“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.”