CHAPTER I

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GRIFFITH GAUNT; OR, JEALOUSY

BY CHARLES READE

In Three Volumes. Vol I

London

CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY

1866

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER I

"Then I say once for all, that priest shall never darken my doors

again."

"Then I say they are my doors and not yours, and that holy man shall

brighten them whenever he will."

The gentleman and lady, who faced each other pale and furious, and

interchanged this bitter defiance, were man and wife. And had loved

each other well.

Miss Catherine Peyton was a young lady of ancient family in Cumberland,

and the most striking, but least popular, beauty in the county. She was

very tall and straight, and carried herself a little too imperiously;

yet she would sometimes relax and all but dissolve that haughty figure,

and hang sweetly drooping over her favorites: then the contrast was

delicious, and the woman fascinating.

Her hair was golden and glossy; her eyes a lovely grey; and she had a

way of turning them on slowly and full, so that their victim could not

fail to observe two things: 1. that they were grand and beautiful orbs;

2. that they were thoughtfully overlooking him instead of looking at

him.

So contemplated by glorious eyes, a man feels small; and bitter.

Catherine was apt to receive the blunt compliments of the Cumberland

squires with this sweet, celestial, superior gaze, and for this, and

other imperial charms, was more admired than liked.

The family estate was entailed on her brother; her father spent every

farthing he could; so she had no money, and no expectations, except

from a distant cousin, Mr. Charlton, of Hernshaw Castle and Bolton Hall.

Even these soon dwindled: Mr. Charlton took a fancy to his late wife's

relation, Griffith Gaunt, and had him into his house, and treated him

as his heir. This disheartened two admirers who had hitherto sustained

Catherine Peyton's gaze, and they retired. Comely girls, girls

long-nosed but rich, girls snub-nosed but winning, married on all sides

of her, but the imperial beauty remained Miss Peyton at two-and-twenty.

She was rather kind to the poor; would give them money out of her

slender purse, and would even make clothes for the women, and sometimes

read to them (very few of them could read to themselves in that day).

All she required in return was that they should be Roman Catholics,

like herself, or at least pretend they might be brought to that faith

by little and little.

She was a high-minded girl; and could be a womanly one--whenever she

chose.

She hunted about twice a week in the season, and was at home in the

saddle, for she had ridden from a child; but so ingrained was her

character, that this sport, which more or less unsexes most women, had

no perceptible effect on her mind nor even on her manners. The scarlet

riding-habit, and little purple cap, and the great white bony horse

she rode, were often seen in a good place at the end of a long run:

but, for all that, the lady was a most ungenial fox-huntress; she never

spoke a word but to her acquaintances, and wore a settled air of dreamy

indifference, except when the hounds happened to be in full cry, and

she galloping at their heels. Worse than that, when the hounds were

running into the fox, and his fate certain, she had been known to rein

in her struggling horse, and pace thoughtfully home, instead of coming

in at the death, and claiming the brush.

One day being complimented, at the end of a hard run, by the gentleman

who kept the hounds, she turned her celestial orbs on him and said,

"Nay, Sir Ralph, I love to gallop; and this sorry business it gives me

an excuse."

It was full a hundred years ago: the country teemed with foxes; but

it abounded in stiff coverts, and a knowing fox was sure to run from

one to another; and then came wearisome efforts to dislodge him; and

then Miss Peyton's grey eyes used to explore vacancy, and ignore her

companions, biped and quadruped.

But one day they drew Yew-tree Brow and found a stray fox. At Gaylad's

first note he broke cover and went away for home across the open

country. A hedger saw him steal out, and gave a view halloo; the riders

came round halter skelter; the hounds in cover one by one threw up

their noses and voices; the horns blew, the canine music swelled to a

strong chorus, and away they swept across country, dogs, horses, men;

and the deuce take the hindmost.

It was a gallant chase, and our dreamy virgin's blood got up. Erect,

but lithe and vigorous, and one with her great white gelding, she came

flying behind the foremost riders, and took leap for leap with them;

one glossy, golden curl streamed back in the rushing air, her grey eyes

glowed with earthly fire, and two red spots on the upper part of her

cheeks showed she was much excited without a grain of fear; yet in the

first ten minutes one gentleman was unhorsed before her eyes, and one

came to grief along with his animal, and a thorough-bred chestnut was

galloping and snorting beside her with empty saddle. Presently young

Featherstone, who led her by about fifteen yards, crashed through a

high hedge, and was seen no more, but heard wallowing in the deep

unsuspected ditch beyond. There was no time to draw bridle. "Lie still,

sir, if you please," said Catherine, with cool civility; then up rein,

in spur, and she cleared the ditch and its muddy contents, alive and

dead, and away without looking behind her.

On, on, on, till all the pinks and buckskins, erst so smart, were

splashed with clay and dirt of every hue, and all the horses' late

glossy coats were bathed with sweat and lathered with foam, and their

gaping nostrils blowing and glowing red; and then it was that Harrowden

brook, swollen wide and deep by the late rains, came right between the

fox and Dogmore underwood, for which he was making.

The hunt sweeping down a hill-side caught sight of Reynard running for

the brook. They made sure of him now. But he lapped a drop, and then

slipped in, and soon crawled out on the other side, and made feebly for

the covert, weighted with wet fur.

At sight of him the hunt hallooed and trumpeted, and came tearing on

with fresh vigor.

But, when they came near the brook, lo! it was twenty feet wide, and

running fast and brown. Some riders skirted it, looking for a narrow

part. Two horses, being spurred at it, came to the bank, and then went

rearing round on their heels, depositing one hat and another rider

in the current. One gallant steed planted his feet like a tower, and

snorted down at the water. One flopped gravely in and had to swim, and

be dragged out. Another leaped, and landed with his feet on the other

bank, his haunches in the water, and his rider curled round his neck

and glaring out between his retroverted ears.

But Miss Peyton encouraged her horse with spur and voice, set her

teeth, turned rather pale this time, and went at the brook with a rush,

and cleared it like a deer. She and the huntsman were almost alone

together on the other side, and were as close to the hounds as the

hounds were to poor pug, when he slipped through a run in a quickset

hedge, and glided into Dogmore underwood, a stiff hazel coppice of five

years' growth.

The other riders soon straggled up, and then the thing was to get

him out again. There were a few narrow roads cut in the underwood,

and up and down these the huntsman and whipper-in went trotting, and

encouraged the staunch hounds, and whipped the skulkers back into

covert. Others galloped uselessly about, pounding the earth, for

daisy-cutters were few in those days; and Miss Peyton relapsed into the

transcendental. She sat in one place with her elbow on her knee, and

her fair chin supported by two fingers, as undisturbed by the fracas of

horns and voices as an equestrian statue of Diana.

She sat so still, and so long, at a corner of the underwood, that at

last the harassed fox stole out close to her, with lolling tongue

and eye askant, and took the open field again. She thrilled at first

sight of him, and her cheeks burned; but her quick eye took in all the

signs of his distress, and she sat quiet and watched him coolly. Not

so her horse; he plunged and then trembled all over, and planted his

fore-feet together at this angle \, and parted his hind-legs a little,

and so stood quivering, with cocked ears, and peeped over a low paling

at the retiring quadruped; and fretted and sweated, in anticipation

of the gallop his long head told him was to follow. He looked a deal

more statuesque than any three statues in England; and all about a

creature not up to his knee--and by-the-by; the gentlemen that carve

horses in our native isle, did they ever see one?--Out of an omnibus?

The whipper-in came by and found him in this gallant attitude, and

suspected the truth; but, observing the rider's tranquil position,

thought the fox had only popped out and then in again. However, he

fell in with the huntsman and told him Miss Peyton's grey had seen

something. The hounds appeared puzzled; and so the huntsman rode round

to Miss Peyton, and, touching his cap, asked her if she had seen

anything of the fox.

She looked him dreamily in the face. "The fox," said she: "he broke

cover ten minutes ago."

The man blew his horn lustily, and then asked her reproachfully why

she had not tally-hoed him, or winded her horn; with that he blew his

own again impatiently. Miss Peyton replied very slowly and pensively

that the fox had come out soiled and fatigued, and trailing his brush.

"I looked at him," said she, "and I pitied him; he was one, and we

are many; he was so little, and we are so big: he had given us a good

gallop; and so I made up my mind he should live to run another day."

The huntsman stared stupidly at her for a moment, then burst into a

torrent of oaths, then blew his horn till it was hoarse, then cursed

and swore till he was hoarse himself; then to his horn again, and dogs

and men came rushing to the sound.

"Couple up and go home to supper," said Miss Peyton, quietly. "The fox

is half-way to Gallowstree Gorse, and you won't get him out of that

this afternoon, I promise you."

As she said this, she just touched her horse with the spur, leaped the

low hedge in front of her, and cantered slowly home across country; she

was one that seldom troubled the hard road, go where she would.

She had ridden about a mile when she heard a horse's feet behind her;

she smiled, and her color rose a little, but she cantered on.

"Halt! in the King's name," shouted a mellow voice, and a gentleman

galloped up to her side, and reined in his mare.

"What! have they killed?" inquired Catherine, demurely.

"Not they; he is in the middle of Gallowstree Gorse by now."

"And is this the way to Gallowstree Gorse?"

"Nay, mistress," said the young man; "but, when the fox heads one way

and the deer another, what is a poor hunter to do?"

"Follow the slower, it seems."

"Say the lovelier and the dearer, sweet Kate."

"Now, Griffith, you know I hate flattery," said Kate; and the next

moment came a soft smile, and belied this unsocial sentiment.

"Flattery?" said the lover. "I have no tongue to speak half your

praise. I think the people in this country are as blind as bats, or

they'd--"

"All except Mr. Griffith Gaunt; he has found a paragon where wiser

people see a wayward, capricious girl."

"Then _he_ is the man for you. Don't you see that, mistress?"

"No, I don't quite see that," said the lady, drily.

This cavalier reply caused a dismay the speaker never intended. The

fact is, Mr. George Neville, young, handsome, and rich, had lately

settled in the county, and had been greatly smitten with Kate. The

county was talking about it, and Griffith had been secretly on thorns

for some days past. And now he could hide his uneasiness no longer;

he cried out, in a sharp, trembling voice, "Why, Kate, my dear Kate,

what, could you love any man but me? Could you be so cruel?--could you?

There, let me get off my horse, and lie down on this stubble, and you

ride over me, and trample me to death. I would rather have you trample

on my ribs, than on my heart with loving any one but me."

"Why, what now?" said Catherine, drawing herself up. "I must scold

you handsomely;" and she drew rein and turned full upon him; but by

this means she saw his face was full of real distress; so, instead of

reprimanding him, she said gently, "Why, Griffith, what is to do? Are

you not my servant? Do not I send you word whenever I dine from home?"

"Yes, dearest; and then I call at that house, and stick there till they

guess what I would be at, and ask me too."

Catherine smiled; and proceeded to remind him that thrice a week she

permitted him to ride over from Bolton (a distance of fifteen miles) to

see her.

"Yes," replied Griffith, "and I must say you always come, wet or dry,

to the shrubbery gate, and put your hand in mine a minute. And Kate,"

said he piteously, "at the bare thought of your putting that same dear

hand in another man's, my heart turns sick within me, and my skin burns

and trembles on me."

"But you have no cause," said Catherine, soothingly. "Nobody, except

yourself, doubts my affection for you. You are often thrown in my

teeth, Griffith--and (clenching her own) I like you all the better--of

course."

Griffith replied with a burst of gratitude: and then, as men will,

proceeded to encroach. "Ah," said he, "if you would but pluck up

courage, and take the matrimonial fence with me at once."

Miss Peyton sighed at that and drooped a little upon her saddle. After

a pause, she enumerated the "just impediments." She reminded him that

neither of them had means to marry on.

He made light of that, he should soon have plenty; Mr. Charlton had as

good as told him he was to have Bolton Hall and Grange: "Six hundred

acres, Kate, besides the park and paddocks."

In his warmth he forgot that Catherine was to have been Mr. Charlton's

heir. Catherine was too high-minded to bear Griffith any grudge;

but she colored a little, and said she was averse to come to him a

penniless bride.

"Why, what matters it which of us has the dross, so that there is

enough for both?" said Griffith, with an air of astonishment.

Catherine smiled approbation, and tacitly yielded that point. But then

she objected the difference in their faith.

"Oh, honest folk get to heaven by different roads," said Griffith,

carelessly.

"I have been taught otherwise," replied Catherine, gravely.

"Then give me your hand and I'll give you my soul," said Griffith

Gaunt, impetuously. "I'll go to heaven your way, if you can't go mine.

Anything sooner than be parted in this world, or the next."

She looked at him in silence; and it was in a faint half apologetic

tone she objected that "all her kinsfolk were set against it."

"It is not their business; it is ours," was the prompt reply.

"Well, then," said Catherine, sadly, "I suppose I must tell you the

true reason; I feel I should not make you happy; I do not love you

quite as you want to be loved, as you deserve to be loved. You need

not look so; nothing in flesh and blood is your rival. But my heart it

bleeds for the church I think of her ancient glory in this kingdom,

and, when I see her present condition, I long to devote myself to her

service. I am very fit to be an abbess or a nun; most unfit to be a

wife. No, no; I must not, ought not, dare not, many a Protestant.

Take the advice of one who esteems you dearly; leave me--fly from me

--forget me--do everything but hate me. Nay, do not hate me: you little

know the struggle in my mind. Farewell; the saints, whom you scorn,

watch over and protect you: farewell."

And with this she sighed, and struck her spur into the grey, and he

darted off at a gallop.

Griffith, little able to cope with such a character as this, sat

petrified, and would have been rooted to the spot if he had happened to

be on foot. But his mare set off after her companion, and a chase of

a novel kind commenced. Catherine's horse was fresher than Griffith's

mare, and the latter, not being urged by her petrified master, lost

ground.

But, when she drew near to her father's gate, Catherine relaxed her

speed, and Griffith rejoined her.

She had already half relented, and only wanted a warm and resolute

wooer to bring her round. But Griffith was too sore, and too little

versed in woman. Full of suspicion and bitterness he paced gloomy and

silent by her side, till they reached the great avenue that led to her

father's house.

And, while he rides alongside the capricious creature in sulky silence,

I may as well reveal a certain foible in his own character.

This Griffith Gaunt was by no means deficient in physical courage; but

he was instinctively disposed to run away from mental pain the moment

he lost hope of driving it away from him. For instance, if Catherine

had been ill and her life in danger, he would have ridden day and night

to save her; but if she had died he would either have killed himself,

or else fled the country, and so escaped the sight of every object that

was associated with her, and could agonize him. I do not think he could

have attended the funeral of one he loved.

The mind, as well as the body, has its self-protecting instincts. This

of Griffith's was after all an instinct of that class, and, under

certain circumstances, is true wisdom. But Griffith, I think, earned

the instinct to excess; and that is why I call it his foible.

"Catherine," said he, resolutely, "let me ride by your side to the

house for once; for I read your advice my own way, and I mean to follow

it: after to-day you will be troubled with me no more. I have loved you

these three years, I have courted you these two years, and I am none

the nearer. I see I am not the man you mean to marry; so I shall do as

my father did, ride down to the coast, and sell my horse, and ship for

foreign parts."

"Oh! as you will," said Catherine, haughtily. She quite forgot she had

just recommended him to do something of this very kind.

Presently she stole a look. His fine ruddy cheek was pale; his manly

brown eyes were moist; yet a gloomy and resolute expression on his

tight-drawn lips. She looked at him sidelong, and thought how often

he had ridden thirty miles on that very mare to get a word with her

at the shrubbery gate. And now the mare to be sold! The man to go

broken-hearted to sea; perhaps to his death! Her good heart began to

yearn. "Griffith," said she, softly, "it is not as if I was going to

wed anybody else. Is it nothing to be preferred by her you say you

love? If I was you I would do nothing rash? Why not give me a little

time? In truth, I hardly know my own mind about it two days together."

"Kate," said the young man, firmly, "I am courting you this two years.

If I wait two years more it will be but to see the right man come and

carry you in a month; for so girls are won when they are won at all.

Your sister that is married and dead she held Josh Pitt in hand for

years; and what is the upshot? Why, he wears the willow for her to this

day; and her husband, he married again before her grave was green. Nay,

I have done all an honest man can do to woo you; so take me now or let

me go."

At this, Kate began to waver secretly, and ask herself whether it would

not be better to yield, since he was so resolute.

But the unlucky fellow did not leave well alone. He went on to say,

"Once out of sight of this place I may cure myself of my fancy. Here I

never could."

"Oh!" said Catherine, directly, "if you are so bent on being cured, it

would not become me to say nay."

Griffith Gaunt bit his lip and hung his head, and made no reply.

The patience with which he received her hard speech was more

apparent than real: but it told. Catherine, receiving no fresh

positive provocation, relented again of her own accord, and, after a

considerable silence, whispered softly, "Think how we should all miss

you."

Here was an overture to reconciliation. But unfortunately it brought

out what had long been rankling in Griffith's mind, and was in fact the

real cause of the misunderstanding. "Oh!" said he, "those I care for

will soon find another to take my place. Soon; quotha. They have not

waited till I was gone for that."

"Ah, indeed!" said Catherine, with some surprise: then, like the

quick-witted girl she was, "so this is what all the coil is about."

She then, with a charming smile, begged him to inform her who was his

destined successor in her esteem. Griffith colored purple at her cool

hypocrisy (for such he considered it), and replied, almost fiercely,

"who but that young black-a-vised George Neville, that you have been

coquetting with this month past; and danced all night with him at Lady

Munster's ball, you did."

Catherine blushed, and said deprecatingly. "_You_ were not there,

Griffith; or to be sure I had not danced with _him._"

"And he toasts you by name wherever he goes."

"Can I help that? Wait till I toast him before you make yourself

ridiculous, and me very angry--about nothing."

Griffith, sticking to his one idea, replied doggedly "Mistress Alice

Peyton shilly-shallied with her true lover for years--till Richard

Hilton came that was not fit to tie his shoes, and then--." Catherine

cut him short: "Affront me, if nothing less will serve; but spare my

sister in her grave." She began this sentence angrily, but concluded

it in a broken voice. Griffith was half disarmed; but only half. He

answered sullenly, "She did not die till she had jilted an honest

gentleman and broken his heart, and married a sot, to her cost. And

you are of her breed, when all is done; and now that young coxcomb has

come, like Dick Hilton, between you and me."

"But I do not encourage him."

"You do not _dis_courage him," retorted Griffith, "or he would not be

so hot after you. Were you ever the woman to say, 'I have a servant

already that loves me dear?'--That one frank word had sent him packing."

Miss Peyton colored, and the water came into her eyes. "I may have been

imprudent," she murmured. "The young gentleman made me smile with his

extravagance. I never thought to be misunderstood by him, far less by

you." Then, suddenly, bold as brass, "'Tis all your fault; if he had

the power to make you uneasy, why did you not check me before?"

"Ay, forsooth! and have it cast in my teeth I was a jealous monster,

and played the tyrant before my time. A poor fellow scarce knows what

to be at, that loves a coquette."

"Coquette I am none," replied the lady, bridling magnificently.

Griffith took no notice of this interruption. He proceeded to say that

he had hitherto endured this intrusion of a rival in silence, though

with a sore heart, hoping his patience might touch her, or the fire go

out of itself. But at last, unable to bear it any longer in silence,

he had shown his wound to one he knew could feel for him, his poor

friend Pitt. Pitt, had then, let him know that his own mistake had been

over-confidence in Alice Peyton's constancy. "He said to me, 'Watch

your Kate close, and, at the first blush of a rival, say you to her,

part with him, or part with me.'"

