Chapter XV (1)

Maxwell had been gone a week now, and no tidings of him had reached England, save one letter to say he was in Rome. As Le Gautier turned away from Grosvenor Square, his heart one glow of triumph, he determined that, come what may, the artist should never see England again. When he returned from Warsaw, he calculated that, through Marie St Jean’s assistance, all information concerning the League would be in the hands of the police, freeing him from any further bondage, and throwing all the odium and danger on her. Full of these schemes, he arrived at his lodgings. A telegram was lying on the table. He took it up mechanically, and tore it open. The contents were terse: ‘Visci died this morning from heart disease.’ Le Gautier was wild with rage. Here was a pretty combination, he thought. Nothing now to detain Maxwell in Rome. The victim had fallen by a higher Hand than that of man, and Maxwell was free.

As a Head Centre of the Order, Le Gautier wielded much power, and even now he did not despair, with the command of nearly all the desperadoes in Rome at his command. He had only to get Maxwell arrested in Rome on some false charge and carried to the mountains; and there—after a little delay and a packed meeting of the League—shot. Desperate men such as Le Gautier, especially with such a prize in their grasp, do not long hesitate over such a trifling matter as a human life, and he trusted to his own good luck and native audacity to pull him through.

It was getting dark the same night as he despatched a telegram to Rome, and then turned in the direction of Fitzroy Square. He was as eager now to see Isodore as he had been to encounter Enid in the afternoon, and looked forward not only to a pleasant evening but a remunerative one.

She did not keep him long waiting in the drawing-room ere she sailed in all smiles and welcome. She was looking radiantly beautiful to-night; there was a deeper flush on her face, and a glitter in her glorious eyes not usually seen there—signs of a loving welcome, Le Gautier imagined in his egotistical way. There was, besides, a warmth in her manner and a gladness in the pressure of her hand which inspired him, and sent an electric thrill coursing through his veins.

‘You are looking more transcendently lovely than usual, Marie!’ he exclaimed with a fervour unusual even to him. ‘Every time I see you, there is some additional charm in you to note.’

‘It depends upon whether the observing eye is a prejudiced one,’ she replied with a caressing smile, which brought him at once to her side. ‘You say that now, Hector. How long will you continue to think so?’

‘As long as I have power to think at all—as long as memory serves me. I shall remember you to the last day of my life.’

‘I believe you will,’ Isodore smiled bewilderingly. ‘And yet, strange as it may seem, the time will perhaps come when you will wish you had never seen my face.’

‘You are more than usually enigmatical to-night, Marie. You are a puzzle to me. I do not even know who you are. Tell me something about yourself, and why you are living in this solitude here.’

‘No; not to-night; but, as I have often promised you, I will tell you some time. I will tell you who I am before you go away; and then, when your curiosity is satisfied, you will leave me.’

‘Never!’ Le Gautier exclaimed passionately. ‘Leave you!—the only woman I ever saw that I could really love. Leave you, Marie! How can you entertain the bare idea!’

He would have approached her nearer, but she waved him gently but firmly aside. The distance she kept him fanned his passion all the more. ‘Tell me something about yourself,’ she said. ‘That is a topic which never fails to interest me. How about the League, this Maxwell’s journey? Has he accomplished his mission yet?’

‘He is not likely to, now. Visci is dead!—Gracious powers, Marie! what ails you? Are you ill?’

Isodore uttered a sharp exclamation, and then reeled forward in her chair. Her face was white and drawn, her lips trembled. Gradually her bosom ceased to heave so painfully, and she turned to Le Gautier with a white wan smile, though he could see the fan still trembling in her hands. ‘It is nothing,’ she said with an effort. ‘I am subject to these attacks of the heart, and any news of sudden death always affects me so.—Do not look distressed; it is past now.’

‘There is nothing in the name to cause you any distress?’ Le Gautier asked suspiciously.

‘I have heard the name before, if that is what you mean. Tell me all you know of this Carlo Visci.’

‘I did not say his name was Carlo,’ Le Gautier observed, somewhat sharply. ‘I can tell you nothing more. When I reached home this afternoon, I had a telegram to say he was dead.’

‘And this Maxwell, what of him? I suppose he will return home now?’

‘He has been somewhat dilatory in obeying orders. No; he will not return. He will be detained at Rome for the present.’

‘Tell me why you hate this Englishman so.’

Le Gautier started. ‘How do you know I hate him?’ he asked. ‘I have never said so.’

‘Not in so many words; but in gesture and look, when you speak of him, your actions are eloquent, my friend. He has crossed your path. Ah, well, I like a good hater. Maxwell will suffer yet.’

‘Yes,’ Le Gautier exclaimed involuntarily, ‘he will.’

Isodore rose and walked to the piano, where she sat for a moment striking the chords idly. ‘When do you go to Warsaw?’ she asked.

‘I have six days remaining to me.—Marie, the time has come when we must no longer delay. The pear is ripe now; all my plans are matured. I have only to hold up my hand and the League will vanish.’

All this time, Isodore played on softly, musingly, the music serving like the accompaniment of a song to force the speaker’s voice. As he stood there, and she answered him, she never ceased to play the soft chords.

