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"DEAR FATHER AND FRIEND,—The words you spoke to me to-day admit but one meaning; you are jealous of my husband."Then you must be—how can I write it?—almost in love with me.""So then my poor husband was wiser than I. He saw a rival in you: and he has one."I am deeply, deeply shocked. I ought to be very angry too; but, thinking of your solitary condition, and all the good you have done to my soul, my heart has no place for ought but pity. Only, as I am in my senses, and you are not, you must now obey me, as heretofore I have obeyed you. You must seek another sphere of duty without delay."These seem harsh words from me to you. You will live to see they are kind ones."Write me one line, and no more, to say you will be ruled by me in this."God and the saints have you in their holy keeping. So prays your affectionate and"Sorrowful daughter and true friend,"CATHERINE GAUNT."
"DEAR FATHER AND FRIEND,—The words you spoke to me to-day admit but one meaning; you are jealous of my husband.
"Then you must be—how can I write it?—almost in love with me."
"So then my poor husband was wiser than I. He saw a rival in you: and he has one.
"I am deeply, deeply shocked. I ought to be very angry too; but, thinking of your solitary condition, and all the good you have done to my soul, my heart has no place for ought but pity. Only, as I am in my senses, and you are not, you must now obey me, as heretofore I have obeyed you. You must seek another sphere of duty without delay.
"These seem harsh words from me to you. You will live to see they are kind ones.
"Write me one line, and no more, to say you will be ruled by me in this.
"God and the saints have you in their holy keeping. So prays your affectionate and
"Sorrowful daughter and true friend,
"CATHERINE GAUNT."
"Poor soul!" said Griffith. "Said I not that women are not wicked, but weak? Who would think that after this he could get the better of her good resolves—the villain!"
"Now read his reply," said Father Francis.
"Ay," said Griffith. "So this is his one word of reply, is it? three pages closely writ—the villain, oh the villain!"
"Read the villain's letter," said Francis, calmly.
The letter was very humble and pathetic; the reply of a good, though erring man, who owned, that in a moment of weakness, he had been betrayed into a feeling inconsistent with his holy profession. He begged his correspondent, however, not to judge him quite so hardly. He reminded her of his solitary life, his natural melancholy, and assured her that all men in his condition had moments when they envied those whose bosoms had partners. "Such a cry of anguish," said he, "was once rung from a maiden queen, maugre all her pride. The Queen of Scots hath a son: and I am but a barren stock." He went on to say that prayer and vigilance united do much. "Do not despair so soon of me. Flight is not cure: let me rather stay and, with God's help and the saints', overcome this unhappy weakness. If I fail, it will indeed be time for me to go and never again see the angelic face of my daughter and my benefactress."
Griffith laid down the letter. He was somewhat softened by it; and said, gently, "I cannot understand it. This is not the letter of a thorough bad man neither."
"No," said Father Francis, coldly, "'tis the letter of a self-deceiver: and there is no more dangerous man, to himself and others, than your self-deceiver. But now let us see whether he can throw dust in her eyes, as well as his own." And he handed him Kate's reply.
The first word of it was, "You deceive yourself." The writer then insisted, quietly, that he owed it to himself, to her, and to her husband, whose happiness he was destroying, to leave the place at her request.
"Either you must go, or I," said she: "and pray let it be you. Also this place is unworthy of your high gifts: and I love you, in my way, the way I mean to love you when we meet again—in Heaven; and I labour your advancement to a sphere more worthy of you."
I wish space permitted me to lay the whole correspondence before the reader; but I must confine myself to its general purport.
It proceeded in this way: the priest, humble, eloquent, pathetic; but gently, yet pertinaciously, clinging to the place: the lady, gentle, wise, and firm, detaching with her soft fingers, first one hand, then another, of the poor priest's, till at last he was driven to the sorry excuse that he had no money to travel with, nor place to go to.
"I can't understand it," said Griffith. "Are these letters all forged, or are there two Kate Gaunts? the one that wrote these prudent letters, and the one I caught upon this very priest's arm. Perdition!"
Mrs. Gaunt started to her feet. "Methinks 'tis time for me to leave the room," said she, scarlet.
"Gently, my good friends; one thing at a time," said Francis. "Sit thou down, impetuous. The letters, sir, what think you of them?"
"I see no harm in them," said Griffith.
"No harm! is that all? But I say these are very remarkable letters, sir: and they show us that a woman may be innocent and unsuspicious, and so seem foolish, yet may be wise for all that. In her early communication with Leonard
'——at Wisdom's gate Suspicion slept;And thought no ill where no ill seemed.'
But, you see, suspicion being once aroused, wisdom was not to be lulled nor blinded. But that is not all: these letters breathe a spirit of Christian charity; of true, and rare, and exalted piety; tender are they, without passion; wise, yet not cold; full of conjugal love, and of filial pity for an erring father, whom she leads, for his good, with firm yet dutiful hand. Trust to my great experience: doubt the chastity of snow rather than hers who could write these pure and exquisite lines. My good friend, you heard me rebuke and sneer at this poor lady, for being too innocent and unsuspicious of man's frailty: now hear me own to you that I could no more have written these angelic letters, than a barn-door fowl could soar to the mansions of the saints in heaven."
This unexpected tribute took Mrs. Gaunt's heart by storm; she threw her arms round Father Francis's neck, and wept upon his shoulder.
"Ah!" she sobbed, "you are the only one left that loves me."
She could not understand justice praising her: it must be love.
"Ay," said Griffith, in a broken voice, "she writes like an angel: she speaks like an angel: she looks like an angel. My heart says she is an angel. But my eyes have shown me she is naught. I left her, unable to walk, by her way of it; I came back, and found her on that priest's arm, springing along, like a greyhound." He buried his head in his hands, and groaned aloud.
Francis turned to Mrs. Gaunt, and said, a little severely, "How do you account for that?"
"I'll tellyou, Father," said Kate, "because you love me. I do not speak toyou, sir: for you never loved me."
"I could give thee the lie," said Griffith, in a trembling voice; "but 'tis not worth while. Know, sir, that within twenty-four hours after I caught her with that villain, I lay a dying for her sake; and lost my wits; and, when I came to, they were a making my shroud in the very room where I lay. No matter; no matter; I never loved her."
"Alas! poor soul!" sighed Kate: "would I had died ere I brought thee to that!" And, with this, they both began to cry at the same moment.
"Ay, poor fools," said Father Francis, softly; "neither of ye loved t'other; that is plain. So now sit you there, and let us have your explanation; for you must own appearances are strong against you."
Mrs. Gaunt drew her stool to Francis's knee, and addressing herself to him alone, explained as follows:—
"I saw Father Leonard was giving way, and only wanted one good push, after a manner. Well, you know I had got him, by my friends, a good place in Ireland: and I had money by me for his journey; so, when my husband talked of going to the fair, I thought, 'Oh if I could but get this settled to his mind before he comes back.' So I wrote a line to Leonard. You can read it if you like. Tis dated the 30th of September, I suppose."
