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.