‘Then you have everything prepared?’

‘Yes, everything is ready.’ He drew a low seat to her side, and seated himself there. ‘All the names are made out, the whole plot prepared.’

‘And you propose to hand them over to me. It is a great compliment; and I suppose I must take them. I would run greater risks than this for your sake and—my own.’

She took one hand from the ivory keys and held it out to him. Drawing a packet from his pocket, he gave it to her. She thrust it in her bosom, and ran her fingers over the keys again.

‘All is there, I suppose,’ she asked, ‘down to the minutest detail, everything necessary to betray the League and pull it up root and branch? You have taken good care to shield yourself, I presume?’

‘Of course.—And now, to talk of more pleasant things. You know I am going away in a few days; and when I return, I shall expect to find myself perfectly free.’

‘You may depend upon me. I will do all I can for you.’

Le Gautier looked up sharply—the words were coldly, sternly uttered, but the quiet placid smile never left her face.

‘How strangely you speak! But oh, Marie—my Marie, the only woman I ever loved, you will stand by me now, and help me, for both our sakes! Look at me, and say you will do what I ask!’

Isodore looked down, smiling brightly. ‘Yes, I will do what you ask,’ she said. ‘And so you really love me?’

‘Passionately and sincerely, such as I never expected to love woman yet.’

‘I am glad to hear you say that,’ Isodore replied with a thrill of exultation in her voice. ‘I have waited and hoped for the time to come; but never in my wildest dreams did I look for this.’

‘With your nobleness and beauty, how could it be otherwise? I should be more than a man—or less—if I looked upon you unmoved.’

‘Then, for the first time for years, I am happy.’

Le Gautier started to his feet rapturously. He did not understand her yet; he thought the soft earnest words all for him. He would have caught her there and then in his eager arms, but again she repulsed him. ‘No, no!’ she cried; ‘I have not proved you yet. Let things remain as they are till you return again to England.’

How strange, Le Gautier thought vaguely, that she should use words so similar to those of Enid to a precisely similar plea. Despite his passion, he had not thrown all prudence to the winds.

‘You had better leave me now,’ Isodore continued—‘leave me to think and dwell over this thing.’

‘But what about my badge of membership? I dare not leave England without that.’

‘I had almost forgotten it in this interesting conversation. It is not in my possession; it is in Paris. You have a meeting of the League before you go for final instructions. Come to me after that, and you shall have it. I am going to Paris to-morrow, and will bring it with me.’

‘You are a witch!’ Le Gautier exclaimed with admiration. ‘You seem to know as much as the mysterious Isodore, that princess who never shows herself unless danger besets the League. If she is the wonder men who have seen her say she is, they stand in dire need of her now.’

‘Beware how you talk so lightly of her—she has the gift of fernseed. At this very moment she may know of your perfidy.’

‘Perfidy is a hard word, my queen, and sounds not prettily.—And now, good-night. And you will not fail me?’

‘I will _not_ fail you,’ Isodore replied with the stern inflection Le Gautier had noticed before, and marvelled over. ‘I never fail.’

‘A woman, and never fail!’

‘Not in my promises. If I make a vow or pledge my word, I can wait five years or ten to fulfil it.—Good-night. And when we meet again, you will not say I have belied my contract.’

When Valerie entered some minutes later, she found Isodore with firm-set face and gleaming eyes. ‘My brother is dead,’ she said quietly. ‘Poor Carlo! And he loved me so at one time. Now, he can never know.’

‘Dead!’ Valerie exclaimed. ‘You do not mean to say’——

‘That Maxwell killed him?—No. His heart has been failing for years, long before I left Rome; his life was not worth an hour’s purchase. But I have no time to mourn over him now.—Let me see if I can do a little good with my useless occupation. I start for Rome to-morrow.’

Valerie looked at her friend in stupid astonishment.

‘I cannot explain to you now. Maxwell is free to return home. As you know, it means destruction to Le Gautier’s plans, if he does. I dared not press him too closely to-night; but Maxwell will be detained in Rome, in all probability by Paulo Lucci, till some charge can be trumped up for his destruction. But Lucci and his band dare not cross me; my power is too great for that. To-morrow, I leave for Rome, and pray heaven that I may not be too late!’

AMERICAN TRAITS.

It is usual in this country to regard the Americans as a homogeneous people, and to accept the Yankee as a fair type of the whole nation. But this is a fallacy. The inhabitants of the South, and more especially the descendants of the early French and Spanish colonists to be found in the Gulf States, differ radically in their morals, manners, and customs from the population of other sections of the Union. It is not, however, our purpose in this paper to enter into an extended disquisition upon the characteristics of the people of the United States, our object being simply to touch briefly upon a few of their more prominent traits. The Puritan element in the character of the first settlers of New England has exercised an influence upon social life there which has not been confined to that limited area, but has made itself felt, in a more or less marked degree, throughout the whole of the Northern States. The differences of race and climate have, however, not only been obstacles to the inhabitants of the South accepting the Puritan standard of morals, but have also prevented the development of those traits of character to be found in the population of other parts of the country, and which are more peculiarly distinctive of the Americans as a people. We shall therefore limit ourselves to dealing with those national characteristics which have come under our observation in the Northern States.