"I will," said Francis: and read this out:—
"DEAR FATHER AND FRIEND,—You have fought the good fight, and conquered. Now, therefore, I will see you once more, and thank you for my husband (he is so unhappy), and put the money for your journey into your hand myself; your journey to Ireland. You are the Duke of Leinster's chaplain; for I have accepted that place for you. Let me see you to-morrow in the Grove, for a few minutes, at high noon. God bless you."CATHERINE GAUNT."
"DEAR FATHER AND FRIEND,—You have fought the good fight, and conquered. Now, therefore, I will see you once more, and thank you for my husband (he is so unhappy), and put the money for your journey into your hand myself; your journey to Ireland. You are the Duke of Leinster's chaplain; for I have accepted that place for you. Let me see you to-morrow in the Grove, for a few minutes, at high noon. God bless you.
"CATHERINE GAUNT."
"Well, father," said Mrs. Gaunt, "'tis true that I could only walk two or three times across the room. But, alack, you know what women are; excitement gives us strength. With thinking that our unhappiness was at an end; that, when he should come back from the fair, I should fling my arm round his neck, and tell him I had removed the cause of his misery, and so of mine, I seemed to have wings; and I did walk with Leonard, and talked with rapture of the good he was to do in Ireland, and how he was to be a mitred abbot one day (for he is a great man), and poor little me be proud of him; and how we were all to be happy together in heaven, where is no marrying nor giving in marriage. This was our discourse; and I was just putting the purse into his hands, and bidding him God-speed, when he—for whom I fought against my woman's nature, and took this trying task upon me—broke in upon us, with a face of a fiend; trampled on the poor good priest, that deserved veneration and consolation from him, of all men; and raised his hand to me; and was not man enough to kill me after all; but called me—ask him what he called me—see if he dares to say it again before you; and then ran away, like a coward as he is, from the lady he had defiled with his rude tongue, and the heart he had broken. Forgive him? that I never will; never; never."
"Who asked you to forgive him?" said the shrewd priest. "Your own heart. Come, look at him."
"Not I," said she, irresolutely. Then, still more feebly: "He is nought to me." And so stole a look at him.
Griffith, pale as ashes, had his hand on his brow, and his eyes were fixed with horror and remorse.
"Something tells me she has spoken the truth," he said, in a quavering voice. Then, with concentrated horror, "But if so—oh God, what have I done?—What shall I do?"
Mrs. Gaunt extended her arms towards him, across the priest.
"Why, fall at thy wife's knees, and ask her to forgive thee."
Griffith obeyed: he fell on his knees, and Mrs. Gaunt leaned her head on Francis's shoulder, and gave her hand across him to her remorse-stricken husband.
Neither spoke, nor desired to speak; and even Father Francis sat silent and enjoyed that sweet glow which sometimes blesses the peacemaker, even in this world of wrangles and jars.
But the good soul had ridden hard, and the neglected meats emitted savory odors, and by-and-by he said, drily, "I wonder whether that fat pullet tastes as well as it smells: can you tell me, Squire?"
"Oh, inhospitable wretch that I am," said Mrs. Gaunt: "I thought but of my own heart."
"And forgot the stomach of your unspiritual father. But, madam, you are pale, you tremble."
"'Tis nothing, sir: I shall soon be better. Sit you down and sup: I will return anon."
She retired, not to make a fuss; but her heart palpitated violently, and she had to sit down on the stairs.
Ryder, who was prowling about, found her there, and fetched her hartshorn.
Mrs. Gaunt got better; but felt so languid and also hysterical, that she retired to her own room for the night, attended by the faithful Ryder, to whom she confided that a reconciliation had taken place, and, to celebrate it, gave her a dress she had only worn a year. This does not sound queenly to you ladies; but know that a week's wear tells far more on the flimsy trash you wear now-a-days, than a year did on the glorious silks of Lyons Mrs. Gaunt put on; thick as broad-cloth, and embroidered so cunningly by the loom, that it would pass for rarest needle-work. Besides, in those days, silk was silk.
As Ryder left her, she asked, "Where is the master to lie to-night?"
Mrs. Gaunt was not pleased at this question being put to her. Being a singular mixture of frankness and finesse, she had retired to her own room partly to test Griffith's heart. If he was as sincere as she was, he would not be content with apublicreconciliation.
But the question being put to her plump, and by one of her own sex, she colored faintly, and said, "Why, is there not a bed in his room?"
"Oh yes, madam."
"Then see it be well aired. Put down all the things before the fire; and then tell me; I'll come and see. The feather bed, mind, as well as the sheets and blankets."
Ryder executed all this with zeal. She did more: though Griffith and Francis sat up very late, she sat up too; and, on the gentlemen leaving the supper-room, she met them both, with bed-candles, in a delightful cap, and undertook, with cordial smiles, to show them both their chambers.
"Tread softly on the landing, an if it please you, gentlemen. My mistress hath been unwell; but she is in a fine sleep now, by the blessing, and I would not have her disturbed."
Father Francis went to bed thoughtful. There was something about Griffith he did not like: the man every now and then broke out into boisterous raptures; and presently relapsed into moody thoughtfulness. Francis almost feared that his cure was only temporary.
In the morning, before he left, he drew Mrs. Gaunt aside, and told her his misgivings. She replied that she thought she knew what was amiss, and would soon set that right.
Griffith tossed and turned in his bed, and spent a stormy night. His mind was in a confused whirl, and his heart distracted. The wife he had loved so tenderly, proved to be the very reverse of all he had lately thought her! She was pure as snow, and had always loved him; loved him now, and only wanted a good excuse to take him to her arms again. But Mercy Vint!—his wife, his benefactress! a woman as chaste as Kate, as strict in life and morals—what was to become of her? How could he tell her she was not his wife? how to reveal to her her own calamity, and his treason? And, on the other hand, desert her without a word! and leave her hoping, fearing, pining, all her life! Affection, humanity, gratitude, alike forbade it.
He came down in the morning, pale for him, and worn with the inward struggle.
Naturally there was a restraint between him and Mrs. Gaunt; and only short sentences passed between them.
He saw the peacemaker off, and then wandered all over the premises, and the past came nearer, and the present seemed to retire into the background.
He wandered about like one in a dream; and was so self-absorbed, that he did not see Mrs. Gaunt coming towards him with observant eyes.
She met him full; he started like a guilty thing.
"Are you afraid of me?" said she, sweetly.
"No, my dear, not exactly; and yet I am: afraid, or ashamed, or both."
"You need not. I said I forgive you; and you know I am not one that does things by halves."
"You are an angel!" said he, warmly; "but (suddenly relapsing into despondency) we shall never be happy together again."
She sighed. "Say not so. Time and sweet recollections may heal even this wound by degrees."
"God grant it," said he, despairingly.
"And, though we can't be lovers again all at once, we may be friends; to begin, tell me, what have you on your mind? Come, make a friend of me."
He looked at her in alarm.
She smiled. "Shall I guess?" said she.
"You will never guess," said he; "and I shall never have the heart to tell you."
"Let me try. Well, I think you have run in debt, and are afraid to ask me for the money."
Griffith was greatly relieved by this conjecture; he drew a long breath: and, after a pause, said, cunningly, "What made you think that?"
"Because you came here for money, and not for happiness. You told me so in the Grove."
"That is true. What a sordid wretch you must think me?"
"No, because you were under a delusion. But I do believe you are just the man to turn reckless, when you thought me false, and go drinking and dicing." She added, eagerly, "I do not suspect you of anything worse."
He assured her that was not the way of it.
"Then tell me the way of it. You must not think, because I pester you not with questions, I have no curiosity. Oh, how often have I longed to be a bird, and watch you day and night unseen. How would you have liked that? I wish you had been one, to watch me. Ah, you don't answer. Could you have borne so close an inspection, sir?"
Griffith shuddered at the idea; and his eyes fell before the full grey orbs of his wife.
"Well, never mind," said she, "tell me your story."
"Well, then, when I left you I was raving mad."
"That is true, I'll be sworn."
"I let my horse go; and he took me near a hundred miles from here, and stopped at—at—a farmhouse. The good people took me in."
"God bless them for it. I'll ride and thank them."
"Nay, nay; 'tis too far. There I fell sick of a fever, a brain-fever: the doctor blooded me."
"Alas! would he had taken mine instead."
"And I lost my wits for several days; and when I came back I was weak as water, and given up by the doctor: and the first thing I saw, was an old hag set a making of my shroud."
Here the narrative was interrupted a moment by Mrs. Gaunt seizing him convulsively, and then holding him tenderly, as if he was even now about to be taken from her.
"The good people nursed me, and so did their daughter, and I came back from the grave. I took an inn; but I gave up that, and had to pay forfeit; and so my money all went; but they kept me on. To be sure I helped on the farm: they kept a hostelry as well. By-and-by came that murrain among the cattle. Did you have it in these parts too?"
"I know not; nor care. Prithee, leave cattle, and talk of thyself."
"Well, in a word, they were ruined, and going to be sold up. I could not bear that: I became bondsman for the old man. It was the least I could do. Kate, they had saved thy husband's life."
"Not a word more, Griffith. How much stand you pledged for?"
"A large sum."
"Would five hundred pounds be of any avail?"
"Five hundred pounds! Ay, that it would, and to spare; but where can I get so much money? And the time so short."
"Give me thy hand, and come with me," said Mrs. Gaunt, ardently.
She took his hand, and made a swift rush across the lawn. It was not exactly running, nor walking, but some grand motion she had when excited. She put him to his stride to keep up with her at all; and in two minutes she had him into her boudoir. She unlocked a bureau, all in a hurry, and took out a bag of gold. "There!" she cried, thrusting it into his hand, and blooming all over with joy and eagerness: "I thought you would want money; so I saved it up. You shall not be in debt a day longer. Now mount thy horse, and carry it to those good souls: only, for my sake, take the gardener with thee—I have no groom now but he—and both well armed."
"What! go this very day?"
"Ay, this very hour. I can bear thy absence for a day or two more; I have borne it so long: but I cannot bear thy plighted word to stand in doubt a day, no not an hour. I am your wife, sir, your true and loving wife; your honor is mine, and is as dear to me now as it was when you saw me with Father Leonard in the Grove, and read me all awry. Don't wait a moment, begone at once."
"Nay, nay, if I go to-morrow I shall be in time."
"Ay, but," said Mrs. Gaunt, very softly, "I am afraid if I keep you another hour I shall not have the heart to let you go at all: and the sooner gone, the sooner back for good, please God. There, give me one kiss, to live on, and begone this instant."
He covered her hands with kisses and tears. "I'm not worthy to kiss any higher than thy hand," he said: and so ran sobbing from her.
He went straight to the stable, and saddled Black Dick.
But, in the very act, his nature revolted. What, turn his back on her the moment he had got hold of her money, to take to the other. He could not do it.
He went back to her room, and came so suddenly that he caught her crying. He asked her what was the matter.
"Nothing," said she, with a sigh: "only a woman's foolish misgivings. I was afraid perhaps you would not come back. Forgive me."
"No fear of that," said he. "However, I have taken a resolve not to go to-day. If I go tomorrow, I shall be just in time; and Dick wants a good day's rest."
Mrs. Gaunt said nothing; but her expressive face was triumphant.
Griffith and she took a walk together; and he, who used to be the more genial of the two, was dull, and she full of animation.
This whole day she laid herself out to bewitch her husband, and put him in high spirits.
It was uphill work; but, when such a woman sets herself in earnest to delight a man, she reads our sex a lesson in the art, that shows us we are all babies at it.
However, it was at supper she finally conquered.
Here the lights, her beauty set off with art, her deepening eyes, her satin skin, her happy excitement, her wit and tenderness, and joyous sprightliness, enveloped Griffith in an atmosphere of delight, and drove everything out of his head but herself: and with this, if the truth must be told, the sparkling wines co-operated.
Griffith plied the bottle a little too freely. But Mrs. Gaunt, on this one occasion, had not the heart to check him. The more he toasted her, the more uxorious he became, and she could not deny herself even this joy; but, besides, she had less of the prudent wife in her just then, than of the weak indulgent mother. Anything rather than check his love: she was greedy of it.
At last, however, she said to him, "Sweetheart, I shall go to bed: for, I see, if I stay longer, I shall lead thee into a debauch. Be good now: drink no more when I am gone. Else I'll say thou lovest thy bottle more than thy wife."
He promised faithfully. But, when she was gone, modified his pledge by drinking just one bumper to her health: which bumper let in another: and, when at last he retired to rest, he was in that state of mental confusion wherein the limbs appear to have a memory independent of the mind.
In this condition do some men's hands wind up their watches, the mind taking no appreciable part in the ceremony.
By some such act of what physicians call "organic memory," Griffith's feet carried him to the chamber he had slept in a thousand times, and not into the one Mrs. Ryder had taken him to the night before.
The next morning he came down rather late for him, and found himself treated with a great access of respect by the servants.
His position was no longer doubtful; he was the master of the house.
Mrs. Gaunt followed in due course, and sat at breakfast with him, looking young and blooming as Hebe, and her eye never off him long.
She had lived temperately, and had not yet passed the age when happiness can restore a woman's beauty and brightness in a single day.
As for him, he was like a man in a heavenly dream: he floated in the past and the present: the recent and the future seemed obscure and distant, and comparatively in a mist.
But that same afternoon, after a most affectionate farewell, and many promises to return as soon as ever he had discharged his obligations, Griffith Gaunt started for the "Packhorse," to carry to Mercy Leicester, alias Vint, the money Catherine Gaunt had saved by self-denial and economy.
And he went south a worse man than he came.
When he left Mercy Leicester, he was a bigamist in law, but not at heart. Kate was dead to him: he had given her up for ever: and was constant and true to his new wife.
But now he was false to Mercy, yet not true to Kate; and, curiously enough, it was a day or two passed with his lawful wife that had demoralized him. His unlawful wife had hitherto done nothing but improve his character.
But a great fault once committed is often the first link in a chain of acts, that look like crimes, but are, strictly speaking, consequences.
This man, blinded at first by his own foible, and, after that, the sport of circumstances, was single-hearted by nature; and his conscience was not hardened. He desired earnestly to free himself and both his wives from the cruel situation; but, to do this, one of them he saw must be abandoned entirely; and his heart bled for her.
A villain or a fool would have relished the situation; many men would have dallied with it; but, to do this erring man justice, he writhed and sorrowed under it, and sincerely desired to end it.
And this was why he prized Kate's money so. It enabled him to render a great service to her he had injured worse than he had the other, to her he saw he must abandon.
But this was feeble comfort after all. He rode along a miserable man; none the less wretched and remorseful, that, ere he got into Lancashire, he saw his way clear. This was his resolve: to pay old Vint's debts with Kate's money; take the "Packhorse," get it made over to Mercy; give her the odd two hundred pounds and his jewels, and fly. He would never see her again: but would return home, and get the rest of the two thousand pounds from Kate, and send it Mercy by a friend, who should tell her he was dead, and had left word with his relations to send her all his substance.
At last the "Packhorse" came in sight. He drew rein, and had half a mind to turn back; but, instead of that, he crawled on, and very sick and cold he felt.
Many a man has marched to the scaffold with a less quaking heart than he to the "Packhorse."
His dejection contrasted strangely with the warm reception he met from everybody there. And the house was full of women; and they seemed, somehow, all cock-a-hoop, and filled with admiration ofhim.
"Where is she?" said he, faintly.
"Hark to the poor soul!" said a gossip. "Dame Vint, where's thy daughter? gone out a-walking belike?"
At this the other women present chuckled and clucked.
"I'll bring you to her," said Mrs. Vint; "but prithee be quiet and reasonable; for to be sure she is none too strong."
There was some little preparation, and then Griffith was ushered into Mercy's room, and found her in bed, looking a little pale, but sweeter and comelier than ever. She had the bedclothes up to her chin.
"You look wan, my poor lass," said he; "what ails ye?"
"Nought ails me now thou art come," said she, lovingly.
Griffith put the bag on the table. "There," said he, "there's five hundred pounds in gold. I come not to thee empty-handed."
"Nor I to thee," said Mercy, with a heavenly smile. "See!"
And she drew down the bedclothes a little, and showed the face of a babe scarcely three days old: a little boy.
She turned in the bed, and tried to hold him up to his father, and said, "Here'smytreasure for thee!" And the effort, the flush on her cheek, and the deep light in her dove-like eyes, told plainly that the poor soul thought she had contributed to their domestic wealth something far richer than Griffith had with his bag of gold.
The father littered an ejaculation, and came to her side, and, for a moment, Nature overpowered everything else. He kissed the child; he kissed Mercy again and again.
"Now God he praised for both," said he, passionately; "but most for thee, the best wife, the truest friend—." He, thinking of her virtues, and the blow he had come to strike her, he broke down, and was almost choked with emotion; whereupon Mrs. Vint exerted female authority, and bundled him out of the room. "Is that the way to carry on at such a time?" said she. "'Twas enow to upset her altogether. Oh, but you men have little sense in women's matters. I looked toyouto give her courage, not to set her off into hysterics after a manner. Nay, keep up her heart, or keep your distance, say I, that am her mother."
Griffith took this hint, and ever after took pity on Mercy's weak condition; and, suspending the fatal blow, did all he could to restore her to health and spirits.
Of course, to do that, he must deceive her; and so his life became a lie.
For, hitherto, she had never looked forward much; but now her eyes were always diving into futurity: and she lay smiling and discussing the prospects of her boy; and Griffith had to sit by her side, and see her gnaw the boy's hand, and kiss his feet, and anticipate his brilliant career. He had to look and listen with an aching heart, and assent with feigned warmth, and an inward chill of horror and remorse.
One Drummond, a travelling artist, called; and Mercy, who had often refused to sit to him, consented now; for, she said, when he grows up he shall know how his parents looked in their youth, the very year their darling was born. So Griffith had to sit with her, and excellent likenesses the man produced; but a horrible one of the child. And Griffith thought,—"Poor soul; a little while and this picture will be all that shall be left to thee of me."
For all this time he was actually transacting the preliminaries of separation. He got a man of law to make all sure. The farm, the stock, the furniture and goodwill of the "Packhorse," all these he got assigned to Mercy Leicester for her own use, in consideration of three hundred and fifty pounds, whereof three hundred were devoted to clearing the concern of its debts, the odd fifty was to sweeten the pill to Harry Vint.
When the deed came to be executed, Mercy was surprised, and uttered a gentle remonstrance. "What have I to do with it?" said she. "'Tis thy money, not mine."
"No matter," said Griffith; "I choose to have it so."
"Your will is my law," said Mercy.
"Besides," said Griffith, "the old folk will not feel so sore, nor be afraid of being turned out, if it is in thy name."
"And that is true," said Mercy. "Now who had thought of that, but my good man?" And she threw her arms lovingly round his neck, and gazed on him adoringly.
But his lion-like eyes avoided her dove-like eyes; and an involuntary shudder ran through him.
The habit of deceiving Mercy led to a consequence he had not anticipated. It tightened the chain that held him. She opened his eyes more and more to her deep affection, and he began to fear she would die if he abandoned her.
And then her present situation was so touching. She had borne him a lovely boy: that must be abandoned too, if he left her; and somehow the birth of this child had embellished the mother; a delicious pink had taken the place of her rustic bloom; and her beauty was more refined and delicate. So pure, so loving, so fair, so maternal, to wound her heart now, it seemed like stabbing an angel.
One day succeeded to another, and still Griffith had not the heart to carry out his resolve. He temporized; he wrote to Kate that he was detained by the business; and he stayed on and on, strengthening his gratitude and his affection, and weakening his love for the absent, and his resolution; till, at last, he became so distracted and divided in heart, and so demoralized, that he began to give up the idea of abandoning Mercy, and babbled to himself about fate and destiny, and decided that the most merciful course would be to deceive both women. Mercy was patient. Mercy was unsuspicious. She would content herself with occasional visits, if he could only feign some plausible tale to account for long absences.
Before he got into this mess he was a singularly truthful person; but now a he was nothing to him. But, for that matter, many a man has been first made a liar by his connexion with two women; and by degrees has carried his mendacity into other things.
However, though now blessed with mendacity, he was cursed with a lack of invention; and sorely puzzled how to live at Hernshaw, yet visit the "Packhorse."
The best thing he could hit upon was to pretend to turn bagman; and so Mercy would believe he was travelling all over England, when all the time he was quietly living at Hernshaw.
And perhaps these long separations might prepare her heart for a final parting, and so let in his original plan a few years hence.
He prepared this manœuvre with some art: he told her, one day, he had been to Lancaster, and there fallen in with a friend, who had as good as promised him the place of a commercial traveller for a mercantile house.
"A traveller!" said Mercy. "Heaven forbid! If you knew how I wearied for you when you went to Cumberland."
"To Cumberland! How know you I went thither?"
"Oh, I but guessed that; but now I know it, by your face. But go where thou wilt, the house is dull directly. Thou art our sunshine. Isn't he, my poppet?"
"Well, well; if it kept me too long from thee, I could give it up. But, child, we must think of young master. You could manage the inn, and your mother the farm, without me; and I should be earning money on my side. I want to make a gentleman of him."
"Anything for him," said Mercy, "anything in the world." But the tears stood in her eyes.
In furtherance of this deceit, Griffith did one day actually ride to Lancaster, and slept there. He wrote to Kate, from that town, to say he was detained by a slight illness, but hoped to be home in a week: and the next day brought Mercy home some ribbons, and told her he had seen the merchant, and his brother, and they had made him a very fair offer. "But I've a week to think of it," said he, "so there's no hurry."
Mercy fixed her eyes on him in a very peculiar way, and made no reply. You must know that something very curious had happened whilst Griffith was gone to Lancaster.
A travelling pedlar, passing by, was struck with the name on the signboard. "Halloo!" said he, "why here's a namesake of mine; I'll have a glass of his ale any way."
So he came into the public room, and called for a glass; taking care to open his pack and display his inviting wares. Harry Vint served him. "Here's your health," said the pedlar. "You must drink with me, you must."
"And welcome," said the old man.
"Well," said the pedlar, "I do travel five counties; but for all that you are the first namesake I have found. I am Thomas Leicester, too, as sure as you are a living sinner."
The old man laughed, and said, "Then no namesake of mine are you; for they call me Harry Vint. Thomas Leicester, he that keeps this inn now, is my son-in-law: he is gone to Lancaster this morning."
The pedlar said that was a pity, he should have liked to see his namesake, and drink a glass with him.
"Come again to-morrow," said Harry Vint, ironically. "Dame," he cried, "come hither. Here's another Thomas Leicester for ye, wants to see our one."
Mrs. Vint turned her head, and inspected the pedlar from afar, as if he was some natural curiosity.
"Where do you come from, young man?" said she.
"Well, I came from Kendal last; but I am Cumberland born."
"Why, that is where t'other comes from," suggested Paul Carrick, who was once more a frequenter of the house.
"Like enow," said Mrs. Vint.
With that she dropped the matter as one of no consequence, and retired. But she went straight to Mercy, in the parlor, and told her there was a man in the kitchen that called himself Thomas Leicester.
"Well, mother?" said Mercy, with high indifference, for she was trying new socks on King Baby.
"He comes from Cumberland."
"Well, to be sure, names do run in counties."
"That is true; but, seems to me, he favors your man: much of a height, and—There, do just step into the kitchen a moment."
"La, mother," said Mercy, "I don't desire to see any more Thomas Leicesters than my own: 'tis the man, not the name. Isn't it, my lamb?"
Mrs. Vint went back to the kitchen discomfited; but, with quiet pertinacity, she brought Thomas Leicester into the parlor, pack and all.
"There, Mercy," said she, "lay out a penny with thy husband's namesake."
Mercy did not reply, for, at that moment, Thomas Leicester caught sight of Griffith's portrait, and gave a sudden start, and a most extraordinary look besides.
Both the women's eyes happened to be upon him, and they saw at once that he knew the original.
"You know my husband?" said Mercy Vint, after a while.
"Not I," said Leicester, looking askant at the picture.
"Don't tell no lies," said Mrs. Vint. "You do know him well." And she pointed her assertion by looking at the portrait.
"Oh, I know him, whose picture hangs there, of course," said Leicester.
"Well, and that is her husband."
"Oh, that is her husband, is it?" And he was unaffectedly puzzled.
Mercy turned pale. "Yes, he is my husband," said she, "and this is our child. Can you tell me anything about him? for he came a stranger to these parts. Belike you are a kinsman of his?"
"So they say."
This reply puzzled both women.
"Any way," said the pedlar, "you see we are marked alike." And he showed a long black mole on his forehead. Mercy was now as curious as she had been indifferent. "Tell me all about him," said she: "how comes it that he is a gentleman and thou a pedlar?"
"Well, because my mother was a gipsy, and his a gentlewoman."
"What brought him to these parts?"
"Trouble, they say."
"What trouble?"
"Nay, I know not." This after a slight but visible hesitation.
"But you have heard say."
"Well, I am always on the foot, and don't bide long enough in one place to learn all the gossip. But I do remember hearing he was gone to sea: and that was a lie, for he had settled here, and married you. I'fackins, he might have done worse. He has got a bonny buxom wife, and a rare fine boy, to be sure."
And now the pedlar was on his guard, and determined he would not be the one to break up the household he saw before him, and afflict the dove-eyed wife and mother. He was a good-natured fellow, and averse to make mischief with his own hands. Besides, he took for granted Griffith loved his new wife better than the old one; and above all, the punishment of bigamy was severe, and was it for him to get the Squire indicted, and branded in the hand for a felon?
So the women could get nothing more out of him; he lied, evaded, shuffled, and feigned utter ignorance; pleading, adroitly enough, his vagrant life.
All this, however, aroused vague suspicions in Mrs. Vint's mind, and she went and whispered them to her favorite, Paul Carrick. "And, Paul," said she, "call for what you like, and score it to me; only treat this pedlar till he leaks out summut: to be sure he'll tell a man more than he will us."
Paul entered with zeal into this commission: treated the pedlar to a chop, and plied him well with the best ale.
All this failed to loose the pedlar's tongue at the time, but it muddled his judgment: on resuming his journey, he gave his entertainer a wink. Carrick rose and followed him out.
"You seem a decent lad," said the pedlar, "and a good-hearted one. Will do me a favor?"
Carrick said he would, if it lay in his power.
"Oh, it is easy enow," said the pedlar, "'Tis just to give you Thomas Leicester, into his own hand, this here trifle as soon as ever he comes home." And he handed Carrick a hard substance wrapped in paper. Carrick promised.
"Ay, ay, lad," said the pedlar, "but see you play fair, and give it him unbeknown. Now don't you be so simple as show it to any of the women-folk. Dy'e understand?"
"All right," said Carrick, knowingly. And so the boon companions for a day shook hands and parted.
And Carrick took the little parcel straight to Mrs. Vint, and told her every word the pedlar had said.
And Mrs. Vint took the little parcel straight to Mercy, and told her what Carrick said the pedlar had said.
And the pedlar went off flushed with beer and self-complacency; for he thought he had drawn the line precisely; had faithfully discharged his promise to his lady and benefactress, but not so as to make mischief in another household.
Such was the power of Ale—in the last century.
Mercy undid the paper and found the bullet, on which was engraved
"I LOVE KATE."
As she read these words a knife seemed to enter her heart; the pang was so keen.
But she soon took herself to task. "Thou naughty woman," said she. "What! jealous of the dead?"
She wrapped the bullet up; put it carefully away; had a good cry; and was herself again.
But all this set her watching Griffith, and reading his face. She had subtle, vague, misgivings; and forbade her mother to mention the pedlar's visit to Griffith yet awhile. Woman-like, she preferred to worm out the truth.
On the evening of his return from Lancaster, as he was smoking his pipe, she quietly tested him. She fixed her eyes on him, and said, "One was here to-day that knows thee, and brought thee this." She then handed him the bullet, and watched his face.
Griffith undid the paper carelessly enough; but, at sight of the bullet, uttered a loud cry, and his eyes seemed ready to start out of his head.
He turned as pale as ashes, and stammered piteously, "What? what? what d'ye mean? In Heaven's name, what is this? How? Who?"
Mercy was surprised, but also much concerned at his distress, and tried to soothe him. She also asked him, piteously, whether she had done wrong to give it him. "God knows," said she, "'tis no business of mine to go and remind thee of her thou hast loved better mayhap than thou lovest me. But to keep it from thee, and she in her grave, oh I had not the heart!"
But Griffith's agitation increased instead of diminishing; and, even while she was trying to soothe him, he rushed wildly out of the room, and into the open air.
Mercy went, in perplexity and distress, and told her mother.
Mrs. Vint, not being blinded by affection, thought the whole thing had a very ugly look, and said as much. She gave it as her opinion that this Kate was alive, and had sent the token herself, to make mischief between man and wife.
"That shall she never," said Mercy, stoutly; but now her suspicions were thoroughly excited, and her happiness disturbed.
The next day Griffith found her in tears: he asked her what was the matter. She would not tell him.
"You have your secrets," said she: "and so now I have mine."
Griffith became very uneasy.
For now Mercy was often in tears, and Mrs. Vint looked daggers at him.
All this was mysterious, and unintelligible, and, to a guilty man, very alarming.
At last he implored Mercy to speak out. He wanted to know the worst.
Then Mercy did speak out. "You have deceived me," said she. "Kate is alive. This very morning, between sleeping and waking, you whispered her name; ay, false man, whispered it like a lover. You told me she was dead. But she is alive; and has sent you a reminder, and the bare sight of it hath turned your heart her way again. What shall I do? Why did you marry me, if you could not forget her? I did not want you to desert any woman for me. The desire of my heart was always for your happiness. But oh, Thomas, deceit and falsehood will not bring you happiness, no more than they will me. What shall I do? what shall I do?"
Her tears flowed freely, and Griffith sat down, and groaned with horror and remorse, beside her.
He had not the courage to tell her the horrible truth, that Kate was his wife, and she was not.
"Do not thou afflict thyself," he muttered. "Of course, with you putting that bullet in my hand so sudden, it set my fancy a wandering back to other days."
"Ah!" said Mercy, "if it be no worse than that, there's little harm. But why did thy namesake start so at sight of thy picture?"
"My namesake!" cried Griffith, all aghast.
"Ay, he that brought thee that love-token; Thomas Leicester. Nay, for very shame, feign not ignorance of him; why, he hath thy very mole on his temple, and knew thy picture in a moment. He is thy half-brother, is he not?"
"I am a ruined man," cried Griffith; and sank into a chair without power of motion.
"God help me, what is all this?" cried Mercy. "Oh, Thomas, Thomas, I could forgive thee ought but deceit: for both our sakes speak out, and tell me the worst; no harm shall come near thee while I live."
"How can I tell thee? I am an unfortunate man. The world will call me a villain; yet I am not a villain at heart. But who will believe me? I have broken the law. Thee I could trust, but not thy folk; they never loved me. Mercy, for pity's sake, when was that Thomas Leicester here?"
"Four days ago."
"Which way went he?"
"I hear he told Paul he was going to Cumberland."
"If he gets there before me, I shall rot in gaol."
"Now Heaven forbid! Oh, Thomas, then mount and ride after him."
"I will, and this very moment."
He saddled Black Dick, and loaded his pistols for the journey; but, ere he went, a pale face looked out into the yard, and a finger beckoned. It was Mercy. She bade him follow her. She took him to her room, where their child was sleeping; and then she closed, and even locked the door.
"No soul can hear us," said she; "now, look me in the face, and tell me God's truth. Who and what are you?"
Griffith shuddered at this exordium; he made no reply.
Mercy went to a box, and took out an old shirt of his; the one he wore when he first came to the "Packhorse." She brought it to him and showed him "G. G." embroidered on it with a woman's hair. (Ryder's.)
"Here are your initials," said she, "now leave useless falsehoods; be a man, and tell me your real name."
"My name is Griffith Gaunt."
Mercy, sick at heart, turned her head away; but she had the resolution to urge him on. "Go on," said she, in an agonized whisper: "if you believe in God, and a judgment to come, deceive me no more. The truth! I say: the truth!"
"So be it," said Griffith, desperately: "when I have told thee what a villain I am. I can die at thy feet, and then thou wilt forgive me."
"Who is Kate?" was all she replied.
"Kate is—MY WIFE."
"I thought her false; who could think any other; appearances were so strong against her: others thought so beside me. I raised my hand to kill her; but she never winced. I trampled on him I believed her paramour: I fled, and soon I lay a dying in this house for her sake. I told thee she was dead. Alas! I thought her dead to me. I went back to our house (it is her house) sore against the grain, to get money for thee and thine. Then she cleared herself, bright as the sun, and pure as snow. She was all in black for me; she had put by money, against I should come to my senses and need it. I told her I owed a debt in Lancashire, a debt of gratitude as well as money: and so I did. How have I repaid it? The poor soul forced five hundred pounds on me. I had much ado to keep her from bringing it hither with her own hands; oh, villain! villain! Then I thought to leave thee, and send thee word I was dead; and heap money on thee. Money! But how could I? Thou wast my benefactress, my more than wife. All the riches of the world can make no return to thee. What, what shall I do? Shall I fly with thee and thy child across the seas? Shall I go back to her? No, the best thing I can do is to take this good pistol, and let the life out of my dishonorable carcass, and free two honest women from me by one resolute act."
In his despair he cocked the pistol; and, at a word from Mercy, this tale had ended.
But the poor woman, pale and trembling, tottered across the room, and took it out of his hand. "I would not harm thy body, nor thy soul," she gasped. "Let me draw my breath, and think."
She rocked herself to and fro in silence.
Griffith stood trembling like a criminal before his judge.
It was long ere she could speak, for anguish. Yet when she did speak, it was with a sort of deadly calm.
"Go tell the truth toher, as you have done to me: and, if she can forgive you, all the better for you. I can never forgive you, nor yet can harm you. My child, my child! Thy father is our ruin. Oh begone, man, or the sight of you will kill us both."
"At that he fell at her knees; kissed, and wept over her cold hand, and, in his pity and despair, offered to cross the seas with her and her child, and so repair the wrong he had done her.
"Tempt me not," she sobbed. "Go: leave me. None here shall ever know thy crime, but she whose heart thou hast broken, and ruined her good name."
He took her in his arms, in spite of her resistance, and kissed her passionately; but, for the first time, she shuddered at his embrace, and that gave him the power to leave her.
He rushed from her, all but distracted, and rode away to Cumberland; but not to tell the truth to Kate, if he could possibly help it.
At this particular time, no man's presence was more desired in that county than Griffith Gaunt's.
And this I need not now he telling the reader, if I had related this story on the plan of a miscellaneous chronicle. But the affairs of the heart are so absorbing, that, even in a narrative, they thrust aside important circumstances of a less moving kind.
I must therefore go back a step, before I advance further. You must know that forty years before our Griffith Gaunt saw the light, another Griffith Gaunt was born in Cumberland: a younger son, and the family estate entailed; but a shrewd lad, who chose rather to hunt fortune elsewhere, than to live in miserable dependence on his elder brother. His godfather, a city merchant, encouraged him, and he left Cumberland. He went into commerce, and in twenty years became a wealthy man, so wealthy that he lived to look down on his brother's estate, which he had once thought opulence. His life was all prosperity, with a single exception; but that a bitter one. He laid out some of his funds in a fashionable and beautiful wife. He loved her before marriage: and, as she was always cold to him, he loved her more and more.
In the second year of their marriage she ran away from him; and no beggar in the streets of London was so miserable as the wealthy merchant.
It blighted the man, and left him a sore heart all his days. He never married again; and railed on all womankind for this one. He led a solitary life in London till he was sixty-nine; and then, all of a sudden, Nature, or accident, or both, changed his whole habits. Word came to him that the family estate, already deeply mortgaged, was for sale, and a farmer who had rented a principal farm on it, and held a heavy mortgage, had made the highest offer.
Old Griffith sent down Mr. Atkins, his solicitor, post haste, and snapped the estate out of that purchaser's hands.
When the lands and house had been duly conveyed to him, he came down, and his heart seemed to bud again, in the scenes of his childhood.
Finding the house small, and built in a valley instead of on rising ground, he got an army of bricklayers, and began to build a mansion with a rapidity unheard of in those parts; and he looked about for some one to inherit it.
The name of Gaunt had dwindled down to three since he left Cumberland; but a rich man never lacks relations. Featherstonhaughs, and Underhills, and even Smiths, poured in, with parish registers in their laps, and proved themselves Gauntesses; and flattered and carneyed the new head of the family.
Then the perverse old gentleman felt inclined to look elsewhere. He knew he had a namesake at the other side of the county, but this namesake did not come near him.
This independent Gaunt excited his curiosity and interest. He made inquiries, and heard that young Griffith had just quarrelled with his wife, and gone away in despair.
Griffith senior took for granted that the fault lay with Mrs. Gaunt, and wasted some good sympathy on Griffith junior.
On further inquiry he learnt that the truant was dependent on his wife. Then, argued the moneyed man, he would not run away from her, but that his wound was deep.
The consequence of all this was, that he made a will very favorable to his absent and injured (?) namesake. He left numerous bequests; but made Griffith his residuary legatee; and having settled this matter, urged on, and superintended his workmen.
Alas! just as the roof was going on, a narrower house claimed him, and he made good the saying of the wise bard—
—Tu secanda marmoraLocas sub ipsum funus et sepulchriImmemor struis domos.
The heir of his own choosing could not be found to attend his funeral; and Mr. Atkins, his solicitor, a very worthy man, was really hurt at this. With the quiet bitterness of a displeased attorney, he merely sent Mrs. Gaunt word her husband inherited something under the will, and she would do well to produce him, or else furnish him (Atkins) with proof of his decease.
Mrs. Gaunt was offended by this cavalier note, and replied very like a woman, and very unlike Business.
"I do not know where he is," said she, "nor whether he is alive or dead. Nor do I feel disposed to raise the hue and cry after him. But, favor me with your address, and I shall let you know should I hear anything about him."
Mr. Atkins was half annoyed, half amused, at this piece of indifference. It never occurred to him that it might be all put on.
He wrote back to say that the estate was large, and, owing to the terms of the will, could not be administered without Mr. Griffith Gaunt; and, in the interest of the said Griffith Gaunt, and also of the other legatees, he really must advertise for him.
La Gaunt replied that he was very welcome to advertise for whomsoever he pleased.
Mr. Atkins was a very worthy man; but human. To tell the truth, he was himself one of the other legatees. He inherited (and, to be just, had well deserved,) four thousand guineas, under the will, and could not legally touch it without Griffith Gaunt. This little circumstance spurred his professional zeal.
Mr. Atkins advertised for Griffith Gaunt, in the London and Cumberland papers, and in the usual enticing form. He was to apply to Mr. Atkins, Solicitor, of Gray's Inn, and he would hear of something greatly to his advantage.
These advertisements had not been out a fortnight, when Griffith came home, as I have related.
But Mr. Atkins had punished Mrs. Gaunt for her insouciance, by not informing her of the extent of her good fortune; so she merely told Griffith, casually, that old Griffith Gaunt had left him some money, and the solicitor, Mr. Atkins, could not get on without him. Even this information she did not vouchsafe until she had given him her 500l., for she grudged Atkins the pleasure of supplying her husband with money.
However, as soon as Griffith left her, she wrote to Mr. Atkins to say that her husband had come home in perfect health, thank God; had only stayed two days, but was to return in a week.
When ten days had elapsed, Atkins wrote to inquire.
She replied he had not yet returned: and this went on till Mr. Atkins showed considerable impatience.
As for Mrs. Gaunt, she made light of the matter to Mr. Atkins; but, in truth, this new mystery irritated her and pained her deeply.
