Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, March 13, 1897, Page 2

GREAT HEIRESS» el By R. E. Francillon. | ‘CHAPTER IV—(Continued.) “And when are you going, Doctor Hillyard? ‘Yo-d " “I? What sort of a doctor should I be? I thought you knew that I am bound to Lockmead more closely than busband to wife and than parent to ehild. But you are alone here—happily for you. You have no duties, and oth- ers have no claims. You would be as y I to go.” s she, sadly, almost re- it seemed to him, “you mean that a Lockmead girl who left her home until it forgot her, and she eame back ‘anger, had no right to talk of duties and claims. And in- deed I have no right to ta but have E not all the more right to do?” “What do you mean, girl?’ asked Basil. “If you have done wrong!. « If I could ever do enough to undo what I have done—only afittle! . . . You say I am alone. That is true, 1 will tell you what 1 mean to do. You also are alone; and you have been fighting misery, and starvation, and mow fever, without a helping hand. I am a weak and ignorant girl, and I can’t do much; but how can I run away when there must be a thousand things that even an innocent girl can do? Don't talk} of my going, for I shall not go. I shall not catch the fever; and if I do, it will be all I de- serve—my death would be some good and no harni. I am strong enough mow, 2nd I can obey orders and do whatever Iam told. Make mea nurse; let me go from house to house and find out every day where you are most wanted; let me do whatever things a man can't do and a woman can. No, Doctor Hillyard, you must not forbid me, for I wil no misunderstanding the me trom her eyes to his instead of being @ they had been an nothing to hide. honest m: “God fo me,” said Basil, “if 1 am wrong any harm comes from tak- ing you at your word.” “You z ady to risk your life,” said she. “I am only too glad to risk mine. There, you see I understand danger, so you mustn’t think I am bold because I am blind. And since you fave no choice, use me; don’t let me stay here for nothing at all, since, use or no use. y I shall.” “I have read of such women,” said be to himself, though aloud. “Grace Lucas, I do e you at your word. You are a brave girl, and I think a elever one, and I believe a good one, whatever you may say. I dare not throw away this chance of help that will be needed sorely indeed. My peo- ple, Heaven help them, before all! Per- haps Heaven itself has sent you—who knowns? . . . But we must run no risks without cause. You must have fixed instructions; we must make care- fal plans, with this new enemy in the sield. I must make another visit or two 2nd then call on Morwen, He ought to know’ - “Yes; so that he may send for the dragoons!” said she, in such wise that ber quiet voice had not the least note ef sarcasm. “But you will not find him to-day. He left Lockmead about a week ago.” “Ah, then that accounts for a great deal!” said Basil, gladly. “I was wondering that he had not come near me—that things have been let go so hideously wrong. You must not judge Morwen harshly, Miss Lucas. He has ail sorts of conflicting duties—he is but the agent of others; and I know from him, as others cannot, how the hands of an absentee’s agent are tied. More- ever, he represents in Lockmead the sterner virtues—order and law. You and I are different—we may act as we please—only we mustn't judge others, not even Hillyard herself.” “But I do!” exclaimed Grace Lucas, with quite a new hght in her eyes—“I do judge her; she is a wretch, who ought to die of the fever she has ansed; I do judge her, and so do you im your heart for all you may say. “Qh, I do hate people who are too good! Whey make the rest of us despair. I bate Miss Hillyard—and se do you.” For a moment E 1 was startled by an outburst so utterly unexpected; and be began to perceive possible depth of ‘passion in this quiet girl that would account for all her apparent history— both for the sin of which she claimed t have been guilty and for the vio- Bence of the remorse that clutched at the first chance of expiation. “None eof us is too good, or good enough,” said he, very gravely; “and that is why we must not dare to hate or con- demn. Only let us be as good as we mown how. I will make those visits, and by that time I will be ready with mey instructions and plans. Meanwhile don’t come in here. Go home and wait—I shall need you soon enough, you may be sure. Don’t