At four punctually arrived my friend the famous lawyer. He was not a handsome man, but possessed a certain distinction, which he owed to a strong face, well-modelled head, and a neatly powdered wig, the hair being tied back, after the fashion of the bar, in a black queue-bag with, at the end, a broad black ribbon. He took the snuff my aunt offered, carefully dusting the excess off the collar of his brown velvet coat, and sat down, saying, as he took some papers from a silk bag, that it was altogether an interesting and curious question, this we had set before him. And why had we held this deed so long and said nothing?
I told him of my father’s and my grandfather’s disinclination to open the matter, and why and how the estate had seemed of little worth, but was now, as I believed, more valuable.
Hearing this he began to question my aunt and me. He learned from our replies that at the time I got the deed from my father none but my parent had any clear idea of what this old family compact meant, but that now we were in possession of such facts as enabled us to understand it. I then went on to make plain that my aunt was full of the matter, and eager, but that I had no inclination at any time to enter on a long and doubtful litigation in another country.
To myself I confessed that I desired no immediate settlement until I saw what Arthur meant to be at. It was one more hold on a scamp still able to do me mischief. If it was clearly his father’s estate and not ours, he should soon or late be relieved of any possible doubt this deed might still make as to questions of title.
When Mr. Wilson turned to my aunt he found a more warlike witness. She delighted in the prospect of a legal contest.
“When a child,” she said, “I used to hear of my father’s having consented to make over or give away to his brother William an embarrassed estate, and that the crown officers were in some way consenting parties to the agreement, my father engaging himself to go to America when let out of jail.
“There is no doubt,” she went on, “that Wyncote was under this arrangement legally transferred by my father to his next brother. Our Welsh cousins must have this conveyance. It seems, from the deed you have examined, that privately a retransfer was made, so as, after all, to leave my father possessed of his ancestral estate. If ever he chose to reclaim it he was free to do so. The affair seems to have become more or less known to the squires in that part of Merionethshire. William was, we presume, unwilling to take an unfair advantage of his brother’s misfortune, and hence the arrangement thus made between them.”
“You state the case admirably,” said the lawyer. “And what else is there?”
“But little. Letters of affection and esteem came and went at long intervals. I recollect hearing bits of them, but cannot say if the estate matter were ever mentioned. After William’s death the correspondence may or may not have ceased. His brother Owen came into the property without interference, and, dying, left a young son, Owen, who is still alive. His son Arthur, Captain Wynne, is to be here today. There are personal matters involved, into which there is no need to go. The Welsh branch is no doubt desirous in some way to clear the matter; but having held the estate for a century, they are, we may presume, not very eager to give it up. In justice to Owen Wynne, I may say that it is probable that because of a long minority he only began, as I think, a few years ago to have any doubt as to his title. I may add,” my aunt went on, “that Captain Wynne came and went during the war, and that only of late has this deed turned up.”
“And your brother is quite unfit to help us?” said Wilson.
“Yes; and unwilling if he were able.”
“I see, madam, I see; a difficult business.”
“And this deed?” said my aunt; “you were about to speak of it.”
“It is,” he replied, “a simple act of sale for one shilling, a reconveyance of Wyncote from William to Hugh, the date October 9, 1671. It is in order, and duly witnessed.”
“Well?”
“As to its present value, Mistress Wynne, there is a consensus of opinion between the Attorney-General and myself.”
“That is to say, you agree,” said my aunt.
“Precisely, madam. It is our belief that the lapse of time has probably destroyed the title. There is no annexed trust, on William’s part, to hold for his brother’s use, and the length of undisputed, or what we lawyers call adverse, possession—something like an hundred years or more—seems to make it impossible for my friends to oust the present holder. Am I clear?”
“Too clear, sir,” said my aunt. “Is that all?”
“No;” I said, “it seems there are other questions, such as the mention of the matter in letters. If the succeeding brothers in letters or otherwise from time to time acknowledged the rights of Hugh Wynne, that might serve to keep alive the claim; if, too, it can be proved that at any time they paid over to Hugh or his son, your brother, madam, rents or dues, as belonging to these American claimants, this too would serve to give some validity to your present claim. It is a question of dates, letters, and of your possession of evidence in the direction of repeated admissions on the part of the Welsh holders.”
