“I will risk even as much as that. Nobody need know anything about the settlement but you and I, and, later, my wife. I shall not speak of it to her until it is ready for execution.”
Mr. Sampson, in a chronic state of wonder, took half a quire of slippery blue foolscap, and began his draft, with a very squeaky quill pen and a large consumption of ink. Simple and uniform as the gift was which John Treverton wished to make to his wife, the transfer of it required to be hedged round and intertwined with so much legal phraseology that Tom Sampson had consumed his half-quire of foolscap before he came to the end of the draft. The estate had to be scheduled, and every homestead and labourer’s cottage had to be described in a phrase of abstract grandeur, as “all that so-and-so, commonly known as so-and-so,” and so forth, with almost maddening iteration. John Treverton, smoking his cigar, and letting his thoughts wander away at a tangent every now and then to regions that were not always paths of pleasantness, thought his host would never leave off driving that inexorable quill—the sort of pen to sign a death-warrant and feel none the worse for it—over the slippery paper.
“Come,” exclaimed Sampson, at last, “I think that ties the estate up pretty tightly on your wife and her children after her. She can squander the income as she pleases, and play old gooseberry up to a certain point, but she can’t put the tip of her little finger on the principal. And now you have only to name two responsible men as trustees.”
“I don’t know two respectable men in the world,” said John, frankly.
“Yes, you do. You know the vicar of this parish, and you know me. Your cousin Jasper considered us worthy to be trustees to his will. You need hardly be afraid to make us trustees to your marriage settlement.”
“I have no objection, and I certainly know no better men.”
“Then we’ll consider it settled. I’ll send the deed to counsel by tomorrow’s post. I hope you quite understand that this settlement will make you a pauper—wholly dependent upon your wife. If you were to throw yourself on the parish, she would have to maintain you. Bar that, she may use you as badly as she likes.”
“I am not afraid of her ill-usage.”
“Upon my honour and conscience,” mused Thomas Sampson, as he laid himself down to rest that night. “I believe John Treverton is over head and ears in love with Miss Malcolm. Nothing but love or lunacy can explain his conduct. Which is it? Well, perhaps the line that divides the two is only a distinction without a difference.”
XI
No Trousseau
Laura was utterly happy in the brief interval between her betrothal and her wedding. She had given her love and trust unreservedly, feeling that duty and love went hand in hand. In following the inclination of her heart she was obeying the behest of her benefactor. She had been very fond of Jasper Treverton, had loved him as truly as ever daughter loved a father. It seemed the most natural process to transfer her love from the adopted father to his young kinsman. The old man in his grave was the bond of union between the girl and her lover.
“How pleased papa would have been if he could have known that John and I would be so fond of each other,” she said to herself, innocently.
Celia Clare hurried back from Brighton, eager to assist her friend at this momentous crisis of her life.
“Brighton was quite too delightful,” said Celia, “but not for worlds would I be absent from you at such a time. Poor soul, what would you have done without me?”
“Dear Celia, you know how fond I am of you, but I think I could really have managed to get married without your assistance.”
“Get married! Yes, but how would you have done it?” cried Celia, making her eyes very round and big. “You would have made a most horrid muddle of it. Now, what about your trousseau? I’ll wager you have hardly thought of it.”
“There you are wrong. I have ordered two travelling dresses, and a handsome dinner dress.”
“And your collars and cuffs, your handkerchiefs, your peignoirs, your camisoles,” pursued Celia, enumerating a string of articles.
“My dear child, do you suppose I have lived all these years, without cuffs and collars, and handkerchiefs?”
“Laura, unless you have everything new you might just as well not be married at all.”
“Then you may consider my marriage no marriage, for I am not troubling myself about new things.”
“Give me carte blanche and leave everything to me. What is the use of my sacrificing Brighton just when it was more than too enchanting, unless I can be of some use to you?”
“Well, Celia, in order that you may not be unhappy, I will give you permission to review my wardrobe, and if you find an alarming dearth of collars and handkerchiefs I’ll drive you to Beechampton in the pony carriage, and you shall buy whatever you think proper.”
“Beechampton is hideously behind the age, disgustingly démodé, and your things ought to be in the latest style. I’ll look through the advertisements in the Queen, and send to London for patterns. It is no use having new things if they are not in the newest fashion. One does not wear out one’s cuffs and collars—they go out.”
“You
