“Who’ll heir the property?” asked the old farmer.

“Algernon’s son Godfrey; a fine handsome fellow.  He’ll make ducks and drakes of the miser’s gold.  We shall have fine times when he comes to the Hall.”

“He’ll lower the rents and the tithes upon us.  Come, my lads, let’s go to the public-house and drink his health.”

The male portion of the group instantly acceded to the proposal; and Frederic Wildegrave set spurs to his horse and rode off, disgusted with the scene he had witnessed, and returned to his home with a sorrowful heart.

CHAPTER XXI.

    All the fond visions faithful mem’ry kept,
    Rush’d o’er his soul; he bow’d his head and wept,
    Such tears as contrite sinners pour alone,
    When mercy pleads before the eternal throne,
    When naked, helpless, prostrate in the dust,
    The spirit owns its condemnation just,
    And seeks for pardon and redeeming grace,
    Through Him who died to save a fallen race.—­S.M.

By the light of a solitary candle, and seated at a small table in the attic of a public-house, and close to the miserable bed in which Mary Mathews was tossing to and fro in the restless delirium of fever, two men were busily engaged in dividing a large heap of gold, which had been emptied from a strong brass-bound box, that lay on the floor.

“Well, the old fellow died game,” said Mathews.  “Did you see how desperately he clenched his teeth, and how tightly he held the key of his treasures.  I had to cut through his fingers before I wrenched it from his grasp.  See, it is all stained with blood.  Faugh! it smells of carrion.”

“He took me for Anthony,” said Godfrey, shuddering; “and he cursed me—­oh, how awfully!  He told me that we should meet in hell; that the gold for which he had bartered his soul, and to obtain which I had committed murder, had bought us an estate there.  And then he laughed—­that horrid, dry, satirical laugh.  Oh, I hear it yet.  It would almost lead me to repentance, the idea of having to pass an eternity with him.”

“Don’t feel squeamish now, man.  This brave sight,” pointing to the gold, “should lay all such nervous fancies to rest.  The thing was admirably managed; and between ourselves, I think that, if we had not pinked him, that same virtuous son of his would.  What did he want with pistols?  It looks queer.”

“It will condemn him.”

“Let us drink to his rising in the world,” said the ruffian, handing the brandy bottle to his companion in guilt.  “How much money is there?”

“Two thousand five hundred pounds in gold.”

“A pretty little fortune.  How do you mean to divide the odd hundreds?”

“I want them for a particular purpose.  There is a thousand; I think you ought to be satisfied.  It was my bullet that unlocked the box, when I brought the old man down.”