cut down in the forests of that Republican synonym for financial solidity and moral strength, Honduras. Although the furniture is heavy, the sunshine of May-actually a fine day in May, without any east wind-streaming through the windows, the bright colours of painted glass and exotic flowers dazzling enough to be painted too, the small clear fire in the grate, and the white breakfast cloth, make the room cheerful by itself. It would be cheerful, you feel, even if it were weighted by the presence, the solitary presence, of the great Sir Jacob himself, portly, important, self-sufficient. It is nine o'clock in the morning, and there are already two in the breakfast-room, Julian Carteret, Sir Jacob's ward, and Rose Escomb, Sir Jacob's niece. Stay; not two people; only one, as yet. Only Julian Carteret, reading the paper at one of the three windows, There were once two Escomb brothers. The name of the elder was Jacob, that of the younger Peter. They were the children of a factory hand; they were put into the mill as soon as they could be of any use. They were, by some accident, a little better educated than most of the children round them. There was not much book-learning for them, to be sure, but they learned something; perhaps their father was a man with ambitious tendencies, whose development was checked by drink; perhaps they had a mother who cared for her boys beyond the care of most Lancashire factory women; this point in the history of the two Escombs is obscure, and has never been cleared up by any voluntary revelations on the part of Sir Jacob. "I have made my own way in the world," he is not ashamed to own. "I began with nothing, not even a good education. My father was a poor man; my grandfather and all before him are unknown to me." That was the general confession which any Christian might make. To go into particular confession, to poke about in one's memory for the details of forgotten poverty, the squalid house, one of a row of wretched red brick monotonous houses; the evenings, when the men were in drink and the women all speaking together on the curbstone, in that Shrews' Parliament, or Viragos' Convention, which met on every fine evening; the days in the factory, where "All day the wheels are droning, Their wind comes in our faces, Till our hearts turn-our heads with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places." The absence of education, the rough words, rough food, harsh treatment—it is not pleasant even for a wealthy and respected baronet to recall these things. Therefore, and not, I believe, with any desire to hide his former poverty and its depths, which indeed only enhanced his present greatness, Sir Jacob did not go into details when he spoke of his childhood. The most important thing about their education was, they both learned a lesson which our boys are more and more in all classes of society learning. Forty or fifty years ago it was not even understood. Consider the importance of it. It was the great, the precious, the never-to-be-sufficiently-impressed-upon-a-child Duty of Discon tent. That the present position was a hard one; that it might be improved; that in this fair realm of England there is a career open to every one provided he is discontented with his lot--that was the lesson which the two brothers learned. It stimulated one to study, to work, to invention, to enterprise, as he grew older; it only fell upon the other like a dull clog round his neck, making him uneasy under his burdens, and unable to shake them off. In a word, the elder, Jacob, advanced in life; the younger, Peter, save that he became a foreman, remained where he was. That is generally the way with things; the same teaching produces entirely different effects. What made Jacob rich, only made his brother unhappy. Both brothers married. Peter led to the altar a woman in the same station of life as himself. He imparted to her his grand secret of discontent, and they both lived in great unhappiness together for twenty years. They had several children, but what with bad smells and bad milk, the infants all died except one, a girl, whom they named Rose. Rose was a bright, healthy girl, who at thirteen or so was rather a hoyden, which mattered little in those circles; fond of playing with John Gower, who was two or three years older than herself, whenever John could find time to play with her ; not plagued with much learning, but sharp and clever. Before she was fourteen, something—say those bad smells-carried off both her pa rents, besides a whole batch of friends. In fact, half the street migrated to the other world as if with one consent. Those smells were really too overpowering. Anything was better than a continuation of such a nuisance; so they all went away, leaving their children, husbands, wives, and friends behind. Old and young went away together. Among those who stayed behind was little Rose Escomb, whose uncle, the grand and prosperous Jacob, sent for her to be educated under his own superintendence, and to be adopted by him. Jacob, now exalted to the rank of baronet, married a good deal later than his brother Peter. In fact, it was not till he was past forty that he began to think of the step at all. He was already a wealthy and well-considered man, with plenty of that Discontent hanging about him still. He chose his wife for prudential rather than for amatory considerations. found a certain widow with a property, all her own, of thirty thousand pounds in the Funds. She was his