“So there is nobody with him but Will?” said Aunt Agatha with dismay, as she went in to where Mary was sitting; and the news was still more painful to Mary. Will was the only member of the family who was really civil to the stranger, except Aunt Agatha, whose anxiety was plainly written in her countenance. He was sitting now under the verandah which shaded the dining-room windows, quite at the other side of the house, smoking his cigar, and Will sat dutifully and not unwillingly by, listening to his talk. It was a new kind of talk to Will—the talk of a man blasé yet incapable of existing out of the world of which he was sick—a man who did not pretend to be a good man, nor even possessed of principles. Perhaps the parish of Kirtell in general would not have thought it very edifying talk.
“It is he who has come into the property, I suppose,” said Percival, pointing lazily with his cigar towards the other end of the garden, where Hugh was visible far off with Nelly. “Get on well with him, eh? I should say not if the question was asked of me?”
“Oh yes, well enough,” said Will, in momentary confusion, and with a clouding of his brows. “There is nothing wrong with him. It’s the system of the eldest sons that is wrong. I have nothing to say against Hugh.”
“By Jove,” said Percival, “the difficulty is to find out which is anybody’s eldest son. I never find fault with systems, for my part.”
“Oh, about that there can’t be any doubt,” said Will; “he is six years older than I am. I am only the youngest; though I don’t see what it matters to a man, for my part, being born in ’32 or ’38.”
“Sometimes it makes a great deal of difference,” said Percival; and then he paused: for a man, even when he is pushed on by malice and hate and all uncharitableness, may hesitate before he throws a firebrand into an innocent peaceful house. However, after his pause he resumed, making a new start as it were, and doing it deliberately, “sometimes it may make a difference to a man whether he was born in ’37 or ’38. You were born in ’38 were you? Ah! I ought to recollect.”
“Why ought you to recollect?” asked Will, startled by the meaning of his companion’s face.
“I was present at a ceremony that took place about then,” said Percival; “a curious sort of story. I’ll tell it you some time. How is the property left, do you know? Is it to him in particular as being the favourite, and that sort of thing?—or is it simply to the eldest son?”
“Simply to the eldest son,” said Will, more and more surprised.
Percival gave such a whistle as Uncle Penrose had given when he heard of the museum, and nodded his head repeatedly. “It would be good fun to turn the tables,” he said, as if he were making a remark to himself.