“Certainly not, ma'am,” said Mr. Dyce, with a gravity well preserved considering his inward feelings. “Even before the Married Women's Property Act, his jus mariti, as we ca' it, gave him only his wife's personal and movable estate. There is no such thing as communio bonorum—as communion of goods—between husband and wife in Scotland.”
“And he canna sell Kaims on me?”
“No; it's yours and your assigns ad perpetuam remanentiam, being feudal right.”
“I wish ye wad speak in honest English, like mysel', Mr. Dyce,” said the lady, sharply. “I've forgotten a' my Laiten, and the very sound o't gars my heid bizz. I doubt it's the lawyer's way o' gettin' round puir, helpless bodies.”
“It's scarcely that,” said Mr. Dyce, laughing. “It's the only chance we get to air auld Mr. Trayner, and it's thought to be imposin'. Ad perpetuam remanentiam just means to remain forever.”
“I thocht that maybe John might hae the poo'er to treat Kaims as my tocher.”
“Even if he had,” said Mr. Dyce, “a dot, or dos, or tocher, in the honest law of Scotland, was never the price o' the husband's hand; he could only use the fruits o't. He is not entitled to dispose of it, and must restore it intact if unhappily the marriage should at any time be dissolved.”
“Dissolved!” cried the lady. “Fegs! ye're in an awfu' hurry, and the ring no' bought yet. Supposin' I was deein' first?”
“In that case I presume that you would have the succession settled on your husband.”
“On Johnny Cleghom! Catch me! There's sic a thing as—as—as bairns, Mr. Dyce,” and the lady simpered coyly, while the lawyer rose hurriedly to fumble with some books and hide his confusion at such a wild conjecture. He was relieved by the entrance of Bell and Ailie, who stood amazed at the sight of the odd and unexpected visitor.