“Who do you think asks himself to dine with us to-day, Julia?” said L'Estrange to his sister on the day of the scene recorded in our last chapter.

“I cannot guess; but I am prepared to say I'll be glad to see any one.”

“It is very dull for you, indeed,” said he, compassionately.

“No, George, not that. Not half so bad for me as for you; but somehow I felt it would be a relief to have a guest, who would oblige us to drop our grumblings and exert ourselves to talk of something besides our own personal worries. Now, who is it?”

“What would you say to Mr. Cutbill?”

“Do you mean the engineering man we saw at Castello?”

“The same.”

“Oh, dear! I retract. I recall my last speech, and avow, in all humility, I was wrong. All I remember of that man—not much certainly—but all I do remember of him was that he was odious.”

“He was amusing, in his way.”

“Probably—but I detested 'his way.'”

“The Bramleighs said he was good-natured.”

“With all my heart. Give him all the excellent qualities you like; but he will still remain insufferably ill-bred and coarse-minded. Why did you ask him, George?”

“I did n't; he asked himself. Here's his note: 'Dear L'Estrange'—familiar enough—'Dear L'Estrange—I have just arrived here, and want to have some talk with you. I mean, therefore, to ask you to let me take a bit of dinner with you to-day. I shall be out by five or half-past. Don't make a stranger of me, but give me the cold mutton or whatever it is.—Yours, Tom Cutbill.'”

“What a type of the writer!”

“Well; but what can we get for dinner, Ju?”

“The cold mutton, I think. I 'm sure the gentleman's estimate of his value as a guest cannot be too low.”

“No, Julia, let us treat him to our best. He means kindly by coming out here to see us.”

“I 'd have taken the will for the deed with more of gratitude. Oh, George,” cried she with fervor, “why will you be always so much obliged to the man who condescends to eat your salt? This Mr. Cutbill will be your patron for the next twenty-four hours.”

“Certainly the man who dines with us cannot come for the excellence of our fare.”

“That is a very ingenious bit of self-flattery; but don't trust it, George. Men eat bad dinners continually; and there is a sort of condescension in eating them at a friend's house, which is often mistaken for good-nature; and the fun of it is that the men who do these things are very vain of the act.”

L'Estrange gave a little shrug of his shoulders. It was his usual reply to those subtleties which his sister was so fond of, and that he was never very sure whether they were meant to puzzle or to persuade him.

“So then he is to be an honored guest, George, eh?”

He smiled a gentle assent, and she went on: “And we are to treat him to that wonderful Rhine wine Sir Marcus sent you to cure your ague. And the very thought of drinking anything so costly actually brought on a shivering attack.”

“Have we any of it left?”

“Two bottles, if those uncouth little flattened flasks can be called bottles. And since you are resolved he is to be entertained like a 'Prince Russe,' I 'll actually treat him to a dish of maccaroni of my own invention. You remember, George, Mrs. Monkton was going to withdraw her subscription from the Church when she ate of it, and remained a firm Protestant.”

“Julia, Julia!” said he, in a half-reproving tone.

“I am simply citing an historical fact, but you'll provoke me to say much worse if you stand there with that censorial face. As if I did n't know how wrong it was to speak lightly of a lady who subscribes two hundred francs a year.”

“There are very few who do so,” said he, with a sigh.

“My poor brother,” said she, caressingly, “it is a very hard case to be so poor, and we with such refined tastes and such really nice instincts; we, who would like a pretty house, and a pretty garden, and a pretty little equipage, and who would give pretty little dinners, with the very neatest cut glass and china, and be, all the time, so cultivated and so simple, so elevated in tone and so humble in spirit. There, go away, and look after some fruit—do something, and don't stand there provoking me to talk nonsense. That solemn look made me ten times more silly than I ever intended to be.”

“I 'm sure,” said L'Estrange, thoughtfully, “he has something to tell me of the coal-mine.”

“Ah, if I thought that, George? If I thought he brought us tidings of a great 'dividend'—is n't that the name for the thing the people always share amongst themselves, out of somebody else's money? So I have shocked you, at last, into running away; and now for the cares of the household.”