Catherine pinned him directly. "And this is how you take Joshua Pitt's

advice; by offering to run away from this sorry rival."

The shrewd reply, and a curl of the lip, half arch, half contemptuous,

that accompanied the thrust, staggered the less ready Griffith. He got

puzzled, and showed it.

"Well, but," stammered he at last, "your spirit is high; I was mostly

afeard to put it so plump to you. So I thought I would go about a bit,

However, it comes to the same thing; for this I do know, that if you

refuse me your hand this day, it is to give it to a new acquaintance,

as your Alice did before you. And, if it is to be so, 'tis best for me

to be gone; best for him, and best for you. You don't know me, Kate,

for as clever as you are. At the thought of your playing me false,

after all these years, and marrying that George Neville, my heart turns

to ice, and then to fire, and my head seems ready to burst, and my

hands to do mad and bloody acts. Ay, I feel I should kill him, or you,

or both, at the church porch. Ah!" he suddenly griped her arm, and at

the same time Involuntarily checked his mare.

Both horses stopped.

She raised her head with an inquiring look, and saw her lover's face

discolored with passion, and so strangely convulsed, that she feared at

first he was in a fit, or stricken with death or palsy.

She uttered a cry of alarm, and stretched forth her hand towards him.

But the next moment she drew it back from him; for, following his eye,

she discerned the cause of this ghastly look. Her father's house stood

at the end of the avenue they had just entered; but there was another

approach to it, viz., by a bridle-road at right angles to the avenue

or main entrance; and up that bridle-road a gentleman was walking his

horse, and bade fair to meet them at the hall door.

It was young Neville. There was no mistaking his piebald charger for

any other animal in that county.

Kate Peyton glanced from lover to lover, and shuddered at Griffith. She

was familiar with petty jealousy; she had even detected it pinching

or coloring many a pretty face that tried very hard to hide it all

the time. But that was nothing to what she saw now. Hitherto she had

but beheld the feeling of jealousy, but now she witnessed the livid

passion of jealousy writhing in every lineament of a human face. That

terrible passion had transfigured its victim in a moment: the ruddy,

genial, kindly Griffith, with his soft brown eye, was gone; and in his

place lowered a face, older, and discolored, and convulsed, and almost

demoniacal.

Women (wiser perhaps in this than men) take their strongest impressions

by the eye, not ear. Catherine, I say, looked at him she had hitherto

thought she knew; looked and feared him. And, even while she looked,

and shuddered, Griffith spurred his mare sharply, and then drew her

head across the grey gelding's path. It was an instinctive impulse to

bar the lady he loved from taking another step towards the place where

his rival awaited her. "I cannot bear it," he gasped. "Choose you now

once for all between that puppy there and me," and he pointed with his

riding-whip at his rival, and waited with his teeth clenched for her

decision.

The movement was rapid, the gesture large and commanding, and the words

manly; for what says the fighting poet?--

"He either fears his fate too much,

Or his deserts are small;

Who fears to put it to the touch,

To win or lose it all."

CHAPTER II

Miss Peyton drew herself up, and back, by one motion, like a queen at

bay; but still she eyed him with a certain respect, and was careful now

not to provoke nor pain him needlessly.

"I prefer _you_--though you speak harshly to me, sir," said she, with

gentle dignity.

"Then give me your hand with that man in sight, and end my torments:

promise to marry me this very week. Ah, Kate! have pity on your poor

faithful servant who has loved you so long."

"I do, Griffith, I do," said she sweetly; "but I shall never marry now.

Only set your mind at rest about Mr. Neville there. He has never asked

me, for one thing."

"He soon will then."

"No, no; I declare I will be very cool to him after what you have said

to me. But I cannot marry you neither. I dare not. Listen to me, and

do pray govern your temper as I am doing mine. I have often read of

men with a passion for jealousy--I mean men whose jealousy feeds upon

air, and defies reason. I know you now for such a man. Marriage would

not cure this madness, for wives do not escape admiration any more than

maids. Something tells me you would be jealous of every fool that paid

me some stale compliment, jealous of my female friends, and jealous of

my relations, and perhaps jealous of your own children, and of that

holy persecuted church which must still have a large share of my heart.

No, no; your face and your words have shown me a precipice. I tremble,

and draw back, and now I never _will_ marry at all; from this day I

give myself to the church."

Griffith did not believe one word of all this. "That is your answer to

me," said he bitterly. "When the right man puts the question (and he

is not far off) you will tell another tale. You take me for a fool,

and you mock me: you are not the lass to die an old maid, and men

are not the fools to let you. With faces like yours the new servant

comes before the first one is gone. Well, I have got my answer. County

Cumberland, you are no place for me. The ways and the fields we two

have rid together, oh how could I bear their sight without my dear? Why

what a poor-spirited fool am I to stay and whine! Come, mistress, your

lover waits you there, and your discarded servant knows good breeding:

he leaves the country not to spoil your sport."

Catherine panted heavily. "Well, sir," said she, "then it is your

doing, not mine. Will you not even shake hands with me, Griffith?"

"I were a brute else," sighed the jealous one, with a sudden revulsion

of feeling. "I have spent the happiest hours of my life beside you. If

I loved thee less I had never left thee."

He clung a little while to her hand, more like a drowning man than

anything else; then let it go, and suddenly shook his clenched fist

in the direction of George Neville, and cried out with a savage yell,

"My curse on him that parts us twain! And you, Kate, may God bless you

single, and curse you married: and that is my last word in Cumberland."

"Amen," said Catherine resignedly.

And even with this they wheeled their horses apart, and rode away from

each other: she very pale, but erect with wounded pride; he reeling in

his saddle like a drunken man.

And so Griffith Gaunt, stung mad by jealousy, affronted his sweetheart,

the proudest girl in Cumberland, and, yielding to his foible, fled from

his pain.

Our foibles are our manias.

CHAPTER III

Miss Peyton was shocked, and grieved at bottom, but she was also

affronted and wounded. Now anger seems to have some fine buoyant

quality, which makes it rise and come uppermost in an agitated mind.

She rode proudly into the courtyard of her father's house, and would

not look once behind to see the last of her perverse lover.

The old groom, Joe, who had taught her to ride when she was six years

old, saw her coming, and hobbled out to hold her horse, while she

alighted. "Mistress Kate," said he, "have you seen Master Griffith

Gaunt anywheres?"

The young lady colored at this question.

"Why?" said she.

"Why?" repeated old Joe, a little contemptuously. "Why, where have

_you_ been not to know the country is out after un? First comed

Jock Dennet, with his horse all in a lather, to say old Mr. Charlton

was took ill, and had asked for Master Griffith. I told him to go

to Dogmore Copse: 'our Kate is a hunting, to-day,' says I, and your

Griffith he is sure not to be far from her gelding's tail;' a stick in

his spurs and away a goes: what, han't you seen Jock neither?"

"No, no," replied Miss Peyton, impatiently: "what, is there anything

the matter?"

"The matter, quo she! Why Jock hadn't been gone an hour when in rides

the new footman all in a lather, and brings a letter for Master

Griffith from the old gentleman's housekeeper: ‘you leave the letter

with me, in case,' says I, and I sends him a field after t'other. Here

be the letter."

He took off his cap and produced the letter.

Catherine started at the sight of it. "Alas!" said she, "this is a

heavy day. Look, Joe; sealed with black; poor cousin Charlton! I doubt

he is no more."

Joe shook his head expressively, and told her the butcher had come from

that part not ten minutes ago, with word that the blinds were all down

at Bolton Hall.

Poor human nature! a gleam of joy shot through Catherine's heart; this

sad news would compel Griffith to stay at home and bury his benefactor;

and that delay would give him time to reflect; and somehow or other she

felt sure it would end in his not going at all.

But these thoughts had no sooner passed through her than she was

ashamed of them and of herself. What, welcome that poor old man's death

because it would keep her cross-grained lover at home? Her cheeks

burned with shame, and with a superfluous exercise of self-defense she

retired from Old Joe, lest he should divine what was passing in her

mind.

But she was so rapt in thought that she carried the letter away with

her unconsciously.

As she passed through the hall she heard George Neville and her father

in animated conversation. She mounted the stairs softly, and went into

a little boudoir of her own on the first floor, and sat down. The house

stood high, and there was a very expansive and beautiful view of the

country from this window. She sat down by it and drooped, and looked

wistfully through the window, and thought of the past, and fell into a

sad reverie. Pity began to soften her pride and anger, and presently

two gentle tears dimmed her glorious eyes a moment, and then stole down

her delicate cheeks.

While she sat thus lost in the past, jovial voices and creaking boots

broke suddenly upon her ear, and came up the stairs: they jarred upon

her; so she cast one last glance out of the window, and rose to get out

of their way if possible: but it was too late; a heavy step came to

the door, and a ruddy port-drinking face peeped in. It was her father.

"See-ho!" roared the jovial Squire. "I've found the hare on her form:

bide thou outside a moment." And he entered the room; but he had no

sooner closed the door than his whole manner changed from loud and

jovial to agitated and subdued. "Kate, my girl," said he, piteously, "I

have been a bad father to thee. I have spent all the money that should

have been thine; thy poor father can scarce look thee in the face. So

now I bring thee a good husband: be a good child now, and a dutiful.

Neville's Court is his, and Neville's Cross will be, by the entail; and

so will the baronetcy. I shall see my girl Lady Neville."

"Never, papa, never," cried Kate.

"Hush! hush!" said the Squire, and put up his hand to her in great

agitation and alarm: "hush! or he will hear ye. Kate," he whispered,

"are you mad? Little I thought, when he asked to see me, it was to

offer marriage. Be a good girl now: don't you quarrel with good luck.

You are not fit to be poor, and you have made enemies. Do but think

how they will flout you when I die, and Bill's jade of a wife puts you

to the door, as she will: and now you can triumph over them all; my

Lady Neville; and make your poor father happy; my Lady Neville. Enough

said, for I have promised you; so don't go and make a fool of me and

yourself into the bargain. And--and--a word in your ear; he has lent me

a hundred pounds."

At this climax the father hung his head; the daughter winced and moaned

out, "Papa! how _could_ you?"

Mr. Peyton had gradually descended to that intermediate stage of

degradation, when the substance of dignity is all gone, but its shadow,

shame, remains. He stamped impatiently on the ground, and cut his

humiliation short by rushing out of the room. "Here, try your own luck,

youngster," he cried at the door. "She knows my mind." He trampled down

the stairs, and young George Neville knocked respectfully at the door,

though it was half open; and came in with youth's light foot, and a

handsome face flushed into beauty by love and hope.

Miss Peyton's eye just swept him, as he entered, and with the same

movement she turned away her fair head and blushing cheek towards the

window; yet, must I own it, she quietly moulded the letter that lay in

her lap, so that the address was no longer visible to the new-comer.

Small secrecy, verging on deceit, you are bred in women's bones.

This blushing and averted cheek is one of those equivocal receptions

that have puzzled many a sensible man. It is a sign of coy love; it is

a sign of gentle aversion; _our_ mode of interpreting it is simple and

judicious; whichever it happens to be we go and take it for the other.

The brisk bold wooer that now engaged Kate Peyton was not the man to be

dashed by a woman's coyness. Handsome, daring, good-humored, and vain,

he had everything in his favor but his novelty.

Look at Kate! her eye lingers wistfully on that disconsolate horseman

whose every step takes him farther from her; but George has her ear,

and draws closer and closer to it, and pours love's mellow murmurs into

it.

He told her he had made the grand tour, and seen the beauties of every

land, but none like her; other ladies had certainly pleased his eye for

a moment, but she alone had conquered his heart. He said many charming

things to her, such as Griffith Gaunt had never said. Amongst the rest,

he assured her the beauty of her person would not alone have fascinated

him so deeply; but he had seen the beauty of her mind in those eyes of

hers that seemed not eyes, but souls; and, begging her pardon for his

presumption, he aspired to wed her mind.

Such ideas had often risen in Kate's own mind; but to hear them from

a man was new. She looked askant through the window at the lessening

Griffith, and thought "how the grand tour improves a man!" and said as

coldly as she could, "I esteem you, sir, and cannot but be flattered by

sentiments so superior to those I am used to hear; but let this go no

further. I shall never marry now."

Instead of being angry at this, or telling her she wanted to marry

somebody else, as the injudicious Griffith had done, young Neville had

the address to treat it as an excellent jest, and drew such comical

pictures of all the old maids in the neighborhood, that she could not

help smiling.

But the moment she smiled, the inflammable George made hot love to

her again. Then she besought him to leave her, piteously. Then he

said cheerfully he would leave her as soon as ever she had promised

to be his. At that she turned sullen and haughty, and looked through

the window and took no notice of him whatever. Then, instead of being

discouraged or mortified, he showed imperturbable confidence and good

humour, and begged archly to know what interesting object was in sight

from that window. On this she blushed and withdrew her eyes from the

window, and so they met his. On that he threw himself on his knees

(custom of the day), and wooed her with such a burst of passionate and

tearful eloquence that she began to pity him, and said she, lifting her

lovely eyes, "Alas! I was born to make all those I esteem, unhappy;"

and she sighed deeply.

"Not a bit of it," said he; "you were born, like the sun, to bless all

you shine upon. Sweet Mistress Kate, I love you as these country boors

can never be taught to love. I lay my heart, my name, my substance, at

your feet; you shall not be loved--you shall be worshipped. Ah! turn

those eyes, brimful of soul, on me again, and let me try and read in

them that one day, no matter how distant, the delight of my eyes, the

joy of all my senses, the pride of Cumberland, the pearl of England,

the flower of womankind, the rival of the angels, the darling of George

Neville's heart, will be George Neville's wife."

Fire and water were in his eyes, passion in every tone; his manly hand

grasped hers and trembled, and drew her gently towards him.

Her bosom heaved; his passionate male voice and manner electrified

her, and made her flutter. "Spare me this pain," she faltered; and she

looked through the window and thought, "Poor Griffith was right after

all, and I was wrong. He had cause for jealousy, and CAUSE FOR FEAR."

And then she pitied him who panted at her side, and then was sorry

for him who rode away disconsolate, still lessening to her eye; and

what with this conflict, and the emotion her quarrel with Griffith had

already caused her, she leaned her head back against the shutter, and

began to sob low, but almost hysterically.

Now, Mr. George Neville was neither a fool nor a novice. If he had

never been downright in love before (which I crave permission to

doubt), he had gone far enough on that road to make one Italian lady,

two French, one Austrian, and one Creole in love with him; and each of

these love affairs had given him fresh insight into the ways of women.

Enlightened by so many bitter-sweet experiences, he saw at once that

there was something more going on inside Kate's heaving bosom than he

could have caused by offering her his hand. He rose from his knees, and

leaned against the opposite shutter, and fixed his eyes a little sadly,

but very observantly, on her, as she leaned back against the shutter,

sobbing low, but hysterically, and quivering all over.

"There's some other man at the bottom of this," thought George Neville.

"Mistress Kate," said he, gently, "I do not come here to make you weep.

I love you like a gentleman; if you love another, take courage, tell me

so, and don't let your father constrain your inclinations. Dearly as I

love you, I would not wed your person and your heart another's; that

would be too cruel to you, and (drawing himself up with sudden majesty)

too unjust to myself."

Kate looked up at him through her tears, and admired this man, who

could love ardently, yet be proud and just. And if his appeal to her

candor had been made yesterday, she would have said frankly, "There is

one I--esteem." But, since the quarrel, she would not own to herself,

far less to another, that she loved a man who had turned his back upon

her. So she _parried._

"There is no one I love enough to wed," said she. "I am a cold-hearted

girl, born to give pain to my betters. But I shall do something

desperate to end all this."

"All what?" said he, keenly.

"The whole thing; my unprofitable life."

"Mistress Kate," said Neville, "I asked you was there another man. If

you had answered me 'In truth there is, but he is poor and my father

is averse,' or the like; then I would have stood his friend, for your

sake. But you say there is no man you love. Then I say you shall be

Dame Neville."

"What, whether I will or no?"

"Yes; whether you _think_ you will or no."

Catherine turned her dreamy eyes on him.

"You have had a good master. Why did you not come to me sooner?"

She was thinking more of him than of herself, and in fact paying

too little heed to her words. But she had no sooner uttered this

inadvertent speech than she felt she had said too much; she blushed a

rosy red, and hid her face in her hands in the most charming confusion.

"Sweetest, it is not an hour too late, as you do not love another," was

stout George Neville's reply.

But nevertheless the cunning rogue thought it safest to temporize,

and put his coy mistress off her guard. So he ceased to alarm her by

pressing the question of marriage, but seduced her into a charming

talk, where the topics were not so personal, and only the tones of his

voice and the glances of his expressive eyes were caressing. He was

on his mettle to please her by hook or by crook, and was delightful,

irresistible. He set her at ease, and she began to listen more, and

even to smile faintly, and to look through the window a little less

perseveringly.

Suddenly the spell was broken for a while.

And by whom?

By the other.

Ay you may well stare. It sounds strange, but it is true, that the poor

forlorn horseman, hanging like a broken man, as he was, over his tired

horse, and wending his solitary way from her he loved, and resigning

the field, like a goose, to the very rival he feared, did yet (like

the retiring Parthian) shoot an arrow right into that pretty boudoir,

and hit both his sweetheart and his rival; hit them hard enough to

spoil their sport, and make a little mischief between them--for that

afternoon, at all events.

The arrow came into the room after this fashion.

Kate was sitting in a very feminine attitude. When a man wants to look

in any direction, he turns his body and his eye the same way and does

it; but women love to cast oblique regards, and this their instinct is

a fruitful source of their graceful and characteristic postures.

Kate Peyton was at this moment a statue of her sex. Her fair head

leaned gently back against the corner of the window shutter, her pretty

feet and fair person in general were opposite George Neville, who

sat facing the window but in the middle of the room; her arms, half

pendent, half extended, went listlessly aslant her and somewhat to the

right of her knees, yet by an exquisite turn of the neck her grey eyes

contrived to be looking dreamily out of the window to her left. Still,

in this figure, that pointed one way and looked another, there was no

distortion; all was easy, and full of that subtle grace we artists call

Repose.

But suddenly she dissolved this feminine attitude, rose to her feet,

and interrupted her wooer civilly. "Excuse me," said she, "but can you

tell me which way that road on the hill leads to?"

Her companion stared a little at so sudden a turn in the conversation,

but replied by asking her with perfect good humour what road she meant.

"The one that gentleman on horseback has just taken. Surely," she

continued, "that road does not take to Bolton Hall."

"Certainly not," said George, following the direction of her finger,

"Bolton lies to the right. That road takes to the sea-coast by

Otterbury and Stanhope."

"I thought so," said Kate. "How unfortunate! He cannot know. But indeed

how should he?"

"Who cannot know? and what? you speak in riddles, mistress; and how

pale you are; are you ill?"

"No, not ill, sir," faltered Kate; "but you see me much discomposed. My

cousin Charlton died this day; and the news met me at the very door."

She could say no more.

Mr. Neville, on hearing this news, began to make many excuses for

having inadvertently intruded himself upon her on such a day; but in

the midst of his apologies she suddenly looked him full in the face,

and said, with nervous abruptness, "You _talk_ like a preux chevalier;

I wonder whether you would ride five or six miles to do me a service?"

"Ay; a thousand;" said the young man, glowing with pleasure. "What is

to do?"

Kate pointed through the window. "You see that gentleman on horseback.

Well, I happen to know he is leaving the country: he thinks that

he--that I--that Mr. Charlton has many years to live. He must be told

Mr. Charlton is dead, and his presence is required at Bolton Hall. I

_should_ like somebody to gallop after him, and give him this letter:

but my own horse is tired, and I am tired--and, to be frank, there is a

little coolness between the gentleman himself and me; oh, I wish him no

ill, but really I am not upon terms--I do not feel complaisant enough

to carry a letter after him; yet I do feel that he _must_ have it: do

not _you_ think it would be malicious and unworthy in me to keep the

news from him, when I know it is so?"

Young Neville smiled. "Nay, mistress, why so many words? Give me your

letter, and I will soon overtake the gentleman: he seems in no great

hurry."

Kate thanked him, and made a polite apology for giving him so much

trouble, and handed him the letter: when it came to that, she held

it out to him rather irresolutely; but he took it promptly and bowed

low after the fashion of the day; she curtsied; he marched off with

alacrity; she sat down again and put her head in her hand to think it

all over, and a chill thought ran through her; was her conduct wise?

What would Griffith think at her employing his rival? Would he not

infer Neville had entered her service in more senses than one? Perhaps

he would throw the letter down in a rage and never read it.

Steps came rapidly, the door opened, and there was George Neville

again, but not the same George Neville that went out but thirty seconds

before. He stood at the door looking very black, and with a sardonic

smile on his lips. "An excellent jest, mistress," said he, ironically.

"Why what is the matter?" said the lady, stoutly: but her red cheeks

belied her assumption of innocence.

"Oh not much," said George, with a bitter sneer. "It is an old story;

only I thought you were nobler than the rest of your sex. This letter

is to Mr. Griffith Gaunt."

"Well, sir," said Kate, with a face of serene and candid innocence.

"And Mr. Griffith Gaunt is a suitor of yours."

"Say, _was._ He is so no longer. He and I are out. But for that, think

you I had even listened to--what you have been saying to me this ever

so long?"

"Oh, that alters the case," said George. "But stay!" and he knitted

his brows and reflected. Up to a moment ago the loftiness of Catherine

Peyton's demeanor, and the celestial something in her soul-like

dreamy eyes, had convinced him she was a creature free from the small

dishonesty and duplicity he had noted in so many women otherwise

amiable and good.

But this business of the letter had shaken the illusion.

"Stay," said he stiffly. "You say Mr. Gaunt and you are out."

Catherine assented by a movement of her fair head.

"And he is leaving the country. Perhaps this letter is to keep him from

leaving the country?"

"Only until he has buried his benefactor," murmured Kate, in

deprecating accents.

George wore a bitter sneer at this. "Mistress Kate," said he, after a

significant pause, "do you read Molière?"

She bridled a little, and would not reply; she knew Molière quite well

enough not to want his wit leveled at her head.

"Do you admire the character of Célimène?"

No reply.

"You do not. How can you? She was too much your inferior. She never

sent one of her lovers with a letter to the other to stop his flight.

Well, you may eclipse Célimène; but permit me to remind you that I am

George Neville, and not Georges Dandin."

Miss Peyton rose from her seat with eyes that literally flashed fire,

and, the horrible truth must be told, her first wild impulse was to

reply to all this Molière with one cut of her little riding-whip: but

she had a swift mind, and two reflections entered it together: first

that this would be unlike a gentlewoman; secondly, that if she whipped

Mr. Neville, however slightly, he would not lend her his piebald horse:

so she took stronger measures; she just sank down again and faltered,

"I do not understand these bitter words: I have no lover at all: I

never will have one again. But it is hard to think I cannot make a

friend, nor keep a friend." And so lifted up her hands and began to cry

piteously.

Then the stout George was taken aback, and made to think himself a

ruffian.

"Nay, do not weep so, Mistress Kate," said he hurriedly. "Come, take

courage. I am not jealous of Mr. Gaunt; a man that hath been two

years dangling after you, and could not win you. I look but to my

own self-respect in the matter. I know your sex better than you know

yourselves: were I to carry that letter you would thank me now, but by

and by despise me; now as I mean you to be my wife, I will not risk

your contempt. 'Why not take my horse, put who you like on him, and so

convey the letter to Mr. Gaunt?"

Now this was all the fair mourner wanted; so she said, "No, no, she

would not be beholden to him for anything; he had spoken harshly to

her, and misjudged her cruelly, cruelly: oh! oh! oh!"

Then he implored her to grant him this small favor: then she cleared up

and said, well, sooner than bear malice, she would. He thanked her for

granting him that favor. She went off with the letter, saying, "I will

be back anon." But, once she got clear, she opened the door again, and

peeped in at him gaily, and said she, "Why not ask me who _wrote_ the

letter before you compared me to that French coquette?" And with this

made him an arch curtsy, and tripped away.

Mr. George Neville opened his eyes with astonishment. This arch

question, and Kate's manner of putting it, convinced him the obnoxious

missive was not a love-letter at all. He was sorry now, and vexed with

himself for having called her a coquette, and made her cry. After all,

what was the mighty favor she had asked of him? to carry a sealed

letter from somebody or other to a person who, to be sure, had been her

lover, but was so no longer. A simple act of charity and civility, and

he had refused it in injurious terms.

He was glad he had lent his horse, and almost sorry he had not taken

the letter himself.

To these chivalrous self-reproaches succeeded an uneasy feeling that

perhaps the lady might retaliate somehow. It struck him, on reflection,

that the arch query she had let fly at him was accompanied with a

certain sparkle of the laughing eye, such as ere now had, in his

experience, preceded a stroke of the feminine claw.

As he walked up and down, uneasy, awaiting the fair one's return,

her father came up, and asked him to dine and sleep. What made the

invitation more welcome was that it in reality came from Kate. "She

tells me she has borrowed your horse," said the Squire, "so says she,

I am bound to take care of you till daylight, and indeed our ways are

perilous at night."

"She is an angel!" cried the lover, all his ardor revived by this

unexpected trait; "my horse, my house, my hand, and my heart, are all

at her service by night and day."

Mr. Peyton, to wile away the time before dinner, invited him to walk

out and see--a hog: deadly fat, as times went. But Neville denied

himself that satisfaction on the plea that he had his orders to await

Miss Peyton's return where he was. The Squire was amused at his

excessive docility, and winked, as much as to say, "I have been once

upon a time in your plight;" and so went and gloried in his hog alone.

The lover fell into a delicious reverie. He enjoyed by anticipation the

novel pleasure of an evening passed all alone with this charming girl.

The father, being friendly to his suit, would go to sleep after dinner;

and then by the subdued light of a wood-fire he would murmur his love

into that sweet ear for hours, until the averted head should come round

by degrees, and the delicious lips yield a coy assent. He resolved the

night should not close till he had surprised, overpowered, and secured

his lovely bride.

These soft meditations reconciled him for awhile to the prolonged

absence of their object.

In the midst of them he happened to glance through the window; and he

saw a sight that took his very breath away, and rooted him in amazement

to the spot. About a mile from the house a lady in a scarlet habit was

galloping across country as the crow flies. Hedge, ditch, or brook,

nothing stopped her an instant; and as for the pace,

She seemed in running to devour the way.

It was Kate Peyton on his piebald horse.

CHAPTER IV

Griffith Gaunt, unknown to himself, had lost temper as well as heart

before he took the desperate step of leaving the country. Now his

temper was naturally good; and, ere he had ridden two miles, he

recovered it. To his cost: for the sustaining force of anger being

gone, he was alone with his grief. He drew the rein half mechanically,

and from a spirited canter declined to a walk.

And the slower he went the chillier grew his heart, till it lay half

ice, half load, in his bosom.

Parted! oh word pregnant with misery.

Never to see those heavenly eyes again nor hear that silvery voice!

Never again to watch that peerless form walk the minuet; nor see it

lift the grey horse over a fence with the grace and spirit that seemed

inseparable from it!

Desolation streamed over him at the thought. And next his forlorn mind

began to cling even to the inanimate objects that were dotted about the

place which held her. He passed a little farmhouse into which Kate and

he had once been driven by a storm, and had sat together by the kitchen

fire; and the farmer's wife had smiled on them for sweethearts, and

made them drink rum and milk, and stay till the sun was fairly out.

"Ah! good-bye, little farm," he sighed, "when shall I ever see you

again?"

He passed a brook where they had often stopped together and given

their panting horses just a mouthful after a run with the harriers.

"Good-bye, little brook!" said he: "you will ripple on as before, and

warble as you go; but I shall never drink at your water more, nor hear

your pleasant murmur with her I love."

He sighed and crept away, still making for the sea.

In the icy depression of his heart, his body and his senses were half

paralysed, and none would have known the accomplished huntsman in this

broken man, who hung anyhow over his mare's neck, and went to and fro

in the saddle.

When he had gone about five miles, he came to the crest of a hill; he

remembered that, once past that brow, he could see Peyton Hall no more.

He turned slowly and cast a sorrowful look at it.

It was winter, but the afternoon sun had come out bright. The

horizontal beams struck full upon the house, and all the western panes

shone like burnished gold; her very abode, how glorious it looked! And

he was to see it no more.

He gazed, and gazed at the bright house till love and sorrow dimmed

his eyes, and he could see the beloved place no more. Then his dogged

will prevailed, and carried him away towards the sea, but crying like a

woman now, and hanging all dislocated over his horse's mane.

Now about a mile farther on, as he crept along on a vile and narrow

road, all woe-begone and broken, he heard a mighty scurry of horse's

feet in the field to his left; he looked languidly up; and the first

thing he saw was a great piebald horse's head and neck in the act of

rising in the air, and doubling his fore-legs under him, to leap the

low hedge a yard or two in front of him.

He did leap, and landed just in front of Griffith; his rider curbed

him so keenly that he went back almost on his haunches, and then stood

motionless all across the road, with quivering tail. A lady in a

scarlet riding-habit and purple cap, sat him as if he had been a throne

instead of a horse, and, without moving her body, turned her head

swift as a snake, and fixed her great grey eyes full and searching on

Griffith Gaunt.

He uttered a little shout of joy and amazement, his mare reared and

plunged, and then was quiet. And thus Kate Peyton and he met--at right

angles--and so close that it looked as if she had meant to ride him

down.

How he stared at her! how more than mortal fair she shone, returning to

those bereaved eyes of his, as if she had really dropped from Heaven.

His clasped hands, his haggard face channelled by tears, showed the

keen girl she was strong where she had thought herself weak, and she

comported herself accordingly, and in one moment took a much higher

tone than she had intended as she came along.

"I am afraid," said she, very coldly, "you will have to postpone your

journey a day or two. I am grieved to tell you that poor Mr. Charlton

is dead."

Griffith uttered an exclamation.

"He asked for you: and messengers are out after you on every side. You

must go to Bolton at once."

"Well a day!" said Griffith, "has he left me too? good kind old man, on

any other day I had found tears for thee. But now methinks happy are

the dead. Alas! sweet mistress, I hoped you came to tell me you had--I

might--what signifies what I hoped--when I saw you had deigned to ride

after me. Why should I go to Bolton after all?"

"Because you will be an ungrateful wretch else. What, leave others to

carry your kinsman and your benefactor to his grave; while you turn

your back on him--and inherit his estate?--For shame, sir! for shame!"

Griffith expostulated humbly. "How hardly you judge me. What are Bolton

Hall and Park to me now? They were to have been yours, you know. And

yours they shall be. I came between and robbed you. To be sure the old

man knew my mind: he said to himself, 'Griffith or Kate, what matters

it who has the land? they will live together on it. But all that is

changed now; you will never share it with me; and so I do feel I have

no right to the place. Kate, my own Kate, I have heard them sneer at

you for being poor, and it made my heart ache. I'll stop that anyway.

Go you in my place to the funeral: he that is dead will forgive me;

his spirit knows now what I endure: and I'll send you a writing, all

sealed and signed, shall make Bolton Hall and Park yours: and, when

you are happy with some one you can love, as well as I love you, think

sometimes of poor jealous Griffith, that loved you dear and grudged you

nothing; but," grinding his teeth and turning white, "I _can't_ live in

Cumberland, and see you in another man's arms."

Then Catherine trembled, and could not speak awhile: but at last she

faltered out, "You will make me _hate_ you."

"God forbid!" said simple Griffith.

"Well then don't thwart me, and provoke me so, but just turn your

horse's head and go quietly home to Bolton Hall, and do your duty to

the dead and the living. You can't go _this_ way for me and my horse:"

then, seeing him waver, this virago faltered out, "and I have been so

tried to-day first by one, then by another, surely _you_ might have

some pity on me. Oh! oh! oh! oh!"

"Nay, nay," cried Griffith, all in a flutter: "I'll go without more

words: as I am a gentleman I will sleep at Bolton this night, and will

do my duty to the dead and the living. Don't you cry, sweetest: I give

in. I find I have no will but yours."

The next moment they were cantering side by side, and never drew rein

till they reached the cross roads.

"Now tell me one thing," stammered Griffith, with a most ghastly

attempt at cheerful indifference. "How--do you--happen to be--on George

Neville's horse?"

Kate had been expecting this question for some time: yet she colored

high when it did come. However, she had her answer pat. The horse was

in the stable-yard, and fresh: her own was tired. "What was I to do,

Griffith? And now," added she, hastily, "the sun will soon set, and

the roads are bad: be careful. I wish I could ask you to sleep at our

house: but--there are reasons--" she hesitated; she could not well tell

him George Neville was to dine and sleep there.

Griffith assured here there was no danger; his mare knew every foot of

the way.

They parted; Griffith rode to Bolton; and Kate rode home.

It was past dinner-time. She ran upstairs, and hurried on her best gown

and her diamond comb. For she began to quake now at the prank she had

played with her guest's horse: and Nature taught her that the best way

to soften censure is--to be beautiful.

--on pardonne tout aux belles.

And certainly she was passing fair; and queenly with her diamond comb.

She came down-stairs, and was received by her father; he grumbled at

being kept waiting for dinner.

Kate easily appeased the good-natured Squire, and then asked what had

become of Mr. Neville.

"Oh, he is gone long ago: remembered, all of a sudden, he had promised

to dine with a neighbor."

Kate shook her head skeptically, but said nothing. But a good minute

after, she inquired, "How did he go? on foot?"

The Squire did not know.

After dinner old Joe sought an interview, and was admitted into the

dining-room:

"Be it all right about the grey horse, Master?"

"What of him?" asked Kate.

"He be gone to Neville Court, Mistress. But I suppose (with a horrid

leer) it is all right. Master Neville told me all about it. He said,

says he, 'Some do break a kine or the likes on those here joyful

occasions; other some do exchange gold rings. Your young Mistress and

me, toe exchange nags. She takes my pieball; I take her grey;' says

he. 'Saddle him for me, Joe,' says he, 'and wish me joy.' So I clapped

Master Neville's saddle on the grey, and a gave me a golden guinea a

did, and I was so struck of a heap I let un go without wishing on him

joy; but I hollered it arter un, as hard as I could. How you looks! It

be all right, baint it?"

Squire Peyton laughed heartily, and said he concluded it was all right:

"The piebald," said he, "is rising five, and _I've_ had the grey ten

years. We have got the sunny side of that bargain, Joe." He gave Joe a

glass of wine and sent him off, inflated with having done a good stroke

in horseflesh.

As for Kate she was red as fire, and kept her lips close as wax; not a

word could be got out of her. The less she said the more she thought.

She was thoroughly vexed, and sore perplexed how to get her grey horse

back from such a man as George Neville; and yet she could not help

laughing at the trick, and secretly admiring this chevalier, who had

kept his mortification to himself, and parried an affront so gallantly.

"The good-humored wretch!" said she to herself. "If Griffith ever goes

away again, he will have me, whether I like or no. No lady could resist

the monster long, without some other man at hand to help her."

CHAPTER V

As, when a camel drops in the desert, vultures, hitherto unseen, come

flying from the horizon, so Mr. Charlton had no sooner succumbed, than

the air darkened with undertakers flocking to Bolton for a lugubrious

job. They rode up on black steeds, they crunched the gravel in grave

gigs, and sent in black-edged cards to Griffith, and lowered their

voices, and bridled their briskness, and tried hard, poor souls, to

be sad: and were horribly complacent beneath that thin japan of venal

sympathy.

Griffith selected his Raven, and then sat down to issue numerous

invitations.

The idea of eschewing funereal pomp had not yet arisen. A gentleman of

that day liked his very remains to make a stir, and did not see the fun

of stealing into his grave like a rabbit slipping aground. Mr. Charlton

had even left behind him a sealed letter containing a list of the

persons he wished to follow him to the grave, and attend the reading of

his will. These were thirty-four; and amongst them three known to fame,

viz.: George Neville, Esq., Edward Peyton, Esq., and Miss Catherine

Peyton.

To all and each of the thirty-four, young Gaunt wrote a formal letter

inviting them to pay respect to their deceased friend, and to honor

himself by coming to Bolton Hall at nigh noon on Saturday next. These

letters, in compliance with another custom of the time and place, were

all sent by mounted messengers, and the answers came on horseback

too: so there was much clattering of hoofs coming and going, and much

roasting, baking, drinking of ale, and bustling; all along of him who

lay so still in an upper chamber.

And every man and woman came to Mr. Gaunt to ask his will and advice,

however simple the matter: and the servants turned very obsequious,

and laid themselves out to please the new master, and retain their old

places.

And what with the sense of authority, and the occupation, and growing

ambition, love-sick Griffith grew another man, and began to forget that

two days ago he was leaving the country and going to give up the whole

game.

He found time to send Kate a loving letter, but no talk of marriage in

it. He remembered she had asked him to give her time. Well, he would

take her advice.

It wanted just three days to the funeral, when Mr. Charlton's own

carriage, long unused, was found to be out of repair. Griffith had it

sent to the nearest town, and followed it on that and other business.

Now it happened to be what the country folk called "justicing day;" and

who should ride into the yard of the "Roebuck" but the new magistrate,

Mr. Neville; he alighted off a great bony grey horse before Griffith's

very nose, and sauntered into a private room.

Griffith looked, and looked, and, scarcely able to believe his senses,

followed Neville's horse to the stable, and examined him all round.

Griffith was sore perplexed; and stood at the stable door glaring at

the horse; and sick misgivings troubled him. He forgot the business he

came about, and went and hung about the bar, and tried to pick up a

clue to this mystery. The poor wretch put on a miserable assumption of

indifference, and asked one or two of the magistrates, if that was not

Mr. Peyton's grey horse young Neville had ridden in upon.

Now amongst these gentlemen was a young squire Miss Peyton had refused,

and galled him. He had long owed Gaunt a grudge for seeming to succeed

where he had notably failed, and, now, hearing him talk so much about

the grey, he smelt a rat. He stepped into the parlor and told Neville

Gaunt was fuming about the grey horse, and questioning everybody.

Neville, though he put so bold a face on his recent adventure at Peyton

Hall, was secretly smarting, and quite disposed to sting Gaunt in

return. He saw a tool in this treacherous young squire--his name was

Galton--and used him accordingly.

Galton, thoroughly primed by Neville, slipped back and, choosing his

opportunity, poisoned Griffith Gaunt.

And this is how he poisoned him. "Oh," said he, "Neville has bought the

grey nag; and cost him dear, it did." Griffith gave a sigh of relief;

for he at once concluded old Peyton had sold his daughter's very horse.

He resolved to buy her a better next week with Mr. Charlton's money.

