Part 58 (1/2)

”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.”