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THE THKEE BEOIHERS.

VOLUME I.

Digitized by the Internet Archive

in 2009 with funding from

University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign

.http://www.archive.org/details/threebrothers01olip

/:

THE TSKEE BEOTHEES.

BY

MES. OLIPHANT,

AUTHOR OF

'CHRONICLES OF CAELINGFOED,' SALEM CHAPEL,' «THE MINISTER'S WIFE,

ETC. ETC.

m THEEE VOLUMES. VOL. L

LONDON: HUEST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHEES,

13 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

1870.

The Sight of Translation is Reie-ned.

^->

LONDON;

STRANGEWATS and WaLDEN, PRINTERS!

28 Castle St. Leicester Sq.

0S.3X

>- eel

CO

CONTENTS

OF

THE FIRST VOLUME

3 cd	•	PAGB
^ '•	THEIB FATHER	I
5 "•	THE WILL	17
* in.	THE >?EW CAREER . . . .	32
IV.	THE ELDEST SON . . . .	49
K	THE magician's CAVE	66
• ' VI.	THE WORKING OF THE SPELL	86
^^ TII.	PUT TO THE TOUCH	7 03
j> VIII.	MRS. tract's I. 0. U	120
'i| IX.	ben's reward ....	134
X. ..4	THE LAST INTERVIEW . . . .	152
5^ XII.	MRS. barton's LITTLE BILL MILLICENT S NEW START	161 179
v^ XIV.	REACTION	188
Mary's opinion ....	197

^

VI

CONTENTS.

XV. KENSINGTON GORE

XVI. WELBY, R.A

XVII. THE PADRONA ....

XVIII. THE TEA-TABLE ....

XIX. CHARLOTTE STREET, FITZROY SQUARE

XX. Laurie's. WORK ....

XXI. WHAT THEY THOUGHT OF IT IN THE SQUARE ....

FAOE 218

248 264 279 297

316

THE THEEE BROTHERS.

CHAPTER I.

THEIR FATHER.

The reason why Mr. Renton's sons were sent out into the world in the humble manner, and with the results we are about to record, must be first told, in order that their history may be comprehensible to the reader. Had they been a poor man's sons no explan- ation would have been necessary; but their father ^as anything but a poor man. The family was one of those exceptional families which add active ex.er- tion to hereditary endowments. Though the Rentons had been well-known people in Berks for two or three centuries, it had almost been a family tradition that each successive heir, instead of resting content with the good things Providence had given him, should add by his own efforts to the family store. There had been pirates among them in EHzabeth's time. They had made money when everybody else lost money in the time of the ' South Sea.' Mr. Ren- ton's father had gone to India young, and had re- turned, what was then called, a * Nabob.' Mr.

VOL. I. B

2 THE THREE BROTHERS.

Renton himself was sent off in his turn to Calcutta, as remorselessly as though he had not been the heir to heaven knows how many thousands a-year ; and he too had increased the thousands. There was not a prettier estate nor a more commodious house in the whole county than Renton Manor. The town-house was in Berkeley Square. The family had every- thing handsome about them, and veiled their bonnet to none. Mr. Renton was a man who esteemed wealth as a great power; but he esteemed energy still more, and placed it high above all other qualities. As he is just about to die, and cannot have time to speak for himself in these pages, we may be permitted to describe a personage so important to this history. He was a spare, middle-sized man, with a singular watchfulness and animation in his looks; his foot springy and light ; his sight, and hearing, and all his senses, unusually keen ; — a man always on the alert, body and mind, yet not incapable of repose. Restless was not an epithet you could apply to him. A kind of vigilant, quiet readiness and promptitude breathed out from him. He would have sooner died than have taken an unfair advantage over any one ; but he was ready to seize upon any and every advantage which was fair and lawful, spying it out with the eyes of an eagle, and coming down upon it with the spring of a giant. Twice, or rather let us say four times in his life he had departed from the traditions of the Ren- tons. Instead of the notable, capable woman whom

