The papers conveyed no further information to Sidney than Trevor's letter had done. There were only a few lines in a cipher which he did not understand, and which he considered it prudent to burn before passing on the papers, which had nothing to do with his business, to Trevor's family. There was a disappointment to his curiosity in not learning more particulars; but there was a curious sense of deliverance in the fact of poor Trevor's death, which more than counterbalanced this disappointment. The whole affair was ended now; completely ended. He had no one to fear. The only man who could have made use of his secret was gone, and out of the way. There could be neither an imprudent speech, nor a threat of disclosure, uttered by Trevor. Sidney acted with his usual liberality to the widow and children of his unfortunate clerk, but he could not grieve over an unforeseen death so convenient for his own peace of mind.
There was nothing now to hinder his marriage with Margaret. There were settlements to make, of course—Apley being settled on Margaret and her second son. The eldest son would inherit the estates and the large fortune entailed by Sir John Martin's will. On Colonel Cleveland's death Margaret herself would become possessor of her mother's dowry.
The feeling of freedom with which Sidney could now live was too new and too unfamiliar to be altogether a happy one. He had scarcely realized how oppressive had been the burden of Sophy's possible claim upon him. It had weighed down his spirit with a constant, yet almost unconscious, repression. He was like a man who had worn fetters until he drags his foot along the ground, unable to believe that he can walk like other men.
But he was free now; and he resolved to live such a life as would atone for all his early delinquencies. There should be nothing underhand or contemptible in all his future. His ambition could have free course, and he would prove himself worthy of high fortune. With a wife and companion like Margaret there would be nothing to hinder him from making his way into the foremost ranks of the men of his time.
On the eve of his marriage he brought Margaret a splendid set of diamonds, expecting to see her delight in ornaments so magnificent. She took the case from him with a pleased and happy smile, and looked at them closely for a few minutes, but she shut the case and laid it aside, almost indifferently, he thought.
"You do not care for them?" he said, in some disappointment.
"I care for anything you give to me," she answered softly, "but I do not much value ornaments for themselves. I never can care for them."
"That is because you do not see other girls who wear them," he replied. "When you go out into society as my wife you will see women sparkling with jewelry, and then you will learn to care for it."
"Shall I?" she asked doubtfully; "but it seems to me childish. You men do not adorn yourselves with jewels, and we should despise you if you did. It seems like a relic of barbarism, akin to the love of savages for glass beads. What man could strut about in diamonds and not look ridiculous?"
"But you are a woman," he said, laughing.