Now, though she liked to quiz her brother about his love of hospitality and the almost reckless way in which he would spend money to entertain a guest, it was one of her especial delights to play hostess, and receive guests with whatever display their narrow fortune permitted. Nor did she spare any pains she could bestow in preparing to welcome Mr. Cutbill, and her day was busily passed between the kitchen, the garden, and the drawing-room, ordering, aiding, and devising with a zeal and activity that one might have supposed could only have been evoked in the service of a much honored guest.

“Look at my table, George,” said she, “before you go to dress for dinner, and say if you ever saw anything more tasteful. There's a bouquet for you; and see how gracefully I have twined the grape-leaves round these flasks. You'll fancy yourself Horace entertaining Maecenas. Mr. Cutbill is certainly not very like him—but no matter. Nor is our little Monte Oliveto exactly Falernian.”

“It is quite beautiful, Ju, all of it,” said he, drawing her towards him and kissing her; but there was a touch of sadness in his voice, as in his look, to which she replied with a merry laugh, and said,—

“Say it out boldly, George, do; say frankly what a sin and a shame it is, that such a dear good girl should have to strain her wits in this hand-to-hand fight with Poverty, and not be embellishing some splendid station with her charming talents, and such like.”

“I was thinking something not very far from it,” said he, smiling.

“Of course you were; but you never thought, perhaps, how soon ennui and lassitude might have taken the place of all my present energy. I want to please you now, George, since without me you would be desolate; but if we were rich, you'd not depend on me, and I'd have been very dispirited and very sad. There now, that's quite enough of sentimentalizing for once. I 'm off to dress. Do you know,” said she, as she mounted the stairs, “I have serious thoughts of captivating Mr. Cutbill?”

“Oh, Julia, I entreat—” but she was gone ere he could finish, and her merry laughter was heard till her door closed.

Poor girl, her light-heartedness died out as she felt herself alone, and turning towards a little photograph of a man in a naval uniform, that hung over the chimney, her eyes grew dim with tears as she gazed on it.

“Ay,” said she, bitterly, “and this same humor it was that lost me the truest heart that ever beat! What would I not give now to know that he still remembered me—remembered me with kindness!”

She sat down, with her face buried in her hands, nor stirred till the sound of voices beneath apprised her that their guest had arrived.

While she was yet standing before her glass, and trying to efface the traces of sorrow on her features, George tapped softly at her door. “May I come in?” cried he. “Oh, Julia,” said he, as he drew nigh, “it is worse than I had even suspected. Cutbill tells me that—”

He could not go on, but bending his head on her shoulder, sobbed hysterically.

“George, George, do not give way thus,” said she calmly. “What is it has happened? What has he told you?”

“The mine—the Lisconnor scheme—is bankrupt.”

“Is that all?”

“All! Why, it is ruin—utter ruin! Every shilling that you had in the world is gone, and I have done it all.” And once more his feelings overcame him, and he sobbed convulsively.

“But, my dear, dear brother,” said she, fondly, “if it's lost, it's lost, and there's no help for it; and let us never fret over what binds us only the closer together. You can't get rid of me, now, for I declare, George, no earthly consideration will make me accept Mr. Cutbill.”

“Oh, how can you jest this way, Julia, at such a moment!”

“I assure you I am most serious. I know that man intends to propose to me, and you are just in the humor to mix up our present misfortunes and his pretensions, and actually espouse his cause; but it's no use, George, no use whatever. I 'll not consent. Go downstairs, now. Stay, let me wipe those red eyes. Don't let that man see any trace of this sorrow about you; bear up quietly and well. You shall see that I do not give counsel without being able to show example. Go down now, and I 'll follow you.”

As he left the room she sat down, and accidentally so as to see her face in the glass. The forced smile which she had put on was only slowly vanishing from her features, and she was shocked at the pallor that now succeeded.