THEIR FATHER. 6

thej had been ^Yont to choose, and who had helped to make the family what it was, he had married a pretty, useless wife, for no better reason than that he loved her. And partly under her influence, partly by reason of a certain languor and inclination towards personal ease which had crept over him, he had been — as he sometimes felt — basely neglectful of the best interests of his sons. The eldest, Ben, had not been sent to India at sixteen, as his father was ; nor had Laurie, the second, gone off to the Colonies, as would have been natural ; and as for Frank, his father's weakness had gone so far as to permit of the purchase of a com- mission for him when the boy had fallen in love with a red coat. Frank was a Guardsman, and he a Renton ! Such a thing had never been heard of in the family before.

The eldest surviving aunt, Mrs. Westbury, who was full of Renton traditions, almost went mad of this event, so afflicted was she by such a departure from use and wont. She had two boys of her own, whom she had steadfastly kept in the family groove, and, accordingly, had the very best grounds for her indig- nation. * But what was to be expected,' she said, *from such a wife?' Mrs. Renton was as harmless a soul as ever lay on a sofa, and had little more than a passive influence in the affairs of her family ; but her husband's sister, endowed with that contempt for the masculine understanding which most women enter- tain, put all the blame upon her soft shoulders. Two

4 THE THREE BROTHERS.

men-about-towiij and a boy in the Guards ! ' Is Lau- rence mad?' said Mrs. Westbury. It was her own son who had gone to the house in Calcutta, which might have mollified her ; but it did not. ' My boy has to banish himself, and wear out the best of his life in that wilderness,' she said, vehemently, ' while Ben Renton makes a fool of himself at home.' When they brought their fine friends to the Manor for shooting or fishing, she had always something to say of her boy who was banished from all these pleasures ; though, indeed, there had been a great rejoicing in the Westbury household when Richard got the appoint- ment. It was but a very short time before her brother's death that Aunt Lydia's feelings became too many for her, and she felt that for once she must speak and deliver her soul.

* Ben is to succeed you, I suppose ?' she said, per- haps in rather an unsympathetic way, as she took Mr. Renton to the river-side for a walk, under pretence of speaking to him ' about the boys.' He thought, poor man, that it was her own boys she meant, and was very good-natured about it. And then it was his favourite walk. The river ran through the Renton woods, at the foot of a steep bank, and was visible from some of the windows of the Manor. The road to it was a charming woodland walk, embowered in great beeches, the special growth of Berks. Through their vast branches, and round about their giant trunks, playing with the spectator's charmed vision like a child, came

THEIR FATHEE. 5

glimpses of the broad, soft water, over which willows hung fondly, and the swans and water-liKes shone. Mr. Renton was not sentimental, but he had known the river all his life, and was fond of it ; — perhaps all the more so as he found out what mistakes he had made, and that life had not been expended to so much purpose as it ought to have been ; so that he walked down very willingly with his sister, and inclined his ear with much patience and good-nature to hear what she had to say about her boys.

*Ben will succeed you, I suppose?' she said, looking at him in a disapproving way, as they came to the very margin of the stream where Laurie's boat, with its brightly painted sides and red cushions reflected in the water, lay moored by the bank. It was a fantastic little toy, meant for speed, and not for safety ; and Mrs. Westbury would have walked ten miles round by Oakley Bridge rather than have trusted herself to that arrowy bark. She sighed as her eyes fell upon it. ' Poor Laurie ! poor boj^ ! ' she said, shaking her head. The sight seemed to fill her with a compassion beyond words.

' Why poor Laurie ? ' said jMr. Renton ; but he knew what she meant, and it made him angry. ' Of course Ben will succeed me. I succeeded my father. It is his right.'

*Ah, Laurence, but how did you succeed your father?' said Mrs. Westbury. *You had the satis- faction of being the greatest comfort to dear papa.

b THE THREE BEOTHEES.