My Aunt Gainor was at once confident. Search should be made. She had some remembrance in her childhood of this and that. In fact, my aunt never admitted the existence of obstacles, and commonly refused to see them. Mr. Wilson shook his head dubiously. “There seems to have been negligence or a quite culpable indifference, madam. The time to be covered by admissions is long, and the statutes of 32 Henry VIII. and 21 James I., 1623, do, I fear, settle the matter. The lapse in the continuity of evidence will be found after the death of Hugh. Twenty years will suffice, and I am forced to admit that your claim seems to me of small value. It was simply an estate given away, owing to want of the simplest legal advice.”
“Wait until I look through our papers,” said my aunt. “We are not done with it yet, nor shall be, if I have my way, until the courts have had a chance to decide.”
“It will be mere waste of money, my dear lady. Now, at least, you can do nothing. The war is not over, and when it is, none but an English court can settle the title. I confess it seems to be a case for amicable compromise.”
“There shall be none—none,” said my aunt.
“And we are just where we began,” said I.
“Not quite,” he returned. “You may have a case, but it seems to me a weak one, and may lie in chancery a man’s lifetime. I, as a friend as well as a lawyer, knowing you have no need of the estate, hesitate to advise you to engage in a suit of ejectment. I should rather counsel—ah, that may be Mr. Wynne.”
It was a clamorous knock at the hall door, which caused Mr. Wilson to cut short his advice with the statement that it would need longer discussion, and that this must be the other party.
It was, in fact, my cousin, who was set down in a chair, as I saw by a glance through the window. When Jack and I had seen him at his inn he had been a little in liquor, and wore a sort of long chintz bedgown wrapper, with his waistcoat buttoned awry—not a very nice figure. He was now Arthur Wynne at his best. He stood a moment in the doorway, as beautiful a piece of manhood as ever did the devil’s work. His taste in all matters of dress and outer conduct was beyond dispute, and for this family meeting he had apparently made ready with unusual care. Indeed this, my last remembrance of Arthur Wynne, is of a figure so striking that I cannot resist to say just how he looked. His raiment was costly enough to have satisfied Polonius; if it bore any relation to his purse, I know not. It was not “expressed in fancy,” as was that of the macaroni dandy of those early days. He knew better. As he stood he carried in his left hand a dark beaver edged with gold lace. His wig was small, and with side rolls well powdered, the queue tied with a lace-bordered red ribbon. In front a full Mechlin lace jabot, with the white wig above, set his regular features and dark skin in a frame, as it were, his paleness and a look of melancholy in the eyes helping the natural beauty and distinction of a face high bred and haughty. The white silk flowered waistcoat, the bunch of gold seals below it, the claret-tinted velvet coat and breeches, the black silk clocked hose with gold buckles at ankle and knee, and a silver-hilted dress-sword in a green shagreen sheath, complete my picture. I wish you to see him as I saw him, that in a measure you may comprehend why his mere personal charms were such as to attract and captivate women.
He came forward with his right hand on his heart and bowed to my aunt, who swept him a space-filling curtsey, as he said quite pleasantly, “Good-afternoon, Cousin Gainor; your servant, Mr. Wilson.” To me he bent slightly, but gave no other greeting. It was all easy, tranquil, and without sign of embarrassment, As he spoke he moved toward the table, on which Mr. Wilson had laid his papers and bag. Now, as always, a certain deliberate feline grace was in all his movements.
“For a truth, he is a beauty,” said my Aunt Gainor after our meeting was over. “And well-proportioned, but no bit of him Wynne. He has not our build.” Nor had he.
“Pray be seated,” said my aunt. “I have asked my friend and counsel, Mr. James Wilson, to be present, that he may impartially set before you a family matter, in which your father may have interest. My nephew, Hugh Wynne, is here at my earnest solicitation. I regret that Mr. Chew is unable, by reason of engagements, to do me a like favour. Mr. Wilson will have the kindness to set before you the nature of the case.”
Mistress Wynne, sitting straight and tall in a high cap, spoke with dignified calmness.
“At your service, madam,” said the lawyer, looking Arthur over with the quick glance of a ready observer. Before he could go on to do as he was bidden I found my chance to say, “You will be so good, Mr. Wilson, as to state Mr. Owen Wynne’s case, as well as our own, with entire frankness; we have no desire to wrong any, and least of all one of our blood.”
“I think I understand you fully,” said Wilson. “A deed has been put in the hands of Mr. Attorney-General Chew and myself, and as to its value and present validity an opinion has been asked by Mistress Wynne and her nephew.”
“Pardon me,” said Arthur; “is not my Cousin John the proper person to consider this question?”