“I am looking very ill,” muttered she. “There's no denying it. That man will certainly see how this news has struck me down, and I would not that he should witness my want of courage. I wish I had—no, I don't. I 'd not put on rouge if I had it; but I wish we were alone to-day, and could talk over our fortune together. Perhaps it 's as well as it is.” And now she arose and descended the stairs hastily, as though not to give herself time for further thought.

Cutbill was in the act of cautioning L'Estrange against speaking of the Lisconnor misfortune to his sister when she entered the room. “Do you forget me, Miss L'Estrange,” said he, coming forward, “or am I to remind you that we met in Ireland?”

“Forget you, Mr. Cutbill,” replied she, laughingly; “how can I forget the charming tenor who sang second to me, or the gallant cavalier who rode out with me?”

“Ay, but I got a roll in a duck-pond that day,” said he, grimly. “You persuaded me to let the beast drink, and he lay down in the water and nearly squashed me.”

“Oh, you almost killed me with laughter. I had to hold on by the crutch of my saddle to save myself from falling into the pond.”

“And I hear you made a sketch of me.”

“Have you not seen it? I declare I thought I had shown it to you; but I will after dinner if I can find it.”

The dinner was announced at this moment, and they proceeded to the dining-room.

“Taste is everything,” said Cutbill, as he unfolded his napkin, and surveyed the table, decked out with fruit and flowers with a degree of artistic elegance that appealed even to him. “Taste is everything. I declare to you that Howell and James would pay fifty pounds down just for that urn as it stands there. How you twined those lilies around it in that way is quite beyond me.”

As the dinner went on, he was in ecstasy with everything.

“Don't part with your cook, even after they make a bishop of you,” said he. “I don't know the French name of that dish, but I believe it's a stewed hare. Might I send my plate twice?”

“Mr. Cutbill saw the Bramleighs at Como, Julia,” said L'Estrange, to take him, if possible, off the subject of the entertainment.

“I did, indeed. I met them at that very hotel that was once Queen Caroline's house. There they were diverting themselves,—boating and going about just as if the world had gone all right with them; and Bramleigh told me one morning that he had cashed the last check for fifty pounds.”

“And is he really determined to touch nothing of his property till the law assures him that his right is undeniable?”

“Worse than that, far worse; he has quarrelled with old Sedley, his father's law-agent for forty years, and threatened him with an action for having entered into a compromise without instructions or permission; and he is wrong, clearly wrong, for I saw the correspondence, and if it goes before a jury, they 'll say at once that there was consent.”

“Had he then forgotten it?” asked Julia.

“No, he neither forgets nor remembers; but he has a sort of flighty way of getting himself into a white heat of enthusiasm; and though he cools down occasionally into a little common sense, it does n't last; he rushes back into his heroics, and raves about saving him from himself, rescuing him from the ignoble temptation of self-interest, and such like balderdash.”

“There must be a great deal of true nobility in such a nature,” said Julia.

“I'll tell you what, there is; and it runs through them all except the eldest daughter, and that puppy the diplomatist—there's madness!”

“Madness?”

“Well, I call it madness. Suppose now I was to decline taking another glass of that wine—Steinheimer, I think it's called—till I saw your brother's receipt for the payment of it, would n't you say I was either mad or something very near it?”

“I don't see the parity between the two cases,” said Julia.

“Ah, you 're too sharp for me, Miss Julia, too sharp; but I 'm right all the same. Is n't Jack Bramleigh mad? Is it anything but madness for a man to throw up his commission and go and serve as a sailor—before the mast or behind it, I don't care which; but isn't that madness?”

Julia felt a sense of sickness almost to fainting, but she never spoke nor stirred, while George, quickly noticing her state, turned towards Cutbill and said,—

“What news have you of him? he was a great favorite of mine.”

“Of yours and of everybody's,” said Cutbill. And now the color rushed back to Julia's cheek, and had Cutbill but looked towards her, it is very probable he would greatly have misconstrued the smile she gave him. “I wish I had news of him: but for these last few months I have none. When he got out to China he found that great house, Alcock and Baines, smashed—all the tea-merchants were smashed—and they tell me that he shipped with a Yankee for Constantinople.”

