my falling into the fire when I was a boy, and burning my arm? See here!" He drew up his sleeve, and showed a small, deep scar in the left arm. "One does not imitate these things." "You are Dick," cried his father. know you now. I knew you, really, directly you spoke in your old voice. But everything else has changed in you. And you are so big." "Will you shake hands ?" Mr. Mortiboy brightened up; and his fa"Itherly affection, relieved of the cold wind of doubt, glowed and flamed in his heart, till. he was fain to rise from his chair, and seize his son's hand, which he shook for several moments with every sign of lively emotion. Then he poked the fire, and took up the gin bottle. His father shook hands with him-but not, as yet, quite cordially. In his mind-the moment he found it was his son, and no other who had come back to him-arose a feeling which jarred upon and was discordant with the natural joy of his heart: a suspicion that perhaps he had only come to borrow money-or, worse still, to live upon him. Parental affection was nipped in the very bud by the prospect of fresh expense, like the apple blossoms by an East wind. "Go on, Dick-tell me about yourself." "No. Tell me first about yourself." "I am well-I am well. Not any richer, it's true; but bodily, well." "Because, if you had, you would have come in for all her money. As it is, I have it—I have it. Not much, it is true; and saddled with all sorts of vexatious bequests. A hundred here, and a hundred there, and a memorial window to put up. Dear, dear: what a waste-what a waste!" "A memorial window?-ho, ho! In the church?-ha, ha! But we'll have a cheap one, father-we'll have a cheap one. I know the way to set about getting painted glass at cost price." "Do you?" asked his father, eagerly. "Tell me how." "Matter of business, my dear sir," answered the son, with an air of importance. "We must see our way in other things first. And so the poor old lady's dead! Well, I'm sorry." "And what have you been doing with yourself?" "Do you want me to give you the history of twelve years? That will take more than one evening's talk. As many evenings, perhaps, as I shall be with you.” "Dick, on such a night as this, we must drink our own healths. Shall it be portthey did not drink it all-or shall it be brandy?" "Brandy, father, for me." Mr. Mortiboy retired with the one candle, and presently returned, bearing a bottle of brandy, which he opened with great care and ceremony. His son had lit a short wooden pipe, and was smoking as quietly as if he had never left his native land. "I always have one pipe, and a glass of something," said his father. "And since poor Susan was taken, I mean to get rid of everybody but old Hester, and she goes to bed at eight. I send 'em to bed early. So that we are quiet, and to ourselves down here. Now, talk to me, Dick." Dick took a long pull at the brandy and water. "Where am I to begin? Let me see. Well, when I left England, which was not very long after I left you, I went first to the Cape, where I tried my hand up country at sheep and sheep-farming. But it was poor work. No money to be got, be as careful as you please. Got tired of that. Went to America. Went to the Californian diggings, and did pretty well. Went prospecting to Mexico-" "What's 'prospecting,' Dick?" "Looking for silver. Found plenty, of which I will tell you another time. Then the American war broke out, and then I had a grand stroke of luck; for I took up the blockade-running." "No did you really, though, Dick?-did you really?" The old man's eyes sparkled with satisfaction. "There was money to be got there." "There was, and we got it. But that came to grief at last. We ran the good little craft ashore-here's to her memory-and lost her. Then-to make a long story short "And-and-you haven't taken to drinking, Dick, and are quiet, I hope? Because I have a very quiet house here-very quiet and retired and could not change my habits." "As for my habits, a mouse couldn't be quieter. You'll let me smoke, I suppose?" "Yes." "And as for drink-let me have a glass or so of grog, of an evening-gin and wateranything-and, so long as I stay with you, I shall be contented. Let us save money, at any rate." "Well said-well said. Now, look here, Dick. I allow myself a bottle of gin a-week. We will have two bottles between us. Is it a bargain?" "It is." "And we could share the expense-extra expense, I mean-between us, Dick." Richard Melliship Mortiboy-i.e., Mr. Mortiboy, junior-looked at the author of his being with an amused twinkle in his eye. "We shall not quarrel about that. And so long as I am here, I shall be able to help you about the bank, and all the rest of it. Not for nothing, you know." "Assuredly, not for nothing. And you can tell me about the blockade-running, and how the money was got. Any