fruity. More port with the desert: claret after that. Then more claret. He was indeed a truly zealous defender of City privileges, and ate and drank enough for twenty. I thought of poor old Ebenezer Grumbelow (whose history I have already narrated elsewhere), and how he would have envied this great and splendid appetite. Presently the end of dinner actually arrived. Then the harmonious Four came out from behind their screen, having also well eaten and much drunken, and began to tootle, and we all talked together. The thin man on my left looked much thinner after his enormous dinner than before. This is a physiological peculiarity with thin men which has never been explained. Fat men expand with dinner. Thin men contract. He seized a decanter of port, and, with a big bunch of grapes, settled down to quiet enjoyment. The foreign person with the eyeglasses looked about him and asked who the illustrious guests were and what each had done. "The Queen." There is no doubt about the Hammerers' loyalty. We are ready to die for our Sovereign to a man. The harmonious Four chant "God save the Queen." "The Army and the Navy," There is no doubt about the efficiency of both, because both the General, who has commanded an army, and the Admiral, who has hoisted his flag in the Mediterranean, both say so, and we receive their assurances with acclamation. "But your army is so very small," urges the person of foreign extraction, "and as for your fleet-why there are torpedoes. When you can put 500,000 men into the field, we shall begin to be a little afraid of you again. But, pardon me, nobody is afraid of England's little toy which she calls an army." Very odd that some foreign persons think so much of large armies and have such small belief in money. "Her Majesty's Government." Cabinet Minister-Secretary of State for Internal Navigation-in reply, assures us that all is going on perfectly with the best of all possible Governments. Never anybody so able as the Chief, never any man so adroit as the Foreign Office man, never anything managed with such diplomatic skill as the Eastern Question. War, unfortunately, could not be prevented, but we are out of it-so far. British interests will be maintained with a strong hand. Of that we may be quite sure. Meantime, we are preparing for the worst. Should the worst occur, which Heaven forbid !—he is perhaps revealing a State secret, but he may tell us that the forces are to be strengthened by five hundred men, and two new gunboats are now upon the stocks. (Rapturous applause.) We hammer the table, sure of our country. Says the foreign person, "The British interests mean, I think, whatever you can get people to give you without going to war. How long will you keep what you have got unless you fight for them. Two gunboats. Bah! Five hundred men. Bah!" The odd thing about foreigners is that they never appreciate the British belief in the honesty and generosity of their neighbours. That comes of being too civilised, perhaps. Other nations have to be educated up to the English level. "Our illustrious guest, the Ambassador for Two Eagle Land." Nothing, it appears, is more certain than the firm friendship which exists between England and the illustrious guest's own country. That is most reassuring. Friendship between two nations," says the absurd foreign critic opposite me, whose name is surely Machiavelli, means that neither thinks itself strong enough to crush the other. You English," he goes on, "will always continue to be the friend of everybody, so long as you kindly submit everything to arbitration, because the arbitrators will always decide against you." It is very disagreeable, after dinner too, to hear such things spoken of one's country. The musicians give us, "All among the Barley." "The Church." The Bishop of Kensington bows courteously to him of Bamborough, as to an enemy whom one respects. The Bishop of Bamborough assures us of the surprising increase in the national love for the Church of England. We are overjoyed. This is a facer for Monseigneur of Kensington. Foreign person listens admiringly. "He is what you call 'Ritualist?'" he asks. "No; he is Evangelical." Ah! he does not understand these little distinctions. The Church does not interest him. "The industries of England." Applause is rapturous, when Sir Jacob Escomb slowly rises to reply, and solemnly looks round the hall. "So rich a man," says my friend on the left, who has eaten his grapes, cleared off a semblage that Sir Jacob's philanthropic speech is loudly applauded. Only the dreadful foreign person lifts his hands and shakes his head. tion. "Sir," said the thin man on my left, who had now entered into the full enjoyment of his third decanter-this wine is really very generous and fruity, as I said before-probably wine of fifty-one-"he is more than great. There is no philanthropic, religious, or benevolent movement which is complete without Sir Jacob's name. There are many Englishmen of whom we are proud, because they have made so much money; but there is none of whom it may be said, as is said of Sir Jacob, not only that he is so rich, but that he is SUCH a good man." plateful of early peaches, and is now tackling a dish of strawberries with his second decanter of port. He is thinner than ever. "So rich and such a good man!" "England," begins Sir Jacob, after a pre- "By his cheque !" he repeats in admiraamble of modesty, "is deservedly proud, "He will advance humanity-by his not only of her industries, but also, if I, an cheque. He will prevent wars-by his employer of labour, be permitted to say so, cheque. He will make us all good-by his of the men who have built up the edifice of cheque. He will convert nations-by his British wealth. And if this is cheque. He will reconcile parties--by his so, what, I ask, is England's duty? To cheque. He will make the priest love the civilise, by means of that wealth; to use that Voltairean-by his cheque. Enfin, he will gold in doing GOOD." (Hear, hear!) "And go to heaven-by his cheque. He is very how can the rich men of England do great, Sir Jacob Escomb-a very, very GOOD?" He lays tremendous emphasis on great man." the word good, so much emphasis that it must be printed in capitals. "Are they, for instance, to go up and down the lanes and by-ways seeking for fit objects of relief? No. That, my lords and gentlemen, were to make an ironclad do the work of the cap. tain's gig. Their business is, as I take it, to distribute cheques. Are people, anywhere, in suffering? Send a cheque. Are soldiers lying wounded on a field of battle? Shall we go to war with the lying and hypocritical Power which has caused the war, and prevent, if we can, a recurrence of the wickedness? No; that is not the mission of England Send a cheque. Is a society started for the Advancement of Humanity? I am glad to say that such a society is about to start, as I read in the papers, for I have noi myself any personal connection, as yet, with it, under the presidency of that distinguished philanthropist, Lord Addlehede, whom I am proud to call my friend-send a cheque. The actual work of charity, philanthropy, and general civilisation is carried out for us, by proper officers, by the army of paid workmen, the secretaries, the curates, the surgeons, and such people. The man of wealth directs. Like the general, he does not lead the troops himself; he sends them into battle. I go even farther," Sir Jacob leans forward very solemnly, "I say that the actual sight of suffering, disease, poverty, sorrow, brutality, wickedness, hunger, dirt, want of civilization generally, is revolting simply revolting-to the man of wealth. His position must, and should, secure him from unpleasant sights. Let him hear of them; and let him alleviate-it is his mission and his privilege-by means of his cheque." There is so much benevolence in this as THE CHAPTER II. GLORY AND GREATNESS. HE breakfast-room of Sir Jacob Escomb's town house, one of the great houses on Campden Hill which stand in their own gardens, set about with trees, like houses a hundred miles away from the City, was a large and cheerful apartment, whose windows had a south aspect, while a conservatory on the east side intercepted the wind from that hateful quarter. It was furnished, like the whole of the house, with solidity. No new-fashioned gewgaws littered the rooms in Sir Jacob's house; nor did the pseudo-antique rubbish carry the imagination back to the straight-backed times of Queen Anne. There were heavy carpets, heavy chairs, heavy tables, very heavy pictures of game and fruit, a massive mirror, in an immense and richly-chased gold frame, and a sideboard which looked like one mass of solid mahogany, built up out of a giant trunk 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 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 Discontent. 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 In rents, besides a whole batch of friends. 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. He 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 exextremely 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. 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 a 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 Both, he said, were the hands of mechanics. And he could do cunning things with his lathe. own. 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. แ 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 |