“You heard from him, then?”

“No; he never writes to any one. He may send you a newspaper, or a piece of one, to show where he is; but he says he never was able to say what was in his head, and he always found he was writing things out of the 'Complete Correspondent.'”

“Poor Jack!”

“Shall I go and look after your coffee, George? You say you like me to make it myself,” said Julia; and she arose and left the room almost before he could reply.

“You 'll never marry while she's your housekeeper, I see that,” said Cutbill, as the door closed after her.

“She is my greatest comfort in life,” said the other, warmly.

“I see it all; and the whole time of dinner I was thinking what a pity it was—No matter, I 'll not say what I was going to say. I 'm glad you have n't told her of the smash till I see what I can do with the old Viscount.”

“But I have told her; she knows it all.”

“And do you tell me she had that heavy load on her heart all the time she was talking and laughing there?”

L'Estrange nodded.

“It's only women bear up that way. Take my word for it, if it had been one of us he 'd not have come down to dinner, he 'd not have had pluck to show himself. There's where they beat us, sir,—that's real courage.”

“You are not taking your wine,” said L'Estrange, seeing him pass the bottle.

“No; I want my head clear this evening, I want to be cool and collected. I'll not drink any more. Tell me about yourself a little; how do you get on here? do you like the place? do you like the people?”

“The place is charming; we like it better every day we live in it.”

“And the people—the English, I mean; what of them?”

“They mean kindly enough, indeed they are often very kind; but they do not live in much harmony, and they only agree in one thing—”

“I know what that is. They all join to worry the parson—of course they do. Did you ever live in a lodging-house, L'Estrange? If you did, you must have seen how the whole population coalesced to torment the maid-of-all-work. She belonged to them all, collectively and individually. And so it is with you. You are the maid-of-all-work. You have to make Brown's bed, and black Robinson's boots—spiritually, I mean—and none recognizes the claim of his neighbor, each believes you belong to himself. That's the voluntary system, as they call it; and a quicker way to drive a man mad was never invented.”

“Perhaps you take an extreme view of it—” began L'Estrange.

“No, I don't,” interrupted the other. “I 've only to look at your face, and instead of the fresh cheeks and the clear bright eyes I remember when I saw you first, I see you now anxious and pale and nervous. Where's the pluck that enabled you to ride at a five-foot wall? Do you think you could do it now?”

“Very likely not. Very likely it is all the better I should not.”

“You'll not get me to believe that. No man's nature was ever bettered for being bullied.”

L'Estrange laughed heartily, not in the least degree angered by the other's somewhat coarse candor.

“It's a queer world altogether; but maybe if each of us was doing the exact thing he was fit for, life would n't be half as good a thing as it is. The whole thing would be like a piece of machinery, and instead of the hitches and makeshifts that we see now, and that bring out men's qualities and test their natures, we'd have nothing but a big workshop, where each did his own share of the work, and neither asked aid nor gave it. Do you permit a cigar?”

“Of course; but I 've nothing worth offering you.”

“I have, though,” said he, producing his case and drawing forth a cheroot, and examining it with that keen scrutiny and that seeming foretaste of enjoyment peculiar to smokers. “Try that, and tell me when you tasted the equal of it. Ah, L'Estrange, we must see and get you out of this. It's not a place for you. A nice little vicarage in Hants or Herts, a sunny glebe, with a comfortable house and a wife; later on, a wife of course, for your sister won't stay with you always.”

“You've drawn a pleasant picture—only to rub it out again.”

“Miss Julia has got a bad headache, sir,” said the maid, entering at this moment, “and begs you will excuse her. Will you please to have coffee here or in the drawing-room?”

“Ay, here,” said Cutbill, answering the look with which the other seemed to interrogate him. “She could n't stand it any longer, and no wonder; but I 'll not keep you away from her now. Go up and say, I 'll see Lord Culduff in the morning, and if I have any news worth reporting, I 'll come out here in the afternoon.”