He felt the property would be safe in your hands, and be improved, as it has always been. People say we are such a lucky family, but you and I know better. We know it is work that has always done it, — alas ! until now ! ' she said, suddenly lifting up her eyes to heaven. Truth compels us to add that Mr. Renton was very much disconcerted. He could not bear to hear his own family attacked ; but he felt the justice of all she said.

' Well, Lydia, manners change,' he said. ^ It seemed natural enough in our time ; but, when you come to consider it, I don't see what reason I have for sending the boys away. I can leave them very well off. We were never so well oif as we are now. You know I managed to buy that last farm my father had set his mind upon. I don't see why I should have broken their mother's heart.'

^ Ah, I knew it would come out,' said Mrs. West- bury, with a little bitterness. * Why should Mary's heart be more tender than other people's? I have to send my boys away, though I love them as well as she does hers ; and people congratulate me on having such a good appointment for Richard. It never occurs to anybody that I shall break my heart.'

^ You are a Renton,' said her brother, with some dexterity. ^ I often think you are the best Renton of us all. But if poor Westbury had lived, you know, he might have contrived to spare you the parting, as I have spared Mary ; and The

THEIR FATHER. 7

short and the long of it is the boys are doing very well. I have no fault to find with them, and I mean to take my own way with my own family, Lydia ; no offence to you.'

* Oh, no ; no offence,' said Mrs. Westbury, with a little toss of her head. ^ It is all for my advantage, I am sure. When my Richard comes home at a proper time with the fortune your Ben ought to have made, I shall have no reason to complain for one.'

' Ben will be very well off,' said Mr. Renton, but with an uncomfortable smile.

' Oh, very well off, no doubt,' said his sister, with a touch of contempt ; ' a vapid squire, like the rest of them. People used to say the Rentons were like a fresh breeze blowing in the county. Always motion and stir where they were ! And, poor Laurie !' she added once more, with offensive compassion, as they turned and came again face to face with Laurie's boat.

' I should like to know why Laurie so particu- larly excites your pity,' said Mr. Renton, much irri- tated. Laurie was his own namesake and favourite, and this was the animadversion which he could least bear.

' Poor boy ! I don't know who would not pity him,' said Aunt Lydia ; ' it would melt a heart of stone to see a boy with such abilities all going to wrack and ruin. It is all very well as long as he is at home ; but when he comes to have his own money

O THE THREE BROTHEBS.

what will he do with it ? Spend it on pictures and nonsense, and encourage a set of idle people about him to eat him up. Laurence, you mark my words^ — that is just the kind of boy to be eaten up by every- body, and to come to poverty in the end. Whereas, if he had been taught from the first that work was the natural destiny of man '

' There, Lydia, — there, — I wish you would make an end of this croaking,' cried Mr. Renton. ' I am not quite well to-day, and can't bear it. That's enough for one time.'

' As for Frank, I give him up,' said Mrs. West- bury, — ' a soldier, that can never make a penny, — and, of all soldiers, a Guardsman ! I am very sorry for you, Laurence, I am sure. How a man of your sense could give in so to Mary's whims I can't under- stand.'

' Mary had nothing to do with it,^ said Mr. Renton angrily ; and he led the way up the bank, and changed the subject abruptly, Mrs. Westbury, though she was not susceptible, felt that she must say no more ; and they returned in comparative silence to the house. This walk had been taken late in a summer evening after dinner, and in the solemnity of evening dress, over which, Aunt Lydia, who was stout and felt the heat, had thrown a little shawl. As they reached the lawn in front of the Manor they came upon a pretty scene. Mrs. Renton, who was feebly pretty still, lay on a sofa, which had been

THEIR FATHER. i)

brought out and placed in the shadow of the trees. Marj Westbury, her godchild, who bore a curious softened resemblance to her mother, sat upright on a footstool by her aunt's side, working and talking to her. The third figure was Laurie, lying at full length on the soft grass. Probably since dinner he had been having a cigar ; for instead of the regular evening coat he wore a fantastic velvet vestment, which half veiled the splendour of his white linen and white tie. He was lying stretched out on his back,— handsome, lazy, and contented, — a practical commentary on his aimt's speech. There were books lying about, which his energetic cousin had been coaxing and boring him to read aloud ; but Laurie had only shaken his head at her, ruffling his chestnut locks against the grass : and a little sketch-book lay by his side, where it had fallen from his indolent hand. Mrs. Westbury looked at him and then at her brother. What words could say as much? There lay lazy Laurence, with an unspeakable sentiment of far niente, in every line of him ; and he a Renton, whose very ease had always been energetic ! Mr. Renton saw it, too, and, for once in his life, was heartily ashamed of his favourite son.

