The Novelist.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 230, 5 February 1876, Page 3

The Novelist.

READY-MONEY MORTIBOY. a matter-of-fact story. (From Cassell's Magazine.) Chapter L. It is Sunday, nearly a fortnight after Dick's death. 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 those delightful vehicles which are found at country 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 up 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, bright eyed, with regular if rather commonplace 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 slowly walked down the gravel path to meet her. "Mr. Heathcote ?" she asked. "Oh ! I don't want you—l 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 minutes, and then, clasping her hands together, burst into 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 at 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, where Mrs. 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 that you, mamma ?" answered her daughter, in the clear resolute tones which always made her mother quail and give way, "Is that you, mamma ? Go on with dinner ; do not wait for me ; I shall be ready presently." Mrs. Heathcote knocked once more 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 Heathcote alone being able to take his meal with the usual Sabbath enjoyment. " I believe, John," said his wife, " that yo.i would go 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." " John—you are blasphemous. On Sunday, too, and your daughter locked up with a stranger, talking secrets !" " 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. 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." " 2STot executed," said Lydia. " No—but the intention was the same. I have had it drawn out again between myself, Frank Melliship, and George Ghrimes, on poor. Dick's plan. I am going to take them both, into partnership with me." "John Heathcote," said his wife, "it is a dreadful thing, a really dreadful thing to see the way you are going on. If this partnership is carried into 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. " Y ou 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 are 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 never 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 was 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, in the drawing-room, " sit down, and tell me what you came to tell me."

She sat on the sofa and Patty on the easy chair by her side. The girl was lost in contemplating the length to which civilization can go in furnishing a room ; the bright draperies and the dainty appointments. 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 ?" Patty sighed. " You should see mine," she said, " and you would know what I mean— Miss Heathcote, I came to-day from London. I come from Mr. Melliship." "Prom Prank?" " Prom Mr. Frank Melliship. He does not know I'm come. Let me tell my story from the beginning. He lives with 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 worried 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 tomorrow, because I'm waiting to find out how to answer the most generous man in the world.' And he pleased himself all day drawing pictures—such pictures—l've got them all. On "Wednesday, I went in at half-past two. He had his writing-table before him, and he had the Echo in his hand. ' Patty,' he said, * he's dead—and she is lost to me !' " Grace turned color. "Go on," she said. "' She's lost to me !' Then he told me all about you, Miss Heathcote ; how he loved you, and you loved him ; and how Mr. Mortiboy was going to make him 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 lower 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 ? Don't tell me that—don't let him go on killing himself. 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 and kiss him, and say, Prank, what does it matter whether you have any money or not ?—I am only a poor girl, Miss Heathcote, and no education, and get my living in a way I am almost ashamed to say—l'm a trapeze girl—but I should be too proud—oh, I should be too proud to let my love die when a word would save him." " What is your name ?" asked Grace, the tears running down her face. " Patty Silver. lam only the girl that performs on the trapeze, at the Music Hall. Ido it with my father, though." " Patty Silver you love Prank Melliship, yourself." Patty covered her face with her hands. "I do—l do—" she murmured. "Porgive me, Miss Heathcote. He never looked at me. I let myself love him without thinking. Who could help loving him ? but he only loves you. He thinks of you. He draws your portrait always. Me ? As if a gentleman like Mr. Melliship would think of me. But I loved him—oh ! me—me —l loved him, and I love him always." Grace knelt down, and took Patty's face in her hands, and looked at it. " Poor Patty ! Poor little girl ! You will get over your love some day. Your trial is hard. What shall I do for you, for the joy and gladness you have brought me ? I knew he would be faithful ; but you know —girls are so —there were times when I doubted. Now •wait a moment : you will see that I am not too proud, and not so cold a fine lady as you think me, perhaps. Wait here for one moment only." She went into the dining-room, where her father was just opening a bottle of port. " Papa, come into the other room with me." " More secrets, of course," said Mrs. Heathcote. John Heathcote, with a sigh, followed his daughter. "Papa, this young lady comes to me, unknown to Prank, to tell me that he is ill and miserable.' He got a letter from Dick the day before his death, offering him a partnership in the bank. Then he saw the death in the paper, and has been prostrated ever since. What ought we to do ?" " First thing, let him know that he is to be a partner. Make him a new offer." " You must do that, yourself. What next ?" " Why, we must go and find him out as soon as we can, and bring him back here." " What a good father it is !" said his daughter, wheedling him. "He always says the wisest things, and the kindest things. We must find him. Patty here will take us to him ; you must tell him—you must go yourself ; we must find him at once—we will go together—at once—to-day, by the afternoon train. We will go back with Patty—will we not?" Here she gave way, and fell upon Patty's neck, crying and laughing. Lucy came running up stairs. Her mother stayed below. " They may manage their own secrets themselves," she said, taking a glass of port with a bitter feeling. "Lucy, my dear. My' carpet bag with things for the night, and your sister's, too. Pack up quickly. Grace, take this young lady with you, and have some dinner, and give her some." He went down, and foxind his wife in a sour and crabbed frame.

