“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.