of it come home with you, Dick?" "Some of it a little-is in London. The rest is in Mexico: safely invested." "Oh! in Mexico. But that's a long way off." "Only four weeks. That's where the estate is. You can't bring the land away, you know." "Ah! no. Dick, I am glad you've come back. Be a credit to me, and-and-there's no saying what may not turn up. But, oh! Dick, what a pity you did not turn up seven days ago, in time to get your poor aunt's money." "And so you went to the churchyard tonight." "I was passing, by the merest accident in the world; and it just occurred to me that I would turn in, and see what would be the properest window-the best, you know, for the memorial of your aunt." "I'd pick out the smallest," said his son. "No! Would you, though? Would you really, Dick? Don't you think people would talk? I did think of it, it's true.' "Let 'em talk! And now, governor, that we're all friends again, let us have one more go of brandy and water, and I'll light another pipe; and we'll have a talk about old lines." They talked till a very late hour for Mr. Mortiboy. And then Dick asked where he was to sleep. "Lord!" replied his father. "I never thought of that. There's only my bed, and your poor aunt's. The spare beds are not made up and ready." "Well, she's gone, you know. So I suppose I can have that?" "If you don't mind." "Some "Some of the 'ready,'" he said. of the stuff that we're all so fond of. Gold, father-gold!" "Dick," said Mr. Mortiboy, solemnly, "I'm very glad you've come back. And more glad still, that you've come back with so much right principle." He went away, and his son went on with his toilette. Mr. Mortiboy came back, and put his head in at the door. "Don't waste the light, Dick. You're burning one of your aunt's waxes. I like to see all the lights out before I get into bed myself." "All right, governor," said his son, blowing it out. "The old chap's the same as ever," he muttered. "Damn his bottle of gin a-week. I think the compound interest showed true repentance, though." In three minutes, Richard was sleeping the sleep of the virtuous. And this is how Dick Mortiboy came home again. CHAPTER THE FOURTH. to stomach, to heart-wrought by long and continuous work. Let us avoid them all by taking a holiday." Mr. Melliship hesitated. Then he took up an almanac, dotted with memoranda. "If I cannot trust my memory, I can trust these," he murmured. "I shall be compa ratively free in a fortnight, doctor. I promise you that, if I possibly can, I will take MR. MELLISHIP and Dr. Kerby, after a holiday then." they left Mr. Mortiboy's house on the morning of the funeral, walked to the bank-the doctor leading the other gently by the arm. They entered at the private door, and the banker led the way to his study, where he sat down, and leaned his head on his hand. "Still the same symptoms?" asked the doctor. "Still the same. I forget what I am doing. You see how I have offended every body this morning. My mind is dwelling perpetually on one subject." "What is that?" "Money, my friend, money. My brain seems troubled at times, and I hardly know whether the thing I am thinking of is real, or only the vision of a disordered fancy. Can your medicine do nothing to relieve me?" "Have you been trying no medicine of your own?" The banker sighed. "I have not been able to keep my hands from the brandy." The doctor shook his head gravely, and said nothing for awhile. "You must go away, you know. I told you so months ago. You must have complete rest and change for three months at least." "As well talk of rest and change for three years." "My dear old friend-the human brain is not like an iron machine. You can't work it for the whole period of your natural life without rest. You must take a holiday." "I cannot-yet, doctor." "If I speak as your doctor, I must say, professionally then get some other advice than mine. But let me speak as a friend, and say, for God's sake take a holiday, or something evil will happen to you." "What, doctor-what?" asked Mr. Melliship, eagerly, But his adviser put the question by. "There are all sorts of mischief-to brain, "And until then, no more stimulant than is absolutely necessary?" "I promise that, too." When this conversation was over, it was too late to go to the funeral. The doctor went his way. And the banker rang the bell, and summoned his chief clerk, to whom he explained that a sudden indisposition had prevented him from attending the funeral, and would keep him in his own study. And then he wheeled up his sofa to the table, and fell into a long reverie. Half an hour before six he rose, and went up to dress for dinner. Dinner at Mr. Melliship's was a solemn and sacred institution, hedged round by the triple armour of an absolute punctuality, evening dress, and a certain stately courtesy, with