But Galton, who was only playing with him, went on to explain that

Neville had paid a double price for the nag; he had given Miss Peyton

his piebald horse in exchange, and his troth into the bargain. In

short, he lent the matter so adroit a turn, that the exchange of

horses seemed to be Kate's act as much as Neville's, and the inference

inevitable.

"It is a falsehood," gasped Griffith.

"Nay," said Galton, "I had it on the best authority: but you shall not

quarrel with me about it; the lady is nought to me, and I but tell the

tale as 'twas told to me."

"Then who told it you?" said Gaunt, sternly.

"Why it is all over the county, for that matter."

"No subterfuges, sir. I am the lady's servant, and you know it: this

report, it slanders her, and insults me: give me the author, or I'll

lay my hunting whip on your bones."

"Two can play at that game," said Galton; but he turned pale at the

prospect of the pastime.

Griffith strode towards him, black with ire.

Then Galton stammered out: "It was Neville himself told me."

"Ah!" said Griffith; "I thought so. He is a liar, and a coward."

"I would not advise you to tell _him_ so," said the other, maliciously:

"he has killed his man in France. Spitted him like a lark."

Griffith replied by a smile of contempt.

"Where is the man?" said he, after a pause.

"How should I know?" asked Galton, innocently.

"Where did you leave him five minutes ago?"

Galton was dumbfoundered at this stroke; and could find nothing to say.

And now, as often happens, the matter took a turn not in the least

anticipated by the conspirators. "You must come with me, sir, if you

please," said Griffith, quietly: and he took Galton's arm.

"Oh, with all my heart," said the other; "but, Mr. Gaunt, do not you

take these idle reports to heart. _I_ never do. What the devil--where

are you carrying me to? For Heaven's sake, let this foolish business go

no farther."

For he found Griffith was taking him to the very room where Neville was.

Griffith deigned no reply: he just opened the door of the room

in question, and walked the tale-bearer into the presence of the

tale-maker. George Neville rose and confronted the pair with a vast

appearance of civility; but under it a sneer was just discernible.

The rivals measured each other from head to foot, and then Neville

inquired to what he owed the honor of this visit.

Griffith replied: "He tells me you told him Miss Peyton has exchanged

horses with you."--"Oh! you indiscreet person," said George, shaking

his finger playfully at Galton.--"And, by the same token, has plighted

her troth to you."

"Worse and worse," said George. "Galton, I'll never trust you with any

secrets again. Besides, you exaggerate."

"Come, sir," said Griffith, sternly: "this Ned Galton was but your

tool, and your mouth-piece; and therefore I bring him here to witness

my reply to _you_: Mr. George Neville, you are a liar and a scoundrel."

George Neville bounded to his feet like a tiger. "I'll have your life

for those two words," he cried.

Then he suddenly governed himself by a great effort: "It is not for me

to bandy foul terms with a Cumberland savage," said he. "Name your time

and place."

"I will. Ned Galton, you may go, I wish to say a few words in private

to Mr. Neville."

Galton hesitated. "No violence, gentlemen: consider."

"Nonsense," said Neville. "Mr. Gaunt and I are going to fight: we are

not going to brawl. Be so good as to leave us."

"Ay," said Griffith: "and, if you repeat a word of all this, woe be to

your skin."

As soon as he was gone, Griffith Gaunt turned very grave and calm, and

said to George Neville, "The Cumberland savage has been better taught

than to expose the lady he loves to gossiping tongues."

Neville colored up to the eyes at this thrust.

Griffith continued, "The least you can do is to avoid fresh scandal."

"I shall be happy to co-operate with you so far," said Neville,

stiffly. "I undertake to keep Galton silent: and for the rest, we have

only to name an early hour for meeting, and confide it to but one

discreet friend apiece who will attend us to the field. Then there will

be no gossip, and no bumpkins nor constables breaking in--such things

have happened in this county, I hear."

It was Wednesday. They settled to meet on Friday at noon on a hill-side

between Bolton and Neville's Court. The spot was exposed; but so wild

and unfrequented that no interruption was to be feared. Mr. Neville

being a practiced swordsman, Gaunt chose pistols; a weapon at which

the combatants were supposed to be pretty equal. To this Neville very

handsomely consented.

By this time a stiff and elaborate civility had taken the place of

their heat, and at parting they bowed both long and low to each other.

Griffith left the inn and went into the street. And, as soon as he got

there, he began to realize what he had done, and that in a day or two

he might very probably be a dead man. The first thing he did was to go

with sorrowful face and heavy step to Mr. Houseman's office.

Mr. Houseman was a highly respectable solicitor. His late father and he

had long enjoyed the confidence of the gentry, and this enabled him to

avoid litigious business, and confine himself pretty much to the more

agreeable and lucrative occupation of drawing wills, settlements, and

conveyances; and effecting loans, sales, and transfers. He visited the

landed proprietors, and dined with them, and was a great favorite in

the county.

"Justicing day" brought him many visits; so on that day he was always

at his place of business. Indeed a client was with him when Griffith

called, and the young gentleman had to wait in the outer office for

full ten minutes.

Then a door opened, and the client in question came out, looking

mortified and anxious. It was Squire Peyton. At sight of Gaunt, who had

risen to take his vacant place, Kate's father gave him a stiff nod, and

an unfriendly glance, then hurried away.

Griffith was hurt at his manner. He knew very well Mr. Peyton looked

higher for his daughter than Griffith Gaunt: but for all that the old

gentleman had never shown him any personal dislike or incivility until

this moment.

So Griffith could not but fear that Neville was somehow at the bottom

of this, and that the combination was very strong against him. Now in

thus interpreting Mr. Peyton's manner, he fell into a very common error

and fruitful cause of misunderstanding. We go and fancy that Everybody

is thinking of _us._ But he is not: he is like us; he is thinking of

himself.

"Well, well," thought Griffith, "if I am not to have her, what better

place for me than the grave?"

He entered Mr. Houseman's private room and opened his business at once.

But a singular concurrence of circumstances induced Lawyer Houseman

to confide to a third party the substance of what passed between this

young gentleman and himself. So, to avoid repetition, the best way will

be to let Houseman tell this part of my tale instead of me: and I only

hope his communication, when it comes, may be half as interesting to my

reader as it was to his hearer.

Suffice it for me to say that lawyer and client were closeted a good

hour; and were still conversing together, when a card was handed in to

Mr. Houseman that seemed to cause him both surprise and pleasure. "In

five minutes," said he to the clerk. Griffith took the hint, and bade

him good-bye directly.

As he went out, the gentleman who had sent in his card rose from a seat

in the outer office to go in.

It was Mr. George Neville.

Griffith Gaunt and he saluted and scanned each other curiously, They

little thought to meet again so soon. The clerks saw nothing more than

two polite gentlemen passing each other.

The more Griffith thought of the approaching duel the less he liked

it. He was an impulsive man for one thing; and, with such, a cold fit

naturally succeeds a hot one. And, besides, as his heat abated, Reason

and Reflection made themselves heard, and told him that in a contest

with a formidable rival he was throwing away an advantage: after all,

Kate had shown him great favor; she had ridden Neville's horse after

him, and made him resign his purpose of leaving her; surely then she

preferred him on the whole to Neville; yet he must go and risk his

chance of possessing her--upon a personal encounter, in which Neville

was at least as likely to kill him, as he to kill Neville. He saw too

late that he was playing his rival's game. He felt cold and despondent,

and more and more convinced that he should never marry Kate, but that

she would very likely bury him.

With all this he was too game to recoil, and indeed he hated his rival

too deeply. So, like many a man before him, he was going doggedly to

the field against his judgment, with little to win and all to lose.

His deeper and more solemn anxieties were diversified by a lighter one.

A few days ago he had invited half the county to bury Mr. Charlton,

on Saturday the nineteenth of February. But now he had gone and fixed

Friday the eighteenth for a duel. A fine thing if he should be himself

a corpse on Friday afternoon. Who was to receive the quests? who

conduct the funeral?

The man, with all his faults, had a grateful heart: and Mr. Charlton

was his benefactor, and he felt he had no right to go and get himself

killed until he had paid the last rites to his best friend.

The difficulty admits of course of a comic view, and smells Hibernian:

but these things seem anything but droll to those, whose lives and

feelings are at stake: and indeed there was something chivalrous and

touching in Griffith's vexation at the possibility of his benefactor

being buried without due honors, owing to his own intemperate haste to

be killed. He resolved to provide against that contingency: so, on the

Thursday, he wrote an urgent letter to Mr. Houseman, telling him he

must come early to the funeral, and be prepared to conduct it.

This letter was carried to Mr. Houseman's office at three o'clock on

Thursday afternoon.

Mr. Houseman was not at home. He was gone to a country-house nine miles

distant. But Griffith's servant was well mounted, and had peremptory

orders: so he rode after Mr. Houseman, and found him at Mr. Peyton's

house; whither, if you please, we too will follow him.

In the first place you must know that the real reason why Mr. Peyton

looked so savage, coming out of Mr. Houseman's office, was this:

Neville had said no more about the hundred pounds: and indeed had not

visited the house since; so Peyton, who had now begun to reckon on this

sum, went to Houseman to borrow it. But Houseman politely declined to

lend it him, and gave excellent reasons. All this was natural enough;

common enough: but the real reason why Houseman declined, was a truly

singular one. The fact is, Catherine Peyton had made him promise to

refuse.

Between that young lady and the Housemans, husband and wife, there was

a sincere friendship founded on mutual esteem; and Catherine could do

almost what she liked with either of them. Now, whatever might be her

faults, she was a proud girl, and an intelligent one: it mortified her

pride to see her father borrowing here, and borrowing there, and unable

to repay: and she had also observed that he always celebrated a new

loan by a new extravagance, and so was never a penny the richer for

borrowed money. He had inadvertently let fall that he should apply to

Houseman. She raised no open objection, but just mounted Piebald, and

rode off to Houseman, and made him solemnly promise not to lend her

father a shilling.

Houseman kept his word; but his refusal cost him more pain than he

had counted on when he made the promise. Squire Peyton had paid him

thousands first and last; and, when he left Houseman's room, with

disappointment, mortification, and humiliation, deeply marked on his

features, usually so handsome and jolly, the lawyer felt sorry and

ashamed--and did _not_ show it.

But it rankled in him; and the very next day he took advantage of a

little business he had to do in Mr. Peyton's neighborhood, and drove to

Peyton Hall and asked for Mistress Kate.

His was a curious errand. Indeed I think it would not be easy to find a

parallel to it.

For here was an attorney calling upon a beautiful girl; to do what?

To soften her.

On a daughter; to do what?

To persuade her to permit him to lend her father £100 on insufficient

security.

Well, he reminded her of his ancient obligations to her family, and

assured her he could well afford to risk a hundred or even a thousand

pounds. He then told her that her father had shown great pain at his

refusal, and that he himself was human, and could not divest himself of

gratitude, and pity, and good nature--all for £100. "In a word," said

he, "I have brought the money; and you must give in for this once, and

let me lend it him without more ado."

Miss Peyton was gratified, and affected; and a tear trembled a

moment in her eye; but went indoors again, and left her firm as a

rock, sprinkled with dew. She told him she could quite understand

his feeling, and thanked him for it: but she had long and seriously

weighed the matter, and could not release him from his promise. "No

more of this base borrowing," said she, and clenched her white teeth

indomitably.

He attacked her with a good many weapons; but she parried them all so

gently yet so nobly, and so successfully, that he admired her more than

ever.

Still, lawyers fight hard; and die very hard. Houseman got warm in his

cause, and cross-examined this defendant; and asked her whether _she_

would refuse to lend her father £100 out of a full purse.

This question was answered only by a flash of her glorious eyes, and a

magnificent look of disdain at the doubt implied.

"Well, then," said Houseman, "be your father's surety for repayment

with interest at six per centum; and then there will be nothing in the

business to wound your dignity. I have many hundreds out at six per

centum."

"Excuse me: that would be dishonest," said Kate; "I have no money to

repay you with."

"But you have expectations."

"Nay, not I."

"I beg your pardon."

"Methinks I should know, sir. What expectations have I? and from whom?"

Houseman fidgeted on his seat; and then with some hesitation replied,

"Well, from two that I know of.

"You are jesting, methinks, good Mr. Houseman," said she, reproachfully.

"Nay, dear Mistress Kate, I wish you too well to jest on such a theme."

The lawyer then fidgeted again on his seat in silence, sign of an

inward struggle; during which Kate's eye watched him with some

curiosity. At last his wavering balance inclined towards revealing

something or other.

"Mistress Kate," said he, "my wife and I are both your faithful

friends, and humble admirers: we often say you would grace a coronet:

and wish you were as rich as you are good and beautiful."

Kate turned her lovely head away, and gave him her hand. That

incongruous movement, so full of womanly grace and feeling, and the

soft pressure of her white hand, completed her victory, and the remains

of Houseman's reserve melted away.

"Yes, my dear young lady," said he, warmly, "I have good news for you:

only, mind, not a living soul must ever know it from your lips. Why,

I am going to do for you what I never did in my life before; going to

tell you something that passed yesterday in my office. But then I know

you: you are a young lady out of a thousand: I can trust you to be

discreet, and silent; can I not?"

"As the grave."

"Well, then, my young mistress--in truth it was like a play, though the

scene was but a lawyer's office--"

"Was it?" cried Kate. "Then you set me all of a flutter: you must sup

here, and sleep here. Nay, nay," said she, her eyes sparkling with

animation, "I'll take no denial. My father dines abroad: we shall have

the house to ourselves."

Her interest was keenly excited: but she was a true woman, and must

coquet with her very curiosity; so she ran off to see with her own eyes

that sheets were aired, and a roasting fire lighted in the blue bedroom

for her guest.

While she was away, a servant brought in Griffith Gaunt's letter, and a

sheet of paper had to be borrowed to answer it.

The answer was hardly written and sent out to Griffith's servant, when

supper and the fair hostess came in almost together.

After supper fresh logs were heaped on the fire, and the lawyer sat

in a cosy arm-chair, and took out his diary, and several papers, as

methodically as if he was going to lay the case by counsel before a

judge of assize.

Kate sat opposite him with her grey eyes beaming on him all the time,

and searching for the hidden meaning of everything he told her. During

the recital which follows, her color often came and went, but those

wonderful eyes never left the narrator's face a moment.

They put the attorney on his mettle, and he elaborated the matter more

than I should have done: he articulated his topics; marked each salient

fact by a long pause. In short he told his story like an attorney, and

not like a Romancist. I cannot help that, you know; I'm not Procrustes.

Mr. Houseman's Little Narrative

"Wednesday, the seventeenth day of February, at about one of the clock,

called on me at my place of business Mr. Griffith Gaunt, whom I need

not hero describe, inasmuch as his person and place of residence are

well known to the court--what am I saying?--I mean, well known to

yourself, Mistress Kate.

"The said Griffith, on entering my room seemed moved, and I might say,

distempered; and did not give himself time to salute me and receive

my obeisance, but addressed me abruptly and said as follows: 'Mr.

Houseman, I am come to make my will.'"

"Dear me!" said Kate: then blushed, and was more on her guard.

"I seated the young gentleman, and then replied that his resolution

aforesaid did him credit, the young being as mortal as the old. I said

further that many disasters had happened, in my experience, owing to

the obstinacy with which men in the days of their strength shut their

eyes to the precarious tenure, under which all sons of Adam hold

existence; and so many a worthy gentleman dies in his sins. And, what

is worse, dies intestate.

"But the said Griffith interrupted me with some signs of impatience,

and asked me bluntly would I draw his will, and have it executed on the

spot.

"I assented, generally; but I requested him by way of needful

preliminary, to obtain for me a copy of Mr. Charlton's will, under

which, as I have always understood, the said Griffith inherits whatever

real estate he hath to bequeath.

"Mr. Griffith Gaunt then replied to me that Mr. Charlton's will was in

London, and the exact terms of it could not be known until after the

funeral: that is to say upon the nineteenth instant.

"Thereupon I explained to Mr. Gaunt that I must see and know what

properties were devised in the will aforesaid, by the said Charlton,

to Gaunt aforesaid, and how devised and described. Without this, I

said, I could not correctly and sufficiently describe the same in the

instrument I was now requested to prepare.

"Mr. Gaunt did not directly reply to this objection. But he pondered

a little while, and then asked me if it were not possible for him, by

means of general terms, to bequeath to a sole legatee whatever lands,

goods, chattels, etc., Mr. Charlton might hereafter prove to have

devised to him, the said Griffith Gaunt.

"I admitted this was possible, but objected that it was dangerous. I

let him know that in matters of law general terms are a fruitful source

of dispute, and I said I was one of those who hold it a duty to avert

litigation from our clients.

"Thereupon Mr. Gaunt drew out of his bosom a pocket-book.

"The said pocket-book was shown to me by the said Gaunt, and I say it

contained a paragraph from a newspaper, which I believe to have been

cut out of the said newspaper with a knife or a pair of scissors, or

some trenchant instrument; and the said paragraph purported to contain

an exact copy of a certain Will and Testament under which (as is indeed

matter of public notoriety) one Dame Butcher hath inherited and now

enjoys the lands, goods, and chattels of a certain merry parson late

deceased in these parts; and, _I believe_, little missed.

"Mr. Gaunt would have me read the Will and Testament aforesaid: and I

read it accordingly: and, inasmuch as bad things are best remembered,

the said Will and Testament did, by its singularity and profaneness,

fix itself forthwith in my memory; so that I can by no means dislodge

it thence, do what I may.

"The said Document, to the best of my memory and belief, runneth after

this fashion: 'I, John Raymond, clerk, at present residing at Whitbeck,

in the county of Cumberland, being a man sound in body, mind, and

judgment, do deliver this as my last Will and Testament.

"'I give and bequeath all my real property, and all my personal

property, and all the property whether real or personal I may hereafter

possess, or become entitled to--to my Housekeeper, Janet Butcher.

"'And I appoint Janet Butcher my sole executrix, and I make Janet

Butcher my sole residuary legatee, save and except that I leave my

solemn curse to any knave, who hereafter shall at any time pretend that

he does not understand the meaning of this my Will and Testament.'"

(Catherine smiled a little at this last bequest.)

"Mr. Gaunt then solemnly appealed to me as an honest man to tell him

whether the aforesaid document was bad, or good, in law.

"I was fain to admit that it was sufficient in law; but I qualified,

and said I thought it might be attacked on the score of the Hussy's

undue influence, and the Testator's apparent insanity. Nevertheless, I

concluded candidly, that neither objection would prevail in our courts,

owing to the sturdy prejudice in the breasts of English jurymen, whose

ground of faith it is that every man has a right to do what he will

with his own, and even to do it how he likes.

"Mr. Gaunt did speedily abuse this my candor. He urged me to lose no

time, but to draw his will according to the form and precedent in that

case made and provided by this mad parson: and my clerks forsooth were

to be the witnesses thereof.

"I refused, with some heat, to sully my office by allowing such an

instrument to issue therefrom: and I asked the said Gaunt, in high

dudgeon, for what he took me.

"Mr. Gaunt then offered, in reply, two suggestions that shook me.

Imprimis, he told me the person to whom he now desired to leave his all

was Mistress Catherine Peyton. [An ejaculation from Kate.] Secundo, he

said he would go straight from me to that coxcomb Harrison, were I to

refuse to serve him in the matter.

"On this, having regard to your interest and my own, I temporized; I

offered to let him draw a will after his parson's precedent, and I

agreed it should be witnessed in my office: only I stipulated that next

week a proper document should be drawn by myself, with due particulars,

on two sheets of paper, and afterwards engrossed and witnessed: and to

this Mr. Gaunt assented, and immediately drew his Will according to

Newspaper Precedent.

