"I do not suppose they all belong to the family," mildly responded Brother Ben, "and even if they do they may turn out to be quiet, well-disposed lads enough."
And of that the boys themselves gave ample proof, so polite and respectful were they to the two old gentlemen, whose minds being now relieved on the score of the possible if not probable destruction of the garden, soon found themselves chatting away with them and showing them about (as Mr. Ben said afterwards to his brother) "as if they were our own boys, you know." The house proved to be a thoroughly old-fashioned, rambling place, although small as to the actual number of rooms. There were long passages with deep capacious cupboards, "which would have made delightful store-closets, if we only had anything to store," whispers Honor to Molly with a sigh. Upstairs were the funniest old-fashioned bed-rooms, with two steps leading up to one and three down into another, and so on. Altogether there were five bed-rooms on that floor, and two attics above which had not been included in the advertisement, and which Honor, who, followed by Molly, had crept up the few steep steps which led to them, declared to be "lovely!" partly on account of the odd nooks and corners caused by the roof, which seemed to slope in half a dozen different ways, and partly from the fine and extensive view to be obtained from the window in each attic. But on speaking of these attics to the brothers they shook their heads, and Mr. Ned, who was always spokesman, said:
"My dear young ladies, we did not include them in the number of rooms mentioned, because we consider them to be uninhabitable. If they should prove to be of any use we shall indeed be glad; but I would recommend their not being used as sleeping-rooms, as we fear—nay, we feel sure, of there being not a few mice already in possession, to say nothing of spiders. Is it not so, Brother Ben?"
Mr. Ben nodded, folded his hands over his stick and glancing up at the chimneys of the said attics, murmured, "Surely, surely!" his invariable reply to any of his brother's statements.
The good old men had been much distressed and interested on hearing from Mr. Hobson, who took them aside for the express purpose, some of the sad circumstances of Mr. Merivale's sudden death, and the ruin which had come upon his family as upon so many others. This they had of course heard of, and when, from two or three little remarks that the old clerk let drop respecting his late employer, they found that he was the James Merivale who had been at the same school with them, their delight knew no bounds.
"You see, my dear sir," cried Mr. Ned, excitedly pinning Mr. Hobson by the button-hole, "it places things in such a totally different light. The fact of our having known the father of these young ladies when a boy enables us to render them many little services which we might otherwise perhaps have hesitated to offer. To be sure," he added, looking doubtfully at his brother, "James Merivale was a very little chap when he came to Dr. Gurney's; you remember, Ben, he entered the school much about the time that you and I were leaving—not before I had thrashed the bully of the school in his service though. Ah!" continued the old gentleman, chuckling to himself, "Tom Yates was the boy; don't you recollect, Ben? He remembered me for many a long day, I reckon. There was another big lad in our form, too, who detested Yates as much as we did—Arthur Villiers (poor fellow, he's gone too). I remember giving him the tip to keep an eye on the youngster after we left; bless you, Yates daren't lay a finger on anyone when Villiers was by. A cowardly lump of humanity he was, like all bullies. Eh, Ben?"
And so the old men ran on; and the girls and Mr. Hobson were as pleased with them as the brothers were with the unaffected natural manners of Honor and Molly. So now the two brothers are in the garden, as has been said, looking at their plants and watching for the postman; and at length their minds are set at rest by the appearance of that ancient individual, and they eagerly seize the letter (the only one this morning) which he holds towards them. It is, in fact, neither more nor less than the expected letter from the Merivales, which is to decide whether or not they will take "The Rookery."
Hastily tearing it open Mr. Ned proceeds to read it aloud for the benefit of his brother, who is nevertheless looking over his shoulder.
"There!" he says as he folds it up and puts it into his pocket with a little sigh of gratification, "I thought they would take it, Brother Ben; but I am really sorry we asked as much as twenty pounds rent, under all the very sad circumstances, because, you see, Ben, fifteen pounds would be five pounds less! A mere nothing to us one way or the other; but a great deal, I expect, to them, poor things. It wouldn't have done, however, to run the risk of hurting their feelings in the matter, and perhaps fifteen pounds a year is rather a low figure for a house like 'The Rookery.'
"Dear me! dear me! How sad, to be sure, to be thrown in an hour, as one may say, from affluence into poverty; for poverty it is, Brother Ben, you may take my word for it. But now really, brother, we must not stand gossiping here like this when there are a thousand and one little things to see to up at the house before the family takes possession. You really are a terrible old chatterbox, Ben, when you once get a start."