One afternoon, about the middle of November, Gilbert, looking in at the ‘barracks,’ said to Michael—

‘I wish you’d give a little particular attention to my father. It strikes me that he is not so well as he ought to be, or rather, that he’s worse than usual. I wonder if Rowntree would mind looking in, as well?’

‘Of course, we will come. Now, do you mean? I’ll go at once, and the doctor at night.’

He went across to his father’s house and saw him. Mr. Langstroth was certainly very weak and unwell, but not, it seemed to Michael, seriously so. He left directions for him to be kept very quiet, and returned to his dwelling, promising that he and Dr. Rowntree would both look in during the evening.

As they sat at dinner, a messenger came hurriedly from the Red Gables, summoning them to go at once to Mr. Langstroth, who was very ill. In a very few moments they were in the house, but only to find that all was over, and that Gilbert, white and haggard-looking, was standing by the chair in which their father lay, lifeless. Gilbert said they had risen from table, and he had supported his father to his chair, into which he had sunk, dead. The young man’s pallor and tremulousness were fully accounted for to Michael, by the fact of the sudden blank which must now come in his life, after his years of devoted attention to his father, who had thus so suddenly departed; and by every silent sign that he knew how to give, he sought to assure Gilbert of the sympathy and fellow-feeling he experienced.

There was a hush and solemnity in both the houses during the few days which elapsed between Mr. Langstroth’s death and his burial.

There was but a small following to attend him to his grave. Roger Camm and Dr. Rowntree formed a part of it, and there was Miss Strangforth’s carriage, and several others sent by neighbours and friends, Otho Askam’s brougham amongst them.

When it was over, the two brothers, with Dr. Rowntree and Mr. Coningsby, returned to the Red Gables. It was decided that it would be best to, as the doctor said, ‘get through with the business of the will,’ then and there, so that their minds might be free for other things.

It was one o’clock in the afternoon of a dank, chill November day, when they parted; and Roger Camm, with an inclination of the head to Michael, to show that he was with him in spirit, if not in the flesh, went to the doctor’s house, intending there to wait lunch for him.

He went into the study, where Michael and the doctor kept their professional library, and where odd volumes of Roger’s had got mixed up with treatises on medicine and surgery. He picked up a volume at haphazard, and gazed at the title of it. ‘Principles of Biology,’ it ran—‘Principles of Biology’—and though he believed he was trying to read it, he was really very busy thinking thoughts—thinking of Michael; wondering how far his father’s affairs were retrieved, and if at last there were some prospect of his happiness being accomplished.

‘Since he is so wrapped up in that insipid girl, and since she has not done him the kindness to throw him over before,’ Roger thought, in the pride of his own wisdom, ‘there’s no chance of it now, since his father’s death must make him more prosperous in a worldly point of view. She’ll have him, sure enough. They will be married, and he—will live to repent it.’

Insensibly, he let the book drop, and his thoughts turned to the days of long ago; to his comrades and their lives, and his life, and to their play in the Thorsgarth garden, in summer sunshine.

‘Queer, very queer,’ he reflected, ‘that we two, who were companions then, should be chums now. I wonder what Michael will turn out; how he will win his spurs; what will give him the stamp of finished manhood? for he’s a dreamer yet, thoughthough he does not know it.’

Then he began to think that the doctor was long a-coming, and that if he did not appear soon, he, Roger, would have to eat his lunch alone, and be off to his work.

The door opened. The doctor’s parlour-maid stood there.

‘If you please, sir, they’ve sent from Mr. Langstroth’s. Mr. Michael begs you will step across at once.’

Roger sprang to his feet with a vague wonder and foreboding in his mind. He soon measured the distance between the doctor’s house and the Red Gables. He found the door open and a servant waiting.

‘This way, sir. They are in the library.’

In another moment Roger found himself in the well-known room, with the three familiar figures assembled there.

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—

‘Michael, what does it mean?’

‘It means that my brother is very clever, and I am a great blockhead. I am fain to doff before his superior wisdom.’

Gilbert, his arms still folded across his chest, was looking at them, pale, calm, and seemingly self-possessed.