own age, of good family connections, of good temper, with an extremely high opinion of herself, and with excellent manners; just the woman to put at the head of his table. The money was all settled upon herself. He Lady Escomb took a great fancy to her niece, this half wild uneducated girl from Lancashire. She sent her to school, the best school she could find. She was kind to her in the vacations; and had the good sense when she died, which unhappy event took place a year or two before the time of my story (that is, about the year 1874), to leave all her money to Rose, on the sole condition that she married with the consent of Sir Jacob. If she failed to keep that condition, the thirty thousand pounds were all to go back to her husband. All this brings me back to the breakfastroom on Campden Hill, and we will take the opportunity, Julian Carteret being there alone, of looking at him. A strong face, you would say; a face with regular features, and those not weak; clearcut nostrils, square forehead, firm lips, and a square chin, which is perhaps a little too long; the hair curly and short, after the fashion of the time, a heavy moustache and shaven chin, with short, square whiskers; dressed in the regulation style, which is that of the last year of grace, one thousand eight hundred and seventy-six. A good-natured face, too, brimming over with peace and con tentment, and just now full of malice, which is French for fun, because the owner hears steps in the room, and knows whose the steps are, and waits for what acrostic readers call more light, that is to say, for information of what the owner of the steps has done, where she has been, and what she thinks about things in general. The steps are, in fact, those of Rose. She wears a ridinghabit, because she has just returned from her early ride in the Park. A pretty girl, a very pretty girl, indeed; a girl calculated to make the hearts of young men to dance, and the pulses of fogies to quicken; a girl of nineteen, the age when womanhood and girlhood meet, and one feels the charms of both; the innocence and freshness of the one, with the assurance and self-reliance of the other. It is Rose Escomb's second season. I do not know what hearts she broke in her first campaign, but I do know that she came out of it scatheless herself. Perhaps Julian Carteret, who went through it with her, knows the secret of her escape. Not that they are lovers; not at all; but they have been a good deal together for the last year and a half or thereabouts. Julian belongs to the house, in a way; it is a great thing for him to sleep in the house when he pleases, to dine there if he pleases, to feel that luncheon is spread for him as well as for Rose and Mrs. Sampson, who is Rose's chaperon in ordinary; also, it is not unpleasant to feel a kind of protectorate over the girl, acquired by this constant companionship. But in love? Rose would be the first to laugh at such a notion; to laugh first, and to become a little thoughtful afterwards, because, when you come really to think of it, Julian is very nice, much nicer and cleverer than most young men. But then Julian is-well, nobody at Campden Hill even looks on Julian Carteret as a marrying man. He is Sir Jacob's ward, too; and it matters nothing, of course, to Rose whether he marries or whether he does not. Julian became Sir Jacob's ward through at second-cousinship, or something of that kind, with Lady Escomb. He is, like Rose, an orphan, and Sir Jacob is his guardian and sole trustee. By the terms of an uncle's will he has an allowance of five hundred pounds a year until his twenty-fifth birthday, when he is to come into full possession of the very handsome fortune of seventy thousand pounds which his father was good enough to save up for him. The extension of the period of wardship until five-and-twenty is explained in the will. "And whereas it is my desire that my nephew and heir, Julian Carteret, shall not have the excuse of extreme youth to plead should he waste his patrimony in debauchery or folly, and because I hope he will use the four years between twenty-one and twenty-five in the acquisition of sound and useful knowledge. in gaining experience and prudence, and in laying down a plan for the future conduct of his life, I will that his fortune should be held in trust for him by Sir Jacob Escomb, Baronet, and shall not be handed over to him until the day when he arrives at his twentyfifth birthday. And until that date he shall receive the sum of five hundred pounds a year, paid quarterly, from the said Sir Jacob Escomb, Baronet." As a student, perhaps, Julian Carteret has not been an unqualified success. He went through Cambridge quietly and without any kind of distinction: he was called to the bar two years after taking his degree, but he did not propose to practise, and had but a limited acquaintance with the English law: he had travelled a good deal: he had a great many friends, and very few enemies, which is the general rule with good-natured men: his aims, if he had any, lay in the direction of personal ease and comfort: he abhorred trouble or worry he despised benevolence as he saw it in Sir Jacob Escomb: and he would fain have lived in a land where there were no poor people, no noisy people, no canting people, no active people: where the servants should move noiselessly where there should be plenty of Art accessible: and where he could set up his lathe and work quietly. For the one thing this young man cared for