear, Isn’t it ?” Mr. Ghrimes nodded.

“ Good. I knew you’d agree to all that. I’ve a word or two more to say before I’ve done. There’s the man who greases the wheels —and there’s a good many of ’em to grease—of my affairs, who keeps everything straight and square, and adds to the pile I’ve got already.” Mr. Ghrimes turned rather red. “ That’s you, Ghrimes. You see it. Well, I think I’m bound to do something for you.” The manager of Dick Mortiboy’s business looked at the pattern of the carpet, and said nothing. He had not had time to find words yet. “What can wc do best for all of us? The old bank was Melliship, Mortiboy, & Co. Why not revive the old title by talcing Frank and you into partnership ?—Mortiboy, Melliship & Ghrimes.” “ Never alter the name of a bank,” said G hrimes. “ The most unlucky thing that can be done. Kemember Snow’s bank, in the Strand.” “ Well, we’ll have it Melliship, Mortiboy and Co. I don’t quite know how these things are done ; but I suppose there will be something to sign written in a big hand.” “ A deed of partnership would have to be prepared, of course.” “ Very well. You will do all that. Arrange it with Battiscombe.”

Dick put on his hat. “ Stay, Mr. Mortiboy—this won’t do.” “ We’re partners now, Ghrimes. Call me Dick.” “Well, then, Mr. Dick. I don’t know how to thank you for myself. As for Frank, it is an act which I call noble. I is noble, Mr. Mortiboy—l mean, Mr. Dick.” “ You wouldn’t if you knew everything, perhaps,” said Dick. “ However, what is the hitch 1” “ Why, this : we must arrange terms of partnership, proportions—all sorts of things.” “ I will see Battiscombe, then, at once. We will have a deed drawn up on terms which

shall be advantageous to yourselves, and consistent with my desire to do a mere act of justice. Ghrimes, my father was the real cause of Melliship’s failure and suicide.” “To some extent, I am afraid he was,” said Ghrimes. “If your father had been a different sort of man, poor Mr. Melliship would have had no scruples about asking a little accommodation from him : especially as he knew how easily he could give it. _ But your father always seemed to me to be trying to get him into his power. Not to break him, and ruin him ; but to keep him in his power. Your father always loved to have people under his thumb.” “Just so, and my uncle Melliship’s death was a protest against my father’s way of dealing. We are doing simply an act of reparation. Go-to-meeting folks sometimes do acts of reparation, besides repenting of their sins, I hope, Ghrimes ? That’s their affair, not mine, however. I’m going to write to Frank and make him this offer. He’ll accept it; and as soon as he comes down here we can all three sign Battiscombe’s parchment, and enter into our partnership.”

He went away. Bethinking him, however, that the letter should be written at once, he turned into his father’s house in Derngate to do it.

He was very careful about this letter. He began by reminding Frank of their relationship ; of the many kindnesses he had himself received from Frank’s father ; of the friendly and affectionate terms with which Mrs. Melliship had received him on his return. And then he went on to enlarge upon the unhappy connection between his own father and the failure of Melliship, Mortiboy & Co. After this he proceeded to state his proposition. “ And now, Frank, having said so much, I have something to propose. I was yesterday talking about you to Grace Heathcote, and I have her authority for saying that she entirely approves of the proposition. What she approves of ought to be law to you. It is that you enter my bank as a partner, on equal terms with Ghrimes ; that the name of Melliship be added to Mortiboy & Co. ; that you come down here at once, and begin as soon as the deeds are drawn out. I hope you will see no obstacle to your accepting this proposition. Kemember it comes from your first cousin, the man who owes a hundred debts of gratitude to your father ; that Grace wishes it ; that it will enable you to marry ; in time, to pay off those debts with which your father’s estate is encumbered ; that it will do what is most desirable for your mother and Kate—bring them back to Market Basing ; and bring you back, if this is anything, to all your old friends. Ghrimes is most eager that you will see your way to accept my proposal. He is as anxious as any one to see you back again, and in your right position.”

