‘And, Ben, what shall you do?’ said Frank. ‘We have told you, and you ought to tell us. I don’t suppose you mean to stay on with mamma. What shall you do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ben, with a sudden descent into the depths of despondency. He had almost wept as he spoke. One had his profession, the other at least a taste, if nothing more. Poor Ben, the first-born, had no speciality. He might have been a political man, with a hand in the government of his country, or he might have been a farmer, or he might have gone to Calcutta, as Dick Westbury had done; whereas, now, at five-and-twenty, he could not tell what to do.
‘Never mind, you’ll do the best of us all;—you were always the cleverest of us all,’ said Frank, shocked at his brother’s dejected looks; and then it flashed across them what their father had said, that it would be most hard upon Ben.
‘It is you who have the ten talents,’ said Laurie, ‘and Frank has the five; and you will go away one to your farm, and the other to your merchandise,—isn’t that how the story runs?—while I am left with one in my napkin. Or, if that is too serious for you, let’s take it on the other side. But whatever you do, beware of the old woman whom we are all sure to meet as we set out, who will ask us to help her, and give us three gifts. I shall keep a very sharp look out for that old woman,’ said Laurie, breaking the spell of stillness, and getting up, ‘Laugh at it? Yes, I am trying to laugh a little. Would you rather I should cry?’ he said, turning upon his brother, with tears glistening in his eyes. It was a question which it would be. They were all at this point, standing upon the alternative, between such poor laughter as might be possible and bitter tears.
All this sad and wonderful overthrow had come from Mrs. Westbury’s indiscreet taunts to her brother upon the up-bringing of his sons. If that could have been any comfort to them, their Aunt Lydia was very miserable. They had never allowed her to finish her confession, and her heart was very sore over the injustice that had been done them. That same night she stole to Ben’s door, and would have wept over him had that been possible. She was not an unkind or hard-hearted woman. It had been a kind of pleasure to her to contrast her nephews’ idleness with the Renton traditions; but she was a true Renton, strong in her sense of justice, and there was nothing she would not have done for them now.
‘Ben, let me speak to you,’ she said. ‘I did not mean it,—far from that, heaven knows! I wish my tongue had been cut out first. I know it would go against you to admit such a thing if any one else said it; but, Ben, your father could not have been in his right senses. He never could have done it, if he had known.’
‘It is a question I can’t discuss with you, Aunt Lydia,’ said Ben, standing at the open door and barring her entrance. ‘I think you are mistaken. I don’t think it could be anything you said.’
‘Ben, I know it!’ said Mrs. Westbury. ‘I could not be mistaken. Let me come in, and I will tell you. It was done on Friday, and that unfortunate conversation was on Thursday night. He was very snappish to poor Laurie when we went back to the lawn;—but, oh, if I could have known what was to follow it! Ben, I must come in and speak to you; I have a great deal to say. You know, there is our Dick——’
‘Yes,’ said Ben. He had to let her in, though he did it with an ill grace. He placed his easy-chair for her, and stood leaning against the table, to hear what she had to say. He would not countenance or encourage her to remain by sitting down, but stood with his candle in his hand, a most unwilling host.
‘You are angry with me,’ said Aunt Lydia, ‘and you have reason. But what I want to say is about Dick. If your father had made this move at the right time, it is you who should have gone to Calcutta, Ben. You have the best right. My boy only went, as it were, to fill your place; and he ought to give it up to you now. Of course it was to my brother he owed the appointment. I don’t say Dick should come home; but he has made some money and some friends; and, I think he might do something for himself still, in another way, instead of taking your place.’