" Lyddy, my dear," he said, with a cheerful smile, "I've got good news for you ; we've found Frank Melliship. I'm going up to town with Grace to bring him back. He's all right. We'll marry them in a month, and you shall dance at their wedding, my girl. Give me a glass of wine." He drank off hers, without an apology. " Oh I forgot to tell you —keep this a great secret— I had a talk with Lord Hunslope yesterday about things. He hinted that though Grace would not have Lord Launton, perhaps his lordship would have better luck with Lucy. Eh ! Lyddy, what do you think of a coronet for your girl ?" " Lucy, dear girl ! she always was my own girl—took after my family and me," said Mrs. Heathcote, mollified. " Grace was always a Heathcote. Well, well, you must have your own way, I suppose. Come back to-morrow, John, if you can. Dear Lucy !—how she would become a coronet. After all, John, I hardly think poor dear Grace is quite the woman to be a countess. There's a little too much independence about her ; too much of the Heathcote about her ; not quite subdued enough in her manner. She will do admirably as a banker's wife, no doubt. Is the young person properly looked after ?" " Grace will do that." " Then sit down, John, for five minutes and talk. Don't be racing up and down the stairs after dinner. At your time of life, too. You might get apoplexy, and go off suddenly, like poor Mr. Hawthorne, only three weeks ago. You think the earl means what he says ?" " The earl is straightforward enough, at any rate. He is poor and we are rich. Think on what we ought to give Lucy if it comes off. Don't say anything to the girl. She's as timid as a fawn, and would only run away and hide herself. But think what we ought to give, and tell me. The earl—whisper now—owes the bank fifty thousand pounds. _ There, wife ; I've given you something to think over while I am gone." Mrs. Heathcote kissed Grace with a really maternal affection again, whispering: "Bring him back, dear ; you have your mother's approbation now. But you must forgive me for being a little disappointed before, you know. He was always my favorite, Frank, after poor Dick. As for Lord Launton, I forgive you. And no doubt it is all for the best. Give Frank my best love, dear—and bless you." * * * * # Frank was sitting in his little room alone and miserable. Mr. Silver was gone off to chapel. There was nobody in the house. A cab came rumbling along the street, and stopped at the door. He did not hear it. Patty opened the door with her latch-key, and led her guests upstairs. He looked up as they came into the room. It was Grace, with her father. "Frank," whispered Grace, as he caught her in his arms, " you were too proud to come to us, so we have come to you." " Not to let you go again, my boy," said her father, shaking him by the hand. " Never again, Frank, never again. We part no more." Love and joy in that little room. Upstairs, Patty lying on her bed, trying to stop the tears and sobs that shake her frame. The prophet was right. She was even as the daughter of Jephthah, doomed to lament her loneliness among the mountains all her days. ENVOY. Three farewell tableaux. The first in Paris. It is at St. Cloud, when, close by the ruins of the chateau, in a small, close room, they are trying the Communist prisoners in the winter of last year. A long table, or a platform, behind which are sitting a dozen officers, whose cold, stern faces bode little mercy to the poor creatures brought before them. One by one they are brought up to receive their sentence. They are cowed by imprisonment and suffering ; they are ragged, starved, miserable. Mostly, they receive their sentences, which are comparatively light, with a ldnd of gratitude, because they know the worst. There is one exception. He is a thin man, with keen, bright eyes. His cheeks and chin are covered with the ragged beard of three months' growth. His black hair is thick and matted ; his clothes, such as they are, scarcely hold together upon him. He alone of the prisoners stands up before his judges with an air of defiance. Accused at first of being taken with arms in his hand, he is now, on further evidence, charged with complicity in the murder of the archbishop. He has neither boots nor shoes ; a rag is round his neck ; he shivers in the cold December air ; but his hands are delicate, shapely, and white —the hands of a gentleman. He is asked his name and He shrugs his shoulders and spreads out his hands. " Bah ! It is the hundredth time. I am tired of it. Let us finish. My name is Lafieur. I was in the ranks of the Commune. Did I love the cause of the Communist ? No more than yourselves. Do I love your cause ? Perhaps as much as you do. Did I assist at the execution of the archbishop ? I did. Now, M. le President your sentence." It came swiftly enough. In the cold grey of the morning, he stands against a wall with his hands in his pockets, a cigar in his mouth, and a mocking smile on his lips. No word of repentance ? None. Of scoffing or blasphemy ? None. The roll of the rifles for a moment, and the next, a dead man falls, face downward, on the ground. He could bear most things that fate had to bring; but the misery, the filth, the degredation, the starvation, the cold, rags, famine, evil companionship, to which the Versaillists have condemned their unhappy enemies, were too much for him. So he confessed—threw up his cards—and was sentenced. Down at the docks there is a certain particularly dirty and muddy crossing, which requires in all weathers, so deeply rooted is its delight in mud, the constant attendance of a broom. It is wielded by a boy, small and thin, but strong and healthy. He answers to the name of BilL On sunny days he is accompanied by a friend, older than himself, with a curiously wizened