' There you lie,' said Aunt Lydia, ' resting after your hard day's work. What a laborious young man you must be, Laurie! I never saw any one who wanted so much rest.'

' Thanks,' said Laurence, with a little nod of his chin from the grass. ' My constitution requires a

10 THE THREE BROTHEES.

great deal of rest, as you say. If you don't mind moving a little, Aunt Lydia, you are sitting on my note-book. Thanks. There are some swans there I should not like to lose.'

^ And of what use are swans ? ' said Mrs. West- bury. ' I wish you would tell me, Laurie ; T am such an ignorant ci'eature, and I should like to know.'

' Use ? ' said Laurie, opening his eyes. * They don't get made into patties, as far as I know ; — but they are of about as much use as the most of us, I suppose.'

' The most of us have a great deal to do in the world,' said Aunt Lydia, growing very red, for she was fond of pates ; ' if you knew how many things have to pass through my hands from morning to night '

' Yes, I know,' said lazy Laurence, raising his hand in soft deprecation. ' Mary has been telling us ; — but what is the use of that. Aunt Lydia ? Why should you w^orry yourself? Things would go on just as well if you let them alone, — that's what I always tell Ben. What's the good of fidgeting? If you'll be- lieve,^ continued Laurie, raising himself a little on one elbow, * all the people w^ho have ever made any mark in the world have been people who knew how to keep quiet and let things work themselves out. There's your Queen Elizabeth,' he said, warming to his subject, and giving a slight kick with his polished boot to a big volume on the grass ; ' the only

THEIR FATHER. 11

quality she had was a masterly inaction. She kept quiet, and things settled themselves.'

' Oh^ Laurie ! not when she killed that poor, dear. Queen Mary!' cried his mother from the sofa. ^I hate that woman's very name.^

' No,' said Laurie, gracefully sinking down again among the grass, ' that's an instance of energy, mo- ther,— a brutal quality, that always comes to harm.'

' Laurence, you are a fool ! ' said Mr. Renton sharply, to his son's surprise; and he turned his back upon them all abruptly, and went in across the soft grass, through the magical, evening atmosphere that tempted all the world to rest. His sister had taken all restful- ness out of him. Thoucrh he was a sensible man, he was a Renton ; and the family traditions when thus recalled to his mind had a great power over him. He went into the library, which looked out upon a dark corner of the grounds full of mournful evergreens ; the blank wall of the kitchen-garden showed a little behind them, and the room at this time of day was a very doleful room. It was a kind of penance to put upon himself to come in from that air, all full of lin- gering hues of sunset and soft suggestions of falling dew, to the grim-luxurious room, in which he already wanted artificial light. Here he sat and pondered over his own life, and that of his boys. Up to this moment they had been a great deal happier than he had been. Like a gust of air from the old plains of his youth, a remembrance came over him of loneliness