That submission to the will of the majority which is inculcated by democratic institutions has exercised a marked influence upon the social no less than upon the political life of the people of the United States, save in the late Slave States. It has not only had the result of preventing the development of individuality of character, but likewise has considerably modified that obstinacy of temper and dogged tenacity of opinion which are to be found in the Anglo-Saxon race. The late Lord Beaconsfield on one occasion said in the House of Commons that a gentleman who had spent several years in America had declared to him that it was his belief that ‘the citizens of the republic were the most tractable people in the world, and the readiest open to conviction by argument.’

In the United States, the absence of that segregation of the various grades of society which exist in Europe is evinced by the habits and manners of the masses in that country. If the national independence of character be occasionally pushed too far, and degenerate into offensive self-assertion, at least it prevents any approach to servility. No inequality of position or circumstances will induce a native of any of the Northern States to submit to being dealt with in the manner or spoken to in the tone which, in England, the man in broadcloth too frequently adopts, as a matter of course, towards the man in fustian. The late Sydney Godolphin Osborne used to relate how, once, a respectable artisan said to him: ‘I like you, my lord; there is nothing of the gentleman about you.’ The meaning of the speaker was undoubtedly that Lord Osborne did not treat him in the patronising manner that members of the higher class usually address those whom they regard as their social inferiors. Now, no one perhaps has a keener appreciation of the advantages of wealth and education than the American; but that the possessor of them should feel himself justified in using towards the man who lacks these adventitious gifts the language of a superior to an inferior, is what he cannot understand, and which he will not for one moment put up with. An anecdote Thackeray used to relate of an experience of his when in the United States well illustrates this trait of the people. While in New York, he expressed to a friend a desire to see some of the ‘Bowery Bhoys,’ who, he had heard, were a class of the community peculiar to that city. So one evening he was taken to the Bowery, and he was shown a ‘Bhoy.’ The young man, the business of the day being over, had changed his attire. He wore a dress-coat, black trousers, and a satin waistcoat; whilst a tall hat rested on the back of his head, which was adorned with long well-greased hair—known as ‘soap-locks’—a style which the rowdies of that day affected. The youth was leaning against a lamp-post, smoking an enormous cigar; and his whole aspect was one of ineffable self-satisfaction. The eminent novelist, after contemplating him for a few moments with silent admiration, said to the gentleman by whom he was accompanied: ‘This is a great and gorgeous creature!’ adding: ‘Can I speak to him without his taking offence?’

Receiving an answer in the affirmative, Thackeray went up to the fellow, on the pretext of asking his way, and said: ‘My good man, I want to go to Broome Street.’

But the unlucky phrase, ‘My good man,’ roused the gall of the individual spoken to. Instead, therefore, of affording the information sought, the ‘Bhoy’—a diminutive specimen of humanity, scarcely over five feet in height—eyeing the tall form of his interlocutor askance, answered the query in the sense that his permission had been asked for the speaker to visit the locality in question, and he said, patronisingly: ‘Well, sonny, yer kin go thar.’

When Thackeray subsequently related the incident, he laughingly declared that he was so disconcerted by the unexpected response, that he had not the courage to continue the dialogue.

The question, however, differently put would, in all probability, have elicited a civil answer from ninety-nine out of a hundred of the members of the class to which the man belonged. In fact, the discourtesy, and even rudeness, of which some travellers in the United States complain have arisen from the fact of their failing to appreciate the difference existing between the social systems of that country and their own.

The wide gulf in culture which in England separates the upper and middle classes from the lower orders, does not exist in America. This has arisen from various causes. In the first place, the great bulk of the people of the Union are much better educated than is as yet the case in this country. The admirable system of common or, as they are termed, ‘public’ schools which prevails in America affords facilities for all children obtaining a sound English education without the payment by their parents of any school fees, and at a trifling cost to the taxpayer in all sections of the Union, and especially in the West, where large grants have been made of the State lands in support of the public schools. In the second place, the social status of the working classes who are _natives_ of the United States has been raised by the fact that the Americans are almost exclusively engaged in avocations demanding intelligence and skilled labour. This has been owing to the circumstance that upon the coloured population and the Irish and German immigrants have devolved those coarse and irksome occupations which have to be followed by a portion of the inhabitants of other countries. To give one instance of this alone, it may be stated that rarely is a native American citizen, man or woman, found occupying the position of a domestic servant in any of the Atlantic cities.

The wages, too, commanded by artisans and mechanics averaging nearly double those of the same class in other countries, it follows, necessarily, that vice and crime—the inevitable concomitants of a state of society in which the condition of the mass of the lower classes is but one step removed from absolute indigence, as is the case in most European countries—are not nearly so prevalent in America. In the New England States, where the foreign population is small, there is not a country in Europe—possibly with the exception of Holland—where there is so little crime. Few persons, indeed, are aware how much the foreign element in the community, in many of the States, contributes to the statistics of the offences which come under the cognisance of the criminal tribunals. In the State of New York alone, seventy per cent. of the infractions of the law are committed by the Irish, whilst the fair ratio of this class in proportion to the whole population would be a little less than twenty per cent.