He folded his letter, put it into an envelope, and took it to Lucy Heathcote, asking her to forward it to Kate Melliship, who In turn would send it to Frank.

Lucy was with his father—she was old Beady-money’s constant nurse and attendant —and was walking by the side of the poor old paralytic, while Hester pushed his Bath chair along the gravel terrace at the back of his house.

The aspect was sunny, and every fine day the old man was twice wheeled out to take-the air. His state of late had been a good deal improved, and Lucy was full of hope. At first he had been unable to move at all, and, besides, had been generally almost unconscious! Then as he got a little better, he had recovered the partial use of one arm, and his wits had brightened very much. He was so far recovered now that he knew everything that was said to him quite well—expressed acquiescence with a slight nod of his old head, and conveyed intelligence of refusal or dislike to anything by wrinkling his forehead into a frown.

When Dick came near him he puckered his face in a dozen ugly ways. Probably, he only half recollected what had taken place on the night he had the stroke ; but it was clear to his son there was some memory left of that night’s doings. Young Keady-money did not trouble his father with much of his company. Lucy had got a porcelain tablet, and wrote with a blue pencil on it. This she held before the old man, and kept writing a fresh question, till she found out what he wanted. This process was often a very tedious one ; but with practice, Lucy Heathcote became very expert in understanding what was passing in her uncle’s mind. His appetite was good ; but as his faculty for tasting his food was gone, he had no disposition to quarrel with his cook. They gave him a little weak brandy and water to drink ; and he spent his time between his bed, his sofa, and his Bath chair, happily enough. When Dick handed Lucy the letter for Frank, the old man frowned hard, as was his wont. The young man instructed his cousin as to the destination of the letter, asked after his father, and then strode away across the lawn, down the garden, and over the river towards his own little villa.

“ Why does Uncle Bichard always frown so desperately at Cousin Dick, whenever he comes here ?” Lucy Heathcote asked herself. She was frightened at Dick, and never had loved him much. She already had suspected there was something wrong—what she could not tell.

Nor did she set to work with slate and pencil to worm the secret out. But her uncle’s conduct, when his idolized son approached him, left a disagreeable impression upon her mind she tried in vain to shake off.

Dick followed the river, passing the scene of his exploit with Polly, and the old cross where he had made known his love to Grace Heathcote. This was a sacred spot, and he sat musing under the shadow of the decaying stone for a good half-hour. The river wound round the base of the hill on the top of which the cross stood, and presently struck across Ilunslope Park. Following the tow-path, Dick had not walked far before he saw the earl himself coming towards him. He shook hands with him very cordially. “We arc well met, Mr. Mortiboy. How do you do ? I was thinking of calling upon you tomorrow at the bank. I want ywu to—”

“ If it is about money matters, my lord, pray Bee Mr. Ghrimes. I may mention that he is, or will be in a few days, my junior partner in the bank.”

“ Indeed !” said his lordship, with surprise. “ I was not aware that Mr. Ghrimes had any fortune, Mr. Mortiboy. I have known him for many years, of course. Very happy to hear it. Very obliging gentleman-like man.” “ Glad to hear your lordship say so,” said Dick. “ All our customers like George Ghrimes, I think. But you were right about his having no fortune, my lord. The only capital that Mr. Ghrimes will put into my concern is incorruptible honesty, untiring zeal, and high capacity for business—unless I add to the credit account, my lord, my. gratitude for fifteen years’ faithful service in the firm of Mortiboy & Co.” It was rather a high-flown speech for Dick to ■make, and he felt it; but there is something very invigorating in talking to a lord, until you get quite used to him. And young Readymoney had only lately left a Republic behind him. His lordship’s business Avith Dick was to tell him he wished to overdraw his account to a greater extent than it usually Avas.

“I shall have to write a great many cheques, Mr. Mortiboy : and my steAvard Avill not pay in the bulk of the rents he has to receive for at least two months.”

