Chapter 2

“Why of course, darling, of course,” I said hastily. “You must think no more of my silly joke; there is something I have to arrange in the Gray Chamber before I can call you mine. But, tell me, why does it make you so uneasy?” I added, thinking it might be prudent to find out beforehand what formality was expected from me.

“I cannot help it—no, I cannot!” she cried, “the test is so searching—are you sure that you are prepared at all points? I overheard my father say that no precaution could safely be neglected. I have such a terrible foreboding that, after all, this may come between us.”

It was clear enough to me now; the baronet was by no means so simple and confiding in his choice of a son-in-law as I had imagined, and had no intention, after all, of accepting me without some inquiry into my past life, my habits, and my prospects.

That he should seek to make this examination more impressive by appointing this ridiculous midnight interview for it, was only what might have been expected from an old man of his confirmed eccentricity.

But I knew I could easily contrive to satisfy the baronet, and with the idea of consoling Chlorine, I said as much. “Why will you persist in treating me like a child, Augustus?” she broke out almost petulantly. “They have tried to hide it all from me, but do you suppose I do not know that in the Gray Chamber you will have to encounter one far more formidable, far more difficult to satisfy, than poor dear papa?”

“I see you know more than I—more than I thought you did,” I said. “Let us understand one another, Chlorine—tell me exactly how much you know.”

“I have told you all I know,” she said; “it is your turn to confide in me.”

“Not even for your sweet sake, my dearest,” I was obliged to say, “can I break the seal that is set upon my tongue. You must not press me. Come, let us talk of other things.”

But I now saw that matters were worse than I had thought; instead of the feeble old baronet I should have to deal with a stranger, some exacting and officious friend or relation perhaps, or, more probably, a keen family solicitor who would put questions I should not care about answering, and even be capable of insisting upon strict settlements.

It was that, of course; they would try to tie my hands by a strict settlement, with a brace of cautious trustees; unless I was very careful, all I should get by my marriage would be a paltry life-interest, contingent upon my surviving my wife.

This revolted me; it seems to me that when law comes in with its offensively suspicious restraints upon the husband and its indelicately premature provisions for the offspring, all the poetry of love is gone at once. By allowing the wife to receive the income “for her separate use and free from the control of her husband,” as the phrase runs, you infallibly brush the bloom from the peach, and implant the “little speck within the fruit” which, as Tennyson beautifully says, will widen by and by and make the music mute.

This may be overstrained on my part, but it represents my honest conviction; I was determined to have nothing to do with law. If it was necessary, I felt quite sure enough of Chlorine to defy Sir Paul. I would refuse to meet a family solicitor anywhere, and I intended to say so plainly at the first convenient opportunity.