He gave his promise about the cricketground, much to his wife's chagrin. They strolled back to the house together, and joined the little party on the croquet lawn. Sides were chosen afresh. John Heathcote, Grace, and Lord Launton played Lawyer Battiscombe, his two daughters, and Lucy. Mrs. Battiscombe was charmed; but so was Mrs. Heathcote. The two dowagers sat under a great elm, on the rising ground at the top of the garden, where they had a view of the road and the village. "Really, he's very affable," remarked Mrs. Battiscombe. "He often comes over and plays at croquet. We like him very well." "I hope he won't run away with one of the girls' hearts, my dear," said the lawyer's lady-as it were, calling "check" to Lydia's king. She put her ring-bedizened hand affectionately on Mrs. Heathcote's arm. "I never think of such things, Mary." They had been schoolfellows at Miss Prim's, and kept up the farce of Christian names, though neither had loved the other for ages. "He often comes to see us, and John likes him-that's all." "Of course, we could never expect that he would be allowed-" Mrs. Battiscombe began; but her remark was stopped by hearing the sound of wheels. "A carriage and pair! Why, it is Lord Hunslope and the countess," she cried, craning out her neck among the boughs. Now it was Lydia's turn to call "check.” "Lords are as common as blackberries about Hunslope, my dear. I'm sure we never take any more notice of them than of other folks." But she stood up, with her best cap just over the laurel hedge; and when the countess bowed, and Lord Hunslope raised his hat, she gave a complacent, vulgar little nod. Their son saw the carriage, and turned rather red; but when it stopped at John Heathcote's gate, and then came on slowly up the gravel drive, he became quite the colour of the poppies. The earl got out, and shook hands with the Heathcotes, and bowed to the Battiscombes. Lydia Heathcote took the visit as a matter of course. She left Mrs. Battiscombe under the tree, and strolled up to the carriage. She had never shaken hands with Lady Hunslope before in her life, and only some half-dozen times with his lordship-generally on such occasions as when, riding round with his steward, he had called to solicit her husband's vote and interest for the Blues at the county election. But Mrs. Heathcote did not see any good in letting the Battiscombes-and through them all Market Basing-know this, and she shaped her course accordingly. Lord Launton, recollecting that it was getting rather late, drove away in his father's carriage. He expected to receive a sorrowing remonstrance from his mother-for the scion of the house founded by Cadwallader had very clearly defined notions of the grades set out in the Table of Precedence—and sat, with his back to the horses, calmly awaiting it. It did not come. All his mother said on the subject was comprised in a very few words: that Grace and Lucy Heathcote were very amiable girls, and had very good blood in their veins. William de Heathecote, of Hunslope, was mentioned in Froissart. Now you see the effect of Dick Mortiboy's candid confession to the earl. He had been deeply moved by the intelligence that a man so rich-so extraordinarily rich-was seriously promising not only to leave his very great fortune to his cousins, but also to endow them with a portion when they should marry, fitting their future inheritance. As for Mrs. Battiscombe, she went home with her maternal breast full of envy and uncharitable feeling, and spread the news all over Market Basing that Grace Heathcote had jilted poor Francis Melliship's son, as she always said she would, and was trying to catch Lord Launton, as if—&c. Mrs. Heathcote, on the other hand, was in an ecstasy of delight. She got down "Burke's Landed Gentry" from the bookcase, and read all about William de Heathecote, of Hunslope. She compared the Heathcote pedigree with the Smiths-only city bankers, and, like her own family, the great Mortiboy stock, after all. From these authentic records she drew her own conclusions; and every day she talked of Lord Launton, praised his personal appearance--the youth was by no means illlooking, having a certain air of nobleness which comes of good breeding, and a mind kept steadily at a certain elevation—commended his manners, which had whatever merit belongs to shyness, and spoke in glow-| G-G-G-Grace, is there no hope?