come in here —you can’t call back the dead to life.” “But I can try to comfort the living,” ‘said she. ‘To that answer he had no reply; for te comfort such misery as he had left ‘rad been beyond his own power, and therefore it might possibly be within hers. She had even inspired him with # certain faith in her strength for good beyond that which can be given by food or medicine, or even the most single-minded and energetic will. The piace had for yesrs been crying for ope real woman—might it be that one had come, though at the twelfth hour? ‘Phat she came in the guise of a self- accused sinner was nothing; even Basil mew that many an angel had sinned, and that repentance and sympathy are ene and the same thing. He certainly thought of her on the way to his next visit. Here there was mone of the sickness which he now dreaded to find everywhere, but there was all the depths of poverty to which the expectation had made him give this particular cottage the precedence over others. “And ah, doctor,” said Betty Horn- beam, “we'd a-been churchyard folk, the whole main on us, if ’t ’adn’t a-been for Grace Lucas, bless her heart alive! $he’s a good ’un, so as we hayen’t J Deee eee half missed you—only, of course, she don’t give no physic, and so we've missed that, and I think my cough would be easier for a good bottle full; which the last you sent weren’t half nasty, to my thinkin’. Hannah Field’s last was just twice as bad to swallow, and I don’t thinly my physic ought to be behind hern, And p’r’aps when you comes to see that Grace Lucas, bless her face, you'll mention how my old man in his tea do like a pinch 0’ green, and how we h’a’nt got no more. And if the childer could get but a drop 0” milk to their porridge—but ’tis no good to think o’ that. Only I do hope when Miss Hillyard’s had up for ‘venting machinery and starving me and my childer and my man—I do hope I'll be called up to give witness and watch her burn, And so I says to that Grace Lucas, bless her’—— “Ah, Grace Lucas!” interrupted Ba- ‘sil. “I want to know something about her. Does nobody remember her in Lockmead—nobodoy at all?” “Maybe she belonged to the time when bread was cheap and we'd money to buy ’un wi. And none do remem- ber what belonged to that time.” “But how does she help you, and, I suppose, others? Is she a seamstress in search of work, richer than any here?’ “I don’t know about her helping oth- ers. If she do ’tis a shameful waste; for a greedier lot I never heard to speak anywhere. But she’s been un and down good to us; and if you'll only mention about that pinch o’ green, and the drop o’ milk, and she might throw in a nub 0’ coal”—— But this visit turned out an excep- tional specimez. No doubt Betty Horn- beam had obtained more than her share from an inexperienced giver, It was indeed not long before Basil found his worst fears confirmed. Wolssh eyes, hollow cheeks, emaciated bodies, and feeple coughs soon showed him how little resistance could be made against the fever, the daughter of starvation, which had already laid its grasp upon the miserable and hopeless town. In a couple of hours he noted seven cases of that hideous and des- perate disease, which depends almost as much on moral as on_ physical causes—on despair hardly less than on starvation, nakedness, foul air, and a state of things in which cleanliness and decency have ceased to be. There were some rooms which Basil could scarcely enter, so hideously repulsive were they. “A fever!” he exclaimed to himself as he reeled, half fainting, into the open air; “it will be a plague! And I as weak as a rat, and as poor; and none to help me but a girl—though she is stronger than I.” On his next day’s it to the Basil was more fortunate. Squire Morwen was returned. “Upon my soul, Hillyard I’m hanged if I know what's to be done. You must see for yourself, as an educated man, that the people have brought all this on themselves. Help yourself to port—you look as if you want it, by George! And now put yourself in my my place. My duty’s to Lockmead. I'm trying to do it, and I'll do it, too. I find the town all at sixes and sevens, sticking in the old mud while there are places in the North springing up like mushrooms. And why? Because up in the North they go with the times. What they can do 1 can do. I've had these machines set up to turn Lockmead into another Leeds and an- other Nottingham in one; and am L to be beat by