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.”
“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?”