The next moment Griffith's tread was heard approaching the very door, and Leicester darted into the housekeeper's room, and hid in a cupboard there.
Griffith opened the kitchen door, and stood upon the threshold.
The women curtseyed to him, and were loud in welcome.
He returned their civilities briefly; and then his first word was—"Hath Thomas Leicester been here?"
You know how servants stick together against their master. The girls looked him in the face, like candid doves, and told him Leicester had not been that way for six months or more.
Why, I have tracked him to within two miles," said Griffith, doubtfully.
"Then he is sure to come here," said Jane, adroitly. "He wouldn't ever think to go by us."
"The moment he enters the house you let me know. He is a mischief-making loon."
He then asked for a horn of ale; and, as he finished it, Ryder came in, and he turned to her, and asked her after her mistress.
"She is well, just now," said Ryder; "but she has been took with a spasm: and it would be well, sir, if you could dress, and entertain the company in her place awhile. For I must tell you your being so long away hath set their tongues going, and almost broken my lady's heart."
Griffith sighed, and said he could not help it, and now he was here, he would do all in his power to please her. I'll go to her at once," said he.
"No, sir!" said Ryder, firmly. "Come with me. I want to speak to you."
She took him to his bachelor's room, and stayed a few minutes to talk to him.
"Master," said she, solemnly; "things are very serious here. Why did you stay so long away? Our Dame says some woman is at the bottom of it, and she'll put a knife into you if you come a nigh her."
This threat did not appall Griffith, as Ryder expected. Indeed, he seemed rather flattered.
"Poor Kate!" said he, "she is just the woman to do it. But I am afraid she does not love me enough for that. But indeed how should she?"
"Well, sir," replied Ryder, "oblige me by keeping clear of her for a little while. I have got orders to make your bed here. Now, dress, like a good soul, and then go down and show respect to the company that is in your house; for they know you are here."
"Why, that is the least I can do," said Griffith. "Put you out what I am to wear, and then run and say I'll be with them anon."
Griffith walked into the dining-room, and, somewhat to his surprise, after what Ryder had said, found Mrs. Gaunt seated at the head of her own table, and presiding like a radiant queen over a brilliant assembly.
He walked in, and made a low bow to his guests first: then he approached, to greet his wife more freely; but she drew back decidedly, and made him a curtsy, the dignity and distance of which struck the whole company.
Sir George Neville, who was at the bottom of the table, proposed, with his usual courtesy, to resign his place to Griffith. But Mrs. Gaunt forbade the arrangement.
"No, Sir George," said she, "this is but an occasional visitor: you are my constant friend."
If this had been said pleasantly, well and good; but the guests looked in vain into their hostess's face for the smile that ought to have accompanied so strange a speech and disarmed it.
"Rarities are the more welcome," said a lady, coming to the rescue; and edged aside to make room for him.
"Madam," said Griffith, "I am in your debt for that explanation; but I hope you will be no rarity here, for all that."
Supper proceeded; but the mirth languished. Somehow or other, the chill fact that there was a grave quarrel between two at the table, and those two man and wife, insinuated itself into the spirits of the guests.
There began to be lulls: fatal lulls. And in one of these, some unlucky voice was heard to murmur, "Such a meeting of man and wife, I never saw."
The hearers felt miserable at this personality, that fell upon the ear of Silence like a thunderbolt.
Griffith was ill-advised enough to notice the remark, though clearly not intended for his ears. For one thing, his jealousy had actually revived at the cool preference Kate had shown his old rival, Neville.
"Oh!" said he, bitterly, "a man is not always his wife's favorite."
"He does not always deserve to he," said Mrs. Gaunt, sternly.
When matters had gone that length, one idea seemed to occur pretty simultaneously to all the well-bred guests: and that idea was,Sauve qui peut.
Mrs. Gaunt took leave of them, one by one, and husband and wife were left alone.
Mrs. Gaunt by this time was alarmed at the violence of her own passions, and wished to avoid Griffith for that night at all events. So she cast one terribly stern look upon him, and was about to retire in grim silence. But he, indignant at the public affront she had put on him, and not aware of the true cause, unfortunately detained her. He said, sulkily, "What sort of a reception was that you gave me?"
This was too much. She turned on him furiously. "Too good for thee, thou heartless creature! Thomas Leicester is here, and I know thee for a villain."
"You know nothing," cried Griffith. "Would you believe that mischief-making knave? What has he told you?"
"Go back to her!" cried Mrs. Gaunt furiously. "Me you can deceive and pillage no more. So, this was your jealousy! False and forsworn yourself, you dared to suspect and insult me. Ah! and you think I am the woman to endure this? I'll have your life for it! I'll have your life."
Griffith endeavored to soften her; protested that, notwithstanding appearances, he had never loved but her.
"I'll soon be rid of you, and your love," said the raging woman. "The constables shall come for you to-morrow. You have seen how I can love, you shall know how I can hate."
She then, in her fury, poured out a torrent of reproaches and threats that made his blood run cold. He could not answer her: hehadsuspected her wrongfully, and been false to her himself. Hehadabused her generosity, and taken her money for Mercy Vint.
After one or two vain efforts to check the torrent, he sank into a chair, and hid his face in his hands.
But this did not disarm her, at the time. Her raging voice and raging words were heard by the very servants, long after he had ceased to defend himself.
At last she came out, pale with fury, and finding Ryder near the door, shrieked out, "Take that reptile to his den, if he is mean enough to lie in this house:" then, lowering her voice, "and bring Thomas Leicester to me."
Ryder went to Leicester, and told him. But he objected to come. "You have betrayed me," said he. "Curse my weak heart, and my loose tongue. I have done the poor Squire an ill turn. I can never look him in the face again. But 'tis all thy fault, double-face. I hate the sight of thee."
At this Ryder shed some crocodile tears; and very soon, by her blandishments, obtained forgiveness.
And Leicester, since the mischief was done, was persuaded to see the Dame, who was his recent benefactor, you know. He bargained, however, that the Squire should be got to bed first, for he had a great dread of meeting him. "He'll break every bone in my skin," said Tom; "or else I shall dohima mischief in my defense."
Ryder herself saw the wisdom of this: she bade him stay quiet, and she went to look after Griffith.
She found him in the drawing-room, with his head on the table, in deep dejection.
She assumed authority, and said he must go to bed.
He rose humbly, and followed her like a submissive dog.
She took him to his room. There was no fire.
"That is where you are to sleep," said she, spitefully.
"It is better than I deserve," said he, humbly.
The absurd rule about not hitting a man when he is down, has never obtained a place in the great female soul; so Ryder lashed him without mercy.
"Well, sir," said she, "methinks you have gained little by breaking faith with me. Y' had better have set up your inn with me, than gone and sinned against the law."
"Much better: would to Heaven I had!"
"What d'ye mean to do now? You know the saying. Between two stools—."
"Child," said Griffith, faintly, "methinks I shall trouble neither long. I am not so ill a man as I seem; but who will believe that? I shall not live long. And I shall leave an ill name behind me.Shetold me so just now. And, oh, her eye was so cruel; I saw my death in it."
"Come, come," said Ryder, relenting a little, "you mustn't believe every word an angry woman says. There, take my advice; go to bed; and in the morning don't speak to her; keep out of her way a day or two."
And with this piece of friendly advice she left him; and waited about till she thought he was in bed and asleep.
Then she brought Thomas Leicester up to her mistress.
But Griffith was not in bed; and he heard Leicester's heavy tread cross the landing. He waited and waited behind his door for more than half an hour, and then he heard the same heavy tread go away again.
By this time nearly all the inmates of the house were asleep.
About twenty-five minutes after Leicester left Mrs. Gaunt, Caroline Ryder stole quietly upstairs from the kitchen; and sat down to think it all over.
She then proceeded to undress: but had only taken off her gown, when she started and listened; for a cry of distress reached her from outside the house.
She darted to the window and threw it open.
Then she heard a cry more distinct. "Help! help!"
It was a clear starlight night, but no moon.
The mere shone before her, and the cries were on the bank.
Now came something more alarming still. A flash: a pistol shot: and an agonized voice cried loudly, "Murder! Help! Murder!"
That voice she knew directly. It was Griffith Gaunt's.
Ryder ran screaming, and alarmed the other servants.
All the windows that looked on the mere were hung open.
But no more sounds were heard. A terrible silence brooded now over those clear waters.
The female servants huddled together, and quaked; for who could doubt that a bloody deed had been done?
It was some time before they mustered the presence of mind to go and tell Mrs. Gaunt. At last they opened her door. She was not in her room.
Ryder ran to Griffith's. It was locked.
She called to him. He made no reply.
They burst the door open. He was not there: and the window was open.
While their tongues were all going, in consternation, Mrs. Gaunt was suddenly among them, very pale.
They turned, and looked at her aghast.
"What means all this?" said she. "Did I not hear cries outside?"
"Ay," said Ryder: "Murder! and a pistol fired. Oh, my poor master!"
Mrs. Gaunt was white as death; but self-possessed. "Light torches this moment, and search the place," said she.
There was only one man in the house, and he declined to go out alone. So Ryder and Mrs. Gaunt went with him, all three bearing lighted links.
They searched the place where Ryder had heard the cries. They went up and down the whole bank of the mere, and east their torches; red light over the placid waters themselves. But there was nothing to be seen, alive or dead; no trace either of calamity or crime.
They roused the neighbors, and came back to the house with their clothes all draggled and dirty.
Mrs. Gaunt took Ryder apart, and asked her if she could guess at what time of the night Griffith had made his escape.
"He is a villain," said she, "yet I would not have him come to harm, God knows. There are thieves abroad. But I hope he ran away as soon as your back was turned, and so fell not in with them."
"Humph!" said Ryder. Then, looking Mrs. Gaunt In the face, she said, quietly, "Where were you when you heard the cries?"
"I was on the other side of the house."
"What, out o'doors, at that time of night!"
"Ay; I was in the grove. Praying."
"Did you hear any voice you knew?"
"No: all was too indistinct. I heard a pistol, but no words. Did you?"
"I heard no more than you, madam," said Ryder, trembling.
No one went to bed any more that night in Hernshaw Castle.
This mysterious circumstance made a great talk in the village, and in the kitchen of Hernshaw Castle; but not in the drawing-room: for Mrs. Gaunt instantly closed her door to visitors, and let it be known that it was her intention to retire to a convent; and, in the meantime, she desired not to be disturbed.
Ryder made one or two attempts to draw her out upon the subject, but was sternly checked.
Pale, gloomy, and silent, the mistress of Hernshaw Castle moved about the place like the ghost of her former self. She never mentioned Griffith; forbade his name to be uttered in her hearing; and, strange to say, gave Ryder strict orders not to tell any one what she had heard from Thomas Leicester.
"This last insult is known but to you and me. If it ever gets abroad, you leave my service that very hour."
This injunction set Ryder thinking. However, she obeyed it to the letter. Her place was getting better and better; and she was a woman accustomed to keep secrets.
A pressing letter came from Mr. Atkins.
Mrs. Gaunt replied that her husband had come to Hernshaw, but had left again; and the period of his ultimate return was now more uncertain than ever.
On this Mr. Atkins came down to Hernshaw Castle. But Mrs. Gaunt would not see him. He retired very angry; and renewed his advertisements, but in a more explicit form. He now published that Griffith Gaunt, of Hernshaw and Bolton, was executor and residuary legatee to the late Griffith Gaunt, of Coggleswade: and requested him to apply directly to James Atkins, Solicitor, of Gray's Inn, London.
In due course this advertisement was read by the servants at Hernshaw; and shown, by Ryder, to Mrs. Gaunt.
She made no comment whatever; and contrived to render her pale face impenetrable.
Ryder became as silent and thoughtful as herself, and often sat bending her black judicial brows.
By-and-by dark mysterious words began to be thrown out in Hernshaw village.
"He will never come back at all."
"He will never come into that fortune."
"'Tis no use advertising for a man that is past reading."
These, and the like equivocal sayings, were followed by a vague buzz, which was traceable to no individual author, but seemed to rise on all sides, like a dark mist, and envelope that unhappy house.
And that dark mist of Rumor soon condensed itself into a palpable and terrible whisper, "Griffith Gaunt hath met with foul play."
No one of the servants told Mrs. Gaunt this horrid rumor.
But the women used to look at her, and after her, with strange eyes.
She noticed this, and felt, somehow, that her people were falling away from her. It added one drop to her bitter cup. She began to droop into a sort of calm despondent lethargy.
Then came fresh trouble to rouse her.
Two of the county magistrates called on her in their official capacity, and, with perfect politeness, but a very grave air, requested her to inform them of all the circumstances attending her husband's disappearance.
She replied, coldly and curtly, that she knew very little about it. Her husband had left in the middle of the night.
"He came to stay?"
"I believe so."
"Came on horseback?"
"Yes."
"Did he go away on horseback?"
"No: for the horse is now in my stable."
"Is it true there was a quarrel between you and him that evening?"
"Gentlemen," said Mrs. Gaunt, drawing herself back, haughtily, "did you come here to gratify your curiosity?"
"No, madam," said the elder of the two; "but to discharge a very serious and painful duty, in which I earnestly request you, and even advise you, to aid us. Was there a quarrel?"
"There was—a mortal quarrel."
The gentlemen exchanged glances and the elder made a note.
"May we ask the subject of that quarrel?"
Mrs. Gaunt declined, positively, to enter into a matter so delicate.
A note was taken of this refusal.
"Are you aware, madam, that your husband's voice was heard calling for help, and that a pistol-shot was fired?"
Mrs. Gaunt trembled visibly.
"I heard the pistol shot," said she, "but not the voice distinctly. Oh, I hope it was not his voice Ryder heard."
"Ryder, who is he?"
"Ryder is my lady's-maid: her bedroom is on that side the house."
"Can we see Mrs. Ryder?"
"Certainly," said Mrs. Gaunt, and rose and rang the bell.
Mrs. Ryder answered the bell, in person, very promptly; for she was listening at the door.
Being questioned, she told the magistrates what she had heard down by the mere and said she was sure it was her master's voice that cried "Help!" and "Murder!" And with this she began to cry.
Mrs. Gaunt trembled and turned pale.
The magistrates confined their questions to Ryder.
They elicited, however, very little more from her. She saw the drift of their questions, and had an impulse to defend her mistress there present. Behind her back it would have been other-wise.
That resolution once taken, two children might as well have tried to extract evidence from her as two justices of the peace.
And then Mrs. Gaunt's pale face and noble features touched them. The case was mysterious, but no more; and they departed little the wiser and with some apologies for the trouble they had given her.
The next week down came Mr. Atkins out of all patience, and determined to find Griffith Gaunt, or else obtain some proof of his decease.
He obtained two interviews with Ryder, and bribed her to tell him all she knew. He prosecuted other inquiries with more method than had hitherto been used, and elicited an important fact, viz., that Griffith Gaunt had been seen walking in a certain direction at one o'clock in the morning, followed at a short distance by a tall man with a knapsack, or the like, on his back.
The person who gave this tardy information was the wife of a certain farmer's man, who wired hares upon the sly. The man himself, being assured that, in a case so serious as this, no particular inquiries should be made how he came to be out so late, confirmed what his wife had let out, and added that both men had taken the way that would lead them to the bridge, meaning the bridge over the mere. More than that he could not say, for he hadmetthem, and was full half a mile from the mere, before those men could have reached it.
Following up this clue, Mr. Atkins learned so many ugly things, that he went to the Bench on justicing day, and demanded a full and searching inquiry on the premises.
Sir George Neville, after in vain opposing this, rode off straight from the Bench to Hernshaw, and in feeling terms conveyed the bad news to Mrs. Gaunt; and then, with the utmost delicacy, let her know that some suspicion rested upon herself, which she would do well to meet with the bold front of innocence.
"What suspicion, pray?" said Mrs. Gaunt, haughtily.
Sir George shrugged his shoulders, and replied, "That you have done Gaunt the honor—to put him out of the way."
Mrs. Gaunt took this very differently from what Sir George expected.
"What!" she cried, "are they so sure he is dead? murdered!"
And with this, she went into a passion of grief and remorse.
Even Sir George was puzzled, as well as affected, by her convulsive agitation.
Though it was known the proposed inquiry might result in the committal of Mrs. Gaunt on a charge of murder, yet the respect in which she had hitherto been held, and the influence of Sir George Neville, who having been her lover, stoutly maintained her innocence, prevailed so far, that even this inquiry was private, and at her own house. Only she was present in the character of a suspected person, and the witnesses were examined before her.
First, the poacher gave his evidence.
Then, Jane the cook proved, that a pedlar called Thomas Leicester had been in the kitchen, and secreted about the premises till a late hour; and this Thomas Leicester corresponded exactly to the description given by the poacher.
This threw suspicion on Thomas Leicester, but did not connect Mrs. Gaunt with the deed in any way.
But Ryder's evidence filled this gap. She revealed three serious facts:—
First, that, by her mistress's orders, she had introduced this very Leicester into her mistress's room about midnight, where he had remained nearly half an hour, and had then left the house.
Secondly, that Mrs. Gaunt herself had been out of doors after midnight.
And, thirdly, that she had listened at the door, and heard her threaten Griffith Gaunt's life.
This is a mere précis of the evidence, and altogether it looked so suspicious, that the magistrates, after telling Mrs. Gaunt she could ask the witnesses any question she chose, a suggestion she treated with marked contempt, put their heads together a moment, and whispered. Then the eldest of them, Mr. Underhill, who lived at a considerable distance, told her gravely he must commit her to take her trial at the next assizes.
"Do what you conceive to be your duty, gentlemen," said Mrs. Gaunt, with marvellous dignity. "If I do not assert my innocence, it is because I disdain the accusation too much."
"I shall take no part in the committal of this innocent lady," said Sir George Neville: and was about to leave the room.
But Mrs. Gaunt begged him to stay. "To be guilty, is one thing," said she, "to be accused, is another: I shall go to prison as easy as to my dinner, and to the gallows as to my bed."
The presiding magistrate was staggered a moment by these words; and it was not without considerable hesitation he took the warrant, and prepared to fill it up.
Then Mr. Houseman, who had watched the proceedings very keenly, put in his word. "I am here for the accused person, sir, and, with your good leave, object to her committal—on grounds of law."
"What may they be, Mr. Houseman?" said the magistrate, civilly; and laid his pen down to hear them.
"Briefly, sir, these. Where a murder is proven, you can commit a subject of this realm upon suspicion. But you cannot suspect the murder as well as the culprit, and so commit. The murder must be proved to the senses. Now in this case the death of Mr. Gaunt by violence is not proved. Indeed his very death rests but upon suspicion. I admit that the law of England in this respect has once or twice been tampered with, and persons have even been executed where no corpus delicti was found; but what was the consequence? In each ease the murdered man turned out to be alive, and justice was the only murderer. After Harrison's case, and *'s, no Cumberland jury will ever commit for murder, unless the corpus delicti has been found, and with signs of violence upon it. Come, come, Mr. Atkins, you are too good a lawyer, and too humane a man, to send my client to prison on the suspicion of a suspicion, which you know the very breath of the judge will blow away, even if the grand jury let it go into court. I offer bail, ten thousand pounds in two sureties; Sir George Neville here present, and myself."
The magistrate looked at Mr. Atkins.
"I am not employed by the Crown," said that gentleman, "but acting on mere civil grounds, and have no right nor wish to be severe. Bail by all means; but is the lady so sure of her innocence as to lend me her assistance to find the corpus delicti?"
The question was so shrewdly put, that any hesitation would have ruined Mrs. Gaunt.
Houseman, therefore, replied eagerly and promptly, "I answer for her, she will."
Mrs. Gaunt bowed her head in assent.
"Then," said Atkins, "I ask leave to drag, and, if need be, to drain, that piece of water there, called 'the mere.'"
"Drag it, or drain it, which you will," said Houseman.
Said Atkins, very impressively, "And, mark my words, at the bottom of that very sheet of water there, I shall find the remains of the late Griffith Gaunt."
At these solemn words, coming, as they did, not from a loose unprofessional speaker, but from a lawyer, a man who measured all his words, a very keen observer might have seen a sort of tremor run all through Mr. Houseman's frame. The more admirable was the perfect coolness and seeming indifference with which he replied.
"Find him, and I'll admit suicide; find him, with signs of violence, and I'll admit homicide, by some person or persons unknown."
All further remarks were interrupted by bustle and confusion.
Mrs. Gaunt had fainted dead away.
Of course pity was the first feeling; but, by the time Mrs. Gaunt revived, her fainting, so soon after Mr. Atkins's proposal, had produced a sinister effect on the minds of all present; and every face showed it, except the wary Houseman's.
On her retiring, it broke out first in murmurs, then in plain words.
As for Mr. Atkins, he now showed the moderation of an able man who feels he has a strong cause.
He merely said, "I think there should be constables about, in case of an escape being attempted; but I agree with Mr. Houseman, that your worships will be quite justified in taking bail, provided the corpus delicti should not be found. Gentlemen, you were most of you neighbors and friends of the deceased, and are, I am sure, lovers of justice: I do entreat you to aid me in searching that piece of water, by the side of which the deceased gentleman was heard to cry for help; and, much I fear, he cried in vain."
The persons thus appealed to entered into the matter with all the ardor of just men, whose curiosity as well as justice is inflamed.
A set of old rusty drags was found on the premises: and men went punting up and down the mere, and dragged it.
Rude hooks were made by the village blacksmith, and fitted to cart-ropes; another boat was brought to Hernshaw in a wagon, and all that afternoon the bottom of the mere was raked; and some curious things fished up. But no dead man.
The next clay a score of amateur drags-men were out: some throwing their drags from the bridge; some circulating in boats, and even in large tubs.
And, meantime, Mr. Atkins and his crew went steadily up and down, dragging every foot of those placid waters.
They worked till dinner time, and brought up a good copper pot with two handles, a horse's head, and several decayed trunks of trees, which had become saturated, and sunk to the bottom.
At about three in the afternoon, two boys who, for want of a boat, were dragging from the bridge, found something heavy but elastic at the end of their drag: they pulled up eagerly, and a thing like a huge turnip, half gnawed, came up, with a great bob, and blasted their sight.
They let go, drags and all, and stood shrieking, and shrieking.
Those who were nearest them called out, and asked what was the matter; but the boys did not reply, and their faces showed so white, that a woman, who saw them, screamed to Sir. Atkins, and said she was sure those boys had seen something out of the common.
Mr. Atkins came up, and found the boys blubbering. He encouraged them, and they told him a fearful thing had come up; it was like a man's head and shoulders all scooped out and gnawed by the fishes; and had torn the drags out of their hands.
Mr. Atkins made them tell him the exact place; and was soon upon it with his boat.
The water here was very deep, and though the boys kept pointing to the very spot, the drags found nothing for some time.
But at last they showed, by their resistance, that they had clawed hold of something.
"Draw slowly," said Sir. Atkins, "and,if it is, be men, and hold fast."
The men drew slowly, slowly, and presently there rose to the surface a Thing to strike terror and loathing into the stoutest heart.
The mutilated remains of a human face and body.
The greedy pike had cleared, not the features only, but the entire flesh off the face; but had left the hair, and the tight skin of the forehead, though their teeth had raked this last. The remnants they had left made what they had mutilated doubly horrible; since now it was not a skull; not a skeleton; but a face and a man gnawed down to the bones and hair and feet. These last were in stout shoes that resisted even those voracious teeth; and a leathern stock had offered some little protection to the throat.
The men groaned, and hid their faces with one hand, and pulled softly to the shore with the other; and then, with half-averted faces, they drew the ghastly remains and fluttering rags gently and reverently to land.
Mr. Atkins yielded to Nature, and was violently sick at the sight he had searched for so eagerly.
As soon as he recovered his powers, he bade the constables guard the body (it was a body, in law), and see that no one laid so much as a finger on it until some magistrate had taken a deposition. He also sent a messenger to Mr. Houseman, telling him the corpus delicti was found. He did this, partly to show that gentleman he was right in his judgment, and partly out of common humanity; since, after this discovery, Mr. Houseman's client was sure to be tried for her life.
A magistrate soon came, and viewed the remains, and took careful notes of the state in which they were found.
Houseman came, and was much affected, both by the sight of his dead friend, so mutilated, and by the probable consequences to Mrs. Gaunt. However, as lawyers fight very hard, he recovered himself enough to remark that there were no marks of violence before death, and insisted on this being inserted in the magistrate's notes.
An inquest was ordered next day, and meantime Mrs. Gaunt was told she could not quit the upper apartments of her own house. Two constables were placed on the ground floor night and day.
Next day the remains were removed to the little inn, where Griffith had spent so many jovial hours; laid on a table, and covered with a white sheet.
The coroner's jury sat in the same room, as was then the custom, and the evidence I have already noticed was gone into and the finding of the body deposed to. The jury, without hesitation, returned a verdict of willful murder.
Mrs. Gaunt was then brought in. She came, white as a ghost, leaning upon Houseman's shoulder.
Upon her entering, a juryman, by a humane impulse, drew the sheet over the remains again.
The coroner, according to the custom of the day, put a question to Mrs. Gaunt, with the view of eliciting her guilt. If I remember right, he asked her how she came to be out of doors so late on the night of the murder. Mrs. Gaunt, however, was in no condition to answer queries. I doubt if she even heard this one. Her lovely eyes, dilated with horror, were fixed on that terrible sheet, with a stony glance. "Show me," she gasped, "and let me die too."
The jurymen looked, with doubtful faces, at the coroner, he bowed a grave assent.
The nearest juryman withdrew the sheet.
Now, the belief was not yet extinct that the dead body shows some signs of its murderer's approach.
So every eye glared on her and It by turns, as she, with dilated, horror-stricken orbs, looked on that awful Thing.
She recoiled with a violent shudder at first; and hid her face with one hand. Then she gradually stole a horror-stricken side glance.
She had not looked at it so a moment, when she uttered a loud cry, and pointed at its feet with quivering hand.
"THE SHOES! THE SHOES!—IT IS NOT MY GRIFFITH."
With this she fell into violent hysterics, and was carried out of the room at Houseman's earnest entreaty.
As soon as she was gone, Mr. Houseman, being freed from his fear that his client would commit herself irretrievably, recovered a show of composure, and his wits went keenly to work.
"On behalf of the accused," said he, "I admit the suicide of some person unknown, wearing heavy hobnailed shoes; probably one of the lower order of people."
This adroit remark produced some little effect, notwithstanding the strong feeling against the accused.
The coroner inquired if there were any bodily marks by which the remains could be identified.
"My master had a long black mole on his forehead," suggested Caroline Ryder.
"'Tis here!" cried a juryman, bending over the remains.
And now they all gathered in great excitement round the corpus delicti; and there, sure enough, was a long black mole.
Then was there a buzz of pity for Griffith Gaunt, followed by a stern murmur of execration.
"Gentlemen," said the coroner solemnly, "behold in this the finger of Heaven. The poor gentleman may well have put off his boots, since, it seems, he left his horse; but he could not take from his forehead his natal sign; and that, by God's will, hath strangely escaped mutilation, and revealed a most foul deed. We must now do our duty, gentlemen, without respect of persons."
A warrant was then issued for the apprehension of Thomas Leicester. And, that same night, Mrs. Gaunt left Hernshaw in her own chariot between two constables, and escorted by armed yeomen.
Her proud head was bowed almost to her knees, and her streaming eyes hidden in her lovely hands. For why? A mob accompanied her for miles, shouting, "Murderess!—Bloody Papist!—Hast done to death the kindliest gentleman in Cumberland. We'll all come to see thee hanged.—Fair face but foul heart!"—and groaning, hissing and cursing, and indeed only kept from violence by the escort.
And so they took that poor proud lady and lodged her in Carlisle gaol.
She was enceinte into the bargain. By the man she was to be hanged for murdering.
The county was against her, with some few exceptions. Sir George Neville and Mr. Houseman stood stoutly by her.
Sir George's influence and money obtained her certain comforts in gaol; and, in that day, the law of England was so far respected in a gaol, that untried prisoners were not thrown into cells, nor impeded, as they now are, in preparing their defense.
Her two staunch friends visited her every day, and tried to keep her heart up.
But they could not do it. She was in a state of dejection bordering upon lethargy.
"If he is dead," said she, "what matters it? If, by God's mercy, he is alive still, he will not let me die for want of a word from him. Impatience hath been my bane. Now, I say, God's will be done. I am weary of the world."
Houseman tried every argument to rouse her out of this desperate frame of mind; but in vain.
It ran its course, and then, behold, it passed away like a cloud, and there came a keen desire to live and defeat her accusers.
She made Houseman write out all the evidence against her; and she studied it by day, and thought of it by night; and often surprised both her friends by the acuteness of her remarks.
Mr. Atkins discontinued his advertisements; it was Houseman who now filled every paper with notices informing Griffith Gaunt of his accession to fortune, and entreated him for that, and other weighty reasons, to communicate in confidence with his old friend John Houseman, attorney-at-law.
Houseman was too wary to invite him to appear and save his wife; for, in that case, he feared the Crown would use his advertisements as evidence at the trial, should Griffith not appear.
The fact is, Houseman relied more upon certain lacunæ in the evidence, and the absence of all marks of violence, than upon any hope that Griffith might be alive.
The assizes drew near, and no fresh light broke in upon this mysterious case.
Mrs. Gaunt lay in her bed at night, and thought and thought.
Now the female understanding has sometimes remarkable power under such circumstances. By degrees Truth flashes across it, like lightning in the dark.
After many such nightly meditations, Mrs. Gaunt sent one day for Sir George Neville and Mr. Houseman, and addressed them as follows "I believe he is alive, and that I can guess where he is at this moment."
Both the gentlemen started, and looked amazed.
"Yes, sirs; so sure as we sit here, he is now at a little inn in Lancashire, called the 'Packhorse,' with a woman he calls his wife." And, with this, her face was scarlet, and her eyes flashed their old fire.
She exacted a solemn promise of secrecy from them, and then she told them all she had learned from Thomas Leicester.
"And so now," said she, "I believe you can save my life, if you think it is worth saving." And with this, she began to cry bitterly.
But Houseman, the practical, had no patience with the pangs of love betrayed, and jealousy, and such small deer, in a client whose life was at stake.
"Great Heaven! madam," said he, roughly, "why did you not tell me this before?"
"Because I am not a man—to go and tell everything all at once," sobbed Mrs. Gaunt. "Besides, I wanted to shield his good name, whose dear life they pretend I have taken."
As soon as she recovered her composure, she begged Sir George Neville to ride to the "Packhorse" for her. Sir George assented eagerly; but asked how he was to find it. "I have thought of that too," said she. "His black horse has been to and fro. Ride that horse into Lancashire, and give him his head: ten to one but he takes you to the place, or where you may hear of it. If not, go to Lancaster, and ask about the 'Packhorse.' He wrote to me from Lancaster: see." And she showed him the letter.
Sir George embraced with ardor this opportunity of serving her. "I'll be at Hernshaw in one hour," said he, "and ride the black horse south at once."
"Excuse me," said Houseman; "but would it not be better for me to go? As a lawyer, I may be more able to cope with her."
"Nay," said Mrs. Gaunt, "Sir George is young and handsome: if he manages well, she will tell him more than she will you. All I beg of him is, to drop the chevalier, for this once, and see women with a woman's eyes and not a man's; see themas they are.Do not go telling a creature of this kind that she has had my money, as well as my husband, and ought to pity me lying here in prison. Keep me out of her sight as much as you can. Whether Griffith hath deceived her or not you will never raise in her any feeling but love for him, and hatred for his lawful wife. Dress like a yeoman; go quietly, and lodge in the house a day or two; begin by flattering her; and then get from her when she saw him last, or heard from him. But indeed I fear you will surprise him with her."
"Fear?" exclaimed Sir George.
"Well, hope, then," said the lady; and a tear trickled down her face in a moment. "But, if you do, promise me, on your honor as a gentleman, not to affront him. For I know you think him a villain."
"A d——d villain! saving your presence."
"Well, sir, you have said it to me. Now promise me to say nought tohim, but just this: 'Rose Gaunt's mother she lies in Carlisle gaol, to be tried for her life for murdering you. She begs of you not to let her die publicly upon the scaffold; but quietly at home, of her broken heart.'"
"Write it," said Sir George, with the tears in his eyes, "that I may just put it in his hand: for I can never utter your sweet words to such a monster as he is."
Armed with this appeal, and several minute instructions, which it is needless to particularize here, that staunch friend rode into Lancashire.
And next day the black horse justified his mistress's sagacity, and his own.
He seemed all along to know where he was going, and late in the afternoon he turned off the road on to a piece of green: and Sir George, with beating heart, saw right before him the sign of the "Packhorse," and, on coming nearer, the words
THOMAS LEICESTER.
He dismounted at the door, and asked if he could have a bed.
Mrs. Vint said yes; and supper into the bargain, if he liked.
He ordered a substantial supper directly.
Mrs. Vint saw at once it was a good customer, and showed him into the parlor.
He sat down by the fire. But, the moment she retired, he got up and made a circuit of the house, looking quietly into every window, to see if he could catch a glance of Griffith Gaunt.
There were no signs of him; and Sir George returned to his parlor heavy-hearted. One hope, the greatest of all, had been defeated directly. Still, it was just possible that Griffith might be away on temporary business.
In this faint hope, Sir George strolled about till his supper was ready for him.
When he had eaten his supper, he rang the bell, and, taking advantage of a common custom, insisted on the landlord, Thomas Leicester, taking a glass with him.
"Thomas Leicester!" said the girl. "He is not at home. But I'll send Master Vint."
Old Vint came in, and readily accepted an invitation to drink his guest's health.
Sir George found him loquacious, and soon extracted from him that his daughter Mercy was Leicester's wife, that Leicester was gone on a journey, and that Mercy was in care for him. "Leastways," said he, "she is very dull, and cries at times when her mother speaks of him; but she is too close to say much."
All this puzzled Sir George Neville sorely.
But greater surprises were in store.
The next morning, after breakfast, the servant came and told him Dame Leicester desired to see him.
He started at that; but put on nonchalance, and said he was at her service.
He was ushered into another parlor, and there he found a grave, comely, young woman, seated working, with a child on the floor beside her. She rose quietly; he bowed low and respectfully; she blushed faintly; but, with every appearance of self-possession, curtsied to him; then eyed him point-blank a single moment; and requested him to be seated.
"I hear, sir," said she, "you did ask my father many questions last night; may I ask you one?"
Sir George colored, but bowed assent.
"From whom had you the black horse you ride?"
Now, if Sir George had not been a veracious man, he would have been caught directly. But, although he saw at once the oversight he had committed, he replied, "I had him of a lady in Cumberland, one Mistress Gaunt."
Mercy Vint trembled.
"No doubt," said she, softly. "Excuse my question; you shall understand that the horse is well known here."
"Madam," said Sir George, "if you admire the horse, he is at your service for twenty pounds, though indeed he is worth more."
"I thank you, sir," said Mercy, "I have no desire, for the horse whatever; and be pleased to excuse my curiosity; you must think me impertinent."
"Nay, madam," said Sir George, "I consider nothing impertinent that hath procured me the pleasure of an interview with you."
He then, as directed by Mrs. Gaunt, proceeded to flatter the mother and the child, and exerted those powers of pleasing which had made him irresistible in society.
Here, however, he found they went a very little way. Mercy did not even smile. She cast out of her dove-like eyes a gentle, humble, reproachful glance, as much as to say, "What! do I seem so vain a creature as to believe all this?"
Sir George himself had tact and sensibility; and, by-and-by became discontented with the part he was playing, under those meek, honest, eyes.
There was a pause: and, as her sex have a wonderful art of reading the face, Mercy looked at him steadily, and said, "Yes, sir, 'tis best to be straightforward, especially with women-folk." Before he could recover this little facer, she said, quietly, "What is your name?"
"George Neville."
"Well, George Neville," said Mercy, very slowly and softly, "when you have a mind to tell me what you came here for, and who sent you, you will find me in this little room. I seldom leave it now. I beg you to speak your errand to none but me." And she sighed deeply.
Sir George bowed low, and retired to collect his wits.
He had come here strongly prepossessed against Mercy. But, instead of a vulgar, shallow woman, whom he was to surprise into confession, he encountered a soft-eyed Puritan, all unpretending dignity, grace, propriety, and sagacity.
"Flatter her!" said he, to himself, "I might as well flatter an iceberg. Out-wit her! I feel like a child beside her."
He strolled about in a brown study, not knowing what to do.
She had given him a fair opening. She had invited him to tell the truth. But he was afraid to take her at her word: and yet what was the use to persist in what his own eyes told him was the wrong course?
Whilst he hesitated, and debated within himself, a trifling incident turned the scale.
A poor woman came begging, with her child, and was received rather roughly by Harry Vint. "Pass on, good woman," said he, "we want no tramps here."
Then a window was opened on the ground floor, and Mercy beckoned the woman. Sir George flattened himself against the wall, and listened to the two talking.
Mercy examined the woman gently, but shrewdly, and elicited a tale of genuine distress. Sir George then saw her hand out to the woman some warm flannel for herself, a piece of stuff for the child, a large piece of bread, and a sixpence.
He also caught sight of Mercy's dove-like eyes, as she bestowed her alms, and they were lit with an inward lustre.
"She cannot be an ill woman," thought Sir George. "I'll e'en go by my own eyes and judgment. After all, Mrs. Gaunt has never seen her; and I have."
He went and knocked at Mercy's door.
"Come in," said a mild voice.
Neville entered, and said, abruptly, and with great emotion, "Madam, I see you can feel for the unhappy; so I take my own way now, and appeal to your pity. Ihavecome to speak to you on the saddest business."
"You come fromhim," said Mercy, closing her lips tight; but her bosom heaved. Her heart and her judgment grappled like wrestlers that moment.
"Nay, madam," said Sir George, "I come fromher."
Mercy knew in a moment who "her" must be.
She looked scared, and drew back with manifest signs of repulsion.
The movement did not escape Sir George: it alarmed him: he remembered what Mrs. Gaunt had said; that this woman would be sure to hate Gaunt's lawful wife. But it was too late to go back. He did the next best thing, he rushed on.
He threw himself on his knees before Mercy Vint.
"Oh, madam!" he cried, piteously, "do not set your heart against the most unhappy lady in England. If you did but know her, her nobleness, her misery! Before you steel yourself against me, her friend, let me ask you one question. Do you know where Mrs. Gaunt is at this moment?"
Mercy answered, coldly, "How should I know where the lady is?"
"Well then, she lies in Carlisle gaol."
"She—lies—in Carlisle gaol?" repeated Mercy, looking all confused.
"They accuse her of murdering her husband."
Mercy uttered a scream, and catching her child up off the floor, began to rock herself and moan over it.
"No, no, no," cried Sir George, "she is innocent, she is innocent."
"What is that tome?" cried Mercy, wildly, "He is murdered, he is dead, and my child an orphan." And so she went on moaning and rocking herself.
"But I tell you he is not dead at all," cried Sir George. "'Tis all a mistake. When did you see him last?"
"More than six weeks ago."
"I mean, when did you hear from him last?"
"Never, since that day."
Sir George groaned aloud at this intelligence.
And Mercy, who heard him groan, was heart-broken. She accused herself of Griffith's death. "'Twas I who drove him from me," said she. "'Twas I who bade him go back to his lawful wife; and the wretch hated him. I sent him to his death." Her grief was wild, and deep; she could not hear Sir George's arguments.
But presently she said, sternly, "What does that woman say for herself?"
"Madam," said Sir George, dejectedly, "Heaven knows you are in no condition to fathom a mystery that hath puzzled wiser heads than yours or mine; and I am but little able to lay the tale before you fairly: for your grief it moves me deeply, and I could curse myself for putting the matter to you so bluntly and uncouthly. Permit me to retire a while, and compose my own spirits for the task I have undertaken too rashly."
"Nay, George Neville," said Mercy, "stay you there: only give me a moment to draw my breath."
She struggled hard for a little composure, and, after a shower of tears, she hung her head over the chair like a crushed thing, but made him a sign of attention.
Sir George told the story as fairly as he could; only of course his bias was in favor of Mrs. Gaunt; but as Mercy's bias was against her, this brought the thing nearly square.
When he came to the finding of the body, Mercy was seized with a deadly faintness; and, though she did not become insensible, yet she was in no condition to judge or even to comprehend.
Sir George was moved with pity, and would have called for help; but she shook her head. So then he sprinkled water on her face, and slapped her hand: and a beautifully moulded hand it was.
When she got a little better she sobbed faintly, and sobbing thanked him, and begged him to go on.
"My mind is stronger than my heart," she said. "I'll hear it all, though it kill me where I sit."
Sir George went on, and, to avoid repetition, I must ask the reader to understand that he left out nothing whatever which has been hitherto related in these pages; and, in fact, told her one or two little things that I have omitted.
When he had done, she sat quite still a minute or two, pale as a statue.
Then she turned to Neville, and said solemnly, "You wish to know the truth in this dark matter: for dark it is in very sooth."
Neville was much impressed by her manner, and answered respectfully, Yes, he desired to know—by all means.
"Then take my hand," said Mercy, "and kneel down with me."
Sir George looked surprised, but obeyed, and kneeled down beside her, with his hand in hers.
There was a long pause, and then took place a transformation.
The dove-like eyes were lifted to Heaven, and gleamed like opals with an inward and celestial light; the comely face shone with a higher beauty, and the rich voice rose in ardent supplication.
"Thou God, to whom all hearts be known, and no secrets hid from thine eye, look down now on thy servant in sore trouble, that putteth her trust in thee. Give wisdom to the simple this day, and understanding to the lowly. Thou that didst reveal to babes and sucklings the great things that were hidden from the wise, oh show us the truth in this dark matter: enlighten us by thy spirit, for his dear sake, who suffered more sorrows than I suffer now. Amen. Amen."
Then she looked at Neville: and he said "Amen," with all his heart, and the tears in his eyes.
He had never heard real live prayer before. Here the little hand gripped his hard, as she wrestled, and the heart seemed to rise out of the bosom and fly to Heaven on the sublime and thrilling voice.
They rose, and she sat down; but it seemed as if her eyes once raised to Heaven in prayer could not come down again: they remained fixed and angelic, and her lips still moved in supplication.
Sir George Neville, though a loose liver, was no scoffer; he was smitten with reverence for this inspired countenance, and retired, bowing low and obsequiously.
He took a long walk and thought it all over. One thing was clear, and consoling. He felt sure he had done wisely to disobey Mrs. Gaunt's instructions, and make a friend of Mercy, instead of trying to set his wits against hers. Ere he returned to the "Packhorse," he had determined to take another step in the right direction. He did not like to agitate her with another interview, so soon. But he wrote her a little letter.
"MADAM,—When I came here, I did not know you; and therefore I feared to trust you too far. But, now I do know you for the best woman in England, I take the open way with you."Know that Mrs. Gaunt said the man would be here with you; and she charged me with a few written lines to him. She would be angry if she knew that I had shown them to any other. Yet I take on me to show them to you: for I believe you are wiser than any of us, if the truth were known. I do therefore entreat you to read these lines, and tell me whether you think the hand that wrote them can have shed the blood of him to whom they are writ."I am, Madam,"With profound respect,"Your grateful and very humble servant,"GEORGE NEVILLE."
"MADAM,—When I came here, I did not know you; and therefore I feared to trust you too far. But, now I do know you for the best woman in England, I take the open way with you.
"Know that Mrs. Gaunt said the man would be here with you; and she charged me with a few written lines to him. She would be angry if she knew that I had shown them to any other. Yet I take on me to show them to you: for I believe you are wiser than any of us, if the truth were known. I do therefore entreat you to read these lines, and tell me whether you think the hand that wrote them can have shed the blood of him to whom they are writ.
"I am, Madam,
"With profound respect,
"Your grateful and very humble servant,
"GEORGE NEVILLE."
He very soon received a line in reply, written in a clear and beautiful handwriting.
"Mercy Vint sends you her duty; and she will speak to you at nine of the clock to-morrow morning. Pray for light."
At the appointed time Sir George found her working until her needle. His letter lay on the table before her.
She rose and curtsied to him, and called the servant to take away the child for a while. She went with her to the door and kissed the bairn several times at parting, as if he was going away for good. "I'm loath to let him go," said she to Neville: "but it weakens a mother's mind to have her babe in the room; takes her attention off each moment. Pray you be seated. Well, sir, I have read these lines of Mistress Gaunt, and wept over them. Methinks I had not done so were they cunningly devised. Also I lay all night and thought."
"That is just what she does."
"No doubt, sir; and the upshot is, I don'tfeelas if he was dead. Thank God."
"That is something," said Neville. But he could not help thinking it was very little; especially to produce in a court of justice.
"And now," said she, thoughtfully, "you say that the real Thomas Leicester was seen thereabouts as well as my Thomas Leicester. Then answer me one little question. What had the real Thomas Leicester on his feet that night?"
"Nay, I know not," was the half-careless reply.
"Bethink you. 'Tis a question that must have been often put in your hearing."
"Begging your pardon, it was never put at all; nor do I see—"
"What, not at the inquest?"
"No."
"That is very strange. What, so many wise heads have bent over this riddle, and not one to ask how was you pedlar shod!"
"Madam," said Sir George, "our minds were fixed upon the fate of Gaunt. Many did ask how was the pedlar armed; but none how was he shod."
"Hath he been seen since?"
"Not he; and that hath an ugly look; for the constables are out after him with hue and cry; but he is not to be found."
"Then," said Mercy, "I must e'en answer my own question. I do know how that pedlar was shod. With hobnailed shoes."
Sir George bounded from his chair. One great ray of daylight broke in upon him.
"Ay," said Mercy, "she was right. Women do see clearer in some things than men. The pair went from my house to hers: he you call Griffith Gaunt had on a new pair of boots; and by the same token 'twas I did pay for them, and there is the receipt in that cupboard: he you call Thomas Leicester went hence in hobnailed shoes. I think the body they found was the body of Thomas Leicester the pedlar. May God have mercy on his poor unprepared soul."