"But, when I came to examine his masterpiece, I found he had taken

advantage of my pliability to attach an unreasonable condition: to

wit, that the said Catherine should forfeit all interest under this

will in case she should ever marry a certain party therein nominated,

specified, and described."

("Now that was Griffith all over," cried Catherine, merrily.)

"I objected stoutly to this. I took leave to remind the young gentleman

that, when a Christian man makes his last will and testament, he should

think of the grave, and of the place beyond whither we may carry our

affections, but must leave the bundle of our hates behind, the gate

being narrow. I even went so far as to doubt whether such a proviso

could stand in _law_; and I also put a practical query: what was to

hinder the legatee from selling the property and diverting the funds,

and then marrying whom she liked?

"Mr. Gaunt was deaf to reason. He bade me remember that he was neither

Saint nor Apostle, but a poor gentleman of Cumberland, who saw a

stranger come between him and his lover dear: with that he was much

moved, and did not conclude his argument at all, but broke off and was

fain to hide his face with both hands awhile. In truth this touched

me; and I looked another way; and began to ask myself why should I

interfere, who, after all, know not your heart in the matter: and, to

be brief, I withstood him and Parson's law no more; but sent his draft

will to the clerks, the which they copied fair in a trice, and the

duplicates were signed and witnessed in red hot haste; as most of men's

follies are done for that matter.

"The paper writing now produced and shown to me--tush! what am I

saying?--I mean the paper writing I now produce and show to you is the

draft of the will aforesaid, in the handwriting of the testator."

And with this he handed Kate Peyton Griffith Gaunt's Will, and took a

long and satirical pinch of snuff while she examined it.

Miss Peyton took the will in her white hands and read it. But, in

reading it she held it up, and turned it so, that her friend could not

see her face while she read it, but only her white hands, in which the

document rustled a little.

It ran thus:--

"I, Griffith Gaunt, late of the Eyrie, and now residing at Bolton

Hall, in the county of Cumberland, being sound in body and mind, do

deliver this as my last Will and Testament. I give and bequeath all the

property real or personal, which I now possess or may hereafter become

entitled to, to my dear friend and mistress, Catherine Peyton, daughter

of Edward Peyton, Esquire, of Peyton Hall; provided always that the

said Catherine Peyton shall at no time within the next ten years marry

George Neville, of Neville's Court, in this county. But should the said

Catherine marry the said George within ten years of this day, then I

leave all my said property, in possession, remainder, or reversion, to

my Heir-at-law."

The fair legatee read this extraordinary testament more than once. At

last she handed it back to Mr. Houseman without a word. But her cheek

was red, and her eyes glistening.

Mr. Houseman was surprised at her silence, and as he was curious to

know her heart, he sounded her: asked her what she thought of that part

of his story. But she evaded him with all the tact of her sex. "What,

that is not all then?" said she quickly.

Houseman replied that it was barely half.

"Then tell me all, pray tell me all," said Kate, earnestly.

"I am here to that end," said Houseman, and recommenced his narrative.

"The business being done to Mr. Gaunt's satisfaction, though not to

mine, we fell into some friendly talk; but in the midst of it my clerk

Thomas brought me in the card of a gentleman whom I was very desirous

to secure as a client.

"Mr. Gaunt I think read my mind, for he took leave of me forthwith. I

attended him to the door, and then welcomed the gentleman aforesaid, it

was no other than Mr. George Neville.

"Mr. Neville, after such gracious civilities as his native breeding and

foreign travel have taught him, came to business and requested me--to

draw his will."

"La!" said Kate.

"I was a little startled, but hid it, and took his instructions. This

done, I requested to see the title-deeds of his estates, with a view

to describing them, and he went himself to the banker's for them, and

placed them in my hands.

"I then promised to have the will ready in a week or ten days. But Mr.

Neville, with many polite regrets for hurrying me, told me upon his

honor he could give me but twenty-four hours. "After that, said he, 'it

might be too late.'"

("Ah!" said Miss Peyton.)

"Determined to retain my new client, I set my clerks to work, and

this very day was engrossed, signed, and witnessed, the last will and

testament of George Neville, Esquire, of Neville's Court, in the county

of Cumberland, and Leicester Square, London, where he hath a noble

mansion.

"Now as to the general disposition of his lands, manorial rights,

messuages, tenements, goods, chattels, etc., and his special legacies

to divers ladies and gentlemen and domestic servants, these I will not

reveal even to you.

"The paper I now produce is a copy of that particular bequest which I

have decided to communicate to you in strict and sacred confidence."

And he handed her an extract from George Neville's will.

Miss Peyton then read what follows:--

"And I give and bequeath to Mistress Catherine Peyton of Peyton Hall

in the said county of Cumberland in token of my respect and regard all

that my freehold estate called Moulton Grange with the messuage or

tenement standing and being thereon and the farm-yard buildings and

appurtenances belonging thereto containing by estimation three hundred

and seventy-six acres three roods and five perches be the same little

more or less to hold to her the said Catherine Peyton her heirs and

assigns for ever."

The legatee laid down the paper, and leaned her head softly on her fair

hand, and her eyes explored vacancy.

"What means all this?" said she, aloud, but to herself.

Mr. Houseman undertook the office of interpreter. "Means? why that

he has left you one of the snuggest estates in the county. 'Tis not

quite so large as Bolton; but lies sunnier, and the land richer. Well,

mistress, was I right, are you not good for a thousand pounds?"

Kate, still manifestly thinking of something else, let fall, as it

were, out of her mouth that Mr. Gaunt and Mr. Neville were both men in

the flower of their youth, and how was she the richer for their folly?

"Why," said Houseman, "you will not have to wait for the death of these

testators--Heaven forbid!--But what does all this making of wills show

me? That both these gentlemen are deep in love with you, and you can

pick and choose: I say you can wed with Bolton Hall or Neville's Court

to-morrow: so prithee let the Squire have his hundred pounds, and do

you repay me at your leisure."

Miss Peyton made no reply, but leaned her exquisite head upon her hand

and pondered.

She did not knit her brows, nor labour visibly at the mental oar: yet a

certain reposeful gravity and a fixity of the thoughtful eye showed she

was applying all the power's of her mind.

Mr. Houseman was not surprised at that: his own wife had but little

intellect; yet had he seen her weigh two rival bonnets in mortal

silence, and with all the seeming profundity of a judge on the bench.

And now this young lady was doubtless weighing Farms with similar

gravity, care, and intelligence.

But as this continued and still she did not communicate her decision,

he asked her point-blank which of the two she settled to wed: Neville's

Court, or Bolton Grange.

Thus appealed to, Miss Peyton turned her great eye on him without

really looking at him, and replied,--"You have made me very uneasy."

He stared. She relapsed into thought a moment, and then, turning to

Houseman, asked him how _he_ accounted for those two gentlemen making

their wills; they were very young to make their wills all of a sudden.

"Why," said Houseman, "Mr. Neville is a man of sense, and every man

of sense makes his will; and, as for Mr. Gaunt, he has just come into

prospect of an estate; that's why."

"All, but why could not Griffith wait till after the funeral?"

"Oh, clients are always in a hurry."

"So you see nothing in it? nothing alarming I mean?"

"Nothing very alarming. Two landed proprietors in love with you; that

is all."

"But, dear Mr. Houseman, that is what makes me uneasy: at this rate

they must look on one another as--as--rivals: and you know rivals are

sometimes enemies."

"Oh I see now," said Houseman: "you apprehend a quarrel between the

gentlemen. Of course there is no love lost between them; but they met

in my office and saluted each other with perfect civility. I saw them

with my own eyes."

"Indeed! I am glad to hear that; very glad. I hope it was only a

coincidence then, their both making their wills."

"Nothing more you may depend: neither of them knows from me what the

other has done; nor ever will."

"That is true," said Kate, and seemed considerably relieved.

To ease her mind entirely, Houseman went on to say that as to the

report that high words had passed between the clients in question, at

the Roebuck, he had no doubt it was exaggerated. "Besides," said he,

"that was not about a lady; I'm told it was about a horse. Some bet

belike."

Catherine uttered a faint cry. "About a horse!" said she. "Not about a

grey horse?"

"Nay, that is more than I know."

"High words about a horse," said Catherine; "and they are making their

wills. Oh! my mind misgave me from the first." And she turned pale.

Presently she clasped her hands together--"Mr. Houseman!" she cried,

"what shall I do? What, do you not see that both their lives are in

danger? and that is why they make their wills. And how should _both_

their lives be in danger, but from each other? Madmen! they have

quarreled: they are going to fight; fight to the death: and I fear it

is about me. Me who love neither of them, you know."

"In that case, _let_ them fight," said her legal adviser,

dispassionately. "Whichever fool gets killed, you will be none the

poorer." And the dog wore a sober complacency.

Catherine turned her large eyes on him with horror and amazement, but

said nothing.

As for the lawyer he was more struck with her sagacity than with

anything. He somewhat overrated it; not being aware of the private

reasons she had for suspecting that her two testators were enemies to

the death.

"I almost think you are right," said he; "for I got a curious missive

from Mr. Gaunt scarce an hour agone, and he says,--let me see what he

says." "Nay, let _me_ see," said Kate. On that he handed her Griffith's

note. It ran thus--

"It is possible I may not be able to conduct the funeral.

Should this be so, I appoint you to act for me. So then, good

Mr. Houseman, let me count on you to be here at nine of the

clock. For Heaven's sake fail me not.

"Your humble Servant,

"G. G."

This left no doubt in Kate's mind.

"Now, first of all," said she, "what answer made you to this?"

"What answer should I make? I pledged my word to be at Bolton at nine

of the clock."

"Oh, blind!" sighed Kate. "And I must be out of the room. What shall I

do? My dear friend, forgive me: I am a wretched girl. I am to blame;

I ought to have dismissed them both, or else decided between them.

But who would have thought it would go this length? I did not think

Griffith was brave enough. Have pity on me, and help me. Stop this

fearful fighting." And now the young creature clung to the man of

business, and prayed and prayed him earnestly to avert bloodshed.

Mr. Houseman was staggered by this passionate appeal from one who so

rarely lost her self-command. He soothed her as well as he could, and

said he would do his best; but added, which was very true, that he

thought her interference would be more effective than his own. "What

care these young bloods for an old attorney? I should fare ill, came I

between their rapiers. To be sure I might bind them over to keep the

peace. But Mistress Kate, now be frank with me; then I can serve you

better. You love one of these two; that is clear. Which is the man?

that I may know what I am about."

For all her agitation Kate was on her guard in some things.

"Nay," she faltered, "I love neither, not to say love them: but I pity

him so."

"Which?"

"Both."

"Ay, mistress; but which do you pity most?" asked the shrewd lawyer.

"Whichever shall come to harm for my sake," replied the simple girl.

"You could not go to them to-night, and bring them to reason?" asked

she, piteously. She went to the window to see what sort of a night it

was; she drew the heavy crimson curtains and opened the window. In

rushed a bitter blast laden with flying snow. The window ledges too

were clogged with snow, and all the ground was white.

Houseman shuddered, and drew nearer to the blazing logs. Kate closed

the window with a groan. "It is not to be thought of," said she; "at

your age; and not a road to be seen for snow. What shall I do?"

"Wait till to-morrow," said Mr. Houseman. (Procrastination was his daily

work, being an attorney.) "To-morrow!" cried Catherine. "Perhaps even now

they have met, and he lies a corpse."

"Who?"

"Whichever it is, I shall end my days in a convent praying for his

soul." She wrung her hands while she said this, and still there was no

catching her.

Little did the lawyer think to rouse such a storm with his good news.

And now he made a feeble and vain attempt to soothe her; and ended by

promising to start the first thing in the morning and get both her

testators bound over to keep the peace, by noon. With this resolution

he went to bed early.

She was glad to be alone at all events.

Now, mind you, there were plenty of vain and vulgar, yet respectable

girls, in Cumberland, who would have been delighted to be fought about,

even though bloodshed were to be the result. But this young lady

was not vain, but proud; she was sensitive too, and troubled with a

conscience. It reproached her bitterly: it told her she had permitted

the addresses of two gentlemen, and so mischief had somehow arisen--out

of her levity. Now her life had been uneventful, and innocent: this

was the very first time she had been connected with anything like a

crime; and her remorse was great: so was her grief; but her fears were

greater still. The terrible look Griffith had cast at his rival flashed

back on her; so did his sinister words. She felt that if he and Neville

met, nothing less than Neville's death or his own would separate them.

Suppose that even now one of them lay a corpse! cold and ghastly as the

snow that now covered Nature's face.

The agitation of her mind was such, that her body could not be still:

now she walked the room in violent distress, wringing her hands;

now she kneeled and prayed fervently for both those lives she had

endangered: often she flew to the window and looked eagerly out,

writhing and rebelling against the network of female custom that

entangled her, and would not let her fly out of her cage even to do a

good action; to avert a catastrophe by her prayers, or her tears, or

her good sense.

And all ended in her realizing that she was a woman, a poor impotent

being born to lie quiet and let things go: at that she wept helplessly.

So wore away the first night of agony this young creature ever knew.

Towards morning, exhausted by her inward struggles, she fell asleep

upon a sofa.

But her trouble followed her. She dreamed she was on a horse, hurried

along with prodigious rapidity, in a darkened atmosphere, a sort of dry

fog: she knew somehow she was being taken to see some awful, mysterious

thing. By-and-by the haze cleared, and she came out upon pleasant open

sunny fields that almost dazzled her. She passed gates, and hedges too,

all clear, distinct, and individual. Presently a voice by her side said

"This way!" and her horse seemed to turn of his own accord through

a gap, and in one moment she came on a group of gentlemen. It was

Griffith Gaunt, and two strangers. Then she spoke, and said,

"But, Mr. Neville?"

No answer was made her; but the group opened in solemn silence, and

there lay George Neville on the snow, stark and stiff, with blood

issuing from his temple, and trickling along the snow.

She saw distinctly all his well-known features; but they were pinched

and sharpened now. And his dark olive skin was turned to bluish white.

It was his corpse. And now her horse thrust out his nose and snorted

like a demon. She looked down, and ah! the blood was running at her

prematurely fast along the snow. She screamed, her horse reared high,

and she was falling on the blood-stained snow: she awoke screaming; and

the sunlight seemed to rush in at the window.

Her joy that it was only a dream overpowered every other feeling at

first. She kneeled and thanked God for that.

The next thing was, she thought it might be a revelation of what had

actually occurred.

But this chilling fear did not affect her long. Nothing could shake her

conviction that a duel was on foot--and indeed the intelligent of her

sex do sometimes put this and that together, and spring to a just but

obvious inference, in a way that looks to a slower and safer reasoner

like divination--but then she knew that yesterday evening both parties

were alive. Coupling this with Griffith's broad hint that after the

funeral might be too late to make his will, she felt sure that it was

this very day the combatants were to meet. Yes, and this very morning:

for she knew that gentlemen always fought in the morning.

If her dream was false as to the past, it might be true as to what was

at hand. Was it not a supernatural warning sent to her in mercy? The

history of her church abounded in such dreams and visions; and indeed

the time and place she lived in were rife with stories of the kind;

one, in particular, of recent date.

This thought took hold of her, and grew on her, till it overpowered

even the diffidence of her sex; and then up started her individual

character; and now nothing could hold her. For, languid and dreamy

in the common things of life, this Catherine Peyton was one of those

who rise into rare ardor and activity in such great crises as seem to

benumb the habitually brisk, and they turn tame and passive.

She had seen at a glance that Houseman was too slow and apathetic

for such an emergency; she resolved to act herself. She washed her

face and neck and arms and hands in cold water, and was refreshed and

invigorated. She put on her riding habit and her little gold spur;

Griffith Gaunt had given it her; and hurried into the stable-yard.

Old Joe and his boy had gone away to breakfast: he lived in the village.

This was unlucky: Catherine must wait his return and lose time, or else

saddle the horse herself. She chose the latter. The piebald was a good

horse, but a fidgety one; so she saddled and bridled him at his stall.

She then led him out to the stone steps in the stable-yard, and tried

to mount him. But he sidled away; she had nobody to square him; and she

could get nothing to mount but his head. She coaxed him, she tickled

him on the other side with her whip. It was all in vain.

It was absurd, but heart-sickening. She stared at him with wonder that

he could be so cruel as to play the fool when every minute might be

life or death. She spoke to him, she implored him piteously; she patted

him. All was in vain.

As a last resource she walked him back to the stable and gave him a

sieveful of oats, and set it down by the corn bin for him, and took an

opportunity to mount the bin softly.

He ate the oats, but with retroverted eye watched her. She kept quiet

and affected nonchalance till he became less cautious: then suddenly

sprang on him, and taught him to set his wit against a woman's. My lord

wheeled round directly ere she could get her leg over the pommel; and

made for the stable door. She lowered her head to his mane and just

scraped out without injury; not an inch to spare. He set off at once;

but luckily for her she had often ridden a bare-backed horse. She sat

him for the first few yards by balance; then reined him in quietly, and

soon whipped her left foot into the stirrup and her right leg over the

pommel; and then the piebald nag had to pay for his pranks: the roads

were clogged with snow, but she fanned him along without mercy, and

never drew bridle till she pulled him up drenched, and steaming like a

wash-tub, at Netley crossroads.

Here she halted irresolute: the road to the right led to Bolton,

distant two miles and a half. The road in front led to Neville's Court,

distant three miles. Which should she take? She had asked herself this

a dozen times upon the road; yet could never decide until she got to

the place, and must. The question was, with which of them had she most

influence? She hardly knew; but Griffith Gaunt was her old sweetheart;

it seemed somewhat less strange and indelicate to go to him than to

the new one: so she turned her horse's head towards Bolton; but she

no longer went quite so fast as she had gone before she felt going to

either in particular. Such is the female mind.

She reached Bolton at half-past eleven; and now she was there, put

a bold face on it; rode up to the door, and, leaning forward on her

horse, rang the hall bell.

A footman came to the door.

With composed visage though beating heart, she told him she desired to

speak for a moment to Mr. Griffith Gaunt. He asked her would she be

pleased to alight: and it was clear by his manner no calamity had yet

fallen. "No, no," said Kate, "let me speak to him here."

The servant went in to tell his master. Kate sat quiet with her heart

still beating, but glowing now with joy: she was in time then, thanks

to her good horse. She patted him, and made the prettiest excuses aloud

to him for riding him so hard through the snow.

The footman came back to say that Mr. Gaunt had gone out.

"Gone out? Whither? On horseback?"

The footman did not know, but would ask within.

While he was gone to inquire, Catherine lost patience, and rode into

the stable-yard, and asked a young lout who was lounging there whether

his master was gone out on horseback.

The lounging youth took the trouble to call out the groom, and asked

him.

The groom said "No," and that Mr. Gaunt was somewhere about the grounds

he thought.

But in the midst of this colloquy one of the maids, curious to see

the lady, came out by the kitchen door and curtsied to Kate, and told

her Mr. Gaunt was gone out walking with two other gentlemen. In the

midst of her discourse she recognized the visitor, and having somehow

imbibed the notion that Miss Peyton was likely to be Mrs. Gaunt, and

govern Bolton Hall, decided to curry favor with her; so she called her

my lady, and was very communicative. She said one of the gentlemen was

strange to her; but the other was Doctor Islip from Stanhope town. She

knew him well: he had taken off her own brother's leg in a jiffy. "But,

dear heart, Mistress," said she, "how pale you be. Do come in and have

a morsel of meat, and a horn of ale."

