“None whatever. He is nearly seventy, fifteen years older than his sister, and thoroughly aged by trouble, she says.”
“Then the estates are entailed?”
“Principally, not altogether. But they have never been separated, and that was why Basil Brooke wanted his father to look us up. He was anxious that the alienable—is that the word?—part of the property should go with the entailed if the next heir were a desirable sort of person. For I must explain Basil is the real heir; mamma would only have a certain life-rent, a very ample one though, she could provide for all her other children out of it. The entail is somehow rather peculiar. Mrs Brabazon comes in for nothing, though so much nearer than mamma, because she has no son.”
“And has your mother no idea of all this?” inquired Mr Greville.
“None whatever,” said Lilias, decidedly. “She knew there had been an unprecedented number of deaths among the Brookes, but she has always had a vague idea there were scores of them left still. Then she never associated herself, being a woman, with the possibility of succession. There were several female Brookes only a few years ago, but of the three now left not one has a son, and they are all old, Mrs Brabazon the youngest. Now, dear Mr Greville, the question is this—what, or how much should I write home of all that I have heard?”
“Why not all?” said Mrs Greville.
“I don’t know,” said Lilias. “I suppose it is from a vague fear of rousing hopes that may possibly be—no, not disappointed, there hardly seems any chance of that—but deferred, long deferred, possibly. Anselm may live some months, but there can be no question of his recovery. He spoke to me about it himself; he is nearly as anxious for his father to recognise us and settle things as his brother Basil was, Mrs Brabazon says. But Mr Brooke may live a good many years, may quite possibly outlive papa,” the girl added, with a sad little drop in her voice.
“It is of that I am thinking,” said Mr Greville, turning to Lilias with a kind earnestness of manner contrasting strongly with his usual easy indifference. “By ‘that’ I mean your father’s state of health and spirits. It seems to me it would be cruel to keep all this from him for fear of possible delay in its coming to pass. The relief to him of knowing you all would have something to look to in case of his death would be great enough to be almost like a new lease of life. And surely, if things were turning out as Mrs Brabazon says,—surely if any such need were to arise, Mr Brooke would do something for your mother at once.”
“I think so,” said Lilias. “Mrs Brabazon did not say so exactly, but she certainly inferred it. When speaking of Basil, and hearing of his being in an office in the City, she and Anselm looked at each other. ‘That is just what we heard,’ Mrs Brabazon said, and Anselm asked if he did not dislike the life very much. I said, ‘No, not so very much—he was glad to be doing anything, though his great wish had been to go into the army,’ and poor Anselm said he did not see why that might not still be arranged.”
“Curious unselfishness, surely, to take such an interest in the one who, he believes, will eventually take his place,” observed Mr Greville.