which the master of the house treated his guests. To-night there were no visitors, and Mr. Melliship, descending to his drawing-room at five minutes before six, found that the only occupants were his wife and daughter. His son Frank had still to come. But the banker, taking no notice of his absence, sat thoughtfully in an easy chair, and, resting his head on his hand, contemplated the coals. His womankind, to whom all his moods were sacred, abstained from interrupting him; and, to the astonishment of all the servants, six o'clock struck without the familiar accompaniment of the bell by which Mr. Melliship was wont to intimate to his famuli that he waited for no one. It was a quarter-past six when Frank, who had returned late and dressed hastily, came into the room. Mr. Melliship looked at his watch abstractedly, and rang the bell without saying a word. The banker was a man who loved to have finished with the day before the dinner hour. The evening was his time of enjoyment and recreation. Unlike Mr. Mortiboy, he took little pleasure in work, and none in the daily details over which he exercised a compulsory rule. Naturally indolent, and finding January 13, 1872.] READY-MONEY MORTIBOY. his chief pleasure in literary and artistic pursuits, he yet worked conscientiously every day in his office behind the bank, where his clients found him when they came to deposit their money with him or to ask his advice. He had no confidential manager, such as Mr. Ghrimes-probably because he had not had the good fortune to find among his clerks a man of ability and integrity enough to gain his entire confidence. He was well served, however-better than Mr. Mortiboy was-because his people liked him; but his staff were all of inferior capacity, and there was not one among them whom he could trust with aught beyond the routine business of the bank. The work, consequently, was sufficiently difficult at all times, and of late had been-owing to the issue of certain transactions - more arduous than ever. In the evening, therefore, when the desks were locked and the papers put by, Mr. Melliship was able to breathe freely, and might fairly be said to live. For many years he had looked forward to the time when his son Frank should be able to take his place, and carry on the business of the bank. That time had now come. Frank's education at Harrow and Cambridge was finished, and young Melliship had returned home-though with no great amount of distinction--and was ready, as soon as his father should propose it, to begin the preliminary course of bank training which was to fit him for the work of his life. But, strangely enough, his father as yet had made no sign; and though all the world knew that Frank was to become a partner, his days were idle, and-against his will-spent chiefly in shooting and hunting. Nor was this all. Of late, a singular Frank felt-what both he and his sister | The change showed itself in many ways. Mr. Melliship had been a great giver of dinners. To sit at the head of his own table, feeling himself in culture, intellect, and-it must not be forgotten-in personal appearance, the superior of his usual guests, was an infinite pleasure to this handsome and stately man. He had some acquaintance-such acquaintance as men in the country reckon no small distinctionamong literary men, and could invite a lion of lesser repute to stay with him. The lion would roar at his dinners. And he had friends on the Continent who sent him visitors. So that Mr. Melliship had opportunities of calling together his friends to meet which he could do distinguished foreigners, and of hearing him converse with themfluently-in French and Italian. And he used to patronize artists, and invite them. to stay with him. Moreover, it was whispered that he had written papers for what were vaguely called "the Quarterlies"though to this he never confessed. He was a special friend of the doctor's, by reason The chiefly of this culture he had acquired, which sat so gracefully upon him. squirearchy of the neighbourhood regarded him as an ornament to their society; and by all men, in all classes, Mr. Melliship was spoken well of: by all men but one-his brother-in-law, the man who had married his sister. Ready-money Mortiboy had called him hard names for twenty years. But now the hospitalities at the bank were contracted; fewer visitors came from town, and no dinners were given. To all Frank's inquiries of his sister, he could get no satisfactory answer, save that things were really changed, and that his father's old serenity was gone, to give way to fits of taciturnity. and a habit of retreating to the study, sacred to his own privacy since the birth of his children. This night, at dinner, he was more silent The talk, however, such as it than ever. was, was chiefly carried on