a pack of dolts who won't eat their bread’ because they can’t see on which side it’s buttered? No.” “But the machines don’t want bread,” argued Basil, “and the people vet the blockheads earn it, then. I've shown them how. Can’t you see this is a matter of principle?” “You will do nothing, then?” Morwen shrugged his shoulders again. ‘Be just before you are gener- ous,” said he. “Then,” said Basil, turning away in despair. “God help us all!” When he returned to his solitary lodging in the cottage of a weaver’s widow he was sick at heart and wearied out in brain and limb. His dinner of porridge was ready for him, but he was well-nigh too spent to eat. So he took up a small paper parcel that lay beside his wooden bowl and regarded it vacantly. “What is this, Mrs. Jordan?’ he called out to his landlady who came at his first word; for the weaver's widow worshipped her lodger as if he were the only son who had gone years ago for a soldier and had been killed by the Frenchmen in Spain. . “Twas left for you, sir, by the writ- ing,” said. Mrs. Jordan. “I found it on the dresser; but who brought it, sir, I don’t know, I’m.sure. But Lord! Doctor Hillyard, do eat the gruel; ‘twill be as cold'as a stone. Oh, dear! I wish there was but half another doc- tor nigh the place, for you want one yourself more than they all.” “Nonsense, Mrs. Jordan! I am as strong as a horse and as hungry as a hunter,” said Basil, attacking the mess, and wondering if Grace Lucas was faring as well. At the same time he opened the parcel, which was plain- ly sealed and fastened with a string. “Good God!” he cried the next mo- ment, “am I mad or dreaming?” For here, before his eyes, lay notes of the leading bank in Nottingham to the amount of one thousand pounds. And on the top of the heap lay a slip of paper, on which was written, in up- right letters: “For the poor of Lockmead—to be spent by Doctor Hillyard xs he best knows how.” Despite Mrs. Jordan’s remonstrances and lamentations Basil, the impulsive, crushed the notes in his pocket, dashed on his hat and was half way to the mill before the porridge had time to cease steaming. Arrived at the mill, he did not pause to speak to Polly, but sprang past her and up the stairs three at a time till he found Amos Morwen meditating over his wine. “Forgive me—forgive me, my dear fellow!” he cried. “No—never will L judge human creature by his words again!! What shall I say—how shall L thank you? I asked only for bread, and you have given——” “Now, my dear young volcano, sit. down and help yourself and tell me what the devil has happened to Lock- mead now.” “I beg your pardon, Morwen. Of course that thousand pounds came an- onymously; but then, when there was only one human being who could send it, you see it comes to the same thing as if his name had been scrawled over the paper.” “Well?” “Come, Morwen; be human for once, Of course, I understand that, since it was against your principles to give me a farthing for my poor, you couldn’t— on—principle put your name to a thou- sand pounds—a thousand pounds! Here’s your health, though, all the same, with three times three, and prin- ciple be hanged! And, with the toast, here’s a sentiment: Justice before generosity; speak before yow act; may the just tongue ever herald the gener- ous hand.’” Any third person would assuredly imagine that it was Amos Morwen who had been going without his din- ner and Basil Hillyard who had been sitting an hour or two over his wine. Indeed, so far as the other was con- cerned, Amos Morwen might have sup- posed something of the sort, for he said: “I’m afraid you've been overdoing things a trifle, my lad. Of course, I don’t know what you mean—except that you’ve come to the conclusion that the devil isn’t, after all, so black as he’s painted, and that a man can’t be false to his principles.” “Openly, of course, his left hand has nothing to do with the affairs of his right. Morwen, I apologize to you a second time. I will say no more. On- ly, if I don’t shake hands I shall ex: plode.” “Don’t do that. Here’s my hand, and welcome. And you may punish this wine, whatever foundation you've been laying; it’s mother’s milk, and wouldn’t give a headache to a fiy. 1 was going to say that I’m afraid that I was just a trifle hard. And since you've left I’ve been hitting on a way you can go to work in your own Quix- otic fashion, and without the help of any man. You've been talking of a thousand pounds. How would you like five thousand pounds—two hundred and fifty a year—all your own?” “How would I like Golconda and h means you would like to make five thousand pounds. Make it, then, witnout more ado. And spend it on yourself, or on the Luddites, or give it to Davy Jones, whichever you please.” “Make five thousand pounds? You're joking, Morwen? How?’ “Sell your property.” “My dear Morwen, my _ property wouldn’t fetch five thousand pennies, instruments and all.” “Think, my lad. If Miss Hillyard dies, who is her heir-at-law?” “I, of course—if she were to die childless and without a will.” “Very well. Then sell your reversion to Lockmead Manor, and the thing is done.” “And you call yourself a man of business? Absurd! I have no more chance of succeeding to my grandfath- er’s estates than you. Firstly, Miss Hillyard, my second cousin, is young- er than I by some ten years, and of the longer-living sex, besides. Sec- ondly, she is a healthy girl, certainly rich and well cared for, presumably happy. and, I should gather, gifted with that indifference to the concerns of others which insures a sound di- gestion. I am a medical man, exposed to all the risks of my profession, and practicing in Lockmead; I need say no, more. Thirdly, a great heiress with large estates in two worlds, is ab- certain to have heirs-apparent—I am but heir-presumpt Fourthly, even if she doesn’t marry, she will make a will, and will certainly not leave me the value of a mourning ring * * My dear Morwen, your proposal is simply absurd. If a rich young wo- man dies intestate and unmarried, be- fore a half-worn-out surgeon full ten years older than she! Where is the fool that would give me five farthings for such a chance? I should like to Know that man.” “If I find you one who will give you five thousand pounds down for the chance, will you close?” “My dear Morwen, the bargain would be void, for lunacy on his part and fraud on mine.” “Not at all—I don’t want to be false to my principles; and yet—well, I do want you to have the five thousand pounds. You see, the money will be in good hands; and, of course, you won't say a word to a soul?” “What—do you want to give another five thousand pounds to the poor through me, Morwen?’ “Hush, my dear lad, not a word! I must sticli to my principles, through thick and thin; so you'll just sell me your reversion, by way of considera- tion, for the money, and then my con- science will be ¢ . Of course it isn’t worth the money “I should think not, indeed!” “But still, 1 shan’t have given the money, you see. Eh?” “I do see one thing,” said Basil, gravely and solemnly; “that you have the noblest heart in the world. You may trust me. I am your trustee for my noor—no. for our poor, now. Only —it is hard that they should not know from whose hand their salvation comes.” “No, no,” said Morwen, hastily, “that would never do. I must be the men of principle—there. It’s a bar- gain. I’ll draw up the document for you to execute to-morrow, and’ give you my check on the nail—five thou- sand pounds. Done. Help yourself and pass the wine.” One and five are six—six thousand pounds, and all for the poor! The young doctor went home like a man in a dream, and dreamed all night—of six thousand pounds—each guinea a bullet against hunger, fever, crime, de- spair, and every demon against whom love and science had fought in vain. Surely, among the gifts of God, gold stands high. : Amos Morwen went to his desk and once more examined the list of passen- gers by the Queen Charlotte, certified by Bates Brothers of Bristol, which included among the names of those drowned in the wreck off Hartland Point, that of Margaret Hillyard, of he once more read the letter to Miss Hillyard which had carried him to Bristol for news, and threw it in the fire. “A cheap five thousands’ worth—five thousand pounds for all Lockmead-” said he. “I wish now I'd made the five thousand three.” CHAPTER V. Squire Morwen's Polly. If there was one thing in which Miss Mary Holmes was interested than an- other it was the nature of Squire Mor- wen's will. That her influence over her old mas- ter was on the wane she felt only too well assured. But, like the vast ma- jority of her sex, she hopelessly mis- understood the man whom she be- lieved she ruled, thinking him weak because he submitted, and blind be- cause he did not take the trouble to see. A man of large ideas is apt to be a