“Oh, Auntie, I should think his wishes would be respected.”

“How’m I to prove his wishes?” said Mrs. Petherick, quite testily.  “It’ll be wish my foot, for all the lawyers’ll care.”

“Oh, Auntie!”

“You know, he faithfully promised to provide for me.  And now the talk is he never made a will at all.  You can’t believe the talk.  But, oh, it’s awful to me.  The suspense!  It’ll break my heart to give up North Ride.”

“Auntie,” said Mavis presently; “if you chance upon Will, don’t speak to him.”

“Why not?”

She whispered the answer.  “He found out about him and me.”

“Oh, did he?  How did he take it?”

“Awfully badly.”

But Mrs. Petherick did not seem to care twopence about the domestic trouble of Mavis and Will.  Her thoughts were engrossed by her own affairs.

“Mavis, I do think this:  that if there’s a will found, I shall be in it.  He wasn’t a liar, whatever he was.”

That night there seemed to be a tremendous lot of drunkenness in Rodchurch, and when the Gauntlet Inn closed you could hear the shouting as far off as the post office.  But next day the village was quietly drowsy as of old:  it had got over its excitement.

Weeks passed, and for Mavis time began to glide.  All things in the post office itself had resumed their ordinary course, and she felt instinctively that up-stairs, as well as down-stairs, a normal order would rule again before very long.  Outwardly she and Dale were just what they used to be.  They were not, however, really living as husband and wife.  She suffered, but made no complaint.  All would come right.

X

Mr. Barradine had not died intestate.  This fact was made known at the post office in a sudden and perturbing manner by a letter to Mavis from Messrs. Cleaver, the Old Manninglea solicitors.  Messrs. Cleaver informed her that the London firm who were acting in the matter of Mr. Barradine’s will had instructed them to communicate with her, because certain documents—­such as attested copies of her birth certificate, marriage certificate, and so on—­would presently be required; and it would be convenient to Messrs. Cleaver, if she could pay them a call within the next two or three days.

Mavis gave the letter to Dale when they met at breakfast, and he read it slowly and thoughtfully.

“What do you suppose it means, Will?”

“I suppose it means that you’re one of the leg’tees.”

“Yes.”  Mavis drew in her breath.  “It came into my mind that it might be that.”

“I don’t see what else it can be.”

His face had become dull and expressionless, and he spoke in a heavy tone.

“I may go over and see Mr. Cleaver, mayn’t I?”

“Yes,” he said.  “But I must go with you.”

“When can you get away?  I don’t think we ought to put it off.”