“This, Charles,” he said, turning to my cousin, “is a deed settling the sum of five thousand per annum upon you, till my death puts you in possession of the family estates.”
“This, Louis,” he continued, turning to me with the pen still in his hand, “is a deed, settling two thousand per annum upon you for life, and you will find yourself further remembered in my will.”
He stooped to sign the parchment, but I laid my hand upon it saying, boldly, but in a commonplace tone, “Stop, my lord, if you please.”
“Why?” he exclaimed, looking up.
“First,” I answered, “because it is quite an honor, and pleasure enough for me to be your acknowledged grandson; and secondly, because I think it right to inform you, before you do what I could in no degree expect, that I am about to be married. The engagement was formed before I had the slightest idea that I was in any way related to you, otherwise I should certainly have consulted you before I entered into it.”
I could see by Westover’s face that he thought I was going wrong, but I was not. The old man laughed, and said, “Well, boy, I have no objection to your marrying.”
“And any one I like?” I asked.
“And any one you like,” he answered. “I do not carry my superintendence beyond one generation. That is more than enough for any one.”
“Then, my dear and noble lord,” I replied, “let me add, that the one I like, is I am sure, one you will like, too, for she is as generous and as noble-minded as yourself—noble, by birth and by character—a lady in every respect—and well fitted to be admitted into your family.”
“A French-woman!” he said—“a French-woman?”