slave by habit in the little things of everyday, and to give carte blanche to anybody who will save him from hav- ing to attend to trifles: Polly, basing her caluculations on the difference of age, looked forward to the day when her master would want a nurse in addition to a housekeeper, and when marriage in church be made the condi- tion of remaining with him until he died, But ever since Grace Lucas had knocked at the door on a certain event- ful night, everything had changed. It is true that her master had, on. sever- al previous occasions been guilty of a passing caprice for a face less pretty than Polly’s own, and she was not un- aware that his visits to Nottingham or elsewhere on business were some- times connected with the business of pleasure. But she was not of that del- icacy which is offended with mere frolics, as she would term them, so long as she kept her hold in the main; and the more frequent and varied “were the frolics the more sure was her hold. The affair of Grace Lucas, how- ever, was a far more formidable sort of thing—it meant a rival; and a rival with the advantage of being, as she herself was taught by jealously to per- ceive, not only prettier, and fresher and younger than she, but cleverer, also, and with ways and manners that would not misbecome a lady born. Ever since that memorable night the squire had been obviously and delib- erately bent upon loosening the bonds that bound him to Polly Holmes. He no longer gossipped with her over the meals or took her into his confidence; he had even made such a journey as that from Lockmead all the way to Bristol without telling her where he was going and when he should return. He had turned sarcastic, silent and fault-finding; and when he came back from Bristol he had not brought her as much as a ribbon, And he, of all men, to give a strange young woman, a proved spy and agent of the Lud- dites, a cottage practically rent-free! What else might he not be giving her? Who supplied a needlewoman out of work with clothes as good as Polly’s, though not so fine? Who enabled her to give help to her friends, the ma- chinery-breakers of Lockmead? And who, in fact, had gazed at the girl as if he could devour her, under Polly's own eyes? If Grace herself failed to perceive Squire Morwen’s purpose, or even his feelings, it could only be because she was absorbed in her work, or in other thoughts, or because she was unused to the mute language of passion. If a man like Amos Morwen had not yet spolven plainly out to a girl whom he believed no better than she should be, it could only be because he was wrong in his judgment, and because his pas- sions were so deeply engaged that he had become young and shy again. How it was, he certainly could nov tell that, for some occult reason, the eyes of this poverty-stricken adventur- ess, this agent and companion of rufti- ans and scoundrels, rendered him bat- fled and ashamed. “Hang her, but she is playing her game well-” thought he. “She won't meet me an inch of the way. A duchess couldn’t fool a man more. Well, to-morrow—” But to-morrow came; and though it made him owner of Lockmead, he found himself no nearer to this re- markable young woman than he was yesterday. However, he hung around the cot- tage like a young lover, and watched for whatever words he might hear let fall from her. ° The reflection that, like the purchase of Lockmead from the heir-at-l the late Miss Hillyard, the aecqu of Grace Lucas and of the names and secrets of her employers might also be made a question of money, renewed his confidence, which growing passion had weakened. On the evening of the day on which this bolder thought occurred to him, he, instead of sitting over his port after dinner, as usual, contented himself with a formal half-bottle, and strolled out along the lané toward the cottage, which had become to him what the flame is to the moth—not that he would have chosen that stale com- parison. The cottage was by no means the best in Lockmead, consisting of but two small rooms and a shed or out- house. He knocked and, obtaining no an- swer, lifted the latch and entered the small brick-paved kitchen, which was the principal room. Grace Lucas was evidently out, for the door of the bed- closet stood open, so that he could take a look around without being disturbed. Not that there was much to see, ex- cept that the two rooms, though fur- nished. no better than any of the