He was not aware as yet of the little loans from their sinking funds of which his own mother and the old magistrate had been guilty the preceding year.
“Father,” said Margaret, “dispose of my dot. I shall never marry.”
“Women are meant to be married,” declared the widow.
But Margaret added resolutely: “I have my diploma. I shall work. I’ll start a school.”
“Women oughtn’t to inherit, according to my ideas,” put in Uncle Stephen, “but I’ll moderate my principles in Margaret’s favour. She shall have my forty thousand francs when I die.”
“Thirty thousand,” corrected Leo, appraising his loss.
“No, forty,” replied the old man, suppressing his avarice definitely but painfully in the common crisis. “I put it lower just now inadvertently. It’s as much as forty-five, to be done with it. I’ll make a new will. I had made you my heir, Francis.”
“I thank you for Margaret, uncle. But I shall not touch her dot, which isn’t enough anyway, unless it’s impossible to realise on La Vigie promptly and at good terms. It will be better to sell the estate, if possible, than to mortgage it. I’ve thought it all out. The returns from land nowadays are precarious. With modern transportation facilities there is competition from such a distance that we can’t any longer count on profits. I prefer to make Margaret’s future sure, and let my sons arrange their own schemes of life. If I can’t find any one to buy, then the land can always be given as security for a loan.”
“We can give you good security, too,” the widow assured him.
“Exactly,” acquiesced Uncle Stephen.