One of the most marked characteristics of the Americans is their rooted determination to resist any legislation which shall recognise any class distinctions in the community. Of course, no one contends that the man of wealth, education, and culture is not the superior, in one sense of the word, of him who lacks these. The equality insisted upon is simply this: that no class of society shall make the circumstance of enjoying these adventitious advantages a ground for the members of it basing a claim to be a separate caste, possessing rights and privileges—fenced in by law—denied to the bulk of their countrymen. This sentiment found expression in the opposition which the proposal met with, a few years ago, that persons in the Civil Service of the Federal government should be irremovable, save for misconduct, instead of being turned out of their places after every change of administration, as had previously been the case. It was argued that fixity of tenure of office would have the result of creating a bureaucracy, the members of which would come in time to regard themselves as a privileged class. That these apprehensions were unfounded, experience of the practical working of the new system of government patronage has proved. But the very fact of the objection having been raised at all shows how sensitive public opinion was on the subject.

One noticeable feature of American society is that in none of the Northern States does an officer in the army or navy enjoy the social status that he commands in all European countries. Holmes, in _The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table_, has commented upon this trait of his countrymen. He says: ‘It is curious to observe of how small account military folk are held among our Northern people. Our young men must gild their spurs, but they need not win them. The equal division of property keeps the younger sons of rich people above the necessity of military service. Thus, the army loses one element of refinement, and the moneyed upper classes forget what it is to count heroism amongst their virtues. Still, I don’t believe in any aristocracy without pluck as its backbone. Ours may show it when the day comes, if ever it does come.’

The opportunity for young men of the wealthier class proving their manhood came sooner than Holmes anticipated when he penned the above remarks; for less than three years later, the civil war broke out, and then this class were not slack in responding to the call of their country for their services. Numerous instances occurred of young men reared in luxury—unable to obtain commissions owing to their want of military training—shouldering muskets in the ranks of the Federal armies; and their patriotism received due recognition from their fellow-citizens. But in time of peace it is the members of the community who are engaged in those pursuits best remunerated who are held in the highest estimation—a necessary result of a condition of society in which wealth is the standard by which social position is measured and defined. The girl who in the French song exclaims, ‘Oh! que j’aime les militaires!’ utters a sentiment which as a rule finds no echo in the hearts of the American fair. An odd illustration of this fact came under the observation of the writer when he was resident in New York. A lady—whose brother had been educated at the government Military Academy at West Point—gave, in all seriousness, the reason why this gentleman, after graduating, had not accepted a commission in the army, in these words: ‘He had a higher ambition than to be a mere soldier, so he has become a dry-goods merchant.’

In New York, and indeed in all the larger Atlantic cities, a class has sprung up of late years which affects to look down upon the political and social institutions of their country. Mr Howells, in his novel _A Woman’s Reason_, speaking of one of the Upper Ten, says: ‘He saw what a humbug democracy and equality really were. He must have seen that nobody practically believes in them.’ This sentiment may accurately reflect the opinions of a limited class, but it is an absolute fallacy to assert that such views are generally entertained. On the contrary, they have not to any appreciable extent permeated the people at large, and there is not the slightest likelihood of their affecting the national life or changing its standards.

In closing these desultory observations upon some of the characteristic traits of the Americans, the writer may state that they are based upon personal observation during a residence of several years in the United States.

COUSIN GEORGE.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. I.

Mr Nicholas Smethby lived, in pretty easy circumstances, at a town some thirty or forty miles distant from London, from which metropolis he had retired on leaving off business. His profession had been, nominally, that of an accountant; but he had seldom troubled himself greatly about accounts, and had not received many commissions to investigate them. He had really been a speculator in stocks and shares, in a small but profitable way; and while he lent but little of his own money in loans, had made a great deal of profit as agent, or ‘middleman,’ between those who wished to borrow and those who were able to lend. So Mr Smethby had lived in a circle in which it was necessary for him to have his wits about him, and in which a somewhat decided hankering for gain was likely to be developed; yet in this he was perhaps no worse than most of his neighbours; while, ’cute as he was, he was not a bad sort of fellow, take him altogether. He was pleasant and social enough in his family circle, a pretty large one, but reduced, as far as his own household was concerned, to one daughter, Harriet, the other members having married. Two of these had settled in the neighbourhood of Valeborough, the town referred to; while Mr Smethby had long been a widower. He had no other relations, that he knew of, and, as he was wont to say when speaking on the subject, he did not want to hear of any. His cousin, George Styles, was the last he had had much to do with, and, ah!—Mr Smethby would exclaim at such times as the subject was brought up—he did not care about any more like him.

‘Twenty years ago, sir,’ he would explain, ‘he called on me with a cock-and-bull story of his being in trouble and wanting to get to Australia; and I was fool enough to lend him twenty pounds. Yes, sir, lent twenty pounds to a man I did not care two straws for, and had seen barely a dozen times in my life. What was the consequence? Why, I never heard any more of him or my twenty pounds either, and don’t know to this day whether he went to Australia or not. I should decidedly say _not_. That is all I know about my relations.’

