was mortgaged, and the moneys raised on it had been drunk, or gambled,
or spent on one or another of Ralph Tressilian's many lights o' love.
Then Oliver had sold some little property near Helston, inherited from
his mother; he had sunk the money into a venture upon the Spanish Main.
He had fitted out and manned a ship, and had sailed with Hawkins upon
one of those ventures, which Sir John Killigrew was perfectly entitled
to account pirate raids. He had returned with enough plunder in specie
and gems to disencumber the Tressilian patrimony. He had sailed again
and returned still wealthier. And meanwhile, Lionel had remained at
home taking his ease. He loved his ease. His nature was inherently
indolent, and he had the wasteful extravagant tastes that usually go
with indolence. He was not born to toil and struggle, and none had
sought to correct the shortcomings of his character in that respect.
Sometimes he wondered what the future might hold for him should Oliver
come to marry. He feared his life might not be as easy as it was at
present. But he did not seriously fear. It was not in his nature--it
never is in the natures of such men--to give any excess of
consideration to the future. When his thoughts did turn to it in
momentary uneasiness, he would abruptly dismiss them with the
reflection that when all was said Oliver loved him, and Oliver would
never fail to provide adequately for all his wants.

In this undoubtedly he was fully justified. Oliver was more parent
than brother to him. When their father had been brought home to die
from the wound dealt him by an outraged husband--and a shocking
spectacle that sinner's death had been with its hasty terrified
repentance--he had entrusted Lionel to his elder brother's care. At
the time Oliver was seventeen and Lionel twelve. But Oliver had seemed
by so many years older than his age, that the twice-widowed Ralph
Tressilian had come to depend upon this steady, resolute, and masterful