12 THE THREE BEOTHEES.

and wistfulness, and a certain impossible longing for a little pleasure now and then, and some love to brighten the boyish days. He had not been aware of wanting those vanities then ; but he saw now that he had done so, and that his youth had been very bare and un- lovely. He had scattered roses before his sons, while only thorns had been in his own path ; but what if he had kept from them the harder training which should make them men? He sat till the darkness grew almost into night thinking over these things. They were men now, — the lads. Ben was five-and-twenty ; Laurie but a year younger ; and Frank, the happy boy, was only twenty, glorious in his red coat. Mr. Ren- ton pondered long, and when the lamp came he made a great many notes and calculations, which he locked up carefully in his desk. He had a headache, which was very unusual. It was his wife's role in the family to have the headaches ; and it did not occur to Mr. Renton that there could be anything the matter with him. It was the heat, no doubt, or a little worry. The ladies had come into the drawing-room when his ponderings were over. It was a large room, full of win- dows, with one large bow projecting out upon the cliff, from which you could see the river through the cloud of intervening beeches. On the other side the room was open to the soft darkness of the lawn. There were two lamps in it, but both were shadowed ; for Mrs. Renton's eyes, like her head, were weak ; and the cool air of night breathed in, odorous and soft.

THEIR FATHER. 13

making a scarcely perceptible draught from window to window. Mrs. Renton lay quite out of this cur- rent of air, which naturally she was afraid of, on another sofa. Mary made tea in a corner, with the light of one of the lamps falling concentrated upon her pretty hands in twinkling motion about the brilliant little spots of china and silver. She had a ring or two upon her pink transparent fingers, and a bracelet, which sparkled in the light. Mrs. Westbury sat apart in a great chair, and fanned herself. Now and then, with a dash against the delicate abat-jour of the lamp, came a mad moth, bent on self-destruction. Mr. Renton dropped into the first chair he could find, not knowing why he was so uncomfortable, and Marv^ brought him some tea. The weather had been very warm, and everybody was languid with the heat. They all sat a great way apart from each other, and were not energetic enough for conversation. ' Where is Laurie ? ' Mr. Renton asked ; and they told him that Laurie, with his usual wilfulness, had gone down to the river. ^ There will be a moon to-night,' 3Irs. Renton said, with some fretfulness ; for she liked to have one of her boys by her, if only lying on the grass, or on the deep mossy carpet, which was almost as soft as the grass.

' He has gone off to his moonlight, and his swans, and his water-lilies,^ said Mrs. Westbury, w^th dis- dain; but even she felt the heat too much to proceed.

14 THE THREE BROTHERS.

' The water-lilies are closed at night/ said Mary apologetically ; venturing to this extent to take her cousin's part; lazy Laurence was a favourite with most people, though he had no energy. Then, all at once, a larger swoop than usual went circling through the dim upper atmosphere of the room, and Mrs. Ken- ton gave a scream.

' It is a bat ! ^ she cried. ' King, Mary, ring, — I am so superstitious about bats ; and Laurie out all by himself on that river. Mr. Renton, I wish you would put a stop to it. I never can think it is safe. Oh, tell them to drive out that creature, Mary I I always know something must happen when a bat comes into one's room.'

' No, godmamma, never mind,' said Mary. ^ It is only the light. How should a bat know anything that was going to happen ? They come into the Cottage every evening, and we never mind.'

' Then you will be found some morning dead in your beds,' said Mrs. Renton ; ' I know you will. Oh, it makes me so unhappy, Mary ! and Laurie all by himself in that horrid little boat ! '

* Laurie is all right,' said Mr. Renton ; * he knows how to manage a boat, if he knows nothing else.' This was muttered half to himself and half aloud; and then he went to the bow-window and looked out upon the river. The moon had just risen, and was shining straight down upon one gleam of water which blazed intensely white amid all the darkling shadows.

THEIR FATHER. 15

As Mr. Renton stood looking out, a boat shot into this gleaming spot, with long oars glistening, balancing, touching the water like wings of a bird. ' Laurie is all right,' he said to himself, in a mechanical way. He did not himself care for a thousand bats. But his wife's alarm struck into his own uneasiness like a key- note,— the key-note to something he could not tell what. It was all so lovely and peaceful as he looked, soft glooms, soft light, rustlinsr rhythm of foliage, wist- ful breathing of the night air over that pleasant land- scape he knew so well. After all, was it not better to have the boy there in his boat, than scorching out in India or toiling like a slave in some Canadian or Australian forest ? What is the good of the father's work but to better the condition of the sons ? But, on the other hand, if life when it came should find the sons incapable ? Mr. Renton had been a prosperous man ; but he knew that life was no holiday. When it came like an armed man with temptations, and cares, and responsibilities upon that silken boy, how would he meet it? These were the father's thoughts as the bat was hunted out with much commotion, and his wife lay sighing on her sofa. If he had been well, pro- bably, Mrs. Wesbury's talk would have had no such effect upon him; but he was not well; and it had made him very ill at ease.