It must be owned that it was at the best a selfish kind of cheerfulness, which was derived from the belief that he had no kith or kin out of his own household; but Smethby was rather a selfish man. He certainly was too fond of talking in this strain.

It happened that, towards the close of a bright June day, Mr Smethby was at a railway station some two or three miles from his residence. To aid in identifying the town, we may say that there was another line which ran through or at least close to it; but from the station in question, an omnibus plied to Valeborough, and it was for this vehicle that Mr Smethby waited on the little platform.

‘We shall have a wet night, I expect,’ said a voice in his ear.

He looked round, and saw a sailor-like man, whom he had already noticed, and who was scanning the horizon in a sailor-like manner. Mr Smethby made a fitting reply to this remark, and a desultory conversation ensued. The expected omnibus now coming into sight as it crossed a rise in the road at some distance, Smethby instinctively shifted his valise a little nearer to the gate. The man good-naturedly helped him, as he was close to the bag, and exclaimed, as he saw the label upon it: ‘Smethby! It is odd that I should see that name to-day, for it is not a common one.’

‘I do not think it is often met with,’ said Mr Smethby. ‘But what is there odd in your seeing it to-day?’

‘Well, perhaps not much,’ replied the man, with a smile; ‘but I was talking about that name a good deal yesterday, and for weeks before.’

‘Indeed! May I ask how that was?’ said his listener.

‘I have just come from Australia,’ returned the sailor. (Mr Smethby could not help growing suddenly attentive at this.) ‘I landed yesterday at Gravesend, and bade good-bye to an old chum. Ah! he was a good chum too! Five years had I worked in the next claim to old George, as we called him. His right name was George Styles.’

‘George Styles!’ exclaimed Mr Smethby.—‘But I must apologise for interrupting you.’

‘He had done well—better than any of us,’ continued the sailor. ‘Some folks said he was worth a quarter of a million of money; but I never believed that; about half the figure would be nigher. He said he had no friends in England he cared for now, except one Mr Smethby. That is why the name startled me. He was always talking about him. It was on purpose to see him he went on to London with the ship; he lives somewhere in the City.’

‘O—h!’ said Mr Smethby. This was a long-sustained syllable, the gentleman having a curiously complicated rush of thought just then.

‘Yes, he lives in London; and I think old George means playing a rare trick on him,’ said the sailor, whose smile broke into a laugh here. ‘He used to say what a game it would be to go and pretend he was poor and broken down, so as to see who were his real friends and who were not. It is my belief he will do it too; and when I go back to London, I’ll try to find him out, to hear all about it. Ha, ha, ha!’

The omnibus drew up at this moment; and the sailor, knowing their conference must end, touched his cap and drew back.

‘A—was this George Styles really so rich? I ask, because your story has interested me,’ said Mr Smethby hurriedly. ‘He must be a droll fellow!’

‘Rich! Why, I’ve seen with my own eyes the banker’s receipts for the best part of a ton of gold of his, first and last,’ returned the sailor; ‘and that was only a part of his luck. His last words to me were: “Bill”—my name is Bill Brown—“Bill, as long as I live, you shall never want a friend.” Nor I shan’t, I know.—Good-day, sir.’

Mr Smethby entered the vehicle, and had a silent, thoughtful ride to Valeborough. The sailor’s conversation, helter-skelter and rattle-brain as it was, had furnished him with much food for thought; and finding that his son was at his house, when he arrived there—this son was married and settled at Valeborough—he immediately took him, with Miss Harriet, into council. During his narrative, repeated exclamations of astonishment broke from his hearers.

‘Why, father,’ cried his daughter as he finished, ‘this must be your cousin George; and you are the Mr Smethby he is looking for.’

‘Of course I am; I saw that at once,’ replied her father.

‘But what is to be done?’ asked Mr Joe, the son. ‘You have left London for years; he may be looking about for you till doomsday, and be no nearer finding you.’

‘I suppose he will go to my old address. The people there know where I am, and will send him down,’ said Mr Smethby. ‘I expect that is how it will be.’

‘I hope so, I am sure,’ continued his son; ‘otherwise, we may lose a splendid chance.’

Smethby could not help admitting the possibility of this, which seemed to disturb him a good deal, yet nothing could be done to avert it.

‘We must be careful to show him every kindness,’ said Harriet. ‘After having been away from England so long, he will feel pleased at’——

‘Leave me alone,’ interposed Smethby, with a nod and a wink, which meant much. ‘I flatter myself I can see my way here pretty clearly. I only hope he comes, that is all.’

Mr Smethby would have written to his successors in London, asking them to give his address to any inquirer; but he abstained, partly because he felt sure they would do this in any case, but chiefly from the danger that his request might be mentioned to his cousin, and so show that he, Mr Smethby, had a knowledge of his arrival in England.

No days in the lives of Mr Smethby and his family had ever appeared so long as each of the next two or three which followed their little family interview. The suspense was—as the elder gentleman pronounced it to be—‘excruciating;’ but it came to an end in time.

