Mr. Coningsby, the lawyer, who had been present, was gone. Roger looked from one to the other of his old friends, all so silent. It was very strange, and, as he dimly felt, there was something potent, thrilling, and portentous in that silence. He looked last at Michael—why, he knew not—and when his eyes fell upon him, he could scarcely restrain a start and an exclamation. Michael had always been noted for being so easy-going, so slow in judging others, so full of sweet-tempered charity. He did not look very much at peace with himself or the world just now. He was the first to speak.
‘I sent for you, Roger,’ he began, and his voice was very quiet, and very incisive. Roger hardly recognised it. ‘I want you to hear something I have to say. You are my friend; and a friend, as we all know, sticketh closer than a brother.’
‘Can this be Michael?’ Roger thought, in his bewilderment. ‘I fancied no one but Gilbert could sneer in that way.’
Roger had yet to learn that there is no sneer so bitter as that which is called forth by intense suffering, or a very keen sense of injustice. He thought all sneers were the products of a cynical frame of mind, or, with some persons, constitutional. But, thinking that such a tone was more like Gilbert than Michael, he was, as it were, suddenly reminded of Gilbert’s existence, and he glanced at him. He was seated in a corner of the old sofa, which had always been his favourite position; his arms were folded, his face pale, and apparently absolutely devoid of expression. Dr. Rowntree, though silent, was evidently in a state of the most cruel mental perturbation, and looked in a helpless way from one brother to the other.
‘Yes, Michael,’ said Roger, at last. ‘I am ready, either to do or to let alone, as you wish. What is it?’
‘Boys!’ exclaimed the little doctor, unable to contain himself any longer, ‘before it goes any farther, listen to me. Before you quarrel, before you dispute, for Heaven’s sake consider! You may say things, brothers as you are, which can never be unsaid.’
‘That is exactly what I mean to do, sir,’ said Michael, turning his white face for a moment, in the doctor’s direction. Roger, loyal to the heart, could not but think in this moment that Michael looked almost cruel. Again he did not understand that there is no feeling of hate or of cruelty so strong, and so desolating, as that called forth by spited or cheated love and trust.
‘You may trust me not to dispute,’ the young man went on; ‘I never do. Hark to me, Roger!’ He turned now to Roger; and to the latter it seemed as if all Michael’s movements were stiff and mechanical, and under restraint. ‘My father has died, as you know, and has left a will, as you also know. He has left a good deal more money than it was expected he would—by me, at any rate. I am his eldest son; Gilbert his youngest. I wish you to know how he has disposed of his property, and to hear what course I intend to pursue, in consequence of that disposition. Here is the will. I won’t trouble you with much of it, but I must ask you to listen to this passage.’
From the will, it appeared that the Langstroth estates were now free of encumbrance. The income derived from what remained of them was all required, and would be for some few years, to pay off the remaining interest on some debts, of which the capital was already cleared away. Over and above, there was a clear sum of six thousand pounds, gained about a year ago by the advantageous sale of two farms and some wood, mentioned in the will. Of this, four thousand was left to Gilbert, at his absolute disposal; three thousand, as the will stated, as his just half of the property, and another thousand as a sort of payment or indemnity for his services in retrieving the estate, which, without his care and diligence, would probably have been rather a debt than an inheritance. The other two thousand were left in trust to Gilbert, to be invested and disposed of for Michael’s benefit, and the incomes derived therefrom were to be paid to Michael by his brother; the testator declaring himself to have the greatest faith and confidence in the business abilities of his son Gilbert. The Townend factories would pay nothing for a long time to any one but Otho Askam, whose money had found the means of starting them again. When they should, or if they ever should begin to pay, their profits were to be equally divided between Michael and Gilbert, or, failing them, their heirs. That is, in plain terms, there was a probability that some eight or ten years hence, Michael might begin to receive an income from ‘Langstroth’s Folly.’ The house called the Red Gables, situate within the township of Bradstane-on-Tees, and all the furniture, plate, pictures, china, ornaments, and all other household appendages whatsoever, save such as might be personal possessions of Gilbert, were to go to Michael absolutely, as the eldest son.
Such was the tenor of the testament, to which Roger listened breathlessly, as Michael read it in a low, quick, clear voice. When he had finished, he laid the will on the table again, and Roger, looking intently at his friend, saw such a look in his eyes, such agony in the drawn lines of his mouth, that he went up to him, and, laying his hand on his shoulder, asked in a low voice—