“Brave spirits are a balsam to themselves:
There is a nobleness of mind, that heals
Wounds beyond salves.”
Cartwright.
The two young men found time hang on their hands at Trenance somewhat heavily. The old shadowy house stood at the foot of a hill, by the river’s side; the river was there, making silvery gleams between the trees; it was all cool, green, and dull for these energetic lives, but Marmaduke looked forward to the sweets of ownership, and found it more endurable than his companion. And yet Anthony was the most kind to the old man.
“Poor old fellow!” he said one day, as they locked the door of the boat-house, where the water was lapping drearily among the piles, and climbed the bank towards the house. “There must be a queer sort of feeling in looking at the man who is waiting to step into one’s shoes. I am not sure we should stand it so well as he does.”
“He has had his day.”
“Well, I don’t know that having had dinner one day makes one wish to go without it the next, if that’s what you mean.”
“You wouldn’t care for dinner if you had lost your appetite,” said Marmaduke.
“You mightn’t care, though, much to see other people eat.”
“Pray do you suggest my starving myself for company?”
“I wasn’t thinking of you, I was thinking of him,” said Anthony, stopping to cut down an ungainly bramble. “Everybody knows it’s the course of nature, and all that. Still, I say it can’t be altogether easy to be pleasant under those circumstances,—particularly when it’s not your own son that’s to follow.”