“Well, James,” said the younger brother, “I should think that you would find your visits at home much more comfortable if you were not tête-à-tête with my father.”
“Perhaps. But I thought I had heard something of a government appointment?”
“Yes,” said George, with some hesitation. “But my father needs some one to help him in all the business of the estate, and he offers me a sort of agency of it. Don’t be angry, Jem, I can assure you that your interests shall in no way suffer.”
“I suppose my father wouldn’t trust me.”
“Well—do you think he could?”
James Kingsworth started up at this unanswerable question, and walked over to the window. Alas, there was a long story of extravagance and disobedience, there had been evidence of fatal weakness of character, and of culpable indifference to the father’s wishes and feelings, before things had come to their present pass. Who could blame the father who had been so deeply disappointed in his elder son, if he turned for support to the younger one? who could blame George because he did not share in his brother’s well deserved disgrace?
James Kingsworth was ordinarily callous and indifferent to the pain his transgressions caused to others, nor would he ever confess to the suffering they must frequently have caused himself. Now, however, he was evidently hit hard, the step his father had taken showed him how entirely his respect was forfeited; and though the brothers had never been otherwise than friendly, there was a gleam of distrust in James’ eyes, which George felt to be unjustifiable. Had he not often smoothed over difficulties, and prevented useless explanations that could only lead to passionate scenes between the father and the son? For what a cruel disappointment this eldest born had been to the ambitious man who had shared so earnestly in his father’s desire to reinstate their family in their ancient honour and high place!
Nothing more passed between the brothers. They were cool-tempered people and rarely came to words. George was too fortunate, too sure of himself, and too happy in his bright prospects to waste anger on his brother, and James had that kind of nonchalance which is a very bad imitation of a forgiving nature.
He strolled out now into the March sunshine and looked about him. He was supposed to dislike Kingsworth, and annoyed his father frequently, by complaints of the cold wind, and the bleak downs, the old-fashioned house, and the general inferiority of the estate. Now he looked round at the chalky downs, the sparkling water, the pale blue sky, and wished, rather vaguely, perhaps, that his way lay clearer to the peaceful useful life proper to its owner. He had constantly refused to take any interest in the management of the estate, but none the better did he like that his brother should be in any sense the master of it.
Mr Kingsworth, however, was a man who pursued his own course, consulting nobody, and the arrangement was made. James was to receive his usual allowance, and George was to assist his father in the management of the estate.