A YEAR

ALL that day the cousins spent together; but nothing, not even the persuasions of Rose, could induce Arthur to remain at Grayport over the next. He had got hold of a good grievance, and was determined to play out his role of persecuted genius to the full. Besides, he would not run the risk of having to meet Brandon in the friendly manner which he must have assumed in his uncle's presence. He would, at least, have been expected to express gratitude for the letter of introduction; and so, to preserve his dignity, he ran away the very next morning, and was in London by the time that Brandon was well engaged upon the noix de veau.

Rose was more than sorry when he went, for the departure of her cousin was the departure of whatever real living interest belonged to her life; and, after seeing him carried off by the coach which made daily journeys between Grayport and the nearest railway station, her eyes were too dim to watch his progress very far along the road; and her tears were all the more painful for springing as much from anger as from sorrow.

Arthur was certainly to be congratulated on having left behind him so brave and thorough-going a supporter, supposing that any further danger was to be apprehended. Not once did it enter into the mind of Rose that after all it was nearly, if not quite impossible that any man, no matter how jealous, treacherous, and energetic he might be, should go to work in such an absurd manner in order to get a supposed and possible rival out of the way. But then she looked upon life through glasses of her own. Firstly, and not unnaturally, she believed implicitly in her cousin's overwhelming genius, even more than

donned her armour for what she intended should be the first passage of arms between the heroine and the villain of her new romance. For she was by no means a passive ally. When her feelings were once aroused in a person's favour or dis-. favour, it did not occur to her that there was anything but fighting to be done. She therefore put on her company clothes-she was given to affect the romantically simple style of white dresses and single flowers in her hair-and, what did not become her so well, her company manners also, which were as yet rather shy and constrained. While engaged in putting the last of an infinite number of finishing touches to her panoply, she heard a ring at the door, an the rather deep voice of a stranger. Rightly thinking that this was Mr. Brandon himself, instead of hurrying down to receive her uncle's guest, she seated herself resolutely on the sofa, and, taking up a book, was soon immersed in pages turned the wrong end upwards.

After no long interval, however, she heard the impatient voice of Paul Corbet calling her name; and, as her present feelings of hostility towards the world in general did not extend to a desire that her uncle should have to wait for his dinner, she just gave herself a very last touch, and slowly and gravely went down-stairs.

Her uncle and his guest were already in the parlour, where dinner was just served; so that Rose was saved from any appearance of having hurried to welcome Brandon, without, on the other hand, having rendered herself liable to be scolded for being late. The success of this little manoeuvre, utterly thrown away as it was upon every one but herself, gave her, nevertheless, no little satisfaction; though it is more than probable that this satisfaction, in her heart of hearts, arose in a very great degree from her having thus escaped the terrible ten minutes before dinner, when

VOL. CV.-NO. DOXLIV.

the brilliant are stupid and the shy are on thorns-for, if there was one thing for which Rose almost hated herself, it was the horrible fit of shyness that would come over her whenever she most wished to be self-possessed. But her satisfaction was short-lived. She had only postponed the evil moment; and when she entered the room she knew too well that she was blushing all over. But she did not know that that shy blush fully atoned by its beauty for the misery that it occasioned her.

Brandon, who had already been placed at the table, rose. One may be sure that that careful toilette, that studied entry, that conscious blush, were not thrown away upon his practised eye, even though he very naturally misinterpreted them altogether.

"Mr. Brandon, this is my niece, Rose-Arthur's cousin. And now let us begin; for we have lost at least half a minute, and the soup. has been on the table for more."

And so the captive princess and the false knight met face to face.

It must be confessed that, considering that the party consisted of one of the most garrulous of old gentlemen,-of a man who, having known most kinds of society, had learned-for he was not a talker by nature-that to talk as well and as pleasantly as one can is a social duty only second to that of listening well, and of a naturally amiable girl pretty enough to make silence on her own part permissible, the conversation was not lively. For, garrulous as was old. Corbet, he was too true a gourmet to run the risk of spoiling the effect of a single mouthful by speaking. himself, and his absorption in the great business of the day was far too deep to encourage his guest to speak. The latter soon saw that in the house of his host true politeness lay in eating and letting eat. He therefore set himself to obey that golden rule of table-talk which has never been sufficiently developed,. but of which, in practice, the ob-.

