“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 God! 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 spacious 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 ass! 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:
“Yes, I am your mother, child, and always will be.” But ever after
Mistress Wynne was a trifle afraid of my little lady, and there were no
more such scenes.
When my aunt was gone away to bed, though not to sleep, I fear, my dear
maid came and sat at my feet on a cushion, and for a time was silent. At
last, looking up, she said, “Hugh, was I wrong to burn it!”
Then I was silent a little while, but from the first I was resolved to
be ever outright and plain with my lady, who was impulsive, and would
need help and counsel and government, that her character might grow,
as it did in after-years. I said: “Yes, Darthea. It is better for me to
tell you the simple truth. It would have made no difference had the deed
been left undestroyed; it would only have given you the chance to know
me better, and to learn that no consideration would have made me take
these lands, even had our title been clear. Now you have destroyed my
power of choice. I am not angry, not even vexed; but another time trust
me, dear.”
“I see! I see!” she exclaimed. “What have I done?” And she began to sob.
“I was--was wicked not to trust you, and foolish; and now I see Aunt
Gainor had reason to be angry. But you are good and brave to tell me.
I could not have said what you said; I should have declared you were
right. And now I know it was weakness, not strength, that made me do it.
I shall pray God to forgive me. Kiss me, Hugh; I love you twice as much
as ever I did before.”
When I had done her sweet bidding, I said, “Darthea, let us forget all
this. Wrong or right, I at least am pleased to have the thing at rest
forever; and, wrong or right; I thank you. I was honest, Darthea, when I
said so; and now good-night.” At this she looked me in the eyes and went
slowly out of the room, and, I fear, had no better slumbers than my Aunt
Gainor.