Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker Part 58

"It shall not!" she cried. "You shall be mistress of Wyncote, Darthea.

These letters--"

"I? Wyncote?" said Darthea.

"Let us discuss them alone, aunt," I urged, hoping to get the matter put aside for a time.

"No; I will wait no longer. I am deeply concerned, and I wish Darthea to hear."

"Why not refer it to Mr. Wilson? Unless these letters cover far more of a century than seems likely, they cannot alter the case."

"That is to be determined," said the old lady. "I shall go to England and settle it there. You shall be Wynne of Wyncote yet, sir."

"What! what!" cried Darthea. "What does all this mean? Tell me, Hugh.

Why is it kept from me?" It was plain that soon or late she must know.

"My aunt thinks Wyncote belongs to us. There is an old deed, and my aunt will have it we must go to law over it. It is a doubtful matter, Darthea--as to the right, I mean. I have no wish to stir it up, nor to leave my own land if we were to win it."

I saw Darthea flush, and in a moment she was at my aunt's side.

"Stop!" said I. "Remember, dear, I have not hid it from you. I desired only that some day you and I should consider it alone and tranquilly.

But now there is no help for it, and you must hear. The deed--"

"Is this it?" she broke in, taking the yellow parchment off the table where my aunt had laid it.

"Yes, yes," said my aunt; "and you must bring Hugh to his senses about it, my dear. It is a great estate, and rich, and the old house--we have its picture, Darthea. Madam Wynne of Wyncote, I shall come and visit you." The old lady was flushed, and foolishly eager over this vain ambition.

Darthea stood in the brilliant firelight, her eyes set on the deed. "I cannot understand it," she said.

"I will send for candles," cried Mistress Wynne, "and you shall hear it, and the letters too;" and with this she rang a hand-bell, and bade Caesar fetch lights.

I looked on, distressed and curious.

"And this," said Darthea, "is the deed, and it may give you, Hugh--give us the lands?"

"But _I_ do not want it," cried my aunt, greatly excited. "It is to be Hugh's. Yours, my dear child."

"If," said Darthea, speaking slowly, "the elder brother dies, as he surely will before long, it will be--it will be Arthur Wynne who, on his father's death, will inherit this estate?"

"That is it," said my aunt. "But he shall never have it. It is ours. It is Hugh's."

My dear maid turned to me. "And it would be ours," said Darthea, "if--"

"Yes," cried Miss Wynne. "There are no 'ifs.'"

"Do you want it, Hugh--these Welsh lands?" asked Darthea.

I thought she looked anxiously at the deed in her hand as she stood.

"Not I, Darthea, and least of all now. Not I."

"No," she went on; "you have taken the man's love from him--I think he did love me, Hugh, in his way--you could not take his estate; now could you, Hugh?"

"No!" said I; "no!"

"Darthea, are you mad?" said Aunt Wynne.

"I will not have it!" cried Darthea. "I say I will not have it, and it concerns me most, madam." I had never before seen her angry. "Do you love me, Hugh Wynne?" she cried. "Do you love me, sir?"

"Darthea!"

"Will you always love me?"

"Dear child!" I exclaimed. "What is it?"

"Give me that deed," said my aunt. "Are you crazy fools, both of you?"

"Fools, Mistress Wynne?" said Darthea, turning from me, the deed still in her hand. "You are cruel and unkind. Could I marry Hugh Wynne if he did this thing? Are there no decencies in life, madam, that are above being sold for money and name? I should never marry him if he did this thing--never; and I mean to marry him, madam." And with this she unrolled the deed, crumpled it up, and threw it on the red blaze of the fire.

There was a flash of flame and a roar in the chimney. It was gone in a moment, and our Welsh lands were so much smoke and cinders.

My aunt made a wild rush to rescue them, but struck her head against the chimney-shelf, and fell back into a chair, crying, "You idiot! you fool!

You shall never marry him!"

I picked up the slim little lady in my arms, and kissed her over and over, whilst, as she struggled away, I whispered:

"Thank G.o.d! Dear, brave heart! It was well done, and I thank you."

My aunt's rage knew no bounds, and I may not repeat what she said to my Darthea, who stood open-eyed, defiant, and flushed.

I begged the furious old lady to stop. A whirlwind were as easily checked. At last, when she could say no more, my dear maid said quietly:

"What I have done, Hugh should have done long since. We are to live together, I trust, madam, for many years, and I love you well; but you have said things to me not easy to forget. I beg to insist that you apologise. For lighter things men kill one another. I await, madam, your excuses."

It was a fine sight to see how this fiery little bit of a woman faced my tall, strong aunt, who towered above her, her large face red with wrath.

"Never!" she cried. "I have been--it is I who am insulted and put to shame, in my own house, by a chit of a miss."

"Then good-by," said Darthea, and was by me and out of the house before I could see what to do or know what to say.

"She is gone!" I cried. "Oh, Aunt Gainor, you have broken my heart!"

"What did I say, Hugh?" said my aunt. I do truly think she did not know what she had said; and now she was off and I after her, knocking over Caesar and our belated candles, and out of doors after Darthea. I saw her join her a few yards away, and did wisely to hold back. I knew well the child-heart my aunt carried within that s.p.a.cious bosom.

What the pair of them said I do not know. In a few minutes they were back again, both in tears, the whole wretched business at an end. I thought it better to go away and leave them, but my aunt cried out:

"Wait, sir! I am an old a.s.s! If either of you ever mention this thing again, I--I will wring your necks. I make free to say that some day you will both regret it; but it is your affair and not mine. O Lord! if Cat Ferguson ever comes to know it--"

"She never will," said Darthea; "and we will love you and love you, dear, dear mother, and I am sorry I hurt you; but I had to--I had to. If I was wise, I know not; but I had to end it--I had to."

Never before had I heard the sweet woman call my aunt mother. She often did so in after-years. It melted the old spinster, and she fell to kissing her, saying: