Have His Carcase

The farmer had died when Henry was twenty-five. He had left the farm and all his own savings to his son, knowing that his wife was well provided for. Under Henry’s management the farm had begun to go down. Times had grown harder for farmers. More and more personal supervision was needed to make farming pay, Henry gave it less and less. There were experiments in horse-breeding, which had not turned out well, owing to lack of judgement in buying and handling the stock. Mrs Weldon had by this time left the farm, which — she had always disliked, and was living a nomad life in spas and watering-places. Henry had several times come to her for loans, and had received them but Mrs Weldon had steadily refused to make over any of her capital to him, although she might have done so, her trustees being now dead and the trust wound up. She had, after all, learnt something from the Noncomformist aunt. Finally, when she found out that Henry had got himself into rather disgraceful trouble with an innkeeper’s wife in a neighbouring village, she quarrelled with Henry, loudly and finally. Since then, she had heard little from him. She understood, however, that the intrigue with the innkeeper’s wife had come to an end, and in February of the current year she had told him about her forthcoming marriage to Alexis. Henry had come down to Wilvercombe, stayed for the weekend, met Alexis and expressed his disapproval of the whole business. This did not mend matters, and relations had been strained until the death of Alexis had urged the lonely woman to seek comfort in the ties of blood. Henry, had come, expressed contrition for his former waywardness, received forgiveness and shown that he was, after all, her loving son.

Harriet mentioned Mrs Lefranc’s theory that Alexis had committed suicide owing to the failure of unknown and important ‘speculations’. Mrs Weldon scouted the theory.

‘What could it matter to him, my dear? Paul knew perfectly well that when we were married I should settle my money on him with the exception, of course, of a little provision for Henry., Of course, in the ordinary way, Henry would get everything, and I am afraid he was a little upset when he heard that I was going to get married, but, you know, it was not right that he should feel like that. His father left him very well off and always; impressed upon him that he ought not to look for anything from me. After all, I was still quite a young woman when my husband died, and George — he was a very fair-minded man, I will say that for him — always said that I should be quite within my rights in spending my own father’s money as I liked and marrying again if I chose. And I have lent Henry a great deal of money, which he has never repaid. I told Henry, when I got engaged to Alexis, that I should make him a free gift of everything that I had lent him, and make a will, giving him the life-interest in £30,000, the capital of which was to go to Henry’s children, if he had any. If he hadn’t any, then the money was to come back to Paul, if Paul outlived Henry, because, of course, Paul was the younger man’

‘Were you going to settle all the rest on Mr Alexis?’

‘Why not, my dear? It was not as though I could have had any more children. But Paul didn’t like that idea he used to say, so charmingly and absurdly, that if I did that what would happen to me if he ran away and left me? No, what I was going to do was this. I was going to settle £30,000 on Paul when we were married. It would have been his, absolutely, of course — I shouldn’t like my husband to have to come and ask me for permission if he wanted to alter the investments or anything. Then, at my death, Henry would have had the income from the other £30,000 and his debts washed out, and Paul would have had all, the rest, which would have been about £100,000 altogether, including his own 30,000. Because, you see, Paul might have married again and had a family, and then he would need the money. I don’t see that there was anything unfair about that, do you?’

Harriet felt that a great deal might’ be said about an arrangement which cut off the only son with the life-interest on £30,000, with reversion to a young step-father, and left full control of over three times that sum to the step-father; and which also placed the hypothetical family of the son in a vastly inferior position to the equally hypothetical children of the step-father by a hypothetical new wife. Still, Mrs Weldon’s money was her own, and Alexis had at least stood between her and the major folly of stripping herself of every farthing in his favour. One expression had caught her attention, and she returned to it.