—not ing terms of the happiness which would be the least hope?" the portion of that girl who might become his wife. Now, all this fell upon the ears of Grace like the wind upon a fixed weathercock: it moved her not at all. She did not, to begin with, understand it. In the second place, she was too full of her own cares to think much about them. Least of all did she fancy that the heir of Hunslope Towers was about to propose to her. Meantime, Lord Launton, coming nearly every day on some excuse or other, out of very shyness, paid more court to Lucy than to Grace. "Really," said Grace, "I think, Lucy, dear, that Lord Launton has now, don't blush, my child, because it's quite possible, and you are very pretty-has fallen-fallen -fallen-shall I go on?" "Grace, dear," said Lucy, blushing more than ever, "don't-please don't." "Then I won't, Lucy." But the very next day, Lord Launton proposed to herself. Proposed in the garden, just where Dick had made the same offer of his hand and heart: stammered and blushed-stammered till he could hardly speak: told her, in an infinite amount of reduplicated words and any number of consonants, how he loved her. Grace, this time, was neither pained nor touched. She only laughed. 66 66 Poor boy!" she said. 'Do you know that I don't love you at all, and never could? And do you know that you are the future Earl of Hunslope, and I only the daughter of a very plain gentleman ?" "I know," said Lord Launton. "B-bbut I have my father's permission, and your father's p-p-" "Prohibition, I should hope," said Grace. "No, Lord Launton. No-NO-NO! There, is that enough?” "Not the least spark. Not a glimmer, Lord Launton. And, besides, you have never paid me any attentions at all. I thought you liked Lucy better." "That was b-b-because I loved you." "I don't profess to understand the workings of a man's love; but I do know this, that when Frank Melliship loved me, he did not make pretence to my sister first. He came straight to me." "I was wrong. Oh! Miss Heathcote, I'm a p-p-poor creature. I stammer, and am afraid almost to speak. Forgive my shyness." "Indeed, there is nothing to forgive. But, pray, Lord Launton-no, I won't ask any more questions. Let all be as it was before. Come here as much as you like, and let us be friends. Shall it be so? Indeed, I am grateful for the honour-that is, I think I shall be, when I am an old woman. I shall remember that I had a chance of a coronet. But a woman can only love one man, and my love is promised-promised, Lord Launton." She sighed wearily. Promised-and for how long? Poor Lord Launton stood irresolutely. His painful shyness interposed between himself and all his impulses. He beat it down, and said, with a mighty effort "Miss Heathcote, forget what I have said. I will endeavour to conquer my love for you. I am not a selfish egotist—that is, I will try not to be. If I can help your happiness, let me try to do so." "You may help Frank, if you can. But, alas! you cannot. Oh, Lord Launton, why have you brought this unlooked-for misery into the house?" "What misery, my dear Miss Heathcote -what misery?' "It is only that my poor dear mother will be dazzled by the chance that I have The poor young fellow stooped his head thrown away; and I shall have to endure to hide his tears. "Do I seem unkind?" Grace asked. "See, Lord Launton, I do not mean to be unkind. I like you very much. I cannot understand how your father could give you permission to speak to me, or my father either. But you may know that I am already engaged-to Frank Melliship, your old schoolfellow." "I knew—that is, I ought to have known. her reproaches. Go, Lord Launton. If you must marry one of us, Lucy is a better match for you-not so stubborn, not so rebellious, not so self-willed; and, oh! a great deal prettier, more gentle, more Christian. She would make a better wife. Go away, my dear boy. Why, you are only a month older than I am-you are only a boy yet, Lord Launton. And I am as tall as you, see-” She smiled through her tears. "And, oh! it is such a pity, because I was so fond of a million of money thrown away! Grace, you." I was in the garden and heard you refuse your cousin a week ago; and now you have refused Lord Launton. John Heathcote, your daughter Grace refuses to marry either Dick Mortiboy or the future heir of Hunslope, because she loves a pauper-a pauper and a painter." Grace turned to her father. She took his beardless face in her hands -she was really as tall as her admirer, and looked taller, with her pile of hair-and drew it towards her, and kissed him on the forehead. "There, Ronald, Lord Launton, that is a sister's kiss. It would be hard to alter that. We have known each other as long as-oh, since we were little things, and used to meet you in the Pond Walk with your nurse. Be my friend-a great deal better for you, poor boy, than being my husband. Go, now, and come again just as usual." It was a most ignominious dismissal. The heir of all the Eliots, conscious of having made himself an outrageous idiot, stole silently away. As he went through the house, he met Mrs. Heathcote. Truth to say, the poor lady had been to the highest rooms in the house, the servants' rooms, whose windows commanded a view of the heads of the performers in this garden