“But you are not unhappy, Theodore?” she interrupted, wonderingly.
“Unhappy—no, that would be too much to say, perhaps. You know how fond I am of my father. I was glad to work with him, and to feel that I was useful to him; but that feeling was not enough to reconcile me to the monotony of my days. A man who has home ties—a wife and children—may be satisfied in that narrow circle; but for a young man with his life before him it is no better than a prison.”
“I understand,” said Juanita, eagerly. “I can fully sympathize with you. I am very glad you are ambitious, Theodore. A man is worthless who is without ambition. And now tell me what you will do when you go to London. How will you begin?”
“I shall put up at the Inns of Court Hotel for a few days while I look about for a suitable set of chambers, and when I have found them and furnished them, and brought my books and belongings from Dorchester, I shall sit down and read law. I can read while I am qualifying for the Bar. I shall go on reading after I have qualified. My life will be to sit in chambers and read law books until some one brings me business. It hardly sounds like a brilliant career, does it?”
“All beginnings are hard,” she answered, gently. “I suppose my father went through just the same kind of drudgery when he began?”
“Well, yes, he must have gone upon the same lines, I fancy. There is no royal road.”
“And while you are studying law and waiting for briefs, will you have time to look after my interests?”
“Yes, Juanita. Your interest shall be my first thought always. If it can make you happier to discover your husband’s murderer——”
“Happier! It is the only thing that can reconcile me to the burden of living.”
“If it is for your happiness, you need not fear that I shall ever relax in my endeavours. I may fail,—indeed, I fear I must fail,—but it shall not be for the lack of earnestness or perseverance.”