John was the heir: not only to dear Rackham and its impoverished fields, but to that solid fortune which William had created—always subject, of course, to Hilda’s life-rights: that was only just.

Henry honestly admitted to himself that he had never liked Hilda; she was too loud for him. He used to say to himself, that she was not quite a lady. But he would be just; of course she ought to have the usufruct of the greater part as long as she lived. It was only right. Never mind: John was the heir. Henry knew of himself, by this time, that he was dying: but John was the heir, and all was well. The boy was nearly eighteen, they must be thinking of the University soon: the war could not go on for ever; and in a way it was a sort of providence, was it not, that poor William should have gone when he did? And yet, no, that was a thought he must put away. William would have looked after the boy, anyhow … It had better be Oriel. He did not know how Oriel stood now, but he had been at Oriel himself, and that was reason enough. Oriel it should be. He had everything arranged.

He made no doubt at all as to what William’s will would be, though he had been too delicate to discuss it with him those five years before, when they had last met; it would be the normal will of an enriched, childless younger son standing thus in a landed family; there would be the life interest for Hilda—perhaps large—but the rest of the income would accumulate for the boy until he was of age; and meanwhile there would be an allowance for his education. Perhaps Hilda would be made guardian; he would regret it, but he did not mind. He could not think long on these things: he could not concentrate. He awaited the papers.

Instead of the papers, only a couple of rare letters came through from his sister-in-law, but all that late summer of 1918 went by, with the war now at last manifestly closing, the turn of the tide, the Armistice. At the end of the year Hilda herself, too soon after a message announcing her coming, was in the sick man’s room.

She stayed exactly two days in the little house on the slope of the Jura, just gracious to her nephew, just sufficiently affectionate to her brother-in-law, and no more. Mrs. William Maple was a business woman, and she had come to talk business.

And the business was this. William Maple had left everything to her absolutely. That was the first point. Yes? (putting up her hand) surely he did not suspect her? She would do her duty, and she knew what her duty was. But so far as the legal terms of the will went, there it was. That was how it stood. It was not her doing. She had known nothing about it till it was read. Henry must remember it was her husband’s money, and, for her part, she thought he had done rightly.

So much for that. Now about Rackham.

She changed her tone somewhat when she came to this. She was not exactly ashamed, but she was just a trifle embarrassed. She owed it to herself to do what she had to do, but she did not like doing it. However, these things have to be done, and she was as brief as she was clear.

Rackham was gone; hopelessly gone; William had spared his brother the worry of too much detail. He had very generously provided much more, really, than the difference between the rents and the interest could possibly have covered; she had all the papers in due order, and she had brought with her the accountancy document with a mass of other papers, which her sick brother-in-law had neither the energy nor the clearness of mind to follow.