I thank God for it. I do really think it the best thing. It is obviously the best thing. If you had seen what I have seen …”
“Yes, I know,” said Henry gently. “I know.”
“My dear fellow, we see tragedies in my business which …”
“Yes, I know,” said Henry again. “I know.”
“Two years, say, or perhaps three; we could talk about that in good time. There’s no sort of hurry.”
“There’s no hurry, of course,” said Henry. “But I would make it this autumn. These things had better be done soon if they’re to be done at all.”
His tone was not hopeless, nor even cheerless: he knew that he would have to face a very sad day, but it was natural in such a man to expect an early return of all that he had known.
“I’ll go south,” he said. “It won’t take you long to make out the thing in black and white, will it?”
“Oh, we shan’t need anything very formal, letters will do,” said his brother. “I tell you what,” he added, “you had better have that balance of £2,000 pretty soon, so that you can make all your arrangements before you start; and then we’ll draw up some idea of what annual balance there may be between the rental and what is due, you know, and we’ll estimate the rest of your income—there is still a good wad of father’s German Government loan untouched, isn’t there?”
“Yes,” said Henry simply. “I’ve still got that, it’s in the bank at Lewes. They never brought in much—I don’t know how much—about £400 I think—or £450. I don’t know.”
“Well,” answered William, “it’s only the usual first-class government loan rates, but anyhow, German stuff is as safe as gold.”
“Yes,” said Henry.
“You will find the margin ample,” his brother assured him. “Things will be all quite simple.” They were beginning to seem quite simple to Henry.
He remembered how cheaply he had travelled in the past, and how he had enjoyed the little places and the simple habits. He thought of a year of his own boyhood with his own father in Italy just after the unification. He began to make pictures in his mind of his boy’s delight at the mountains and at the beauties of the new lands.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “It’s the best thing. Write me the letters when you choose, and I’ll look over them.”
And that was the way in which Rackham began its fourth transfer—but, after all, remained under the same blood.
It was early in the month of June, 1914. Henry Maple was in Switzerland, not the tourist Switzerland which he hated, but the pleasant southern slopes of the Jura overlooking the plain, with the great mountains to the south.
He was happier than he had been for many years—happier even than at Rackham. The recent fret of embarrassment, the almost daily shifts and worries, were ugly memories already faded. In the early part of the year he had gone back to England alone, and found Rackham already so nicely set in order by his wealthy brother that he knew not whether to be pleased at its renewal or pained at the change. But on the whole he was more pleased; for after all, it was more like the Rackham of his childhood.
The provision made during the months of his absence had been ample for his very few needs. The boy was getting good teaching at Solothurn, and learning French and German thoroughly; in the autumn he would go on to the Public School his father and his grandfather had gone to; he might spend part of the holidays with his uncle, but most (he hoped) here in the Jura with himself. For they had grown very close together during this little not unpleasant exile, and the lad was coming to have something of a hero-worship for a father who was always tender to him, always understanding, and seemed to know so very much and to be able to show him all that was to be discovered in that new world of travel from which they had just settled down. He was spending perhaps a quarter of what he had spent in Sussex—he had even saved! And if William had punctually paid himself his dues, he had as punctually remitted the balance of the rental and dividends to the Bank in Berne.
There came the threat of war and the ultimatum to Servia, but Henry Maple had read too much and knew too much of the past to believe that war would come.
War came; and the crash had upon this refined, scholarly far-too-detached character a strange effect of not unwelcome isolation. His vague hopefulness was still premanent; he had never liked the Germans; therefore he was sure that they would soon be beaten. He was secure where he was, and victory would only be a matter of a few weeks.
The Marne confirmed his judgment. Victory went on being a matter of a few weeks. But in the autumn came a letter from William, explaining why the next remittance would be considerably smaller than the last.
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