The will revealed a terrible state of affairs. After the widow's jointure was paid, only enough money would be left to keep the estate out of the market. George, in any case, would have to let it for a term of years and economise closely, if he hoped to cancel the mortgages. Low prices, bad years, and a disastrous attempt to recover losses by speculation had almost wrecked one of the finest properties in Slowshire. The younger sons, as residuary legatees, found themselves absolutely unprovided for. This, it is true, made no difference to Archibald, but Mark told himself ruefully that he only possessed his books and simple furnishings and some ninety pounds. George was unable to do anything; but Archibald offered his brother the same allowance he had been in the habit of receiving. Mark refused it.
"I think I can pay my way," said Mark.
"I owe you that—and more too."
"Oh, rubbish!"
"If you would live with us, and become my paid secretary. You could have your afternoons and evenings free."
"I shall not leave my pines," said Mark. "Many thanks, but I'm going to score off my own bat."
This conversation took place upon the afternoon of the funeral. That evening, in the smoking-room, the question of the living again presented itself. George Samphire had inherited his father's manner and ideas, the latter tempered, possibly, by life in a cavalry regiment.
"By Jove!" said he, "there's King's Charteris for you, Mark. The rector, they tell me, won't see Easter. It's the very thing, and you can keep an eye on my tenant. That's settled, thank the Lord!"
An awkward pause followed. At his father's grave Mark had worn, and wore still, black clothes of clerical cut.
"I am a layman," said Mark.