and lined countenance, like that of an old man. He. does not work himself, but sits in the sunshine on the steps of a door which is never opened. Here the cold winds come not, and there is a southern aspect. " Thoozy," says the boy, " it's more than a year since Uncle Dick died." "So it is, old chap, so it is. Poor Uncle Dick ! But we've done pretty well since then, haven't we, old chap ? What's the whole duty of a boy, Bill, as he used to learn you ?" " Never prig, never tell lies —" he runs off Dick's ten commandments on his fingers, just as he had been taught. " Eight you are, Bill. Go away from England. Yes, we'll go some day, old chap, when we've saved a little money, and you've got stronger. Uncle Dick was a good sort, Bill, I can tell you. We shan't meet no more Uncle Dicks in the world. Let's remember all he used to say, and act on it, Bill, my boy." Another scene. It is evening : three people are standing in the moonlight, in the square, place, or principal open street of Market Basing, before a newly-erected statue, unveiled that morning with much ceremony, bands of music, and many speeches. They are Frank and Grace, with them Patty Silver. "I am glad it is like Dick," said Grace, with a sigh. " I couldn't bear that our noble Dick should look ugly and unlike. I'll tell you about him, Patty, some day, when we have it all to ourselves, and you want to learn a long story abovit a good and a great-hearted man. Let us go in now. I wanted to see it when all the people were gone, and have a little cry all to myself over it." Patty is staying with them. She has given up her profession, and lives with her father ; he preaches every evening, and will probably some day be reverenced as the founder of a new sect. Life is made easy for him by Mr. Edrupp, who lingers still, and by Grace Melliship, Frank's wife. Patty will never marry. To have loved a Gentleman, not to have been loved by one, has been an education for the girl. She can never love one of her own class. But she is not unhappy, and among the poor people of her neighborhood finds plenty to do in the way of help and advice. And sometimes Grace gets her to come down to Market Basing, and stay quietly with them till the roses come back to her cheeks, and she can return to her work, a life of unknown and unprofessional selfdenial and toil. Last time I was at Market Basing I made a curious discovery. Looking at Dick's statue, I read the inscription. The usual flourish of trumpets was on the front, setting forth his unblemished moral character, his philanthropy, his generosity, his great schemes for benefiting the human race. On one side was a passage in Greek : Pollon anthroopon iden astea kai noon egno. This was the rector's doing. On the other side was a line of English : Write me as one who loves his fellow-men. This was Ghrimes's. On the back, right in the corner, as if put there furtively, in quite small letters, " Rev. xiii. 4." I heard afterwards that Lucy Heathcote, or, to give her new name, Lady Launton, chose a text, which, not being approved of, she privately instructed the sculptor to insert where it could not be seen, anxious, good little soul, that religion should have some part. The sculptor put it in, but made a mistake as to t the reference—a most unfortunate one, as I found on looking out the text to which attention is thus publicly called. By great good luck, nobody but Lady Launton and myself has found it out. (Concluded. J