"When I am married," he said, rather sullenly, "he will come round—sooner or later."
"Not to make the first advance, Dick. If you marry now, without his consent, definitely against his wishes, he will make the alteration as to the succession that he has threatened. That will be between you. He will be very unhappy—for the rest of his life—but he will have taken a step that will make it ten times more difficult for you to come together than it is now, and——"
"As far as the alteration in his will goes," Dick broke in on her, "I have thought all that over. As I say, it's a step he has no right to take under the circumstances, but if it is to come, if I am to come into the place—or what's left of it—with my wings clipped for money, then I say I'm ready to face it, and I don't mind as much as I thought I should. Perhaps I've thought too much about money—having everything cut and dried, and nothing to do for it. It was that that made me make the mistake of getting Virginia to go down to Blaythorn. I was afraid of what might happen—what he might do. It was rather mean, in a way. I don't care what he does. At least, I care, but it isn't a thing one ought to think too much about. Other fellows work to give their wives a home. I'm going to do that, and I like the idea of it."
"I think that is a good thing to do," she said rather slowly. "But—well, you mustn't mind my speaking, plainly, Dick—I think, too, that in your case you may make too much of it. I mean that your mind is probably full of it now, and it is a great relief to you that you have found a way out of what might have been a serious difficulty, and that you are not dependent on your father in your marriage. But there is Kencote to be thought of. You are the eldest son, and your natural place in the world is there. At present, with your new happiness coming to you, you are able to detach your mind from it. But when the novelty of your new life has worn off——"
"Oh, mother, I am not a child," he interrupted her. "I know there is Kencote to be thought of, but not for many years yet—at least, I hope so. And if I am to be partially disinherited, you know"—he looked at her with a smile—"I think I had better detach my mind from it as much as possible, don't you?"
Again she was silent for a time, and then she said, "Do you remember when you were a little boy, Dick, and we were together in the garden one summer evening, and I was telling you about the Clintons, who had lived at Kencote for so many hundreds of years, and you asked me why some people lived in beautiful places like that and others were poor and had no nice homes? And your father had come out to join us—he was a young man then—and he answered your question, and told you that things were arranged like that, and some day Kencote would be yours, and you must learn to love every acre of it, and know all the people who lived about you and do the best you could for them when you were grown up and were the master of Kencote."
"Yes, I remember quite well," said Dick. "It was the first lesson I had in the duties of a landowner."
"We were very happy then," she said. "We used to talk over things together, and father took a pride in you, and did all he could to make your childhood happy and make you take a pride in Kencote."
"Yes, he did," said Dick. "He gave me a very good time as a boy. And so did you, mother. I remember our talks in the garden and in the old schoolroom, and going to church with you, and about the village. I shall never forget those days."
"You grew up at Kencote," she said. "I know you have always loved it, and have come home to us whenever you could. Dick, you can't give it up, and give us up, your parents who both love you. You will make yourself unhappy, as well as us."