“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!”