Next day his lawyer came, and was closeted for a long time with him, and there were witnesses called in, — the Rector who happened to be calling, and the

16 THE THREE BROTHERS.

lawyer's clerk— to witness Mr. Renton's signature. And within a week, though he was still in what is called the prime of life, the father of the house was dead; and his will alone remained behind him to govern the fate of his three sons.

THE WELL. 17

CHAPTER II.

THE WILL.

There was great consternation in the family TN'hen this sudden misfortune came upon it. All the bustling household from the Cottage overflowed into the Manor in the excitement of the unlooked-for event ; and the eldest and the youngest son came as fast as the tele- graph could summon them to their father's bedside. During the two or three days of his illness the three young men wandered about the place, as young men do when there is fatal illness in a house — useless, — not Hking to go about their usual employments, and not knowing what else to do. They took silent walks up and down to the river, and cast wistful looks at the boats, and dropped now and then into ordinary conversation, only to break off and pull themselves up with contrition when they remembered. They were very good sons, and felt their father's danger, and would have done anything for him; but there are no special arts or occupations made for men in such circumstances. The only alternative the poor boys had was to resort to their ordinary pleasures, or VOL. L c

18 THE THREE BROTHERS.

to do nothing ; and they did nothing, as that was the most respectful thing to do, — and were as dispirited and miserable as heart could desire.

On the last day of all they were called up.together to their father's death-bed. He had known from the first that he was going to die ; and Mrs. Westbury, who w^as his principal nurse, and a very kind and patient one, had felt that her brother had something on his mind. More than once she had exhorted him to speak out and relieve himself; but he had always turned his face to the wall when she made this pro- position. It was a close, warm, silent afternoon when the boys w^ere called up-stairs ; a brooding calm, like that which comes before a thunder-storm ; a yellow light was all over the sky, and the birds were flutter- ing about wdth a frightened, stealthy look. Even the leaves about the open windows shook with a terrified rustling, — clinging, as it were, to the human walls to give them support in this crisis of nature. The light w^as yellow in the sick-room, for the patient would not have the day excluded, as it is proper to do. He looked like an old man on his bed, though he was not old. The reflection of lurid colour tinged the ashen face with yellow. He called them to him, and looked at them all with keen anxiety in his eyes.

' Well,' he said, ' I'm going, boys ; — it's unex- pected, but one has to give in. I hope you'll all do w^ell. If you don't do well, I'll get no rest in my grave.'

THE WILL. 19

' Don't you trust us, father ?^ cried Ben, who was the eldest, with a thickness in his voice. ' We'll do as you have done. That will be our guide. But don't think of us, — think of yourself now.'

' You can't do as I have done,^ said the father ; * I started different. Perhaps it is too late now. Laurie, you will not blame me? And, Frank, my boy, it won't make so much difference to you. Frank's but a boy, and Laurie's very soft-hearted — ' he said, as if to himself.

'Then it is me you are afraid of, father?' said Ben, whose face darkened in spite of himself. ' If I have done anything to make you distrust me, God knows I did not mean it Believe me now.'