"Nay, my good girl," said Kate; "I could not eat; but bring me a mug of

new milk if you will. I have not broken my fast this day."

The maid bustled in, and Catherine asked the groom if there were no

means of knowing where Mr. Gaunt was. The groom and the boy scratched

their heads and looked puzzled. The lounging lout looked at their

perplexity, and grinned satirically.

This youth was Tom Leicester, born in wedlock, and therefore in the

law's eye son of old Simon Leicester; but gossips said his true father

was the late Captain Gaunt. Tom ran with the hounds for his own sport:

went out shooting with gentlemen and belabored the briars for them at

two-pence per day and his dinner, and abhorred all that sober men call

work.

By trade, a Beater: profession, a Scamp.

Two maids came out together now; one with the milk and a roll, the

other with a letter. Catherine drank the milk but could not eat. Then

says the other maid, "If so be you are Mistress Peyton, why this letter

is for you: Master left it on his table in his bedroom."

Kate took the letter and opened it, all in a flutter. It ran thus:--

"Sweet Mistress,--When this reaches you, I shall be no more

here to trouble you with my jealousy. This Neville set it

abroad that you had changed horses with him, as much as to say

you had plighted troth with him. He is a liar, and I told him

so to his teeth. We are to meet at noon this day: and one must

die. Methinks I shall be the one. But, come what may, I have

taken care of thee; ask Jack Houseman else. But, oh dear Kate,

think of all that hath passed between us, and do not wed this

Neville, or I could not rest in my grave. Sweetheart, many a

letter have I written thee, but none so sad as this. Let the

grave hide my faults from thy memory; think only that I loved

thee well. I leave thee my substance; would it were ten times

more; and the last thought of my heart.

"So no more in this world,

"From him that is thy true lover

"And humble servant till death,

Griffith Gaunt."

There seems to be room in the mind for only one violent emotion at

one instant of time. This touching letter did not just then draw a

tear from her who now received it some hours sooner than the writer

intended. Its first effect was to paralyze her. She sat white and

trembling, and her great eyes filled with horror. Then she began to

scream wildly for help. The men and women came round her.

"Murder! Murder!" she shrieked. "Tell me where to find him, ye

wretches, or may his blood be on your heads!"

The scamp bounded from his lounging position and stood before her

straight as an arrow. "FOLLOW ME," he shouted. Her grey eyes and the

scamp's black ones, flashed into one another directly. He dashed out of

the yard without another word.

And she spurred her horse, and clattered out after him.

He ran as fast as her horse could canter, and soon took her all round

the house: and, while he ran, his black, gipsy eyes were glancing in

every direction.

When they got to the lawn at the back of the house, he halted a moment,

and said quietly, "Here they be." He pointed to some enormous footsteps

in the snow, and bade her notice that they commenced at a certain glass

door belonging to the house, and that they all pointed outwards. The

lawn was covered with such marks, but the scamp followed those his

intelligence had selected, and they took him through a gate, and down

a long walk, and into the park. Here no other feet had trodden that

morning except those Tom Leicester was following. "This is our game,"

said he. "See, there be six footsteps; and, now I look, this here track

is Squire Gaunt's. I know his foot in the snow among a hundred. Bless

your heart, I've often been out shooting with Squire Gaunt, and lost

him in the woods, and found him again by tracking him on dead leaves,

let alone snow. I say, wasn't they useless idiots? couldn't tell ye how

to run into a man, and snow on the ground! Why you can track a hare to

her form and a rat to his hole--let alone such big game as this, with a

hoof like a frying-pan--in the snow."

"Oh, do not talk; let us make haste," panted Kate.

"Canter away," replied the scamp.

She cantered on, and he ran by her side. "Shall I not tire you?" said

she.

The mauvais sujet laughed at her. "Tire _me!_ not over this ground.

Why, I run with the hounds, and mostly always in at the death: but

that is not altogether speed; ye see I know Pug's mind. What, don't

you know _me?_ I'm Tom Leicester. Why, I know you: I say, you're a

good-hearted one, you are."

"Oh no! no!" sighed Kate.

"Nay, but you are," said Tom. "I saw you take Harrowden brook that

day, when the rest turned tail; and that is what I call having a good

heart: gently, mistress, here, this is full of rabbit holes; I seen Sir

Ralph's sorrel mare break her leg in a moment in one of these. Shot her

dead that afternoon, a did, and then billed her for the hounds. She'd

often followed at their tails: next hunting day she ran inside their

bellies. Ha! ha! ha!"

"Oh, don't laugh. I am in agony."

"Why, what is up, mistress?" asked the young savage, lowering his

voice. "'Murder,' says you; but that means _nought._ The lasses they

cry murder if you do but kiss 'em."

"Oh, Tom Leicester, it is murder. It's a duel, a fight to the death,

unless we are in time to prevent them."

"A jewel!" cried Master Leicester, his eyes glittering with delight.

"I never saw a jewel. Don't you hold him in for me, mistress: gallop

down this slope as hard as you can pelt: it is grass under foot, and

ye can't lose the tracks, and I shall be sure to catch ye in the next

field."

The young savage was now as anxious to be in at the death, as Kate was

to save life. As he spoke he gave her horse a whack on the quarter with

his stick, and away she went full gallop, and soon put a hundred yards

between her and Tom.

The next field was a deep fallow; and the hard furrows reduced her to a

trot; and before she got out of it, Tom was by her side: "Didn't I tell

you?" said he. "I'd run you to Peyton Hall for a pot o' beer."

"Oh you good, brave, clever boy," said Kate: "how fortunate I am to

have you. I think we shall be in time."

Tom was flattered. "Why you see I am none of Daddy Leicester's breed,"

said he. "I'm a gentleman's by-blow, if you know what that is."

"I can't say I do," said Kate; "but I know you are very bold and

handsome and swift of foot, and I know my patron saint has sent you to

me in my misery, and oh, my lad, if we are in time--what can I do for

you?--Are you fond of money, Tom?"

"That I be: when I can get it."

"Then you shall have all I have got in the world, if you get me there

in time to hinder mischief."

"Come on!" shouted Tom, excited in his turn; and took the lead, and not

a word more passed till they came to the foot of a long hill. Then said

Tom, "Once we are at top of this, they can't fight without our seeing

'em. That is Scutchemsee Nob: you can see ten miles all round from

there."

At this information Kate uttered an ejaculation and urged her horse

forward.

The first part of this hill, which stood between her and those whoso

tracks she followed, was grass; then came a strip of turnips; then on

the bleak top a broad piece of heather. She soon cantered over the

grass; and left Tom so far behind he could not quite catch her in the

turnips. She entered the heather, but here she was much retarded by

the snow drifts, and the ups and downs of the rough place. But she

struggled on bravely, still leading.

She fixed her eyes earnestly on the ridge, whence she could cry to the

combatants, however distant, and stop the combat.

Now as she straggled on, and Tom came after, panting a little for the

first time, suddenly there rose from the crest of the hill two columns

of smoke, and the next moment two sharp reports rang through the frosty

air.

Kate stopped; and looked round to Tom with a scared, inquiring air.

"Pistols!" yelled Tom behind her.

At that the woman overpowered the heroine, and Kate hid her face and

fell to trembling and wailing. Her wearied horse came down to a walk.

Presently up comes Tom. "Don't lose your stomach for that," he panted

out. "Gentlefolks do pop at one another all day sometimes, and no harm

done."

"Oh, bless you!" cried Kate; "I may yet be in time." She spurred her

horse on. He did his best, but ere he had gone twenty yards, he plunged

into a cavity hidden by the snow.

While he was floundering there crack went a single pistol, and the

smoke rose and drifted over the hill top.

"Who--op!" muttered Tom, with horrible sang-froid. "There's one done

for this time. Couldn't shoot back, ye see."

At this horrible explanation, Kate sank forward on her horse's mane

as if she herself had been killed; and the smoke from the pistol came

floating, thinner and thinner, and eddied high over her head.

Tom spoke rude words of encouragement to her. She did not even seem

to hear them. Then he lost all patience at her, and clutched her arm

to make her hear him. But at that it seemed as if some of his nature

passed into her down his arm, for she turned wild directly and urged

her horse fiercely up the crest. Her progress was slow at first; but

the sun had melted the snow on the Nob or extreme summit. She tore her

way through the last of the snow on to the clear piece, then, white

as ashes, spurred and lashed her horse over the ridge and dashed in

amongst them on the other side. For there they were.

What was the sight that met her eyes?

That belongs to the male branch of my story, and shall be told

forthwith, but in its proper sequence.

CHAPTER VI

The two combatants came to the field in a very different spirit.

Neville had already fought two duels, and been successful in both.

He had confidence in his skill, and in his luck. His conscience too

was tolerably clear: for he was the insulted person; and, if a bullet

should remove this dangerous rival from his path, why all the better

for him, and all the worse for the fool who had brought the matter to a

bloody issue, though the balance of the lady's heart inclined his way.

He came in high spirits, and rode upon Kate Peyton's grey, to sting his

adversary, and show his contempt of him.

Not so Griffith Gaunt. His heart was heavy, and foreboded ill. It was

his first duel, and he expected to be killed. He had played a fool's

game, and he saw it.

The night before the duel he tried hard to sleep: he knew it was not

giving his nerves fair play to lie thinking all night. But coy sleep,

as usual when most wanted, refused to come. At daybreak the restless

man gave it up in despair, and rose and dressed himself. He wrote that

letter to Catherine, little thinking it would fall into her hands while

he lived. He ate a little toast and drank a pint of Burgundy; and then

wandered listlessly about till Major Rickards, his second, arrived.

That experienced gentleman brought a surgeon with him; Mr. Islip.

Major Rickards deposited a shallow wooden box in the hall; and the two

gentlemen sat down to a hearty breakfast.

Griffith took care of his guests, but beyond that spoke scarcely a

word; and the surgeon, after a ghastly attempt at commonplaces, was

silent too. Major Rickards satisfied his appetite first, and then,

finding his companions dumb, set to work to keep up their spirits. He

entertained them with a narrative of the personal encounters he had

witnessed, and especially of one in which his principal had fallen on

his face at the first fire, and the antagonist had sprung into the air,

and both had lain dead as door nails, and never moved, nor even winked,

after that single discharge.

Griffith sat under this chilling talk for more than an hour.

At last he rose gloomily, and said it was time to go.

"Got your tools, doctor?" inquired the Major.

The surgeon nodded slightly. He was more discreet than his friend.

When they had walked nearly a mile in the snow, the Major began to

complain. "The devil!" said he; "this is queer walking. My boots are

full of water. I shall catch my death."

The surgeon smiled satirically, comparing silent Griffith's peril with

his second's.

Griffith took no notice. He went like Fortitude plodding to Execution.

Major Rickards fell behind, and whispered Mr. Islip: "Don't like his

looks; doesn't march like a winner. A job for you or the sexton, you

mark my words."

They toiled up Scutchemsee Nob, and when they reached the top, they saw

Neville and his second, Mr. Hammersley, riding towards them. The pair

had halters as well as bridles, and dismounting, made their nags fast

to a large blackthorn that grew there. The seconds then stepped forward

and saluted each other with formal civility.

Griffith looked at the grey horse, and ground his teeth. The sight of

the animal in Neville's possession stirred up his hate, and helped to

steel his heart. He stood apart, still, pale and gloomy.

The seconds stepped out fifteen paces, and placed the men. Then they

loaded two pair of pistols, and put a pistol in each man's hand.

Major Rickards took that opportunity to advise his principal. "Stand

sharp. Keep your arm close to your side. Don't fire too high. How do

you feel?"

"Like a man who must die; but will try to die in company."

The seconds now withdrew to their places, and the rivals held their

pistols lowered: but fixed their deadly eyes on each other.

The eye, in such a circumstance, is a terrible thing: it is literally a

weapon of destruction; for it directs the deadly hand that guides the

deadly bullet. Moreover the longer and the more steadily the duelist

fixes his eye on his adversary, the less likely he is to miss.

Griffith was very pale, but dogged. Neville was serious, but firm. Both

eyed each other unflinchingly.

"Gentlemen, are you ready?" asked Neville's second.

{"Yes."

{"Yes."

"Then," said Major Rickards, "you will fire when I let fall this

handkerchief, and not before. Mark me, gentlemen; to prevent mistakes,

I shall say 'one----two----three'----and then drop the handkerchief.

Now then, once more, are you quite ready?"

{"Yes."

{"Yes."

"One------Two------Three."------He dropped the handkerchief, and both

gentlemen fired simultaneously. Mr. Neville's hat spun into the air;

Griffith stood untouched.

The bullet had passed through Neville's hat, and had actually cut a

lane through his magnificent hair.

The seconds now consulted, and it was intimated to Griffith that a word

of apology would be accepted by his antagonist.

Griffith declined to utter a syllable of apology.

Two more pistols were given the men.

"Aim lower," said Rickards.

"I mean to," said Griffith.

The seconds withdrew, and the men eyed each other: Griffith dogged and

pale, as before, Neville not nearly so self-assured; Griffith's bullet,

in grazing him, had produced the effect of a sharp, cold, current of

air no wider than a knife. It was like death's icy forefinger laid on

his head, to mark him for the next shot; as men mark a tree; then come

again and fell it.

"One----two----three!"

And Griffith's pistol missed fire, but Neville's went off, and

Griffith's arm sank powerless, and his pistol rolled out of his hand.

He felt a sharp twinge, and then something trickle down his arm.

The surgeon and both seconds ran to him. "Nay, it is nothing," said he,

"I shoot far better with my left hand than my right. Give me another

pistol, and let me have fair play. He has hit me. And now I'll hit him."

Both seconds agreed this was impossible.

"It is the chance of war," said Major Rickards: "you cannot be allowed

to take a cool shot at Mr. Neville. If you fire again, so must he."

"The affair may very well end here," said Mr. Hammersley. "I understand

there was some provocation on our side; and on behalf of the party

insulted I am content to let the matter end, Mr. Gaunt being wounded."

"I demand my second shot to his third," said Griffith sternly; "he will

not decline, unless he is a poltroon as well as----what I called him."

The nature of this reply was communicated to Neville, and the seconds,

with considerable reluctance, loaded two more pistols; and during the

process Major Rickards glanced at the combatants.

Griffith, exasperated by his wound and his jealousy, was wearing out

the chivalrous courage of his adversary; and the Major saw it. His keen

eye noticed that Neville was getting restless, and looking confounded

at his despised rival's pertinacity: and that Gaunt was more dogged,

and more deadly.

"My man will kill yours this time," said he, quietly, to Neville's

second. "I can see it in his eye; he is hungry; t'other has had his

bellyful."

Once more the men were armed, and the seconds withdrew to their places,

intimating that this was the last shot they would allow under any

circumstances whatever.

"Are you both ready?"

{"Yes."

{"Yes."

A faint wail seemed to echo the response.

All heard it, and in that superstitious age believed it to be some

mysterious herald of death.

It suspended even Major Packard's voice a minute. He recovered himself,

however, and once more his soldier-like tones ran in the keen air:--

"One----"

There was a great rushing, and a pounding of the hard ground, and a

scarlet Amazon galloped in and drew up in the middle, right between the

leveled pistols.

Every eye had been so bent on the combatants, that Kate Peyton and her

horse seemed to have sprung out of the very earth. And there she sat

pale as ashes, on the steaming piebald, and glanced from pistol to

pistol.

The duelists stared in utter amazement, and instinctively lowered

their weapons; for she had put herself right in their line of fire,

with a recklessness that contrasted nobly with her fear for others. In

short this apparition literally petrified them all, seconds as well as

combatants.

And, while they stood open-mouthed yet dumb, in came the Scamp, and,

with a brisk assumption of delegated authority, took Griffith's weapon

out of his now unresisting hand; then marched to Neville. He instantly

saluted Catherine, and then handed his pistol to her seeming agent,

with a high-bred and inimitable air of utter nonchalance.

Kate, seeing them to her surprise so easily disarmed, raised her hands

and her lovely eyes to Heaven, and in a feeble voice, thanked God and

St. Nescioquis.

But very soon that faint voice quavered away to nothing, and her fair

head was seen to droop, and her eyes to close; then her body sank

slowly forward like a broken lily; and in another moment she lay

fainting on the snow beside her steaming horse.

He never moved, he was so dead beat too.

O lame and impotent conclusion of a vigorous exploit! Masculine up

to the crowning point, and then to go and spoil all with "woman's

weakness."

"N.B.: This is rote sarcasticul," as Artemus, the delicious, says.

Woman's weakness! If Solomon had planned and Samson executed, they

could not have served her turn better than this most seasonable

swooning did. For lo! at her fall the doughty combatants uttered a

yell of dismay, and there was an indiscriminate rush towards the fair

sufferer.

But the surgeon claimed his rights:--"This is my business," said he,

authoritatively; "do not crowd on her, gentlemen; give her air."

Whereupon the duelists and seconds stood respectfully aloof in a mixed

group, and watched with eager interest and pity.

The surgeon made a hole in the snow and laid his fair patient's head

low. "Don't be alarmed," said he: "she has swooned; that is all."

It was all mighty fine to say don't be alarmed. But her face was ashy,

and her lips the color of lead: and she was so like death, they could

not help being terribly alarmed: and now, for the first time, the

duelists felt culprits; and, as for fighting, every idea of such a

thing went out of their heads: the rivals now were but rival nurses:

and never did a lot of women make more fuss over a child, than all

these bloodthirsty men did over this Amazon manquée. They produced

their legendary lore: one's grandmother had told him burnt feathers

were the thing; another, from an equally venerable source, had gathered

that those pink palms must be profanely slapped by the horny hand of

a man; for at no less a price could resuscitation be obtained. The

surgeon scorning all their legends, Griffith and Neville made hasty

rushes with brandy and usquebaugh; but whether to be taken internally

or externally, they did not say, nor indeed know; but only thrust their

flasks wildly on the doctor: and he declined them loftily. He melted

snow in his hand, and dashed it hard in her face; and put salts close

to her pretty little nostrils. And this he repeated many times, without

effect.

But at last her lips began to turn from lead color to white, and then

from white to pink, and her heavenly eyes to open again, and her mouth

to murmur things pitiably small and not bearing on the matter in hand.

Her cheek was still colorless, when her consciousness came back, and

she found she was lying on the ground with ever so many gentlemen

looking at her.

At that, Modesty alarmed sent the blood at once rushing to her pale

cheek.

A lovely lily seemed turning to a lovely rose before their eyes.

The next thing was, she hid that blushing face in her hands, and began

to whimper.

The surgeon encouraged her: "Nay, we are all friends," he whispered,

paternally.

She half parted her fingers and peered through them at Neville and

Gaunt. Then she remembered all, and began to cry hysterically.

New dismay of sanguinary unprofessionals!

"_Now_, gentlemen, if you will lend me your flasks," said Mr. Islip,

mighty calmly.

Griffith and Neville were instantly at his side, each with a flask.

The surgeon administered snow and brandy. Kate sipped these, and gulped

down her sobs, and at last cried composedly.

But, when it came to sipping brandied snow and crying comfortably,

Major Rickards's anxiety gave place to curiosity. Without taking his

eye off her he beckoned, Mr. Hammersley apart, and whispered, "Who the

deuce is it?"

"Don't you know?" whispered the other in return. "Why Mistress Peyton

herself."

"What, the girl it is all about? Well, I never heard of such a thing:

the causa belli to come _galloping_, and _swooning_, on the field of

battle, and so stop the fighting! What will our ladies do next? By

Heaven, she is worth fighting for though. Which is the happy man, I

wonder? She doesn't look at either of them."