‘Take heed of what you say, Michael,’ he said, quietly. ‘Abuse, even from——’

‘I am going to do nothing but praise and congratulate you on your great wisdom and astuteness,’ replied Michael, flashing a look of such trenchant contempt towards his brother, that Gilbert’s own eyes sank before it. It was a new sensation for him to find himself despised by the man for whose simplicity he had always entertained such a finely ironical contempt.

‘Only,’ resumed Michael, speaking so clearly that not a word could be lost of what he said, ‘it is a pity my father did not appreciate you better. He should have left you the other two thousand out and out. Unless you take pity on it, it will be useless, for I shall never touch it.’

‘Now, Michael, Michael, madman! Beware what you say!’ cried the little doctor, stamping about, as middle-age does when cash is blasphemed or lightly spoken of.

Michael, having patiently waited till this apostrophe had been contributed to the conversation, but who heeded it not at all, suddenly bent towards Gilbert, fixed his burning eyes upon him, and said, in a lower voice, but one which was still distinctly audible to them all—

‘Two thousand, Gilbert; it is an odd coincidence. Do you remember my saying to you long ago, that if I’d two thousand to start with I would be married to-morrow—eh?’

Gilbert neither moved nor raised his head.

‘I know you thought that a very imprudent way of spending two thousand pounds. It seems my father must have held the same opinion, and between you, you have arranged that I should do nothing mischievous.’

Here he raised himself up again, and, turning to the others, went on—

‘I want you all to understand this. That which I am not trusted to handle for myself; that which is confided by my father to my younger brother to take care of, lest I should misuse it—left so by my own father, to whom I have been a dutiful and honourable son,—I take God to witness it;—that is not for me at all. I refuse to touch it. You all hear what I say?’

There was a low murmur from the doctor and Roger. Michael went on—

‘That being the case, it seems that what I have left, to call my own, is my father’s house—the house in which we were both born and brought up, where we lived as brothers, without an unbrotherly thought—on my part at least; and the house where, when I went out into the world to relieve the burden which had fallen on our affairs, I left you in my place, to tend my father; to watch over all our interests; to deal justly by me as well as by yourself——’

There was a very long pause. It seemed as if Michael, steady though his voice had remained, were unable to finish the utterance of the thoughts that were in his mind. The others were silent, and Gilbert looked doggedly downwards.

‘That house, as I say, is now all I have, but it is my own, and you have just given in the account of your stewardship,’ went on Michael, his lips white and his eyes hard, so that Roger felt a kind of fear of him. ‘There it is!’ He laid his hand upon the will. ‘To me, it has been a fatal stewardship. It has robbed me not only of my inheritance, but of my brother.’ And he advanced two or three steps nearer to Gilbert.

The latter rose; perhaps he knew what was to come. Neither of the others dared to speak. Gilbert once lifted his head and looked at his brother, but instantly his face sank again. He was voiceless, powerless, defenceless. Michael stepped aside and threw the door open wide.

‘Being my house,’ he said, ‘I order you to leave it now, this instant. Go!’

Another pause. Silence still. Michael stood waiting. Gilbert looked around him, as if he struggled to speak, but could not. He saw nothing to cheer him. Dr. Rowntree with his hands clasped, his kind face looking the picture of woe; Roger Camm frowning and silent. Gilbert took two steps towards the door.

‘Michael,’ he said.

‘Go!’ repeated Michael, in a stony voice.

Gilbert walked slowly out at the door, into the hall, took his hat, and left the house. They heard the hall door close after him, and it was with two of them, at least, as if the sound struck them like an actual blow. To turn one’s brother out of doors would generally be done figuratively—morally, perhaps. Michael had done it literally, and with a resistless determination and strength of will which none of them had credited him with. His hour had come at last, and the real stuff of which he was made, good or bad, was beginning to show itself.

After a moment’s silence, he turned again to the others and said—

‘I won’t detain you any longer. I wish I could have spared you such a scene, but as my two nearest friends, I wished you to be under no mistake as to what I was going to do. And now I should like to be alone for awhile.’

Roger heaved a deep sigh, and said nothing, but moved towards the door. The doctor, who had a tender heart, and down whose cheeks the tears were running, fell back into old Quaker phraseology, as he almost sobbed out—

‘Michael, my poor, poor lad, thou’ll come and sleep in thy own bed to-night, at my house, won’t thou?’

‘Yes, I will, doctor,’ replied Michael slowly; and they left him alone.