Mr Smethby was in his front-garden in the afternoon, trying to occupy himself; but his mind was busy on a subject very different from botany, when, happening to look up from his flower-beds, he met the eyes of a man who was watching him over the fence, as this man stood on the footpath. He smiled when he met the glance of Smethby, who actually recoiled in his astonishment; for although he had been thinking without cessation of his cousin, yet it was like an electric shock in its suddenness to look round and find the very man face to face with him; for this was, must be, he felt, George Styles. He did not know him, had no recollection of his features; but the bronzed, bushy-whiskered, bushy-bearded man, dressed something like a sailor, yet not to be mistaken for one, who smiled at him across the garden fence, was his cousin, there could be no doubt of that.

‘Well, Nick, old fellow!’ began the stranger; ‘I see you know me, although it is many years since we parted.’

‘Why, it is George Styles!’ exclaimed Mr Smethby, with an assumption of surprise and ‘gush’ which did him infinite credit, and of which he felt secretly proud for a good while. He seized the other’s hand and wrung it over the fence with a prolonged heartiness, as though he could not bear to relinquish it. ‘My dear old boy, how glad I am to see you!’ he resumed, as soon, it appeared, as his feelings would allow him to speak. ‘Come in. How did you find me out? But never mind that now. Come in! I shall have a thousand things to talk about.—This is Harriet; the only unmarried one now; she was in arms when you went away, so I don’t expect you to remember her.—Now, Harriet, let us have a cup of tea; and put the best we have in the house on the table to-day, if we never do so again.’

‘You are almost too kind, Nick,’ said the other, and there was really a little catch in his voice as he spoke. ‘I did not expect—indeed, I don’t deserve such generosity. I think I had first better run down to the _Railway Tap_ and bespeak my room there, for I hope to stay three or four days at Valeborough.’

‘Three or four days!’ exclaimed Mr Smethby; ‘bespeak a room at the _Railway Tap_! I don’t mean to part with you, now I have found you again, under three or four months; and if you do not make this your home for everything, I—I—I’ll never forgive you.’

Miss Harriet, in an equally gratifying strain, indorsed these sentiments, at which Styles was evidently affected.

‘I did not expect—could not have hoped for this,’ he returned; ‘and seeing that I have returned a—a poor man’—the awkward stop he made, ere he could get this out, amused Smethby—‘it is so kind of you. If it will not cause any inconvenience, I will stay here a little while, and I will do anything I can to repay your generosity’——

Here he was interrupted by the good-tempered laughter which such an idea excited, and the evening passed off merrily.

Mr Joe and his wife looked in—by chance, as they explained; as did Mr Brooks and his wife—formerly Miss Susy Smethby—who came also by chance; the result being that there was quite a jovial party, and that Mr Styles received the warmest invitations to become a frequent visitor at the house of Mr Joe and at that of Mr Brooks.

After this night, too, there was unwonted pleasantry at Mr Smethby’s, for not only his family but some of the neighbours were constantly dropping in, and it was wonderful what an interest they all took in the gentleman from Australia. The latter was very guarded—kept up his character well, did him great credit, Mr Joe said. But no one can avoid an occasional flaw, and one or two were detected even in him. He was wont to deplore the hardships which unsuccessful men suffered in a colony—in fact, he did not like to enter on any detail of his painful experiences—never would do so.

‘Your hardships do not seem greatly to have injured you, George,’ his host would answer; ‘you look a good ten years younger than your age; and many a man who has never been fifty miles from London shows the wear and tear of toil and worry, of which you complain so much, more than you do.’

‘Ah! but it is the future!’ Mr Styles would say, when such a debate arose—he would say it with a sad shake of the head—‘it is the future which preys on my mind, what I am to do for the rest of my life.’

It was difficult for Mr Smethby, knowing so much as he did, to listen gravely to such arguments as these; but he was grave, and his manner encouraged Styles to confide in him—after a fashion.

He soon showed an interest in speaking of certain Australian investments which it appeared some friend of his thought highly of; a shallow ruse, not likely to deceive such a man as his cousin. Styles further mentioned that a gold-miner whom he knew had put ten thousand pounds into one of these specs less than two years before, and he could now sell out for thirty thousand any day he chose; but he was too good a judge to do that, as in another two years the present value would be doubled, and then, perhaps, he might be tempted to realise. This same miner, as he had heard, held five or six other investments, nearly all as good, and was in expectation of hearing news which would enable him to employ the other half of his capital, which was now lying idle—only making a paltry three per cent.—quite as well. All this Mr Styles had heard from his friend.

All this amused Smethby, who read his visitor the more thoroughly in proportion as the latter sought to envelop himself in these far-fetched disguises. No additional proof was needed to satisfy Smethby; but the evidence was in a manner forced upon him to expose most completely the absurd trick which his cousin was attempting to play off upon him.

Harriet found a letter on the floor of their visitor’s room: it would have been expecting too much from the feminine, or perhaps from any temperament, to suppose she would not read it. Its contents were so interesting, although exceedingly brief, that she showed the note to her father. It was from a firm in London, a stockbroker’s evidently, referring to some inquiry from ‘George Styles, Esq.’ as to the purchase of shares to the amount of twenty thousand pounds, in the Bodgamaree mines—the very speculation that Smethby had heard his cousin refer to in their last conversation as being in great favour with the unnamed gold-miner! The shares were low at present, the letter said, and could be bought at about eighty per cent., so that a little over sixteen thousand pounds would be sufficient.

