should he do if Ben persevered in his claim and his mother supported him in it? He could not decide. He felt that he must be guided by circumstances. He could not help remembering how four years before Mrs. Brayton (for that was her name then) answered his father's advertisement for a house-keeper; how, when he hesitated in his choice, she plead her poverty, and her urgent need of immediate employment; and how, influenced principally by this consideration, he took her in place of another to whom he had been more favorably inclined. How she should have obtained sufficient influence over his father's mind to induce him to make her his wife after the lapse of a year, John could not understand. He felt instinctively that she was artful and designing, but his own frank, open nature could hardly be expected to fathom hers. He remembered again, how, immediately after the marriage, Ben was sent for, and was at once advanced to a position in the household equal to his own. Ben was at first disposed to be polite, and even subservient to himself, but gradually, emboldened by his mother's encouragement, became more independent, and even at times defiant. It was not, however, until now that he had actually begun to encroach upon John's rights, and assume airs of superiority. He had been feeling his way, and waited until it would be safe to show out his real nature.
John had never liked Ben,—nor had anybody else except his mother felt any attachment for him,—but he had not failed to treat him with perfect politeness and courtesy. Though he had plenty of intimations from the servants and others that it was unjust to him that so much expense should be lavished upon Ben, he was of too generous a nature to feel disturbed by it, or to grudge him his share of his father's bounty.
"There's enough for both of us," he always said, to those who tried to stir up his jealousy.
"But suppose your father should divide his property between you? How would you like to see Ben Brayton sharing the estate?"
"If my father chooses to leave his property in that way, I shan't complain," said John. "Fortunately there is enough for us both, and half will be enough to provide for me."
But John had never anticipated such a contingency as Ben and his mother claiming the whole property, and, frank and unsuspicious as he was, he felt that his father would never have left him so entirely dependent upon his stepmother unless improper means had been used to influence his decision. There was a particular reason which he had for thinking thus. It was this: Three days before his father died, he was told by the servant, on entering the house, that the sick man wished to see him. Of course he went up instantly to the chamber where, pale and wasted, Squire Oakley lay stretched out on the bed.
He was stricken by a disease which affected his speech, and prevented him from articulating anything except in a whisper. He beckoned John to the bedside, and signed for him to place his ear close to his mouth. John did so. His father made a great effort to speak, but all that John could make out was, "My will."
"Your will, father?" he repeated.
The sick man nodded, and tried to speak further. John thought he could distinguish the word "drawer," but was not certain. He was about to inquire further, when his stepmother entered the room, and looked at him suspiciously.
"Why have you come here to disturb your sick father?" she asked, coldly.
"I did not come here to disturb him," said John. "I came because he wished to speak to me."
"Has he spoken to you?" she asked, hastily.
"He tried to, but did not succeed."
"You should not allow him to make the effort. It can only do him harm. The doctor says he must be kept very quiet. You had better leave the room. He is safest in my care."
John did leave the room, and though he saw his father afterwards, it was always in his stepmother's presence, and he had no farther opportunity of communicating with him.
He could not help thinking of this as he rode along, and wondering what it was that his father wished to say. He knew that it must be something of importance, from the evident anxiety which the dying man manifested to speak to him. But whatever it was must remain unknown. His father's lips were hushed in death, and with such a stepmother John felt himself worse than alone in the world. But he had a religious nature, and had been well trained in the Sunday school, and the thought came to him that whatever trials might be in store for him he had at least one Friend, higher than any earthly friend, to whom he might look for help and protection. Plunged in thought, he had suffered Prince to subside into a walk, when, all at once, he heard his name called.
"Hallo, John!"
Looking up, he saw Sam Selwyn, son of Lawyer Selwyn, and a classmate of his at the academy.
"Is that you, Sam?" he said, halting his horse.
"That is my impression," said Sam, "but I began to think it wasn't just now, when my best friend seemed to have forgotten me."
"I was thinking," said John, "and didn't notice."
"Where are you bound?"
"Nowhere in particular. I only came out for a ride."
"You're a lucky fellow, John."
"You forget, Sam, the loss I have just met with;" and John pointed to his black clothes.
"Excuse me, John, you know I sympathize with you in that. But I'm very fond of riding, and never get any chance. You have a horse of your own."
"Just at present."
"Just at present! You're not going to lose him, are you?"
"Sam, I am expecting a little difficulty, and I shall feel better if I advise with some friend about it. You are my best friend in school, and I don't know but in the world, and I've a great mind to tell you."
"I'll give you the best advice in my power, John, and won't charge anything for it either, which is more than my father would. You know he's a lawyer, and has to be mercenary. Not that I ought to blame him, for that's the way he finds us all in bread and butter."
"I'll turn Prince up that lane and tie him, and then we'll lie down under a tree, and have a good talk."
John did as proposed. Prince began to browse, apparently well contented with the arrangement, and the two boys stretched themselves out lazily beneath a wide-spreading chestnut-tree, which screened them from the sun.
"Now fire away," said Sam, "and I'll concentrate all my intellect upon your case gratis."
"I told you that Prince was mine for the present," commenced John. "I don't know as I can say even that. This afternoon when I got home I found Ben Brayton just about to mount him."
"I hope you gave him a piece of your mind."
"I ordered him off," said John, quietly, "when he informed me that the horse was his now,—that his mother had given it to him."
"What did you say?"
"That it was not hers to give. I seized the horse by the bridle, till he became alarmed and slid off. He then came at me with his riding-whip, and struck me."
"I didn't think he had pluck enough for that. I hope you gave him as good as he sent."
"I pulled the whip away from him, and gave him two blows in return. Then watching my opportunity I sprang upon the horse, and here I am."
"And that is the whole story?"
"Yes."
"And you want my advice?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll give it. Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, stick to that horse, and defy Ben Brayton to do his worst."
"It seems to me I've heard part of that speech before," said John, smiling. "As to the advice, I'll follow it if I can. I'm not afraid of anything Ben Brayton can do; but suppose his mother takes his part?"
"Do you think she will?"
"I am afraid she will."
"Then defy her too," said Sam, hastily.
"I don't know about that," said John. "I am only a boy of fifteen, and she is my father's widow. If she chooses to take the horse away, I don't know that I can do anything."
"Ben Brayton is a mean rascal. Didn't he get a gold watch