"Ah!" said the gentleman, "that is more than I know, more than Neville

knows, more than anybody knows."

"Bet you a guinea _she_ knows; and lets it out before she leaves the

field," said Major Rickards.

Mr. Hammersley objected to an even bet; but said he would venture one

to three she did not. It was an age of bets.

"Done!" said the Major.

By this time Kate had risen, with Mr. Islip's assistance, and was now

standing with her hand upon the piebald's mane. She saw Rickards and

Hammersley were whispering about her, and she felt very uneasy: so she

told Mr. Islip timidly she desired to explain her conduct to all the

gentlemen present, and avert false reports.

They were soon all about her, and she began with the most engaging

embarrassment by making excuses for her weakness. She said she had

ridden all the way from home, fasting; _that_ was what had upset her.

The gentlemen took the cue directly, and vowed eagerly and unanimously

it was enough to upset a porter.

"But indeed," resumed Kate, blushing, "I did not come here to make a

fuss, and be troublesome; but to prevent mischief, and clear up the

strangest misunderstanding between two worthy gentlemen that are, both

of them, my good friends."

She paused, and there was a chilling silence: everybody felt she was

getting on ticklish ground now. She knew that well enough herself. But

she had a good rudder to steer by, called Mother-wit.

Says she, with inimitable coolness, "Mr. Gaunt is an old friend of

mine, and a little too sensitive where I am concerned. Some chatter-box

has been and told him Mr. Neville should say I have changed horses with

him; and on that the gossips put their own construction. Mr. Gaunt

hears all this, and applies insulting terms to Mr. Neville. Nay, do not

deny it, Mr. Gaunt, for I have it here in your own handwriting.

"As for Mr. Neville, he merely defends his honor, and is little to

blame. But now I shall tell the true story about these horses, and make

you all ashamed of this sorry quarrel.

"Gentlemen, thus it is: a few days ago Mr. Gaunt bade me farewell, and

started for foreign parts. He had not been long gone when word came

from Bolton that Mr. Charlton was no more. You know how sudden it was.

Consider, gentlemen; him dead, and his heir riding off to the Continent

in ignorance. So I thought, 'Oh what shall I do?' Just then Mr. Neville

visited me, and I told him: on that he offered me his piebald horse to

carry the news after Mr. Gaunt, because my grey was too tired; it was

the day we drew Yew-tree Brow, and crossed Harrowden brook, you know--"

Griffith interrupted her: "Stay a bit," said he: "this is news to me.

You never told me he had lent you the piebald nag to do me a good turn."

"Did I not?" said Kate, mighty innocently. "Well, but I tell you now.

Ask him; he cannot deny it. As for the rest, it was all done in a

hurry; Mr. Neville had no horse now to ride home with; he did me the

justice to think I should be very ill pleased were he to trudge home

a-foot and suffer for his courtesy; so he borrowed my grey, to keep him

out of the mire; and indeed the ways were fouler than usual, with the

rains. Was there any ill in all this? HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE! says

I."

The gentlemen all sided loudly with her on this appeal--except Neville,

who held his tongue, and smiled at her plausibility; and Griffith, who

hung his head at her siding with Neville.

At last he spoke and said sorrowfully: "If you did exchange horses with

him, of course I have only to ask his pardon--and go."

Catherine reflected a moment before she replied.

"Well," said she, "I did exchange, and I did not. Why quarrel about

a word? certainly he took my horse, and I took his; but it was only

for the nonce. Mr. Neville is foreign bred, and an example to us all:

he knows his piebald is worth two of my grey, and so he was too fine

a gentleman man to send me back my old hunter and ask for his young

charger. He waited for me to do that; and, if anybody deserves to be

shot, it must be Me. But, dear heart, I did not foresee all this fuss;

I said to myself, 'La, Mr. Neville will be sure to call on my father

or me some day, or else I shall be out on the piebald, and meet him on

the grey, and then we can each take our own again.' Was I so far out

in my reckoning? Is not that my Rosinante yonder? Here, Tom Leicester,

you put my side-saddle on that grey horse, and the man's saddle on the

piebald there.--And now, Griffith Gaunt, it is your turn: you must

withdraw your injurious terms, and end this superlative folly."

Griffith hesitated.

"Come," said Kate, "consider; Mr. Neville is esteemed by all the

county: you are the only gentleman in it who have ever uttered a

disparaging word against him. Are you sure you are more free from

passion and prejudice, and wiser than all the county? oblige _me_,

and do what is right. Come, Griffith Gaunt; let your reason unsay the

barbarous words your passion hath uttered against a worthy gentleman,

whom we all esteem."

Her habitual influence, and these last words, spoken with gentle and

persuasive dignity, turned the scale. Griffith turned to Neville, and

said in a low voice that he began to fear he had been hasty, and used

harsher words than the occasion justified: he was going to stammer

out something more, but Neville interrupted him with a noble gesture:

"That is enough, Mr. Gaunt," said he. "I do not feel quite blameless

in the matter: and have no wish to mortify an honorable adversary

unnecessarily."

"Very handsomely said," put in Major Rickards: "and now let me have

a word. I say that both gentlemen have conducted themselves like

men--under fire; and that honor is satisfied, and the misunderstanding

at an end. As for my principal here, he has shown he can fight, and

now he has shown he can hear reason against himself, when the lips of

beauty utter it. I approve his conduct from first to last, and am ready

to defend it in all companies, and in the field, should it ever be

impugned."

Kate colored with pleasure, and gave her hand eloquently to the Major.

He bowed over it, and kissed the tips of her fingers.

"Oh! sir," she said, looking on him now as a friend, "I dreamed I saw

Mr. Neville lying dead upon the snow, with the blood trickling from his

temple."

At this Neville's dark cheek glowed with pleasure. So! it was her

anxiety on _his_ account had brought her here.

Griffith heard too, and sighed patiently.

Assured by Major Rickards that there neither could nor should be any

more fighting, Kate made her adieux, mounted her grey horse, and rode

off, discreetly declining all attendance. She beckoned Tom Leicester,

however. But he pretended not to see the signal; and let her go alone.

His motive for lingering behind was characteristic, and will transpire

shortly.

As soon as she was gone, Griffith Gaunt quietly reminded the surgeon

that there was a bullet in his arm all this time.

"Bless my soul!" said Mr. Islip, "I forgot that; I was so taken up with

the lady."

Griffith's coat was now taken off, and the bullet searched for: it had

entered the fleshy part of his arm below the elbow, and, passing round

the bone, projected just under the skin. The surgeon made a slight

incision, and then, pressing with his finger and thumb, out it rolled.

Griffith put it in his pocket.

Neville had remained out of civility, and now congratulated his late

antagonist, and himself, that it was no worse.

The last words that passed between the rivals on this occasion were

worth recording, and characteristic of the time.

Neville addressed Gaunt with elaborate courtesy, and to this effect:

"I find myself in a difficulty, sir. You did me the honor to invite me

to Mr. Charlton's funeral, and I accepted: but now I fear to intrude a

guest, the sight of whom may be disagreeable to you. And, on the other

hand, my absence might be misconstrued as a mark of disrespect, or of

a petty hostility I am far from feeling. Be pleased, therefore, to

dispose of me entirely in this matter."

Griffith reflected. "Sir," said he, "there is an old saying, 'let every

tub stand on its own bottom.' The deceased wished you to follow him

to the grave, and therefore I would on no account have you absent.

Besides, now I think of it, there will be less gossip about this

unfortunate business if our neighbors see you under my roof; and

treated with due consideration there, as you will be."

"I do not doubt that, sir, from so manly an adversary; and I shall do

myself the honor to come." Such was Seville's reply. The rivals then

saluted each other profoundly, and parted.

Hammersley and Rickards lingered behind their principals to settle

their little bet about Kate's affections: and, by-the-by, they were

indiscreet enough to discuss this delicate matter within a dozen yards

of Tom Leicester: they forgot that "little pitchers have long ears."

Catherine Peyton rode slowly home, and thought it all over as she went;

and worried herself finely. She was one that winced at notoriety; and

she could not hope to escape it now. How the gossips would talk about

her! they would say the gentlemen had fought about her; and she had

parted them for love of one of them. And then the gentlemen themselves!

The strict neutrality she had endeavored to maintain on Scutchemsee

Nob, in order to make peace, would it not keep them both her suitors?

She foresaw she should be pulled to pieces, and live in hot water, and

be "the talk of the county."

There were but two ways out: she must marry one of them, and petition

the other not to shoot him; or else she must take the veil, and so

escape them both.

She preferred the latter alternative. She was more enthusiastic in

religion than in any earthly thing: and now the angry passions of men

thrust her the same road that her own devout mind had always drawn her.

As soon as she got home she sent a message to Father Francis, who drove

her conscience, and begged him to come and advise her.

After that, she did the wisest thing, perhaps, she had done all day.

Went to bed.

CHAPTER VII

The sun was just setting when Catherine's maid came into her room and

told her Father Francis was below. She sent down to say she counted on

his sleeping at Peyton Hall; and she would come down to him in half

an hour. She then ordered a refection to be prepared for him in her

boudoir; and made her toilet with all reasonable speed, not to keep him

waiting. Her face beamed with quiet complacency now: for the Holy man's

very presence in the house was a comfort to her.

Father Francis was a very stout muscular man, with a ruddy countenance;

he never wore gloves, and you saw at once he was not a gentleman by

birth. He had a fine voice; it was deep, mellow, and when he chose,

sonorous. This, and his person, ample, but not obese, gave him great

weight, especially with his female pupils. If he was not quite so much

reverenced by the men, yet he was both respected and liked; in fact, he

had qualities that make men welcome in every situation: good humour,

good sense, and tact. A good son of his Church, and early trained to

let no occasion slip of advancing her interests.

I wish my readers could have seen the meeting between Catherine Peyton

and this burly ecclesiastic. She came into the drawing-room with that

imperious air and carriage which had made her so unpopular with her

own sex; and at the bare sight of Father Francis, drooped and bent in

a moment as she walked; and her whole body indicated a submissiveness,

graceful, but rather abject: it was as if a young poplar should turn

to a weeping willow in half a moment. Thus metamorphosed, the Beauty

of Cumberland glided up to Francis, and sank almost to her knee before

him, crossed her hands on her bosom, lowered her lovely head, and

awaited his benediction.

The father made rapidly the sign of the cross over that thorough-bred

head and golden hair, and blessed her business-like.

The hand of less employment hath the daintier sense.

_Shakespeare._

Father Francis blessed so many of these pretty creatures every week,

that he had long outgrown your fine romantic way of blessing a body.

(We manage these things better in the theatre.) Then he lent her his

hand to rise, and asked her in what she required his direction at

present.

"In that which shall decide my whole life," said she.

Francis responded by a look of paternal interest.

"But first," murmured she, "let me confess to you, and obtain

absolution, if I may. Ah, father, my sins have been many since last

confession."

"Be it so," said Father Francis, resignedly. "Confession is the best

preface to Direction." And he seated himself with a certain change of

manner, an easy assumption of authority.

"Nay, father," suggested the lady, "we shall be more private in my

room."

"As you will, Mistress Catherine Peyton," said the priest, returning to

his usual manner.

So then the fair penitent led her spiritual judge captive up another

flight of stairs, and into her little boudoir. A cheerful wood fire

crackled and flamed up the chimney, and a cloth had been laid on a side

table: cold turkey and chine graced the board, and a huge glass magnum

of purple Burgundy glowed and shone in the rays of the cheery fire.

Father Francis felt cosy at the sight; and at once accepted Kate's

invitation to take some nourishment before entering on the labour of

listening to the catalogue of her crimes. "I fasted yesterday," he

muttered: and the zeal with which he attacked the viands rendered

the statement highly credible. He invited Kate to join him; but she

declined.

He returned more than once to the succulent meats, and washed all down

with a pint of the fine old Burgundy, perfumed and purple. Meantime she

of the laity sat looking into the fire with heavenly-minded eyes.

At last, with a gentle sigh of content, the ghostly father installed

himself in an arm-chair, by the fire, and invited his penitent to begin.

She took a footstool and brought it to his side, so that in confessing

her blacker vices she might be able to whisper them in his very ear.

She kneeled on her little footstool, put her hands across her breast,

and in this lowly attitude murmured softly after this fashion, with a

contrite voice:--

"I have to accuse myself of many vices. Alas! In one short fortnight I

have accumulated the wickedness of a life. I have committed the seven

deadly sins. I have been guilty of Pride, Wrath, Envy, Disobedience,

Immodesty, Vanity, Luxury, Fibs----"

"Gently, daughter," said the priest, quietly; "these terms are too

general: give me instances. Let us begin with Wrath; ah! we are all

prone to that."

The fair penitent sighed, and said: "Especially me. Example: I was

angry beyond reason with my maid, Ruth. (She does comb my hair so

uncouthly.) So then the other night, when I was in trouble, and most

needed soothing, by being combed womanly, she gets thinking of Harry

that helps in the stable, and she tears away at my hair. I started up

and screamed out 'Oh, you clumsy thing! go currycomb my horse, and send

that oaf your head is running on to handle my hair.' And I told her my

grandma would have whipped her well for it; but now-a-days mistresses

were the only sufferers: we had lost the use of our hands, we are grown

so squeamish; and I stamped like a fury, and said 'Get you gone out of

the room; and I hated the sight of her.' And the poor girl went from

me, crying, without a word--being a better Christian than her mistress;

mea culpa! mea culpa!"

"Did you slap her?"

"Nay, hither, not so bad as that."

"Are you quite sure you did not slap her?" asked Francis, quietly.

"Nay. But I had a mind to. My heart slapped her if my hand forbore.

Alas!"

"Had she hurt you?"

"That she did: but only my head. I hurt her heart; for the poor wench

loves me dear; the Lord knows for what."

"Humph!--proceed to Pride."

"Yes, father. I do confess that I was greatly puffed up with the

praises of men. I was proud of the sorriest things; of jumping a brook,

when 'twas my horse jumped it, and had jumped it better with a fly on

his back than the poor worm Me; of my good looks, forgetting that God

gave them me; and besides I am no beauty when all is done; it is all

their flattery. And at my Lady Munster's dinner I pridefully walked

out before Mistress Davies, the rich cheesemonger's wife, that is as

proud of her money as I of my old blood (God forgive two fools!); which

I had no right to do; a maid to walk before a wife: and oh, father, I

whispered the gentleman who led me out; it was Mr. Neville--" Here the

penitent put one hand before her face, and hesitated.

"Well, daughter! half confession is no confession. You said to Mr.

Neville----?"

"I said, 'Nothing comes after cheese.'"

This revelation was made most dolefully.

"It was pert and unbecoming," said Father Francis, gravely; though a

twinkle in his eye showed that he was not so profoundly shocked as

his penitent appeared to be. "But go to graver matters. Immodesty,

said you: I shall be very sorry if this is so. You did not use to be

immodest."

"Well, father, I hope I have not altogether laid aside modesty;

otherwise it would be time for me to die, let alone to confess; but

sure it cannot be modest of me to ride after a gentleman and take him a

letter. And then that was not enough: I heard of a duel, and what did

I do but ride to Scutchemsee Nob, and interfere. What gentlewoman ever

was so bold? I was not their wife you know; neither of them's."

"Humph!" said the priest, "I have already heard a whisper of this; but

told to your credit. Beati pacifici: blessed are the peacemakers. You

had better lay that matter before me by-and-by, as your director. As

your confessor, tell me why you accuse yourself of Luxury."

"Alas!" said the young lady, "scarce a day passes that I do not offend

in _that_ respect. Example: last Friday, dining abroad, the cooks sent

up a dish of collops. Oh, father, they smelt so nice; and I had been

a hunting. First I smelt them: and that I couldn't help. But then I

forgot custodia oculorum; and I eyed them. And the next thing was,

presently--somehow--two of 'em were on my plate."

"Very wrong," said Father Francis; "but that is a harsher term than I

should have applied to this longing of a hungry woman for collops o'

Friday. Pray what do you understand by that big word?"

"Why, you explained it yourself, in your last sermon. It means 'unruly

and inordinate desires.' Example: Edith Hammersley told me I was mad to

ride in scarlet, and me so fair and my hair so light. 'Green or purple

is your color,' says she: and soon after this didn't I see in Stanhope

town the loveliest piece of purple broadcloth? Oh, father, it had a

gloss like velvet, and the sun did so shine on it as it lay in the

shop-window: it was fit for a king or a bishop: and I stood and gloated

on it, and pined for it, and died for it, and down went the tenth

commandment."

"Ah," said Francis, "the hearts of women are set on vanity. But tell

me, these unruly affections of yours, are they ever fixed on persons of

the other sex?"

The fair sinner reflected. "On gentlemen!" said she. "Why, they come

pestering one of their own accord. No, no; I could do without _them_

very well. What I sinfully pine for is meat on a Friday as sure as ever

the day comes round; and high-couraged horses to ride, and fine clothes

to wear every day in the week: mea culpa! mea culpa!"

Such being the dismal state of things, Francis slyly requested her to

leave the seven deadly sins in peace, and go to her small offenses:

for he argued shrewdly enough that since her sins were peccadilloes,

perhaps some of her peccadilloes might turn out to be sins.

"Small!" cried the culprit, turning red: "they are none of them small."

I really think she was jealous of her reputation as a sinner of high

degree.

However she complied, and putting up her mouth, murmured a

miscellaneous confession without end. The accents were soft and

musical, like a babbling brook; and the sins, such as they were, poor

things, rippled on in endless rotation.

Now nothing tends more to repose than a purling brook; and ere long

that Bassoon, her confessor's nose, let her know she had lost his ear.

She stopped indignant. But at that he instantly awoke (sublatâ causâ,

tollitur effectus), and addressed her thus with sudden dignity:--"My

daughter, you will fast on Monday next, and say two Aves and a Credo.

Absolvo te.

"And now," said he, "as I am a practical man, let us get back from the

imaginary world into the real. Speak to me at present as your director;

and mind you must be serious now, and call things by their right names."

Upon this Kate took a seat, and told her story, and showed him the

difficulty she was in. She then reminded him that, notwithstanding her

unfortunate itch for the seven deadly sins, she was a good Catholic,

a zealous daughter of the Church: and she let him know her desire to

retire from both lovers into a convent: and, so freed from the world

and its temptations, yield up her soul entire to celestial peace and

divine contemplation.

"Not so fast," said the priest. "Even zeal is nought without obedience.

If you could serve the Church better than by going into a convent,

would you be willful?"

"Oh no, father. But how can I serve the Church better than by

renouncing the world?"

"Perhaps by remaining in the world, as she herself does; and by making

converts to the faith. You could hardly serve her worse than by going

into a convent; for our convents are poor, and you have no means; you

would be a charge. No, daughter, we want no poor nuns; we have enough

of them. If you are, as I think, a true and zealous daughter of the

Church, you must marry; and instill the true faith with all a mother's

art, a mother's tenderness, into your children. Then the heir to your

husband's estates will be a Catholic, and so the true faith get rooted

in the soil."

"Alas!" said Catherine, "are we to look but to the worldly interests of

the Church?"

"They are inseparable from her spiritual interests here on earth: our

souls are not more bound to our bodies."

Catherine was deeply mortified. "So the Church rejects me because I am

poor," said she, with a sigh.

"The Church rejects you not, but only the Convent. No place is less fit

for you. You have a high spirit, and high religious sentiments; both

would be mortified and shocked in a nunnery. Think you that convent

walls can shut out temptation? I know them better than you: they are

strongholds of vanity, folly, tittle-tattle, and all the meanest vices

of your sex. Nay, I forbid you to think of it: show me now your faith

by your obedience."

