‘That does not follow at all, as any business man could tell you. It does not follow that because it would be risky for our capital, it would also be the same for that of a stranger; it would entirely depend upon who the stranger might be, and what the extent of his possessions.’
To this Michael had made very little reply. Gilbert imagined that he had forgotten it, but was undeceived as they now rode together in the winter moonlight. It was yet early, but dark, save for the clear, frosty-looking crescent in the sky.
‘I met Sir Thomas Winthrop this afternoon,’ observed Michael. ‘We rode together for a little while, and we were talking about those factories. Sir Thomas says he wonders my father does not pull them both down. The land would sell fast enough, without them, for building, and they are in want of cottages down there.’
There was a slight pause. Then—
‘I daresay Sir Thomas Winthrop does wonder,’ said Gilbert, going perfectly white with anger. ‘He would give the world to buy the plot himself and build cottages on it for his farm-labourers and people. Does he think I am a fool?’
‘He never mentioned your name at all. It was my father of whom he was speaking, to whom the property belongs,’ said Michael, a shade of reserve in his tone, for it was quite true, and had struck even him more than once, that Gilbert had a way of speaking of their estate as though it were not only managed, but owned, by himself. Michael trusted and believed in him implicitly, but was not prepared to be so sharply taken up.
‘He is a meddlesome old imbecile, and I would thank him to mind his own business,’ said Gilbert, who had somewhat recovered his composure. ‘Michael, do you trust me, or do you not?’
As he spoke, he almost pulled up, and looked his brother full in the face. Gilbert’s countenance, at this period, was an older countenance than that of Michael. His brow had already got the first coating, as it were, of the network of little fine wrinkles which afterwards completely covered it.
‘Trust you? why, of course,’ said Michael, almost impatiently.
‘Then, hearken to a word of advice. Do not let Sir Thomas Winthrop, or Sir Thomas anybody, even speak to you of our affairs. I know what I am about when I say so. Do you think I’d discuss with any outsider the way you treat a patient? I should know that you knew a hundred times more about such things than I did, even if I might not suppose you infallible. And if you trust me to be doing the best for us all, you must not discuss what I am doing or not doing, with any mortal soul.’