act. "Come in, Lord Launton, and talk to me," she said, graciously. "No, Mrs. Heathcote," he stammered. "No-it's no use. She won't listen to me." "Not listen to you? Nonsense! Not listen to you? Oh! but give her time, Lord Launton. She's afraid of you." "No-no-no. It is I who was af-ffraid of her," he groaned. "It is no use, Mrs. Heathcote-I am refused." Mrs. Heathcote went back to her parlour, and sat in a tumult of conflicting passions. Presently her husband came home. She said nothing. Lucy returned from choir practice. Grace came down from her own room, her eyes red with crying.. She sat silent, with a book before her. Mr. Heathcote rang the bell for supper at the usual time. They sat down, Mrs. Heathcote sighing heavily. "What's the matter, old lady?" asked John, with a misgiving that a family row was impending. For all reply, she burst into tears, and sighed hysterically. The girls ran to her assistance. "Go away," she said to Grace. "Go away, ungrateful girl! After all I've done for you." "Eh-ch-eh?" asked John, looking from one to the other. "What is it, Grace?" "Wicked girl," cried her mother. John, John-a coronet thrown away! "Oh! Half 66 Girls, sit down. Lydia, you're a fool. Grace shall marry anybody she likes. Come here, my dear, and kiss your father." When John Heathcote put his foot down, which was very seldom, there was a general feeling in everybody's mind that the thing was definitively settled. Mrs. Heathcote said no more; but, heaving a profound sigh, she rang the bell for a candle, and retired to bed, taking the Bible with her, so that she might at least have the consolations of religion. Νο CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIFTH. O intelligence of Frank's whereabouts. "We only know that he receives our letters," wrote Kate, "because he answers them. They go to the post-office, Great Bedford-street. His own have for the last two or three weeks been more despondent-that is, less cheerful than before. They have not the true ring about them that they had. I think, though I dare not say so to mamma, that his good spirits are forced. I have written and told him about Dick's splendid offer. It is generous in the highest degree. It is more than generous. Tell him I think it is noble. I shall not write to him myself till I have Frank's answer. Yes, Grace, my picture was accepted, hung, and sold. I was at once glad to get the money, and sorry to let the picture go. I am doing another now, just a woodland scene-painted here in the mountains-with a single figure in it: a quiet picture, which I hope to succeed with. Only, when I have finished a picture I like, it goes to my heart to let it be sold. Frank keeps sending us money. It is such a pity, "There are two or three ways," he said, "of getting hold of Frank. A man can't hide himself altogether, unless he cuts off communication by letter. Evidently, he doesn't want at present to be hunted up. All the same, I will go up to London and find him for you, Grace." "But how, Dick? How can you find him?" "Well, I shall go to the post-office where his letters are sent. I shall ask them who takes his letters, and how often they are sent for. If they won't tell me, I shall bribe them till they do. They are sure to do it for half a sovereign. After that, we have only to go on the day when he appears, and lie in wait, to catch him beautifully. Once my hand is on his shoulder, Grace, you may be quite sure that I don't let him go again till I bring him back to you." took his milk a spoonful at a time until the basin was emptied. Dick sat by the side of his bed, and watched him eat. His appetite was very good: altogether, there was a great change in him. The fixed smile had almost left his mouth, and the distortion of his face was much less noticeable. Then his eye was brighter, his memory better. The cloud seemed to be gradually lifting from his mind. As his son sat by his bedside, watching Hester feed the old man, and thinking of all that had happened, suddenly there flashed upon his memory an old, old day-so long ago that it had never once come back to him: a day more than a quarter of a century old: an autumn day like the present, when the golden tints were on the leaves: a morning when, a child, he walked hand in hand with his father, and asked him questions. He remembered how his father, lifting him in his arms, stroked his cheeks and kissed him; how he flung his own arms round his neck, and kissed his father again;—a simple, childish caress: it might have occurred a thousand times to most children: to Dick it seemed only to have occurred once, because Mr. Mortiboy was an undemonstrative man, and with him such events were rare. As he remembered this, another thought came upon him: it was that never once since that day, save when his own crime caused relapse, had his father's love ceased