“Oh, Hugh!” she cried. “How can you forgive me? But I am not like other
women. My word--you will know--and then you will forgive me.” Her eyes
were full of tears, her face all aglow.
“There is--there never will be anything to forgive.”
“But I was so foolish--and--I was so foolish.”
“Let us forget, Darthea. I have thy love. God knows it is enough.”
“Thank you, Hugh. Don’t speak to me for a little, please.” And under the
warm August afternoon sky we rode on at a foot-pace, and said no word
more until we came to my aunt’s door. Then Darthea slyly put on her
riding-mask, and we went in.
My aunt had her in her great arms in a moment. The mask fell, and then
my aunt held her off a little, looked from her to me, and said, “Has he
made you cry, sweetheart? He always was a fool. I am very glad. You have
made an old woman’s heart sing with joy. It is not your fault. Hugh’s
silly face was enough. Lord! girl, how pretty you are! Do you suppose
I never was in love? I never was, but I know the signs.” Darthea,
released, was pleased enough to be let go up to my aunt’s room. By and
by she came down, saucy and smiling, and later came Jack, when my
aunt, being too happy to hold her dear old tongue, told him, while poor
Darthea looked at him with a tender gravity I did not understand. He
went away very soon, saying he had business in town, and this is what he
writ that night:
“And so she will have my Hugh, and he the best lady alive. I pray the
good God to keep them from all the sorrows of this world. If he love her
as I love her, she can ask no greater love; and he will--he cannot help
it. Now I will write no more. God bless thee, Darthea!” It was thus a
gallant gentleman loved in those stormy days.
And here, with this dear name, his records close, and there is the date
of August 1, 1782, and a line drawn underneath.
The new relation soon to be established between us of necessity brought
Madam Peniston and my aunt into frequent council. There were matters
of dress to be considerately dealt with, and I was told it must be six
months before orders could be filled from France, England being just
now out of the question. Where the mysteries of women’s garments are
concerned a man hath no better resort than to submit humbly, as to a
doctor or a lawyer. Here of a certainty knowledge is power, and as to
this matter, a man had best learn to conceal amazement under a show of
meekness.
When I ventured to remonstrate Darthea looked serious, and would I ever
have fallen in love with her unless she had laid snares of gown and
ribbon, and how was my love to be kept if for the future there were not
provided a pretty variety of such vanities? Even my Aunt Gainor refused
to discuss the question. I must wait; and as this was the single
occasion known to me when she had declined a hand at the game of talk,
I began to perceive that ignorance is weakness, and so at last, calmly
confessing defeat, I waited until those consulting chose to advise me,
the patient, of their conclusions.
Meanwhile Mrs. Peniston had ceased to grieve over the lost lover and the
great estate--it never was really great.
My aunt could not let go of the notion that we must have a fight for
Wyncote. This tendency to become possessed by an idea, I came to see
later, was a family trait, of value if wisely kept in due place, but
capable, also, of giving rise to mischief. My aunt, in some of her talks
with Darthea’s relatives heard of that good dame’s past regrets at the
loss of a title and estate and a British lover, and of how flattered we
ought to be.
I presume poor Madam Peniston was well and sharply answered; but it was
not in my Aunt Gainor not to boast a little of how we were the elder
branch, and of what might chance in the fairy future. When Mrs. Peniston
saw the deed, and was told of the search my aunt was making for letters
to support our claims, she was too excited not to let out enough to
disturb Darthea, and this although my aunt told Mrs. Peniston of my
dislike of the whole matter, and how it was never to be mentioned or
known to any until more evidence came to light. Thus cautioned, she
was just mysterious enough to excite my quick-witted maid, who was as
curious as any of her sex.
When of course she questioned me, and some notion of the mischief
on hand came thus to my knowledge, I saw at once how it might annoy
Darthea. I said that it merely concerned a question in dispute between
Arthur Wynne’s family and my own, and ought not, I thought, to be
discussed just now. The mere name of her former lover was enough to
silence her, and so I begged her to put it aside. She was willing
enough. I had happier things on my own mind, and no present desire to
stir in the matter. In fact, I wished most earnestly to keep it awhile
from Darthea. How much she knew I could not tell, but I was well aware
that she was, above all things, sensitive as to any reference to Arthur
Wynne. That she had once loved him with the honest love of a strong
nature I knew, and somewhat hated to remember; but this love was dead,
and if the sorry ghost of it haunted her at times, I could not wonder.
My aunt had once or twice mentioned him casually, and each time Darthea
had flushed, and once had asked her never to speak of him again. I meant
soon--or more likely later--to discuss the matter quietly with Darthea;
for then, as always, I held to the notion that the wife should have her
share in every grave decision affecting the honour and interests of her
husband.
After this I spoke most anxiously of the matter to my aunt, and
entreated her to quiet Madam Peniston, and to let the thing rest in my
hands. This she declared most reasonable, but I knew her too well not to
feel uneasy, and indeed the result justified my fears.
My aunt, as I have said, had gone wild a bit over that deed, and when
Darthea was not with her was continually discussing it, and reading over
and over Mr. Wilson’s opinion. I got very tired of it all.
One night, late in October, I rode out from town, and, after a change of
dress, went into the front room with the dear thought in my mind of her
whom I should see.
A welcome fire of blazing hickory logs alone lighted up the large
room, for my aunt liked thus to sit at or after twilight, and as yet no
candles had been set out. As I stood at the door, the leaping flames,
flaring up, sent flitting athwart the floor queer shadows of tall-backed
chairs and spindle-legged tables. The great form of my Aunt Gainor
filled the old Penn chair I had brought from home, liking myself to use
it. Just now, as usual, she was sitting erect, for never did I or any
one else see her use for support the back of a chair. At her feet
lay Darthea, with her head in the old lady’s lap--a pretty picture, I
thought.
Darthea leaped up to run to me. My aunt said nothing, not so much
as “Good-evening,” but went out, and in a minute or two came back,
exclaiming, in an excited way, that she had waited all day, and now at
last she had great news, and we must hear it.
I was bewildered, until I saw she had in one hand the deed and in the
other a bundle of letters. Then I knew what a distressful business was
to be faced, and that it was vain to cry “Stop!”
“What is it?” said Darthea.
“It can wait,” said I, “I insist, Aunt Gainor.”
“Nonsense! The girl must know soon or late, and why not now?”
“I must hear, Hugh,” said Darthea.
“Very well,” I returned, as angry with the old lady as ever I had been
in all my life.
“It is a thing to settle,” cried Aunt Gainor, in her strong voice. “We
must agree--agree on it--all of us.”
“Go on,” said I. And Darthea insisting, I said nothing more, and was
only concerned to be done with it once for all.
“The war will soon end,” said my aunt, “and something must be done.
These letters I have come upon put a new face on the matter. I have not
yet read all of them. But among them are letters to your grandfather of
great importance.”
I was vexed as I have rarely been. “I never doubted, Aunt Gainor, that
in my grandfather’s life some acknowledgments may have passed; but it is
the long lapse of time covered by my father’s life which will fail as to
evidence.”
“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.”