‘That settles it, then,’ said Smethby. ‘Be sure to put the letter back where you found it, Harriet; and mind what I told you the other day. Play your cards properly, and I am sure you will win.’

This utterance was rather obscure; but his daughter understood it well enough to induce her to pout and frown a little, and to move with what is generally described as a ‘flounce.’

‘Ah! it is all very well,’ said the gentleman; ‘but you ought to know better than to dream of allowing a quarter of a million of money to go out of the family.—Who is Robert Crewe, I should like to know?’

This speech would have been, to a third party, equally obscure with that which had gone before; but as we do not wish to have any mystery, we may explain that, almost from the first, Cousin George had appeared much impressed by Harriet’s good looks, and had shown her attentions which gradually became more marked. He was five-and-twenty years older than the girl, it was true; but as he had himself said to Smethby, a man ought to be a good deal older than a woman, when they marry; and when a man had been abroad, knocking about the world best part of his time, he then knew what a home was, and felt the want of a young and cheerful wife.

All this Smethby had pointed out to his daughter before; but was shocked to find—for he really considered her a sensible, clear-headed girl, as a rule—that a ridiculous friendship with one Robert Crewe, a doctor’s assistant in the town, blocked the way of this new road to wealth and position.

Robert Crewe! Smethby had not ordinary patience with the idea. He admitted that he had known of, and in some sort of way approved, or, rather, had not forbidden this intimacy—it was in this roundabout manner he now described his conduct—and the young fellow, in his place, might be well enough; but to compare him and his miserable gallipot and sticking-plaster prospects, with George Styles, was enough to put any man out of temper. Robert Crewe, forsooth!

Yet, with all this natural indignation and in spite of this sarcasm, Miss Harriet could not quite make up her mind to renounce the young doctor; but it might come in time.

That very night—after the discovery of the letter, we mean—Mr Styles on his return broached two subjects which were strongly suggestive, especially when his hearers were behind the scenes to a degree he did not suspect. These hearers were only Mr Smethby and his daughter. It was a quiet night, such as delighted Mr Styles; he really appeared to enjoy himself pretty well under all conditions; but he declared this evening that a snug little family chat was sweeter than anything else, to an old wanderer like himself. Port, sherry, and claret were at hand; for while Smethby was, as a rule, strictly economical, so that wine rarely appeared at his table, his hospitality to his cousin led him into a freer display of such luxuries now, than of old. But the taste of Mr Styles was simple—old-fashioned, he said; and he drank scarcely anything but cold brandy-and-water, to which he was remarkably partial. It was over a glass of this innocent beverage—always mixed half and half, at which, even in his bloom of hospitality, Mr Smethby winced—that he spoke of the subjects indicated. He referred to a friend of his—it was odd how satisfied he seemed with this shallow artifice, and how often he resorted to it—who was about to buy a small property near London. This property was at Richmond—only a mere toy, a little villa, with coachhouse and stables; a pretty conservatory, with a couple of acres of land—that was all. It was freehold—his friend would have nothing else—and it commanded the prettiest view on the river.

Now, what was Miss Harriet’s opinion? Did she prefer living in the country outright, or near London? What did she think of his friend’s choice? Harriet hesitated, and her colour went and came; but Smethby spoke up for her, and said that, like every other young girl, she would prefer living near the great metropolis, with its theatres, its balls, its parks and the like.—O yes! of course. Harriet but feebly echoed this opinion, which was repeated and enlarged on by Smethby.

Later in the evening, when the elders were alone, Styles brought up his friend again; it was, as before, in reference to an investment, and Mr George said how he wished his cousin had a little money to spare, as he knew—his friend knew, that was—of a chance for doubling and trebling every penny invested.

Smethby, with his usual good-tempered laugh—he was always good-tempered, when with Styles—said that for all George knew he might have a trifle by him. On hearing this, his cousin expressed his pleasure, and said that his friend was going to invest nearly twenty thousand pounds in the spec. Such figures were beyond Smethby, as that gentleman owned; but one, or even two thousand, he might command. In short, ere they parted that night, he had resolved to remove his cash from his deposit account at the town bank and join this friend in his speculation.

Styles was pleased to hear this; and when Smethby said he should like to see his friend, laughed, and confusedly said he would tell his cousin more about him soon.

ECONOMY OF FUEL.

Mr Hull, a celebrated geologist, has calculated that there is still a quantity of coal in store in England and Wales sufficient to afford a supply of one hundred and twenty millions of tons for about five hundred years. This would be a cheerful estimate, if we could cordially and unquestioningly accept it. But, unfortunately, we cannot, other competent observers having affirmed that the coal deposits of this country will be exhausted in less than two hundred years. We would, therefore, urge with all earnestness, that the people and the government should pay more especial attention to this vital subject than they have hitherto done.