wretched homes of Lockmead, were kept exquisitely neat and clean, and, therefore, resembled a palace in com- parison with the larger dwellings in which the weavers and croppers gave way to dirt and destiny. And then, while waiting for Grace, his mental part traveled off its usual read—that glorious industrial future which Amos Morwen, as master of Lockmead, had obtained for himself and for posterity, at the cost of a poor five thousand pounds. But all this future seemed as nothing when, in the living present, he heard the latch raised, and saw before him the firebrand herself, with the fair face —which of late had grown sadly sweet —and the eyes, into which a calmer and softer light had come. And, at sight of her, the man, who feared noth- ing, not even a gigantic fraud, for his will’s sake, once more felt his courage fail—ay, though he was now master of all Lockmead, and she a wandering needlewoman whom he believed he could buy, body anc soul, any moment he pleased. Mount Vernon and Lockmead. ae “Good evening,” he said, a little fered darkly. “Doctor Hillyard—didn’t roughly. “It has struck me that this place must want repairing badly; and so I came to see what was wanted; that’s all.” “You are very kind, sir,” said she, taking off her bonnet and shawl. “He was saying only the other day that the first thing he will do will be to make the cottages fit for men and women to live in, and not for dogs to die in.” “He? Who do you mean by he?” “Grace blushed crimson; and, at that sight, glorious as sunshine, Amos, blind to all slighter and meaner signs, glow- I say so?’ said she. “Haven't you heard that he has become a rich man?” “Yes—I've heard that he has come into some money. But I don’t know how.” “Nor I; at least——But, however it is, he will spend it well.” “You take wonderful interest in the weavers and such-like, Grace.” “IT am one of them,” she said, taking up her flannel, arming herself with her thimble and beginning to sew. There was but one chair; so he seated himself on the table, removing his hat at the same time. He felt braver now than he had ever been, even when out of her presence; for that flush of hers had been a flame set to jealousy. “Grace,” said he, “I’m a bad hand at anything but plain dealing. When IL told you I'd called to see about repairs I told you a lie. I called to make you an offer, and a good one. Of course, you're not such a—so foolish o think I don’t know why you're her “You know why I’m her claimed, turning all at once so sudden- ly pale that he became as bold as a lion, and smiled. “Yes, my’ t2ar. I will tell you your own story, a you shall stop me when- ever I'm wrong. I haven’t the pleasure of Gen. Lud’s personal acquaintance, when he’s at home; but, in Lockmead, he is the prettiest girl in England, and his name is the same as your own. L knew all about that when you so cley- erly got your friends out of the trap I ahd laid for them. Do you stop me, or shall I go on?” “Go on, sir,” she said, stitching hard. “IT can have you arrested and brought before me, as a magistrate, for the part you took in that night’s business, when- ever I please. I haven't done so, be- e I don't please. Let us make a n. Stop stitching there, and give me your hand.” She held out her hand; but, as she re- tained her needle between her fingers, he thought best to leave it alone. “The General pa you prett, wages, I suppose,” said he. ™ what they are? “I cannot answer you that,” said ace, returning to her flannel. “Al I suppose you are sworn. I know all about that,” said he. “Now, what I propose is this: If you leave Gen. Lud’s service, and enter mine, I will not send you to jail. Instead of that, I'll keep you like a queen; I'll give you a house and a servant of your own, and the best gowns from Not- tingham, and—and everything you can want in reason.” ' “That is very generous, sir,” said Grace. She looked down at her work, so that her suitor only heard the quiet- ness of her voice, without seeing a sharp glitter in her eyes. “And, since you are so open, what is to be my share in the bargain? What am I to do to earp house and servant, and the best gown in Nottingham?” “Come, my lass; don’t pretend to be a baby. What does a gentleman want when he makes love to a girl that he might send to jail if he pleased?” Grace laid down her work and rose. “Since you seem to know so much, sir,” said she, looking him straight in the face, “you will