“Assuredly,” returned Mr. Wilson, “if his state of mind permitted either his presence or an opinion. No interests will be affected by his absence, nor can we do more than acquaint those who are now here with what, as lawyers, we think.”
“I see,” said Arthur. “Pray go on.”
“This deed seems to convey to my client’s grandfather—that is to say, Mistress Wynne’s father—certain lands situate in Merionethshire, Wales. I understand that you, sir, represent the present holder.”
“I am,” said Arthur, “the son of the gentleman now in possession of Wyncote, and have full permission to act for him. If, indeed, you desire further to learn on what authority—”
“Not at all, not at all,” interposed Wilson. “Your presence suffices; no more is needed. This meeting commits no one.”
“I was about to ask the date of this document,” said Arthur.
“Certainly; here it is.” And so saying the lawyer spread the deed out on the table. “It is a conveyance from William Wynne to Hugh of that name; the date, 1671, October 9; the witnesses are Henry Owen and Thomas ap Roberts. It is voluminous. Do you desire to hear it?”
“No; oh no! What next?”
“We believe,” continued the lawyer, “that this deed has ceased to have effect, owing to lapse of time and the appearance—pray note my words—the appearance of undisputed ownership by the younger branch. Neither is there any trust to hold the estate for Hugh; it is a mere conveyance.”
“There can be, of course, no doubt,” returned Arthur—“I mean as to a century of unquestioned possession.”
“I am not secure as to the point you make,” said Mr. Wilson, courteously. “I cannot now decide. I am asked to state the matter impartially. My clients wish justice done to all, and will take no unfair advantage. It may be you have no case. There may have passed frequent letters on both sides, admitting the claim or reasserting it, and thus keeping it alive. Rents may have been paid. Facts like these may open questions as to the length of undisputed holding. Only your own courts can decide it, and that with all the evidence before them.”
“I am obliged by your frankness,” said my cousin. “I had hoped to see the matter fully settled.”
“That will never be,” said my aunt, “until I have carried it through every court in England.”
“As you please,” replied Arthur.
“Mr. Wynne,” said I, “while my father lives we shall do nothing; nor even afterward, perhaps. I do not want the money, nor the old home. What is done may depend much on your own actions, sir.” I had no desire to lose this hold on him. As I spoke I saw him look up astonished, as was also, I thought, the lawyer, who knew nothing of our quarrels.
“If,” said I, “you had come to us frankly at first, and stated why you came, we should have said what I now say. No, I should have said far more. I believe this ends the matter for the present.” My aunt lifted her hand, but I added, “I pray you let it rest here, aunt,” and for a wonder she held her peace.
Arthur, too, seemed about to speak, but his worse or better angel, I know not which, prevailed, and quietly saluting us all, he rose and took his leave.
“We shall see when this war is over,” said my aunt, taking the deed. “Many thanks, Mr. Wilson; I should like to have your opinion in writing.”
“I shall send it in a week or two. Mr. Arthur Wynne seems to have come over, as I judge from what he said, with authority to act for his father. Why he did not at once relate his errand I cannot see. Had you had no deed it would have closed the matter. If he found you had one he would have been only in the position he is now in to-day.”
“I fancy he may have been fearful and over-cautious, not comprehending the nature of those he had to deal with,” said I. “You must have known him as I do, Mr. Wilson, to understand his actions. I was sorry you did not let him tell us what powers he really had. I was curious.”
“Yes, yes, I interrupted him. It was a mistake.” And so saying he rose.
“It shall not rest here,” said my aunt. “Something shall be done.” And on this I too went away, declining further talk.
When Arthur came over to learn what he could as to their title to Wyncote, he failed to see that we were people whom no prospect of gain could lead into the taking of an advantage. He thus lost the chance a little honest directness would have given him. When later my father threw in his way the opportunity of absolute security as to the title, the temptation to get secretly from him a legal transfer, or—God knows—perhaps the power to destroy the deed, was too much for a morally weak and quite reckless nature. I was the sole obstacle, or I seemed to be. We loved the same woman; she had begun to doubt her English lover. If I had died he had become assured, not only of the possession of Wyncote, but of being ultimately my father’s heir.
Of this Jack writes: “Here was a whole brigade of temptations, and he could not stand it. He would have broken that tender heart I loved. God help me! I think I should have killed him before he had the cruel chance.”
If to the estate and other worldly baits was added the remembrance of the me, and as sure that I had as little love for him.
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