in the way of work was mechanism. He was a born mechanic. Reuben Gower, Sir Jacob's secretary, often compared his hand, which was broad and strong, with his own. Both, he said, were the hands of mechanics. And he could do cunning things with his lathe. Rose sees him sitting in the window, and steals softly so that he shall not see herbut he does see her, or rather feels that she is in the room and near him--and throws her handkerchief over his eyes. "I know that is Rose," said Julian, lazily, behind the handkerchief. "No one but Rose could have the impudence to blind my eyes." Tell me, blindfold, what you have been reading," says Rose. Repeat the leading article by heart." "That is very easy, because, in this paper, it is always the same thing. England is to be swallowed up by the Russians first, the Germans next, and the French afterwards. What little remains of us will be taken by the Japanese. "That is rubbish," said Rose, taking the handkerchief from his eyes. "Do you like this rose? I just picked it in the conservatory." "The manliness is gone out of Englishmen," Julian went on in a sing-song tone, "the honesty out of English merchants, the enterprise out of English brains, the fair day's work for a good day's pay can no longer be got out of English workmen, and-ah! this is more dreadful than anything else-the beauty of English girls is a thing of the past." "I wonder if it pays to write that kind of thing?" said Rose; "because, you know, it is too desperately silly. And yet some people must believe it; otherwise, I suppose, the very clever men who write for newspapers would not have written it. Tell me, sir, is the beauty gone away from-me?" There was no need to reply. If there was any exception wanted by which to prove the rule of the pessimist paper, Rose Escomb would have furnished that exception. She has thrown off her hat, and her light hair, blue eyes, sunny face, and slender figure are well set off by the black riding-habit, which becomes her so well. In her hand she carries a rose-bud, which she is "trying on" in her hair, at her neck, in her waist, wherever a girl can stick a rose. Julian rises slowly-he is a very lazy young man-and surveys his guardian's niece with indolent gratification. Perhaps if he did not see her every day there might be a little more vivacity in his tone : "For a picture, Rose," he says, "for a single picture of a young lady, I don't know where to find a better study than you. You would do for one of those things which they sell in shops-young lady-you know-coloured photograph. You might be tapping at a door with a letter in your hand; or standing on a chair, with gracefully trailing skirt, to feed a bird; or musing in a garden, also with a letter in your hand-'Yes, or no?' or in a field, blowing off the petals of a daisy-' Is it he?' or in any of the attitudes which you see in the shop-windows. A girl might win fainter praise than that, Rose. You would look well in a picture, but I like you out of a picture best." "Thank you for so much," said Rose. "How is it you are up so early, Lazy Lawrence ?" "Woke," he replied, with a faint yawn. "Remembered, all of a sudden, that you would be going for your morning canter; thought I would go too-sunny day-breezy in the Park-freshen a man ; got up-came down. Thought better of it when I was down -thought of the fatigue. Been reading the paper instead." "You are really a Lazy Lawrence. What are you going to do all day-sit on the sofa and think about what the paper says 's?" "Fulfil the condition of my uncle's will," he replied solemnly-"I am going to study." She laughed. "His uncle gives him all his fortune on the condition that he studies until he is five and twenty." "And he does study." "What studies!" laughed Rose. wicked pretender!" “Oh, My uncle did not specify my studies, so I chose them to please myself. From eighteen to twenty-one I studied at Cambridge: there I learned how men look at things, and how they talk about them; also I learned how to play whist, racquets, tennis, and loo all athletic and valuable games; learned to row-a most useful accomplishment; learned to bet-a safeguard against rogues and turf-sharpers; and forgot what I had learned at school, down to examination-point that was a good deal of useless information well got rid of. I also learned how to get into debt." "Go on, most industrious of students." "At twenty-one I came up to town. I have since learned very little, because the University of Cambridge, rightly and intelligently used, as I used it, really does, as they say, finish one's education. After three years there, I had no more to learn. But one can put into practice what one has learned. To satisfy the clauses of the will I became a law "In order that he may choose his career student, and have never since opened a lawat a comparatively mature age." "He has chosen his career," says Julian, sitting down again. "Have you really, Julian?" She is surprised by the announcement. "What is it? Are you going to be a great statesman, I wonder, or a great lawyer, or a great-no, you can't be a great theologian !" “No,” said Julian, “no; I do not think I shall be a great theologian." "A great philanthropist, perhaps, like--" "Like your uncle, Sir Jacob? No, no; I hardly think I should look well on a platform spouting to the waxy faces of Exeter Hall. Why are good people always wax-andputty-faced? You shall guess my career, Rose." book; and, to get through the time, I have been globe-trotting-all