understand that an offer of marriage so unlooked for, can- not be taken quite as soon made. If you are really in earnest “In earnest? Does one offer what 1 have offered you in play?’ he asked, all on fire and triumphant, now that the plunge had at last been made. If he noticed the word “marriage” at all, it was merely to disregard it as a piece of needless, common form. “Then I will decide jn two days— come for my answer then. Shall we say good-night now He had not the least intention of ing good-night now. But there something in her manner, something that he had never seen in any woman, that, while it fed his passion, com- pelled him to obey; and he obeyed, as if he had received orders from a q “Good-night. In two days, ther he. But, though his triumph was po: poned, he felt and knew that it w gained. Only a id woman would, in her place, say no; and then. woman who does not say no says yes, all over the world. So he left the cottage door, proud and glowing, and all the more because this Luddite lad d not lessened his tri- umph by leaping too quic into his arms. Nor did ke per Polly Holmes watching from the shed his de- parture from the cottage, nor did he so much as miss her from his own hous since he found her there on his return. “I didn’t know you was gone out walking, Squire Morwen,” said she, sharply. “I’d only come to say a bit of news you might want to know, ‘Tis said over the town how the doc- tor’s got into the hands of that bag; gage, and she’s doing him out of his new money—that’s all.” And this was so far true that ali Lockmead looked upon an honest mar- riage between its physician and its an- gel, despite their difference in rank, as the simple right and natural end of a friendship like theirs, and upon the ex- penditure of the doctor’s sudden fort- une upon the place as a matter of right and duty which nobody could gainsay. But Polly, meaning mischief, chose to put the truth in her own way. “Mind your own business!” said Amos Morwen, so roughly that, for the first time, the girl was silenced and scared. But, though annoyed and in- tentionally harsh to the girl, who was getting uncomfortably in his way, her slander did not seriously trouble him. Jacob, who had bought the birthright, had no cause to be afraid of Esau, who had sold it away for such a mess of pottage as a few thousands, that would be thrown away in no time upon such an all-devouring wolf as the Lockmead poor. Full of new life and hope,with which the consciousness of womanly sympa- thy—known for the first time—had more to do than he was yet aware, Ba- sil Hillyard had left his patient in or- der to cash Amos Morwen’s check at Nottingham. It had been drawn by a standing arrangement with the bank, and signed upon Miss Hillyard’s ac- count. This had a double advantage, because it would be evidence, as far as it went, that the agent knew nothing of l good Lask her death at the time the bargain of sale was made, and also because he was himself virtually owner of all her real estate and the income derived therefrom, so that he could buy Basil out with his own money, which prac- tically reduced the purchase money to nil. Not dreaming that he had, for a present payment of five thousand pounds, sold some thirty thousand a year, Basil felt himself rich because x could make his patients somewhat 1e8s poor. And yet, now that he was spend- ing a whole day without seeing her, it was not upon his patients, but upon Grace Lucas. that all his active thoughts ran. For every mile of the distance from Grace that his horse (borrowed from one of the farmers) carried him, his thoughts went that same mile back, and at quickened speed. “I have never known mother, nor sis- ter, nor woman friend,” thought he. “Why should I not know them all in a wife—all, and more? Whatever fault she may have fallen into, the fault was not hers, I swear; and to be puri- fied is the same thing as to be pure. As for ber rank—what are we Hill- yards if stripped of our money, as 1 am, but less than her equals? For she does all the good, and we have done all the harm. And I can marry to please r elf. I am no Cophetua; and if 1 were, no better could I choose. ‘ But what would she say? She sensitive, so remorseful, so proud. And I, who know no more of how to make love toa woman than if I were a stock or a stone, and who can no more keep wife in comfort than Job—surely. I can’t have fallen in love! Absurd; L have no