In one respect she was more unhappy than she had been before he came back at all. Then she was alone; her door was closed to commentators. But now, on the strength of so happy a reconciliation, she had re-entered the world, and received visits from Sir George Neville, and others; and, above all, had announced that Griffith would be back for good in a few days. So now his continued absence exposed her to sly questions from her own sex, to the interchange of glances between female visitors, as well as to the internal torture of doubt and suspense.
But what distracted her most, was the view Mrs. Ryder took of the matter.
That experienced lady had begun to suspect some other woman was at the bottom of Griffith's conduct: and her own love for Griffith was now soured; repeated disappointments and affronts, spretæque injuria formæ, had not quite extinguished it, but had mixed so much spite with it, that she was equally ready to kiss or to stab him.
So she took every opportunity to instill into her mistress, whose confidence she had won at last, that Griffith was false to her.
"That is the way with these men that are so ready to suspect others. Take my word for it. Dame, he has carried your money to his leman. 'Tis still the honest woman that must bleed for some nasty trollop or other."
She enforced this theory by examples drawn from her own observations in families, and gave the very names; and drove Mrs. Gaunt almost mad with fear, anger, jealousy, and cruel suspense. She could not sleep, she could not eat; she was in a constant fever.
Yet before the world she battled it out bravely, and indeed none but Ryder knew the anguish of her spirit, and her passionate wrath.
At last there came a most eventful day.
Mrs. Gaunt had summoned all her pride and fortitude, and invited certain ladies and gentlemen to dine and sup.
She was one of the true Spartan breed, and played the hostess as well as if her heart had been at ease. It was an age in which the host struggled fiercely to entertain the guests; and Mrs. Gaunt was taxing all her powers of pleasing in the dining-room, when an unexpected guest strolled into the kitchen. The pedlar, Thomas Leicester.
Jane welcomed him cordially, and he was soon seated at a table eating his share of the feast.
Presently Mrs. Ryder came down, dressed in her best, and looking handsomer than ever.
At sight of her, Tom Leicester's affection revived; and he soon took occasion to whisper an inquiry whether she was still single.
"Ay," said she, "and like to be."
"Waiting for the master still? Mayhap I could cure you of that complaint. But least said is soonest mended."
This mysterious hint showed Ryder he had a secret burning his bosom. The sly hussy said nothing just then, but plied him with ale and flattery; and, when he whispered a request for a private meeting out of doors, she cast her eyes down, and assented.
And in that meeting she carried herself so adroitly, that he renewed his offer of marriage, and told her not to waste her fancy on a man who cared neither for her nor any other she in Cumberland.
"Prove that to me," said Ryder, cunningly, "and may be I'll take you at your word."
The bribe was not to be resisted. Tom revealed to her, under a solemn promise of secrecy, that the Squire had got a wife and child in Lancashire; and had a farm and an inn, which latter he kept, under the name of Thomas Leicester.
In short, he told her, in his way, all the particulars I have told in mine.
She led him on with a voice of very velvet. He did not see how her cheek paled and her eyes flashed jealous fury.
When she had sucked him dry, she suddenly turned on him, with a cold voice, and said, "I can't stay any longer with you just now. She will want me."
"You will meet me here again, lass?" said Tom, ruefully.
"Yes, for a minute, after supper."
She then left him and went to Mrs. Gaunt's room, and sat crouching before the fire, all hate and bitterness.
What? he had left the wife he loved, and yet had not turned to her!
She sat there, waiting for Mrs. Gaunt, and nursing her vindictive fury, two mortal hours.
At last, just before supper, Mrs. Gaunt came up to her room, to cool her fevered hands and brow, and found this creature crouched by her fire, all in a heap, with pale cheek, and black eyes that glittered like basilisk's.
"What is the matter, child?" said Mrs. Gaunt. "Good Heavens! what hath happened?"
"Dame!" said Ryder, sternly, "I have got news of him."
"News of him?" faltered Mrs. Gaunt. "Bad news?"
"I don't know whether to tell you or not," said Ryder, sulkily, but with a touch of human feeling.
"What cannot I bear? What have I not borne? Tell me the truth."
The words were stout, but she trembled all over in uttering them.
"Well, it is as I said; only worse. Dame, he has got a wife and child in another county; and no doubt been deceiving her, as he has us."
"A wife!" gasped Mrs. Gaunt, and one white hand clutched her bosom, and the other the mantelpiece.
"Ay, Thomas Leicester, that is in the kitchen now, saw her, and saw his picture hanging aside hers on the wall. And he goes by the name of Thomas Leicester: that was what made Tom go into the inn, seeing his own name on the sign-board. Nay, Dame, never give way like that, lean on me; so. He is a villain, a false, jealous, double-faced villain."
Mrs. Gaunt's head fell on Ryder's shoulder, and she said no word; but only moaned and moaned, and her white teeth clicked convulsively together.
Ryder wept over her sad state: the tears were half impulse, half crocodile.
She applied hartshorn to the sufferer's nostrils, and tried to rouse her mind by exciting her anger. But all was in vain. There hung the betrayed wife, pale, crushed, and quivering under the cruel blow.
Ryder asked her if she should go down and excuse her to her guests.
She nodded a feeble assent.
Ryder then laid her down on the bed with her head low, and was just about to leave her on that errand, when hurried steps were heard outside the door, and one of the female servants knocked; and, not waiting to be invited, put her head in, and cried, "Oh, Dame, the Master is come home. He is in the kitchen."
Mrs. Ryder made an agitated motion with her hand, and gave the girl such a look withal, that she retired precipitately.
But Mrs. Gaunt had caught the words, and they literally transformed her. She sprang off the bed, and stood erect, and looked a Saxon Pythoness: golden hair streaming down her back and grey eyes gleaming with fury.
She caught up a little ivory-handled knife, and held it above her head.
"I'll drive this into his heart before them all," she cried," and tell them the reasonafterwards!"
Ryder looked at her for a moment in utter terror. She saw a woman with grander passions than herself: a woman that looked quite capable of executing her sanguinary threat. Ryder made no more ado, but slipped out directly to prevent a meeting that might be attended with such terrible consequences.
She found her master in the kitchen, splashed with mud, drinking a horn of ale after his ride, and looking rather troubled and anxious; and, by the keen eye of her sex, she saw that the female servants were also in considerable anxiety. The fact is they had just extemporized a lie.
Tom Leicester being near the kitchen window, had seen Griffith ride into the court-yard.
At sight of that well-known figure, he drew back, and his heart quaked at his own imprudence, in confiding Griffith's secret to Caroline Ryder.
"Lasses," said he, hastily, "do me a kindness for old acquaintance. Here's the Squire. For heaven's sake don't let him know I am in the house, or there will be bloodshed between us; he is a hasty man, and I'm another. I'll tell ye more by and by."