Of course, there are two chief points on which any interference could be effectual: these are, the exportation of coal, and the wasteful processes of mining now in vogue. The former of these involves the great question of free-trade, and the right of each coal-proprietor to sell the produce of his land and labour at the best possible price. The latter is even a still more difficult thing to meddle with, and must, perhaps, be met rather by the provisions made on the part of landed proprietors, when leasing their subterranean property to practical miners, than by anything government can do. At present, the proprietor, having a life-interest in his estate, desires to obtain from the mines the largest amount of the most valuable coal at the smallest working loss. The result is, that vast quantities of inferior but yet valuable material are left in the pits; quantities that would do something towards meeting the growing consumption in this kingdom.

Selfish, narrow-minded people might exclaim: ‘Oh! there will be quite enough of coal to last us our time. We don’t expect or want to live for ever; therefore, we won’t bother ourselves about the economy of fuel.’

Let us remind such unpatriotic mortals that our manufacturing and commercial interests rest upon our supplies of coal as their foundation-stone. Our commercial rivals across the Atlantic possess magnificent coal-fields, that are practically of indefinite extent. Exhaust _our_ coal-fields, and their supremacy will become complete. It behoves each and every one of us to think of the future of our country and of the interests of those who come after us.

Perchance some cynic may say: ‘What has posterity ever done for me? Let posterity take care of itself.’

‘Very well,’ we reply; ‘let posterity do for itself. Let us only be influenced by selfish and non-altruistic principles, and think only of ourselves. The question is, how can we put money into our own pockets by using less coal than we do?’

First, we can do so by using proper grates. Down to the time of Count Rumford, the modern world of coal-burners never thought of the true theory of caloric in connection with grates. Burners of wood had not tried to be economical; they did not expect to be warm on more than one side. When their bodies were scorched and their eyes smarted, they had what they bargained for. Rumford appeared as a new teacher; he laid down the principles of heat and combustion with admirable clearness, and flooded England with grates of his favourite type. But in spite of the teachings of the Count, coal-fires of to-day are as dirty, chilly, and as wasteful as ever.

The waste of coal in Britain is positively disgraceful. One hundred and twenty millions of tons are consumed every year. Of this, one half might be saved by the adoption of improved appliances. About thirty million pounds sterling might thus be kept in our banks, instead of being turned into cinders and smoke. The pall of smoke and fog that broods over London contains in a single day fifty tons of coal! The fact is that we burn coal in house-fires on an entirely false principle—that is, on the principle of a blast-furnace, letting cold air pass through the centre of the fire, to blaze the coal rapidly away, and hurry the heat and half-burnt gases unused up the chimney. We have to go back to the good old principle of the embers on the earth, when the hearth was, as it is at the present day in many Irish cottages, a true ‘focus,’ a centre of accumulated heat. We must, then, return to truer lines, and make our fireplace again a ‘focus’ or ‘well’ of stored heat, into which we put our fuel, first to be distilled into gas, which, rising at a high temperature from its hot bed, meets the air gliding towards the chimney, and bursts into flame, communicating heat to the firebrick back and to the room. Then, when all the gases have been burnt off, the red-hot coke remains, and burns away in the bottom of the grate at a slow rate, yet radiating abundant heat into the room.

This desirable end is gained by using Mr Teale’s ‘Economiser.’ The ‘Coal Economiser’ is simply a shield of sheet-iron which stands on the hearth, and rises as high as the lowest bar of the grate, against which it should fit accurately, so as to shut in the space under the fire. Any ordinary blacksmith can make the ‘Economiser.’ It is applicable to any range, whether in the cottages of the poor or the mansions of the rich. Those who wish for greater elegance can have it made of steel or brass. Its chief purpose is to cut off the under current, and to keep the chamber under the fire hot.

Count Rumford affirmed that seven-eighths of the heat was carried up the chimney. Heat is wasted in three ways: by combustion under the influence of a strong draught; by imperfect combustion; by the escape of heat through the sides and the back of the fireplace. By using the ‘Economiser’ all this is altered. If there is plenty of heat round the fuel, then but little oxygen will do. But burn coal with a chilling jacket, and it needs a fierce draught of oxygen to sustain it. High temperature does not imply complete combustion, for in making gas, coke is left. When the ‘Economiser’ is applied, the fire burns with an orange colour, for the stream of oxygen is slow and steady, and the coal undergoes complete combustion; consequently, there is an entire absence of cinders, and only a little fine snuff-like powder falls into the ‘economised’ chamber. Smoke is also conspicuous by its absence.

In a recent lecture delivered at the Royal Institution, Mr Teale mentioned several additional points about the structure of fireplaces, which tend to the saving of fuel. (1) As much firebrick and as little iron as possible should be used. Iron absorbs the heat, and chiefly in directions in which the heat is least wanted. Firebrick retains and accumulates heat. (2) The back of the fireplace should lean or arch over the fire, so as to become heated by the rising flame. The heated back sends forth abundant radiant heat into the room. ‘Milner’s’ back is a capital arrangement; so is the Nelson ‘Rifle’ back. (3) The bottom of the grating should be deep from before backwards. (4) The slits in the grating should be narrow; this prevents small cinders from falling through. (5) The bars in front should be narrow.

If the foregoing instructions are attended to, there will be an enormous saving of fuel. Soot and smoke will be diminished, and there will be no half-burnt cinders.