Dick replied—“Of course, we shall do everything we can to fall in with your views.” “ Thank you very much, Mr. Mortiboy. Pray, is that your son I have seen you riding with ? I thought you Avere unmarried.” “So I am. That is my word.” “We must marry you, Mr. Mortiboy—marry you, and put you into the House. You ought to sit for Market Basing. “That’s not my line, Lord Hunslope. I ■hall neither marry nor go into Parliament.” “ Property has duties, Mr. Mortiboy. You have, if I am correctly informed, a very—very large stake in the country. In the interests of landed proprietors, we Avant men like yourself in the Lower House. Dangerous times like these demand the co-operation of all Avho have a stake in the country.” “ No,” said Dick. “I am only waiting here for a while, and I shall go away again, with the boy—to the West, probably, somewhere or other. As for the property, in course of time it will go to my cousins, the Heathcotes, just as if I had never come home at all.

Lord Hunslope stared curiously at the strange man Avho thought so little of a great property. “ You are a young man, Mr. Mortiboy. You Avill change your mind, and marry.” " I am not one of those Avho change their minds, Lord Hunslope. I shall never marry. A large part of my property, Avhich my father made over to me, Avill go, I repeat, to my cousins. When they marry, they Avill have, as I intend to arrange before I go aAvay, some portion of it as their marriage doivries. My cousins are very good girls, Lord Hunslope ; and, so far as I can judge of young ladies, fit to take higher positions than that which farmers’ daughters generally aim at. Not that I care much about position. You see, I am more of an American than an Englishman. In the States we don’t ask many questions about a man’s family.” “ They are very hum very excellent young ladies. You know, Mr. Mortiboy, that Mr. Heathcote is a man for Avhom I have the highest respect.” “As your lordship is not a fool,” said Dick, bluntly, “ that goes without saying, as the French put it. You may add, if you like, that the Heathcotes are a very old family—had all this estate long before your ancestors got it.”

“ That, also, I know. The Heathcotes are a representative race,” said Lord Hunslope, a little taken aback by Dick’s plain speaking. “ Call at the ToAvers sometimes, Mr. Mortiboy. The countess Avill be very glad to see you. Come now, and take luncheon with us.” Dick made an excuse, and turned his steps homeAvard. The earl looked at him, striding along, great and strong, AAuth eyes of envy. He was young and rich. The peer Avas old and poor. “ He’s only a great boy, after all,” thought the earl. “He knows nothing about our English life—and cares nothing about it.” Then he bethought him about the Heathcote girls, and their prospects, and went home. “ Have you remarked,” he asked the countess, “those two Heathcote girls ?” “ Grace and Lucy Heathcote ? Oh, yes. I know them very Avell. What about them ? Their manners are quiet and simple, much above their station—very much above the manners of that very vulgar person, their mother.”

“ I think so myself. Those girls, Alethea, will have a fortune of half a million sterling. That is, that large property Avill be divided between them.”

The countess looked up in amazement. “Half a million ? You must be joking.” “ Not joking at all. I Avas never more in earnest. Young Mr. Mortiboy, whom you saw at the children’s sports the other day, told me himself, this morning, that he should not marry. He intends to go back to America, with a boy he carries about, and settle there. The two girls Avill have his money.” “My dear, he is not five-and-thirty. He may live for ever. Above all, he is sure to marry.” “He may live a long time, but he will keep his word. I have heard that young Readymoney, as they call him, always keeps his word in the smallest particular—for the matter of that, his father always did the same. He told me this Avith the most perfect seriousness. Now, think.” The countess smiled. “ Mrs. Heathcote is a horribly vulgar woman.”

“ The father is not vulgar. John Heathcote is rough, but he is a gentleman in his Avay. There is no man I respect more than John Heathcote. A good old family, too. They had Hunslope long before we were heard of.”

“ Cadwallader founded my family,” said her ladyship SAveetly, Avho had only intermarried with the earls of Hunslope. “ Certainly, with all that money, the girls would have a right to marry above their station, as things go. “ Ronald is so shy,” said Lord Hunslope. Yet this conversation Avas the beginning of Grace Heathcote’s having a third wooer at her feet.