CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.

HAT man was Francis Melliship!

Old Ready-money's brother-in-law-rival, as he considered him; enemy, that he had tried to make him-spent the Sunday in his usual fashion. In the morning, he went to church with his household, filled his accustomed seat in the family pew, and heard the funeral sermon; dined early, and in the evening went to church again.

Dr. Kerby walked with the Melliships as far as their own door, after the morning service. He begged his old friend, the banker, to take a rest from his work. He took Mrs. Melliship aside, and whispered to her in terms imperative and strong. He told her she must take her husband for a change of air that very week, on some pretext or another.

"If Mr. Melliship won't take you, my dear lady, you must take him."

"Doctor, you alarm us. What-what is the matter with my dear husband?" she asked, unable to conceal the nervous feeling the doctor's words produced, yet unwilling to tell him of the signs of unnatural change in her husband she saw herself.

These were clear enough: but neither the wife, nor the son, nor the daughter could read their meaning,

They saw the change that cast its shadow over their house. Their anxiety for husband and father was intense.

What could they do? Nothing. And this inaction wa terrible to them.

Mr. Melliship was in high spirits all day: he had been in high spirits all the week. His face was flushed, his movements quick and nervous. He was very excitable, and talked in a wild, exaggerated way.

His present was the very opposite of his natural state.

His talk all the week had been perpetually of one kind: about money, about his own wealth. For the first time in her life, his daughter Kate began to think her father ostentatious. The thought but suggested itself, to be stifled as unworthy; the fault was in her, she thought, not in her father.

Now, on this day, he was even more demonstrative of his newly-born pride of purse. He spoke of his intention of removing from the old bank where they had lived so many years, of buying an estate, of having a town house, of getting new plate, of spending money on a hundred things which he had hitherto been quite content to do without.

"But, my dear," expostulated his wife, half in doubt, half in earnest, "all these will cost us a great deal of money." "And if we have the money to spend on them my dear ?" replied her husband. "What says the Latin poet, Frank? 'Vitam quæ faciunt beatiorem, Jucundissime Martialis hæc sunt, Res non parta labore, sed relicta-'

Eh? Now, I would wager that you cannot finish it." "I cannot indeed, father. I don't suppose I can read it." "This degenerate age!" sighed his father. "And here is a man who has only just taken his degree, and cannot cap a quotation from Martial. It was very different in my time, I can tell you, sir. We read Latin, at any rate. But the

'Res non parta labore'

will be yours, my boy, and that is the great thing, after all. Frank," he suddenly added, "I have often thought how enormously rich a family, starting from absolutely nothing, might become by dint of sheer economy, and allowing themselves no luxuries, so that the money might all accumulate. Thus, the Fuggers in the fourteenth century went on splendidly, till there came a fool who threw the family wealth away. My idea is, that the family is to have no fool at all in it."

"If money is everything," said Frank, "it might be worth the while of a man to found a rich family in this way."

"He would inculcate, as a kind of religion," Mr. Melliship went on, "the laws of frugality and industry. He who failed or came short of his duties, should be solemnly cut off from the rest. In six generations, provided the sons were of average brain power, the family would be as rich as the Rothschilds."

Mr. Melliship grew quite excited as he spoke.

"But is it worth while to take all the trouble?"

Surely yes, Frank. Money, in all ages, means— -if you please to use it for that purpose-comfort and luxury; or it means power and authority; or it means ability to advance

the world in any way that seems best to you. Surely, therefore, whether you are an Epicurean or a Christian, you must desire money. Whatever your character, you must wish that you had it. And if it were not for the selfishness of men, they would deny themselves in order that their children might have it."

"At all events, Uncle Richard is not a selfish man, then." Mr. Melliship laughed.

"He has saved money, I believe-only thousands, though; and his son Dick will have them. My dear, let us have Dick to dinner one day this week, Any day; ask the rector-a very capital fellow, full of energy: a man that you must cultivate, Frank, and learn from him all that he can teach you."

This was how he talked all dinner time. After his wife and daughter left them, he stayed behind with Frank, and finished his bottle of wine. They had some sacred music; and at nine o'clock Mr. Melliship read prayers, as was his wont on Sunday evening, and shortly after retired to his own study. This was not unusual, and did not excite any comment.