* The boy does not know,' said Mr. Benton to himself, in a confused way ; and then he added more loudly, 'I don't distrust you. You've always been a good lad ; but it's hard on you, — ay, it's hard on Ben, — very hard ; — I wonder if I should have done it!' said the dying man. They could get very little more out of him as they stood round his bed, grave, sorrowful, and bewildered, looking for other words, for another kind of leave-taking. He bade them no farewell, but mused and murmured on about some- thing he had done ; and that it would be hard on Ben. It was not the kind of scene, — of conscious farewell and tender adieu, — the last words of the dying father, which we are so often told of; but perhaps it was a more usual state of mind at such a

20 THE THREE BROTHERS.

moment. His intelligence was lost in mists, from the coming end. Energy enough to be coherent had forsaken him. He could do nothing but go over in his enfeebled mind the last great idea that had taken possession of him. ' Your mother had nothing to do with it/ he said ; ^ she knows no more than yon do. And donH think badly of me. It has all been so sudden. How was I to know that a week after, — is it a week ? — without any time to think, I should have to die ? It^s very strange, — very strange,' he added, in a tone of musing, as if he were himself a specta- tor ; ^ to go right away, you know, from one's business,

that one understands, — to '

Then he paused, and they all paused with him, gazing, wondering, penetrated to the heart by that suggestion. Frank, who was the youngest, wept aloud. Mary Westbury, behind the curtain at one side of the bed, busied herself, noiselessly, in smooth- ing the bed-clothes, and arranging the drapery, so as to shade the patient's eyes, with trembling hands, and trembling lips, and tears that dropped silently down her white cheeks. These two being the youngest were the most overcome. But there was no harshness or coldness about the bedside of the prosperous man. They had all perfect faith in him, and no fear that he was going out of the world leaving any thorns in their path. His words seemed to them as dreams. Why should they think badly of him ? What could they ever have to forgive him ? There had never been any

THE WILL. 21

mystery in the house^ and it was easier to think their father's mind was affected by the approach of death than to beheve in any mystery now.

Mr. Renton died that night ; and it was on a very sad and silent house that the moon rose — the same moon which he had watched shining on Laurie's boat. Mrs. Renton, poor soul, shut herself up in her room, taking refuge in illness, as had been her habit all her life, with Mary nursing and weeping over her. Aunt Lydia, worn out with watching, went to bed as soon as * all was over.' The lads were left alone. They huddled together in the library where all the shutters had been closed, and one lamp alone burned dimly on the table. Only last night there had still been floods of light and great windows open to the sky. They gathered about the table together, not knowing what to do. Nothing could be done that night. It was too soon to talk of plans, and of their altered life. They could not read anything that would have amused their minds; that would have been a sin against the proprieties of grief; so the poor fellows gathered round the dim lamp, and tried to talk, wath now and then something that choked them climbing into their throats.

* Have you any idea what he could mcnn by that, — about me, — about it being hard ? ' said Ben, resting his head on both his hands, and gazing steadfastly with two dilated eyes into the light of the lamp.

*I don't think he could mean anything,' said

22 THE THREE BROTHERS.

Laurie, 'unless it was the responsibility. What else could it be?'

' There must always have been the responsibility/ said Ben. * He spoke as if it were something more/

* His mind was wandering,' said Laurie ; and then there was a long pause. It was broken by Frank with a sudden outburst.

' Ben, you ^11 be aw^fully good to poor mamma,' cried the boy; 'she can't bear things as we can.' The two elder ones held their breath tightly when Frank's sob disturbed the quiet ; — they were too much men to sob with him, — and yet there came that convulsive contraction of the throat. The only thing to be done was to grasp each other's hands silently, not daring to look into each other's faces, and to go to bed, — to take refuge in darkness and solitude, and that soft oblivion of sleep, universal asylum of human- ity, to which one gains access so easily when one is young ! Stealthily, on tiptoe, each one of Mr. Renton's sons paid a secret visit to the dimly-lighted room, all shrouded and covered, with faint puffs of night air stealing in like spirits through the shuttered windows, where their father lay all quiet and at rest. True tears, — genuine sorrow was in all their hearts; and yet

As each went away with a heart strained and ex- hausted by the outburst of grief, something of the new life .beyond, something that breathed vaguely across them in t!ie dark, like the air from the window, filled

THE WILL. 23

the impatient human souls within them. The one idea could not retain undisturbed possession even so long as that. The \yorld itself could no more stand still, poising itself in its vast orbit, than the spirits of its inhabitants. It was not thai Ben thought of his new wealth, nor Laurie of his future freedom ; but only that a thrill of the future passed through them, as they stood for this melancholy moment by the death-bed of their past.

