And thus all remark was peremptorily cut short. The neighbours dispersed, carrying all over the country the news of poor Renton’s extraordinary will; of how much he must have lost his head; and that Ben and the other boys were Quixotic enough not to dispute it. It was monomania, people said; and everybody knew that monomaniacs were sound on all points but one. Before nightfall there had arisen a body of evidence to prove that Mr. Renton had long been mad on this subject. One man remembered something he had said on one occasion, and another man on a second. He had been mad about his family; and the boys must be mad, too, to bear it. These reports, however, did not break the stillness which had fallen on the Manor,—a stillness almost more blank than that of death. The sobs of two women, one weeping faintly over her boys’ disappointment, the other wildly in self-reproach, were the only sounds that disturbed the calm of the house. The boys themselves were stunned, and for that day, at least, had not the heart to say a word.
CHAPTER III.
THE NEW CAREER.
It was twenty-four hours before the brothers met to consult over their darkened prospects. Their mother could kiss and weep over them, but she was not the kind of woman to direct or guide her boys. Such faint idea as she had in her mind was of a kind which would have entirely defeated their father’s purpose. ‘Never mind, my darling boy,’ she had said soothingly to her eldest son, though he was already a bearded man, with the stern Renton lines of resolution about his mouth. The poor little woman knew no better than to console him as if he had lost a toy. ‘We can go on living at Renton all the same. I shall only have you so much the longer. We shall only want a little more economy, my dear,’ she said. ‘Perhaps that was what your dear papa meant. He knew how lonely I would be. Why can’t we all live together as we have done? I have enough for you all by my settlement, and I am to keep Renton; and when the seven years are past, it will be quite time enough to think of marrying. I should not be against you travelling——or anything, Ben, my dear boy,’ the poor mother added faltering, seeing the sternness on his face.
‘No, mother dear,’ said her son. ‘No. What you have is for yourself. We shall all come to see you; but we are not such mean creatures as to live on you. Besides, that was not what he meant.’
‘Then what did he mean?’ said Mrs. Renton. ‘Oh, boys, that I should be driven to blame your dear papa! What could he mean if it was not to keep you a little longer with me?’
‘He meant to put us on our mettle,’ said Laurie; ‘and he was right. We would be a set of sad lazy fellows if we stayed on here. We’ll come and see you, mamma, as Ben says. Don’t cry. We none of us want to marry, thank heaven!—at least,’ said Laurie, thoughtfully, ‘I hope so; that complication is spared at least.’
‘Dear boys, it is so much better you should not marry too soon,’ said Mrs. Renton, drying her soft eyes. ‘He must have been thinking of that. Oh, believe me, Ben, my own boy, it will turn out all for the best.’
‘Yes, mother,’ said Ben, with the sigh of submission perforce, and he went away with his own thoughts; Laurie followed him after a little interval; and Frank, upon whom the shock had fallen more lightly, stayed with his mother to amuse and cheer her. But they all met in the library in the afternoon to have a consultation over their fate. They were brothers in misfortune,—a bond almost as strong as that of nature. It hurt their pride to go over the ground with any other creature, even their mother, who could not refrain from a hundred suggestions as to their father’s meaning. But among themselves they were safe, and could speak freely, with the consciousness of having the same meaning, the same impulse, the same pride. They never discussed the will, but accepted it proudly, owing it to themselves, as their father’s sons, to make no question. Already their hearts had risen a little from the blank depression of the previous night. It was Frank who was the first to speak.
‘I tell you what I shall do,’ he said with the rapid decision of youth. Frank had never been thought clever, though he was reasonable and high-spirited; and, consequently, the decision to him was a less complicated business. ‘I shall exchange into the line, and go to India if I can. More fun,’ said the young soldier, trying hard for his old gaiety, though there was still the gleam of a tear in his eye, ‘and better pay.’
‘Well, that is easily settled,’ said Laurie; ‘and I think very sensible too. Only one thing we ought to think of. Whatever the others may decide upon, let one of us always be at hand for the sake of my poor mother. He always took such care of her. She wants to have one of us to refer to. We might take it in turns, you know—’