He sat down before the fire, with the bottle of brandy by his side. And turning his lamp down so as to have little but the firelight, sat with crossed legs, and a pleased, happy expression of countenance. He was thinking of his revenues, of his vast property, and making schemes for the happiness of his children. Hour after hour passed thus, and he had more than once drained the glass. The clock struck eleven, twelve, and one, without his moving from the chair. And the fire, burning lower and lower, at last went out altogether. The cinders were black. All that remained to tell there had been a fire in the grate was the crackling noise the cooling embers made. Still he moved not. The curtains were not drawn ; and the moon, bursting suddenly from behind a cloud, shone through the windows, and fell full upon the portrait of his children above the mantelshelf.

The bright light caught his eye, and in a moment Francis Melliship awakened from his reveries. He started up, passed his hand across his brow, and looked wildly round.

Is there anything in all dramatic literature more dramatic than the awakening of Ajax after his night of madness? The goddess calls him: the proud king and warrior comes at Athêne's call, blood-stained, breathing fury and revenge ;telling how in the dead of night he has gone secretly forth, and captured his enemies: how they are within, the two sons

of Atreus, bound and tied, waiting to receive the stroke of his sword; and the crafty son of Laertes, Ulysses the fox, for whom is torture before death. So raging, but contented, he returns to his tent. Presently comes the day, and with it a return of his senses. He wakes from his frenzy, and finds himself surrounded by the carcases of the beasts he had slain in place of the Grecian princes. Then his fortitude gives way. Ai, Ai!" he mourns, "Alas! Alas! there is but this one thing left, nobly to die."

And so he bids farewell to his wife and his son, and the dear light of the sun, and falls upon his sword, and goes away to those regions of shade where the souls of departed heroes ever wander sadly, lamenting the days of life.

So in a moment the whole horror of his situation burst upon the unfortunate Francis Melliship. The moonlight, pale and bright, fell on his book of memoranda. His eyes caught the words "February 10th, Monday, Mr. Mortiboy." These five words spoke volumes. The riches he had boasted of did not exist: there were no investments, or only investments that had lost him money: there were no means of meeting the liabilities that fell due on the morrow. For the last three or four weeks, he had been suffering from delusion and madness. But he was not mad now, and he saw his position in all its miserable conditions. How could he explain? How make people understand that what they would mistake for the dishonest boasting of a broken swindler was only the natural expression of an overpowering delusion? He could not: no one could there would be but one opinion possible.

:

And

then to walk for the rest of his days ruined in purse and reputation; the broken banker: the rash speculator: the dishonest bankrupt: mad Melliship! He who had been the first in the town: the proudest, the most prominent, the best bred, and the most highly considered.

He rose with a gesture of despair, stepped into a dressingroom adjoining his study, and came out with a case in his hand, which he held for a few moments as if dreading to open it.

He held it in his hands hesitating.

The moon shone out, and between his eyes and the moonshine there stood once more the figure of the dead woman which he had seen a week before. Again she appeared to him: and

this time not pointing to the picture of his children; not stern, reproachful, and threatening: but smiling, pleased, and happy. Her age seemed to have fallen from her, and she appeared as she had been thirty years before, when they were young together.

"Susan!" cried the unhappy man, stretching out his hands, "speak to me. Susan, my first love, why do you come back in the semblance of those old times? Susan, forgive my broken troth, and the promise that you and I alone know of. Speak to me, Susan!"

She did not speak, but beckoned; and when he looked again she had disappeared.

He sat awhile with troubled brow, trying to think. He could think of two things only: the horror and disgrace of the future, which his disturbed state of imagination augmented; and the image of his old friend-young againradiant, smiling, beckoning to him. Beckoning !-but where? Surely to some land far off, where there would be no more trouble, but only youth, and love, and pleasant fancies.

As the moon shifted round to the west, the light left the portrait of the children, and moving slowly round the room, came upon the form of Mr. Melliship lying prone upon the hearthrug. He was not sleeping but dead; and the black pool that shone in the light of the moon was blood that came from his self-inflicted wound. Like Ajax, he could not bear the disgrace. Without a word of farewell to his children, or of explanation or motive, he had left all his troubles and burdens to be borne by shoulders weaker than his own. Selfish? Perhaps. It is the custom to say that suicides are cowards, and selfish. But there is a point of physical or moral suffering at which every man will give way, and prefer immediate death. We cannot endure beyond that point. Heaven keep us from suffering that even comes near it!