Sir George uttered a joyful exclamation. But the next moment he had a doubt, "Ay, but," said he, "you forget the mole. 'Twas on that they built."
"I forget nought," said Mercy, calmly. "The pedlar had a black mole over his left temple, he showed it me in this very room. You have found the body of Thomas Leicester, and Griffith Gaunt is hiding from the law that he hath broken, he is afeared of her and her friends if he shows his face in Cumberland; he is afeared of my folk if he be seen in Lancashire. Ah, Thomas, as if I would let them harm thee!"
Sir George Neville walked to and fro in grand excitement.
"Oh, blessed day that I came hither. Madam you are an angel. You will save an innocent broken-hearted lady from death and dishonor. Your good heart and rare wit have read in a moment the dark riddle that hath puzzled a county."
"George," said Mercy, gravely, "you have gotten the wrong end of the stick. The wise in their own conceit are blinded; in Cumberland, where all this befell, they went not to God for light, as you and I did, George."
In saying this she gave him her hand to celebrate their success.
He kissed it devoutly, and owned afterward that it was the proudest moment of his life, when that sweet Puritan gave him her neat hand so cordially, with a pressure so gentle yet frank.
And now came the question how they were to make a Cumberland jury see this matter as they saw it.
He asked her would she come to the trial as a witness?
At that she drew back with manifest repugnance.
"My shame would be public. I must tell who I am; and what. A ruined woman."
"Say rather an injured saint. You have nothing to be ashamed of. All good men would feel for you."
Mercy shook her head. "Ay, but the women; shame is shame with us; right or wrong goes for little. Nay, I hope to do better for you than that. I must findhim: and send him to deliver her. 'Tis his only chance of happiness."
She then asked him if he would draw up an advertisement of quite a different kind from those he had described to her.
He assented, and between them they concocted the following:—
"If Thomas Leicester, who went from the "Packhorse" two months ago, will come thither at once, Mercy will be much beholden to him, and tell him strange things that have befallen."
Sir George then, at her request, rode over to Lancaster, and inserted the above in the county paper, and also in a small sheet that was issued in the city three times a week. He had also hand-bills to the same effect printed, and sent into Cumberland and Westmoreland. Finally, he sent a copy to his man of business in London, with orders to insert it in all the journals.
Then he returned to the "Packhorse," and told Mercy what he had done.
The next day he bade her farewell, and away for Carlisle. It was a two days' journey. He reached Carlisle in the evening, and went all glowing to Mrs. Gaunt. "Madam," said he, "be of good cheer. I bless the day I went to see her; she is an angel of wit and goodness." He then related to her, in glowing terms, most that had passed between Mercy and him. But to his surprise, Mrs. Gaunt wore a cold, forbidding air.
"This is all very well," said she. "But 'twill avail me little unlesshecomes before the judge and clears me; and she will never let him do that."
"Ay, that she will—if she can find him."
"If she can find him? How simple you are."
"Nay, madam, not so simple but I can tell a good woman from a bad one, and a true from a false."
"What! when you are in love with her? Not if you were the wisest of your sex."
"In love with her?" cried Sir George; and colored high.
"Ay," said the lady. "Think you I cannot tell? Don't deceive yourself. You have gone and fallen in love with her. At your years! Not that 'tis any business of mine."
"Well, madam," said Sir George, stiffly, "say what you please on that score; but, at least welcome my good news."
Mrs. Gaunt begged him to excuse her petulance, and thanked him kindly for all he had just done. But the next moment she rose from her chair in great agitation, and burst out, "I'd as lieve die as owe anything to that woman."
Sir George remonstrated. "Why hate her? She does not hate you."
"Oh yes she does. Tis not in nature she should do any other."
"Her acts prove the contrary."
"Her acts! she hasdonenothing, but make fair promises; and that has blinded you. Women of this sort are very cunning, and never show their real characters to a man. No more; prithee mention not her name to me. It makes me ill. I know he is with her at this moment. Ah, let me die, and be forgotten: since I am no more beloved."
The voice was sad and weary now, and the tears ran fast.
Poor Sir George was moved and melted, and set himself to flatter and console this impracticable lady, who hated her best friend in this sore strait, for being what she was herself, a woman; and was much less annoyed at being hanged than at not being loved.
When she was a little calmer he left her, and rode off to Houseman. That worthy was delighted. "Get her to swear to those hobnailed shoes," said he, "and we shall shake them." He then let Sir George know that he had obtained private information, which he would use in cross-examining a principal witness for the Crown. "However," he added, "do not deceive yourself: nothing can make the prisoner really safe but the appearance of Griffith Gaunt; he has such strong motives for coming to light; he is heir to a fortune, and his wife is accused of murdering him. The jury will never believe he is alive till they see him. That man's prolonged disappearance is hideous. It turns my blood cold when I think of it."
"Do not despair on that score," said Neville. "I believe our good angel will produce him."
Three days only before the assizes, came the long-expected letter from Mercy Vint. Sir George tore it open, but bitter was his disappointment. The letter merely said that Griffith had not appeared in answer to her advertisements, and she was sore grieved and perplexed.
There were two postscripts, each on a little piece of paper.
First postscript, in a tremulous hand, "Pray."
Second postscript, in a firm hand, "Drain that water."
Houseman shrugged his shoulders impatiently, "Drain the mere? Let the Crown do that. We should but fish up more trouble. And prayer quo' she! 'Tis not prayers we want, but evidence."
He sent his clerk off to travel post night and day, and subpoena Mercy, and bring her back with him to the trial. She was to have every comfort on the road, and be treated like a duchess.
The evening before the assizes, Mrs. Gaunt's apartments were Mr. Houseman's head-quarters, and messages were coming and going all day, on matters connected with the defense.
Just at sunset, up rattled a post-chaise, and the clerk got out and came haggard and bloodshot before his employer.
"The witness has disappeared, sir. Left home last Tuesday, with her child, and has never been seen nor heard of since."
Here was a terrible blow. They all paled under it; it seriously diminished the chances of an acquittal.
But Mrs. Gaunt bore it nobly. She seemed to rise under it.
She turned to Sir George Neville with a sweet smile. "The noble heart sees base things noble. No wonder then an artful woman deludedyou.He has left England with her; and condemned me to the gallows. In cold blood. So be it. I shall defend myself."
She then sat down with Mr. Houseman, and went through the written case he had prepared for her: and showed him notes she had taken of full a hundred criminal trials great and small.
While they were putting their heads together, Sir George sat in a brown study, and uttered not a word. Presently he got up a little brusquely, and said, "I'm going to Hernshaw."
"What, at this time of night? What to do?"
"To obey my orders. To drain the mere."