time.” And this was true—he had no time. Eternity is not time .yet it is long enough to serve. And a heart with 2 blind rider gallops fast and far. Arrived at Nottingham, he put up up his horse, and then turned into the coffee-room to get some refreshment before going to the*bank, fer he had made no breakfast to speak of, and had become hungry with his ride, and even the most fanat philanthropist may, With a good conscience, indulge in a meal of cold beef when he is en- gaged in giving away all the rest of his fortune. ‘he only other occupant of the 100m wasa lig, burly man, dresseq in black broadclotn, deeply engaged in a mighty attack upon beef and ale. During a pause in this occupation he took a long look at Basil, then walked the room and held out his huge red nd. “No malice, doctor, eh?” he asked, in a well remembered Northern accent. “I wouldn’t have left you on the ground like that if one o: ¥ Is hadn't done unto me as I another. Gentleman be, you took your licking like a man, and told no t I've heard of you, doctor; not a single one of those Lock- mead turn-tail curs has come to hurt through you. So here’s a real man’s hand, gentleman and Tor; ou be.” “And here,” said Basil, * sort of a leader of the blind, as you be. No, there’s no malice. Our ys of fighting the devil are different —that's all. You think I am on the devil's side, and I know youare. But, never mind. Shaking tists now won't hinder us from clinching them again it I ever find you setting fire to- Lo mead powder again. I suppose you're here for no good “Tis a free country, doctor—for 's got money enough to keep ail. For them that has none, England rules the way 3 the slay and if you want to know who the come with me for a s machine-ridden Not- mand see. Lord, I rev'd that Miss Hillyard of your: we frightened back that nm om Lockmead. I'd soon show her tha ne of her Indian niggers is a free and in- dependent citizen beside a Nottingham weaver. She only flogs her blacks; but King orge hangs his whites. unless they'll cringe to the squires and the parsons and the mittowners and starve, and all to feed a ma 's got neither blood, nor beliy oul” The orator used in his upon society to attack the beef again. Basil, however, though mostly ready enough for an argument, had been caught by a single bh ntence of agonists harangue—“that Miss Hillyard that we frightened back from Lockmead.” “What do you mean about Miss Hill- ked he, “and about g ghtened her? Why heen in ~>~aica almost ever was born.” “Yuu, doctor? Do you mean to sa your owner hasn’t dared to take pos- ssion of her British plan ion yet? Then, bravo, say I! We've given one of the blood-suckers 2 real at last; and, look you, we'll scare one or two more, now we've found out the way.” You must be making some strange mistake,” said Basil. Iaybe,” said the Yorkshireman, ing down his knife and fork, with a sigh of content, and finishing off with a long draught of ale; for he fought against starvation not only in words but in deeds, and apparently flourished on oppression. “Ask her yourself why she turned back that night. Ay! doc- tor; that’s the power of truth; it turns your Tory vermin into a lot of black beetles, scuttling, at the sight of a can- dle, back under the hearthstone. You're too good a sort to be o’ the wrong side. Come, my lad, be a man, and come out of a sinking ship before down she goes.” Basil escaped from the peril of con- versation and proceeded on his busi- ness. Miss Hillyard in England! It had been among the dreams of his life to meet his cousin, face to face, to show her the results of leaving Lock- mead to itself, and to infect her, if he could, with a grain of his own sense of the duties of the rich toward the poor. It would probably have been all in vain; a slave-owner, reputed selfish and hard, was not likely to be converted by the sight of a misery, which she had, no doubt, like a Frech princess of s: twenty years earlier, been taught ye lieve a part of the natural order of things. But now, if there was any truth in the Yorkshireman’s story, it was all the more incumbent on Basil to see her, wherever she might be. He could scarcely spend his six thousand pounds as he would, and to the best purpose, without some consultation with the lady of the land. Yet, how could she be in England without the’ knowledge of her own agent? News of such importance would surely have been in the air. {To be Continued.) = 4