3 A.

servance and non-observance have respectively made and marred more Conversational successes than any other cause-to resolutely refrain from saying more than one is absolutely compelled until one cannot help talking, whether one will or no. If that period fails to come, the dinner is bad, and does not deserve the compliment of conversation at all.

At last Corbet spoke a whole sentence. "I forgot to thank you for the introduction to your friend at Frankfort."

"I was very glad to give it," said Brandon, and hope it will prove useful. Pleasant I am sure it will prove-I can answer for Werner to that extent. When does your nephew think of leaving?"

Rose was looking at her plate consciously and uncomfortably when the letter of introduction was mentioned. Her uncle answered,

"He is gone; at least he left for London this morning. What do you think of the noix de veau? But don't answer now-take your time. I'd rather you'd tell me tomorrow, when you've slept on it. And your candid opinion, mind; for I'm not sure but that the dish is a little behind the age-that it would not be better for just a touch more sharpness in the first flavour. It would give a finer contrast to the softness of the general effect. But I don't know; the combination would be new and striking, but there might be loss of delicacy. What do you think?"

"Really it seemed to me unimprovable. I must congratulate you on being the inventor of a masterpiece."

"I thought you would. But don't praise in a hurry. Blame can never come too soon, but any time does for praise. What is this friend of yours at Frankfort? Not an artist, I hope."

is

"Did I not tell you? No, he not an artist-except that, like a sculptor, he carves limbs."

"Yes, I remember-a surgeon.

"Why?" asked Brandon. "Because he will never be a physician at forty-eh, Rose?" answered Corbet, laughing at his own joke.

Brandon saw that this talk about her cousin annoyed Miss Arnold; so, in order to turn the conversation, he began to speak about Grayport. But this was not a fertile subjectat least the young lady did not seem to find it so; for she did no more than just answer his questions in as few words as she possibly could, and made no remarks of her own whatever. She certainly seemed either remarkably dull or remarkably out of spirits. Charitably taking the latter view, for which he fancied he could find a cause in the sudden departure of her cousin, he thought it best, as she did not seem to be in a mood for talk, to leave her to her own thoughts. That she was incapable of talking if she pleased, Brandon did not suppose for an instant; he held that every woman who is both young and pretty can talk quite well enough, jure divino.

In fact the evening turned out dull enough for all but the host, who was never out of humour after dining well. He lectured much upon gastronomy, considered both as an art and as a science: much about Paul Corbet as its exponent: a little about politics, but local rather than national, and connected much with Farleigh Castle: and the whole was mixed up with continual digs at the absent Arthur, which Rose had to bear as his substitute. To her, the evening was not only dull, but an utter failure. Whatever vague ideas she may have entertained as to what she was going to do when arming herself cap-à-pie as for a combat, had all been scat

tered to the winds, or rather swallowed up in a fog, long before she laid aside her armour for the night; and when she lay down to sleep, it was with the not unreasonable feeling that she had somehow been behaving more like a goose than a Swan. It was altogether very disappointing, and none the less that she had not expected anything definite, after all.

Brandon had been simply bored. That he had not been attracted by the good looks and the clear soft voice of his young hostess was certainly not the case; but he had his full share of at least all ordinary kinds of vanity, and no man, whether vain or not, can well feel any very great admiration for a woman when he has just conspicuously failed in rendering himself agreeable to her. There may be exceptions to this rule, but, at all events, Brandon was not one of the exceptions. It was with a feeling of luxurious relief that, on regaining the Dolphin, he threw himself on his uncomfortable sofa, pulled off his boots and his coat, and filled the bowl of his largest pipe. So absorbed was he in this process that it was a minute or two before he saw a letter upon the table addressed to him, and two or three minutes more before he could exert himself sufficiently to get up and see what it was. It proved to be an answer to the long letter which he had written to Werner, and was as follows:

"FRANKFORT-A.-M. "DEAR MAURICE,-I lose no time in answering your letter. It was indeed bad news for me to find awaiting me on my return here from Tannenheim, your account of your sudden change of circumstances. I know that you too well understand how much I feel with you in your good and ill fortune alike to expect me to say how much any blow to your prospects is felt by me also-that I have always taken, and shall always take, the

same interest in what must still and in spite of all difficulties, be your great career as in my own small one. You are at present ill, you say; but that is no reason why you should be guilty of intellectual cowardice. It is to say this that I write far more than to express barren sympathy. Why should you of all men be afraid for your future, and even of losing the power of living out the higher part of your life in the way that you have always intended? That you may now find this rather more difficult, of course no one who knows the difference between competence and want of means can deny; but that the difficulty is so great as you seem now to imagine it, I, at the risk of your considering me unsympathising, deny, toto cœlo. Unless you are very much changed from what you used to be, you will do better, ay, and more successful work, even in the most worldly of senses, as a poor than as a rich man. I believe in my heart that, though it is better to be rich than to be poor, even as, with all deference to your views of marriage, it is better to be married than single, riches are a clog upon the life that you have always hitherto proposed to lead, and upon the work in the world that you have always proposed to do, even as you speak of marriage as being a clog upon them. You are the man of all men for whose misfortunes I should always be inost grieved; but you are the last man who ought to be pitied. As I know you will understand what I mean, I will say no more of this.

"And now to be practical, as people call it. Can I help you at all? You know my means; and I can easily give you the use of a couple of hundred pounds, if you want any money immediately. Pray let me know. That you may not think I cannot spare so much, or even more, if necessary, with ease, I must tell you that I am getting quite prosperous-at least what I call prosperous. Everything seems

to have gone well with me since my engagement to Fräulein Reinhold, and I am continually meeting with little bits of good luck-so much so, that I almost begin to think there must be something in me. At all events the sun shines at present so brightly that I live in continual expectation of being found out for an impostor-for, when I look at so many better and older men than myself utterly neglected, I cannot but feel that my success is premature. But the sun does shine, and so let us make all the hay we can-I say 'us' and 'we,' for you have helped me so often that not only friendship but common gratitude also makes you interested in the harvest, and I shall really be sorry if you take any other view. I'm sure I always used to borrow of you without the shadow of a scruple, thereby doing unto you as I would have you do to me in the most literal manner possible.

"When you write next I suppose you will have formed some plan or other. Let me know what it is. Of myself, I have but very little to say but what I have said already. Things are monotonous, but pleasant. I am not a man to have advehtures, as you know; but I have one thing to tell you that may interest you. I have come across a friend of yours-a woman, and a beautiful woman too. I happened to be at Tannenheim lately for a few days, when I received a message from one of the chief surgeons of this place to return at once and see for him a patient of his, the Countess de Marsay by name-do you remember her? So I came back at once, and made my visit the next day. She was staying at an hotel and travelling by herself towards Paris; and, being a fine lady and rather knocked up by a long jour ney, had taken it into her head that she was going to be ill, though there was about as little really the matter with her as with any one I ever saw. I even came to suspect

that she wanted an excuse either to herself or somebody else for staying on at Frankfort, and she insisted on my coming to see her daily. Not having as yet got rid of the dregs of what you would call my unprofessional conscience, I assured her it was unnecessary; but when she only answered, 'I choose to see a doctor daily for the present, and you will suit me-if you cannot come I shall be obliged to go to one who will suit me less,' what in the world could I say or do? Altogether I cannot quite make her out-can you? Is she a real countess or not? At all events she told me one very evident falsehood about herself that she is French by birth and education. A very little experience of national characteristics, and a very little skill in pumping, were enough to lead me not only to the conclusion that she was not French, but that she is either a Pole or a RussianI imagine the latter. I have seen her in a temper, and saw the Tartar underneath the French polish. Besides, she seems to have the true Russian mania for travellingthere seems no place in Europe unknown to her, especially in Germany. (You, it seems, she met in London.) But, nationality apart, she puzzled me considerably, for I suspect she belongs to a class of which I have read much but seen little in the course of my quiet life

-to the aristocracy of the Quartier Bréda rather than to that of the Faubourg St. Germain. Please enlighten me. How it was that your name came up I cannot exactly call to mind; but I fancy it was from my mentioning that I had been at Jena, and from her then asking if I had known a Herr Brandon there. You ought to feel flattered at having lived so long in the memory of a beautiful woman, who, if I mistake not the signs of her character, has not the best of memories, while she has a very wide circle of he-acquaintance. But do not, be alarmed-I was very silent about