round the world in a hundred and twenty days. Now the time has come, and with it the career-the Time, the Man, and the Career." "Well ?" "The Career, Rose, is-to do nothing-a Nothing-doer-a Waster of the golden years an Idler by profession. Other men may become members of Parliament, and sit up all night listening to dreary talk, and for their pains get abused by the papers-not Julian Carteret; other men may waste their time writing books, and for their pains get down-cried and misrepresented by the critics not Julian Carteret; other men may wade through dull law-books and wrangle in courts of law, and for their pains scrape money together to spend after the time of enjoyment has gone by-not Julian Carteret; others may work and pile up money in trade for their children to spend-not Julian Carteret. And then, there is the new profession-that of the man who goes about doing good— “I cannot, Julian. Give it me by weekly instalments in double acrostics, with a prize at the end of the quarter, and a big dictionary to guess the words with, and I will try." "Listen, then; maiden, hear my tale." Julian sat as dramatically as the position allows. "I was to prolong my studies till twenty-five. It wants three weeks to my twenty-fifth birthday-you know how hard I have studied then I come into my fortune-thropy." which does not look, by the way, nearly so big now as it did when one was further off --and I choose my career." "Julian, you must not sneer at philan "Doing good standing on a platform to talk; getting up after dinner to talk; giving money and supporting societies; mixing " "Oh, your uncle, of course. Julian laughs a little short laugh." Everybody knows what a good man he is. But I cannot follow him, even at a distance. No, Rose; my career will be, to do good to myself alone. I shall have a town house-not a very big one-one of the houses, say, in Chester Square; and I shall go away every winter to Sicily, to Southern Italy, to some of the places where there is no winter, but, instead, a season where the sun is only pleasantly warm and the flowers are sweetest. There I shall live undisturbed by cackle, cant, or care, amid such art as I can afford, and such artistic people as one can get together, and so by their help gather from every hour its one supreme rapture. I shall live for pleasure, Rose; all the rest is a flam—a humbug-a windbag-whatever you like!" "Julian, that is a selfish life. You must not forget the duties. I won't say anything about doing good, Julian, if you dislike the phrase; but there are the poor, whom we have always with us." "Yes," he replied irreverently, "that is just what I dislike. The poor! They belong to a different world: they work, we play; they wake up tired and go to bed more tired, we wake up refreshed and go to bed happy; they toil for their masters, we neither toil nor spin. We are like the lilies of the field. There is but one life in this world for all of us, rich or poor. Make the most of it: you who are rich, get what you can out of every moment; let there be no single day unremembered for lack of its distinctive joy; keep your heart shut to the suffering which you do not see and did not cause; never think of the future " "Oh, Julian," Rose interrupted him, "is that the creed of a Christian ?" Julian shrugged his shoulders. Je suis philosophe," he said. "Well but there is one thing wanting in my life, Rose. I have planned it all out, and I find that it won't do without one little alteration. You see, Rose-you see-you see, it never does do to live alone-not good for man, as you have often read—and I want, to complete the ideal life—a partner!" Rose was startled. "I must go and take off my riding-habit," she said. "Not for a moment, dear Rose. How long have you been staying with your uncle? Six years since you came here wild-eyed, timid Lancashire lass of fourteen ; and since your last home-coming from school a year and a half. We have been together, you and I, pretty well all that time. Do you think you know me well enough, Rose—well enough for me to put one more question to you?" She was silent, and he took her hand. "One more question, dear Rose. You know what it is going to be. Could you be my partner in that ideal life ?" She hesitated; then she looked at him with frank, clear eyes, which went straight to his heart. "Julian, I could not live that life that you have sketched-a life without either sympathy or duty." "You would not be happy with me-and with love? Speak, dear; tell me the truth." "I should be-O Julian !"-he drew her gently to himself, and her head fell upon his breast-"I should be too happy; I should forget the people from whom I sprang. You know who my father was, Julian-a poor mill-hand once, and never more than a foreman. I belong to the poor: I must do what I can for my own class. I am only a jay dressed in borrowed plumes-only half a lady." "Is that all, dear Rose? You are afraid of the ideal life? Why, you could never, never go back to the old Lancashire days; you have grown out of them; you no more belong to the people now than I do." "But still I am afraid of your ideal life— all enjoyment." "Then I give up my ideal life. Let it all go-art, pictures, sunny slopes of Sicily, vineyards, villagers dancing, flowers, and contadine. Rose and love are worth them all. We will live in England if you like, even through the east wind, and I will give you a cheque for your poor people every day. That is what Sir Jacob says is the only way to practise |