by Mr. Melliship himself, in a jerky manner, and with an evident effort. He sent away his plate almost untouched, but swallowed bumper after bumper of Madeira-a new thing for him to do. Frank and Kate observed it with silent consternation. Then he broke upon the little chatter of his wife with a sudden and disagreeable laugh. "The most absurd thing," he said, "really the most laughable thing-I actually went to the funeral to-day in coloured trousers!" "Why, my dear," exclaimed his wife, "it will be town talk!" "I can't help it. I forgot entirely that I was not dressed. It was certainly the most absurd mistake I ever made." Then he lapsed again into silence; while Frank-on whom a very uneasy feeling had fallen-hastened to relate stories of absentminded men, and how they put themselves into ridiculous positions. But his father took no notice. Frank noticed, with a relief, that he drank very little wine after dinner; and he proposed, almost immediately after his mother and sister had retired, that they should go upstairs for tea. Mr. Melliship rose at once, and led the way; but turning back, as if he recollected something, he sat down again. "There was something I wanted to say, Frank-what was it? Yes-yes;-I have not been altogether well for some little time." "So I have observed, sir. Can I not do something to help you at the bank-assist you in some way?" "No, my dear boy-no-not just yet. But in a few days I hope to get everything settled-everything arranged for your joining me. And my own— Yes, if things turn out so. But suppose they do not?" Then he relapsed into silence again. "Come, father, we will hope they will turn out all right. Why should they not? Let us go and have some tea, and a little music." Mr. Melliship laughed. "Yes-tea, and a little music. So we wind up the day, and ease our cares. Gratior it dies. Which of them was it-I think there was one-who had soft music played while his veins were opened in a bath?" "Good heavens! I don't know," said Frank, looking at his father anxiously. "But come upstairs." Mr. Melliship took his tea-cup, and sat in his chair, and began to talk-for the first time for many weeks-of the little ordinary matters of the day to his wife. "Play me my sonata, Kate," he said to his daughter, "while I tell you all the particulars of to-day's gloomy business." Frank watched him through the evening with a growing intensity of anxiety. These singular transitions from a gloomy taciturnity to an almost incoherent utterance, and from this back to the old easy, pleasant manner, alarmed him. And then his reference to affairs of business. What affairs? He had never inquired into them; he knew nothing about his father's pecuniary position. He had always been accustomed to the appearance of wealth in the domestic arrangements, to an ample allowance, to the gratification of all reasonable wishes, and he had asked no more. It occurred to him now, for the first time, that these gloomy fits of his father's might have some solid cause in the affairs of the bank; and a shudder passed through him when he reflected-also for the first time -that banks in other places got into difficulties, and why not the bank of Melliship & Co.? But Kate played on, and her mother, with her work in her hands, chattered, while the two men trembled. Are not women happy in this, that they seldom feel the blow before it falls? To men belong the long agony of anticipation, the despairing efforts at warding off the stroke of fate, the piquancy of remorse, the bitterness of regret, and the dull, dead pain of foreshadowing — that #poodókia of which Paul speaks. These they bear in silence mostly; while their women wonder what has come over them, or are only vaguely distressed in mind with the fear that something has disagreed with the stomachs of those they love. For women have this very odd and inexplicable feeling about men, that their first thought of how to please them takes the form of something to eat, and their first thought of uneasiness flies back to something eaten. And on them, so unprepared, comes the blow-heavy and cruel it may be, but not so heavy, not so cruel, not so destitute of comfort and compensation as it has appeared to the men who have suffered from it for so many months already. About ten, Mr. Melliship got up. "Good night, children," he said. "I am going to my study. Where did I put the book I was reading?" "What was it, papa?" asked Kate. "The Life of Lord Castlereagh.' Thank you, my dear, here it is. Have you read it, Frank? You shall have it, if you like, tomorrow. There is a very singular story about him. One night, as he was lying awake in a long, rambling room in an old house in Ireland, a fire burning at the other end of the room, he saw a child step out from the embers. The child, advancing towards him, |