to burn in a steady flame. He knew it now: he recognized it even in the starved and pinched life he had been made to lead; even in the tyranny of his youth; even in the hard work and long That evening he told his little boy of his hours to which his father had subjected him intention to go to London; and, still suspi--all this was to make him grow up like himcious that Polly, of whom he knew nothing self-and in the ready confidence and trust beyond the fact that she drew her pound with which he received the prodigal returna-week, might return in his absence and carrying home. He knew it all in a single mooff the boy, he told him to be ready to go to town with him. "When will you go, Dick?" she asked eagerly. "To-morrow? Go to-morrow, and make haste. I've got some foolish sort of nervous feeling, as if something was going to happen-I don't know what, or how. I've had it for a week. I suppose I'm not very well." "Thunder in the air," said Dick. "If anything happens, it will be something good for you. So be ready to jump for joy." The fast train from Market Basing leaves at nine o'clock, and is at Euston at half-past ten. They started to walk to the station, because Dick hated luggage, and always kept changes of raiment and fine linen at his chambers in Jermyn-street. Crossing the river, Dick bethought him that he had not seen his father for some days. So he passed through the garden into the house. Mr. Mortiboy was in his bed. Hester was feeding him with a spoon, his breakfast consisting of bread and milk. He frowned at his son as usual, and then quietly ment, and a sharp pain shot through him as he looked upon the wreck he had himself caused. Dick was not one, however, to sit down and weep, throwing ashes upon his head, and clothing himself with sackcloth. The thought came to him as one which might often come again-a grave and saddening thought. His thoughts turned upon the boy whom he had adopted. Suppose little Bill should do something-should turn out somehow like himself? Then he cleared his throat, which was getting husky, and bent slightly over his father. Old Hester had left them alone together. "Because the Mexicans say that when a man is going to die, he begins to think about the days when he was a child. That's what I've been doing this morning. The only way you can be killed in this peaceful old country is by a railway accident." "I saw a boy once run over by a 'bus," said Bill, thoughtfully. "Yes there are other ways, I suppose. But a smash on a railway is the most likely thing. Perhaps, after all, the Mexicans are not always right." There was no railway accident, at any rate. At his chambers he found a letter, dated a fortnight and more back, from Lafleur. "My dear Dick," it ran, "I am in want of money. Please send me a couple of hundred at once." "In any case," said Dick, "it is too late now. Want of money? What has been done with the five thousand? The System has come to grief, I suppose, after all!" It was not pleasant to think about. The man had been started actually with all the money he had asked. The partnership was dissolved. The pair had separated-each agreed to go his own way; and yet, only two months after, came this letter. Dick crushed it in his fingers, looking stern and determined. "It shall not be," he said, thinking aloud. "Polly is gone, and Lafleur shall go. I will have no witnesses left to remind me of the old days. I will live my own life now, with the boy to bring up. Lafleur shall not be with us to bring back what I would forget. No, M. Alcide Lafleur, it will not do. Your own secrets are as bad as mine, and worse. You dare not speak, at any rate. I will give you one more start, on condition that you go away to California, or somewhere over the water, and never come back again. You shall not stand in my way. I defy any man to stand in my way. My path is clear and certain. I will start Frank and Ghrimes. Then I will go away, and stay away for ten years with the boy. And then I will come back, and put him out in life, and settle down. I shall be turned fifty then. I shall never marry. I have said so. There will be more children then-Grace's children—to amuse me. I shall spend the rest of my life, thirty years and more, among the children." MAY IN LINCOLNSHIRE. AFTER THE MANNER OF SOUTHEY'S CATARACT OF LODOre. HAT are the chief delights of May- The leafy trees, the fragrant flowers, So poets write, and write it true; * Cleaning and changing, Counting and ranging, Painting and liming, Tinting and priming, Stirring and mixing, Glueing and fixing, Mounting and glazing, Hauling and raising, Thatching and tiling, Crowding and piling, Dragging and trailing, Sprigging and nailing, * Stitching and lining, Rembling-Shifting. Raving-Tearing up. Tewing-Troubling oneself. § Taving fidgeting. || Clatting-Dirtying. Scratting-Scratching. |