Five days passed thus, each of them as long as a year. Duty and propriety kept the young men in- doors, in the languid stillness ; or if they went out at all, it was only for a disconsolate stroll through the grounds, on which, sometimes singly, sometimes in pairs, they would set out, saying little. The funeral relieved them from the painful artificiality of this seclusion. When they met together after it, it was with faces in which there was neither fear nor hope, that the sons of the dead man appeared. Their father had always been just to them and kind, and they had no reason to expect that he could have been otherwise in the last act of his life. The persons present were Mrs. Renton, Mrs. Westbury, her children Mary and Laurence, and the three Renton hoys ; with the lawyer, ]\Ir. Pounceby, and his clerk, and a few old friends of the family, who had just accompanied them from the grave. They all took their places without excitement. He might have left a few legacies, more or less, but nobody could doubt what would be the

24 THE THREE BROTHERS.

disposal of his principal property. The ladies sat together, a heap of mournful crape, at one end of the room. The whole company was quiet, and languid, and trustful. There was no anxiety in any one's mind, — unless, indeed, it was in that of Mr. Pounce- by, who did not look to be at his ease. For the first quarter of an hour he did nothing but clear his throat; then he had a blind pulled up, that he might have a light to read by; then he pmlled it down, because of a gleam of the sun that stole in and worried him. His task was such that he did not like to begin it, or to go through it when begun. But with the obtuse- ness of people who have not their attention directed to a subject, nobody noticed his confusion ; he had a cold, no doubt, which made him clear his throat ; — he was always fidgety; — they were not suspicious, and found nothing out.

^I ought to explain first,' said Mr. Pounceby, ^I promised my excellent friend and client, — my late excellent client, — to make a little explanation before I read what must be a painful document, in some points of view. Mr. Ben Renton, I believe your father was particularly anxious that it should be explained to you. He sent for me suddenly last week. It was, alas ! only on Friday morning that I came here by his desire. He wanted certain arrangements made. Boys,' said Mr. Pounceby, who was an old friend, turning round upon them, ' I give you my solemn word, had I known how little

THE "WILL. 25

time he would have lived to think it over, or change attain, if necessary, I should never have had any hand in it, — nor would he, — nor would he. Had he thought his time was running so short, he would have made no change.'

Then there ensued a little movement among the boys, which showed how correct their father's opinion of all the three had been. Frank bent for- ward with a little wonder in his face, poising in his fingers a paper-knife he had picked up, and looked calmly on as a spectator ; Laurie only woke up as it were from another train of thought, and turned his eyes with a certain mild regret towards the lawyer ; Ben alone, moved out of his composure, rose up and faced the man, who held, as it seemed, their fate in his hands. ' Whatever my father planned will no doubt be satisfactory to us,' he said firmly. ^ You forc^et that we are icmorant what chancre was made.'

in o o

He began to read now, but to an audience much more interested than at first. There was, of course, a long technical preamble, to which Ben listened breathlessly, his lips slightly moving with impatience, and a hot colour on his cheeks, and then the real matter in question came.

^Ir. Pounceby shook his grizzled head, ' It was a great change that was made,' he said ; ^ but I will not waste your time with further explanation. As you say, what your excellent father arranged, will, I hope, be satisfactory to you all.

26 THE THREE BROTHEBS.

^ " Having been led much to think in recent days of the difference between my sons' education and my own, and having in addition a strong sense that with- out energy no man ever made any mark in this world, I have made up my mind, after much reflection, to postpone the distribution of my property among my children until seven years from the date of my death. In the meantime I appoint my executors to receive all my income and revenue from whatsoever sources, — rents, interest on stock, mortgages, and all other investments, as afterwards described, — and to hold them in trust, accumulating at interest, until the seventh anniversary of my death, when my first will