"You are harsh to me, father," said Catherine, piteously.

"I am firm. You are one that need a tight hand, mistress. Come now,

humility and obedience, these are the Christian graces that best become

your youth. Say, can the Church, through me its minister, count on

these from you, or (suddenly letting loose his diapason) did you send

for me to ask advice, and yet go your own way; hiding a high stomach

and a willful heart under a show of humility?"

Catherine looked at Father Francis with dismay. This was the first time

that easy-going priest had shown her how impressive he could be. She

was downright frightened; and said she hoped she knew better than defy

her director; she laid her will at his feet; and would obey him like a

child, as was her duty.

"Now I know my daughter again," said he, and gave her his horrible paw;

the which she kissed very humbly: and that matter was settled to her

entire dissatisfaction.

Soon after that they were both summoned to supper; but, as they went

down, Kate's maid drew her aside, and told her a young man wanted to

speak to her.

"A young man!" screamed Kate. "Hang young men! They have got me a fine

scolding just now. Which is it, pray?"

"He is a stranger to me."

"Perhaps he comes with a message from some fool. You may bring him to

me in the hall, and stay with us; it may be a thief for ought I know."

The maid soon reappeared, followed by Mr. Thomas Leicester.

That young worthy had lingered on Scutchemsee Nob, to extract the last

drop of enjoyment from the situation, by setting up his hat at ten

paces, and firing the gentlemen's pistols at it. I despair of conveying

to any rational reader the satisfaction, keen though brief, this

afforded him: it was a new sensation; gentlemen's guns he had fired

many, but dueling pistols not one till that bright hour.

He was now come to remind Catherine of his pecuniary claims. Luckily

for him she was one who did not need to be reminded of her promises.

"Oh, it is you, child," said she: "well, I'll be as good as my word."

She then dismissed her maid, and went up-stairs, and soon returned with

two guineas, a crown piece, and three shillings in her hand. "There,"

said she, smiling, "I am sorry for you, but that is all the money I

have in the world."

The boy's eyes glittered at sight of the coin: he rammed the silver

into his pocket with hungry rapidity. But he shook his head about the

gold. "I'm afeard o' these," said he: and eyed them mistrustfully in

his palm. "These be the friends that get you your throat cut o' dark

nights: mistress, please keep 'em for me, and let me have a shilling

now and then when I'm dry."

"Nay," said Kate, "but are you not afraid I shall spend your money, now

I have none left of my own?"

Tom seemed quite struck with the reasonableness of this observation,

and hesitated. However he concluded to risk it. "You don't look one of

the sort to wrong a poor fellow," said he: "and besides you'll have

brass to spare of your own before long I know."

Kate opened her eyes. "Oh, indeed!" said she: "and pray how do you know

that?"

Mr. Leicester favored her with a knowing wink. He gave her a moment

to digest this; and then said, almost in a whisper, "Hearkened the

gentlefolks on Scutchemsee Nob, after you was gone home, mistress."

Kate was annoyed. "What! they must be prating as soon as one's back is

turned. Talk of women's tongues! Now what did they say, I should like

to know?"

"It was about the bet, ye know."

"A bet! Oh that is no affair of mine."

"Ay, but it is. Why, 'twas you they were betting on: seems that old

sodger and Squire Hammersley had laid three guineas to one that you

should let out which was your fancy of them two."

Kate's cheeks were red as fire now; but her delicacy overpowered her

curiosity, and she would not put any more questions. To be sure, young

Hopeful needed none; he was naturally a chatter-box, and he proceeded

to tell her, that as soon as ever she was gone, Squire Hammersley

took a guinea, and offered it to the old soldier, and told him he

had won; and the old soldier pocketed it. But after that, somehow,

Squire Hammersley let drop that Mr. Neville was the favorite. "Then,"

continued Mr. Leicester, "what does the old sodger do, but pull out

guinea again, and says he, 'You must have this back; bet is not won;

for you do think 'tis Neville, now I do think 'tis Gaunt.' So then they

fell to argufying, and talking a lot o' stuff."

"No doubt: the insolent meddlers! Can you remember any of their

nonsense? not that it is worth remembering, I'll be bound."

"Let me see: well, Squire Hammersley he said you owned to dreaming of

Squire Neville, and that was a sign of love, said he; and, besides, you

sided with him against t'other. But the old sodger he said you called

Squire Gaunt 'Griffith;' and he built on that. Oh, and a said you

changed the horses back to please our Squire. Says he, 'You must look

to what the lady did; never heed what she said. Why, their sweet lips

was only made to kiss us, and deceive us,' says that there old sodger."

"I'll--I'll--and what did you say, sir? For I suppose your tongue was

not idle."

"Oh, me; I never let 'em know I was hearkening; or they'd have 'greed

in a moment for to give me a hiding. Besides I had no need to cudgel

my brains: I'd only to ask you plump. You'll tell _me_, I know. Which

is it, mistress? I'm for Gaunt, you know--in course. Alack, mistress,"

gabbled this voluble youth, "sure you won't be so hard as sack my

squire, and him got a bullet in his carcass, for love of you, this day."

Kate started, and looked at him in surprise. "Oh!" said she, "a bullet!

Did they fight again the moment they saw my back was turned? The

cowards!" and she began to tremble.

"No, no," said Tom; "that was done before ever you came up. Don't ye

remember that single shot while we were climbing the Nob? Well, 'twas

Squire Gaunt got it in the arm that time."

"Oh!"

"But I say, wasn't our man game? never let out he was hit while you was

there. But as soon as ever you was gone, they cut the bullet out of

him; and I seen it."

"Ah!--ah!"

"Doctor takes out his knife; precious sharp and shiny 'twas; cuts into

his arm with no more ado than if he was carving a pullet; out squirts

the blood, a good un."

"Oh, no more! no more! You cruel boy; how could you bear to look?" And

Kate hid her own face with both hands.

"Why, 'twasn't _my_ skin as was cut into. Squire Gaunt he never

hollered; a winced though, and ground his teeth; but 'twas over in a

minute, and the bullet in his hand. 'That is for my wife,' says he: 'if

ever I have one,' and puts it in his pocket. Why, mistress, you be as

white as your smock."

"No, no. Did he faint, poor soul?"

"Not he: what was there to faint about?"

"Then why do I feel so sick, even to hear of it?"

"Because you ha'n't got no stomach," said the boy, contemptuously.

"Your courage is skin deep I'm thinking. However, I'm glad you feel

for our Squire, about the bullet: so now I hope you will wed with

_him_, and sack Squire Neville. Then you and I shall be kind o'

kin; Squire Gaunt's feyther was my feyther. That makes you stare,

mistress. Why, all the folk do know it. Look at this here little mole

on my forehead. Squire Gaunt have got the fellow to that." At this

crisis of his argument, he suddenly caught a glimpse of his personal

interest; instantly he ceased his advocacy of Squire Gaunt, and became

ludicrously impartial. "Well, mistress; wed whichever you like," said

he, with sublime indifference; "only whichever you _do_ wed, prithee

speak a word to the gentleman, and get me to be his gamekeeper. I'd

liever be your goodman's gamekeeper than King of England." He was

proceeding with vast volubility to enumerate his qualifications for

that confidential post, when the lady cut him short, and told him to

go and get his supper in the kitchen, for she was wanted elsewhere. He

made a scrape, and clattered away with his hobnailed shoes.

Kate went to the hall window and opened it, and let the cold air blow

over her face.

Her heart was touched, and her bosom tilled with pity for her old

sweetheart.

How hard she had been. She had sided with Neville against the wounded

man. And she thought how sadly and patiently he had submitted to her

decision--and a bullet in his poor arm all the time.

The gentle bosom heaved, and heaved, and the tears began to run.

She entered the dining-room timidly, expecting some comment on her

discourteous absence. Instead of that, both her father and her director

rose respectfully, and received her with kind and affectionate looks.

They then pressed her to eat this, and that, and were remarkably

attentive and kind. She could see she was deep in their good books.

This pleased her; but she watched quietly, after the manner of her sex,

to learn what it was all about. Nor was she left long in the dark.

Remarks were made that hit her, though they were none of them addressed

to her.

Father Francis delivered quite a little homily on "Obedience," and said

how happy a thing it was when zeal, a virtue none too common in these

degenerate days, was found tempered by humility, and subservient to

ghostly counsel and authority.

Mr. Peyton dealt in no general topics of that kind; his discourse

was secular: it ran upon Neville's Cross, Neville's Court, and the

Baronetcy; and he showed Francis how and why this title must, sooner or

later, come to George Neville, and the heirs of his body.

Francis joined in this topic for a while; but speedily diverged into

what might be called a collateral theme. He described to Kate a

delightful spot on the Neville estate, where a nunnery might be built

and endowed by any good Catholic lady having zeal, and influence with

the owner of the estate, and with the lord-lieutenant of the county.

"It is three parts an island (for the river Wey curls round it

lovingly); but backed by wooded slopes that keep off the north and east

winds: a hidden and balmy place; such as the forefathers of the Church

did use to choose for their rustic abbeys, whose ruins still survive to

remind us of the pious and glorious days gone by. Trout and salmon come

swimming to the door: hawthorn and woodbine are as rife there as weeds

be in some parts; two broad oaks stand on turf like velvet, and ring

with song-birds. A spot by nature sweet, calm, and holy: good for pious

exercises and heavenly contemplation: there, methinks, if it be God's

will I should see old age, I would love to end my own days, at peace

with Heaven and with all mankind."

Kate was much moved by this picture; and her clasped hands and

glistening eyes showed the glory and delight it would be to her to

build a convent on so lovely a spot. But her words were vague. "How

sweet! how sweet!" was all she committed herself to. For, after what

Tom Leicester had just told her, she hardly knew what to say, or what

to think, or what to do: she felt she had become a mere puppet, first

drawn one way, then another.

One thing appeared pretty clear to her now; Father Francis did not mean

her to choose between her two lovers; he was good enough to relieve her

of that difficulty by choosing for her. She was to marry Neville.

She retired to rest directly after supper; for she was thoroughly worn

out. And the moment she rose to go, her father bounced up, and lighted

the bed candle for her with novel fervor, and kissed her on the cheek,

and said in her ear,--"Good night, my Lady Neville."

CHAPTER VIII

What with, the day's excitement, and a sweet secluded convent in lier

soul, and a bullet in her bosom, and a ringing in her ear, that sounded

mighty like "Lady Neville! Lady Neville! Lady Neville!" Kate spent a

restless night, and woke with a bad headache.

She sent her maid to excuse her, on this score, from going to Bolton

Hall. But she was informed in reply that the carriage had been got

ready expressly for her; so she must be good enough to shake off

disease and go: the air would do her a deal more good than lying abed.

Thereupon she dressed herself in her black silk gown, and came down,

looking pale and languid, but still quite lovely enough to discharge

what in this age of cant I suppose we should call "her Mission;"

_videlicet_, to set honest men by the ears.

At half-past eight o'clock the carriage came round to the front door.

Its body, all glorious with the Peyton armorials, and with patches of

rusty gilding, swung exceedingly loose on long leathern straps instead

of springs, and the fore-wheels were a mile from the hind-wheels; more

or less. A pretentious and horrible engine; drawn by four horses; only,

two of them being ponies impaired the symmetry and majestic beauty of

the pageant. Old Joe drove the wheelers; his boy rode the leaders;

and every now and then got oft and kicked them in the pits of their

stomachs, or pierced them with hedge-stakes, to rouse their mettle.

Thus encouraged and stimulated, they effected an average of four miles

and a half per hour, notwithstanding the snow, and reached Bolton just

in time. At the lodge, Francis got out, and lay in ambush. But only

for a time. He did not think it orthodox to be present at a religious

ceremony of his Protestant friends: nor common-sense-o-dox to turn his

back upon their dinner.

The carriage drew up at the hall door. It was wide open, and the hall

lined with servants, male and female, in black. In the midst, between

these two rows, stood Griffith Gaunt, bareheaded, to welcome the

guests. His arm was in a sling. He had received all the others in the

middle of the hall; but he came to the threshold to meet Kate and her

father. He bowed low and respectfully; then gave his left hand to Kate

to conduct her after the formal fashion of the day. The sight of his

arm in a sling startled and affected her; and with him giving her his

hand almost at the same moment, she pressed it, or indeed squeezed it

nervously, and it was in her heart to say something kind and womanly:

but her father was close behind, and she was afraid of saying something

too kind, if she said anything at all; so Griffith only got a little

gentle nervous pinch. But that was more than he expected, and sent a

thrill of delight through him; his brown eyes replied with a volume,

and holding her hand up in the air, as high as her ear, and keeping at

an incredible distance, he led her solemnly to a room where the other

ladies were, and left her there with a profound bow.

The Peytons were nearly the last persons expected; and soon after their

arrival the funeral procession formed. This part was entirely arranged

by the undertaker. The monstrous custom of forbidding ladies to follow

their dead had not yet occurred even to the idiots of the nation; and

Mr. Peyton and his daughter were placed in the second carriage. The

first contained Griffith Gaunt alone, as head mourner. But the Peytons

were not alone; no other relation of the deceased being present, the

undertaker put Mr. Neville with the Peytons, because he was heir to a

baronetcy.

Kate was much startled, and astonished to see him come out into the

hall. But, when he entered the carriage, she welcomed him warmly. "Oh,

I am so glad to see you here," said she.

"Guess by that what my delight at meeting you must be," said he.

She blushed and turned it off. "I mean, that your coming here gives

me good hopes there will be no more mischief." She then lowered her

voice, and begged him on no account to tell her father of her ride to

Scutchemsee Nob.

"Not a word," said George. He knew the advantage of sharing a secret

with a fair lady. He proceeded to whisper something very warm in her

ear: she listened to some of it; but then remonstrated, and said, "Are

you not ashamed to go on so at a funeral? Oh, do pray leave compliments

a moment, and think of your latter end."

He took this suggestion, as indeed he did everything from her, in good

part; and composed his visage into a decent gravity.

Soon after this they reached the church, and buried the deceased in his

family vault.

People, who are not bereaved by the death, are always inclined to

chatter coming home from a funeral. Kate now talked to Neville of her

own accord, and asked him if he had spoken to his host. He said "Yes;"

and, more than that, had come to a clear understanding with him. "We

agreed that it was no use fighting for you. I said if either of us two

was to kill the other, it does not follow you would wed the survivor."

"Me wed the wretch!" said Kate. "I should abhor him, and go into a

convent in spite of you all, and end my days praying for the murdered

man's soul."

"Neither of us is worth all that," suggested Neville, with an accent of

conviction.

"That is certain," replied the lady, drily; "so please not to do it."

He bade her set her mind at ease: they had both agreed to try and win

her by peaceful arts.

"Then a pretty life mine will be."

"Well, I think it will, till you decide."

"I could easily decide, if it were not for giving pain to--somebody."

"Oh, you can't help that. My sweet mistress, you are not the first that

has had to choose between two worthy men. For, in sooth, I have nothing

to say against my rival neither. I know him better than I did: he is a

very worthy gentleman though he is damnably in my way."

"And you are a very noble one to say so."

"And you are one of those that make a man noble: I feel that petty arts

are not the way to win you, and I scorn them. Sweet Mistress Kate, I

adore you. You are the best and noblest, as well as the loveliest of

women."

"Oh, hush! Mr. Neville, I am a creature of clay; and you are another;

and both of us coming home from a funeral. Do think of _that._"

Here they were interrupted by Mr. Peyton asking Kate to lend him a

shilling for the groom. Kate replied aloud that she had left her

purse at home, then whispered in his ear that she had not a shilling

in the world: and this was strictly true; for her little all was Tom

Leicester's now. With this they reached the Hall, and the coy Kate gave

both Neville and Gaunt the slip, and got amongst her mates. There her

tongue went as fast as her neighbors', though she had just come back

from a funeral.

But soon the ladies and gentlemen were all invited to the reading of

the Will.

And now chance, which had hitherto befriended Neville by throwing him

into one carriage with Kate, gave Gaunt a turn. He found her a moment

alone and near the embrasure of a window. He seized the opportunity and

asked her might he say a word in her ear. "What a question!" said she,

gaily; and the next moment they had the embrasure to themselves.

"Kate," said he, hurriedly, "in a few minutes, I suppose, I shall be

master of this place. Now you told me once you would rather be an

abbess or a nun than marry me."

"Did I?" said Kate. "What a sensible speech! But the worst of it is I'm

never in the same mind long."

"Well," replied Griffith, "I think of all that falls from your lips;

and your will is mine; only for pity's sake do not wed any man but me.

You have known me so long; why, you know the worst of me by this time:

and you have only seen the outside of _him._"

"Detraction! is that what you wanted to say to me?" asked Kate,

freezing suddenly.

"Nay, nay; it was about the abbey. I find you can be an abbess without

going and shutting yourself up and breaking one's heart. The way is,

you build a convent in Ireland, and endow it; and then you send a nun

over to govern it under you. Bless your heart, you can do anything with

money; and I shall have money enough before the day is over. To be sure

I _did_ intend to build a kennel and keep harriers; and you know that

costs a good penny: but we couldn't manage a kennel and an abbey too:

so now down goes the English kennel and up goes the Irish abbey."

"But you are a Protestant gentleman. You could not found a nunnery."

"But my wife could. Whose business is it what she does with her money?"

"With your money, you mean."

"Nay with hers, when I give it her with all my heart."

"Well, you astonish me," said Kate, thoughtfully. "Tell me, now, who

put it into your head to bribe a poor girl in this abominable way?"

"Who put it into my head?" said Griffith, looking rather puzzled: "why

I suppose my heart put it into my head."

Kate smiled very sweetly at this answer, and a wild hope thrilled

through Griffith that perhaps she might be brought to terms.

But at this crisis the lawyer from London was announced, and Griffith,

as master of the house, was obliged to seat the company. He looked

bitterly disappointed at the interruption, but put a good face on it,

and had more chairs in, and saw them all seated, beginning with Kate

and the other ladies.

The room was spacious, and the entire company sat in the form of a

horse-shoe.

The London solicitor was introduced by Griffith and bowed in a short,

business-like way; seated himself in the horse-shoe aforesaid, and

began to read the will aloud.

It was a lengthy document, and there is nothing to be gained by

repeating every line of it. I pick out a clause here and there.

"I, Septimus Charlton, of Hernshaw Castle and Holton Grange, in

the county of Cumberland, Esquire, being of sound mind, memory,

and understanding--thanks be to God--do make this my last will and

testament as follows:--First I commit my soul to God who gave it, and

my body to the earth from which it came. I desire my executors to

discharge my funeral and testamentary expenses, my just debts, and the

legacies hereinafter bequeathed, out of my personal estate."

Then followed several legacies of fifty and one hundred guineas. Then

several small legacies; such as the following:

"To my friend Edward Peyton, of Peyton Hall, Esq., ten guineas to buy a

mourning ring.

"To the worshipful gentlemen and ladies who shall follow my body to the

grave, ten guineas each, to buy a mourning ring."

"To my wife's cousin, Griffith Gaunt, I give and bequeath the sum of

two thousand pounds, the same to be paid to him within one calendar

month from the date of my decease.

"And as to all my messuages, or tenements, farms, lands, hereditaments,

and real estate, of what nature or what kind soever, and wheresoever

situate, together with all my monies, mortgages, chattels, furniture,

plate, pictures, wine, liquors, horses, carnages, stock, and all

the rest, residue, and remainder of my personal estate and effects

whatsoever (after the payment of the debts and legacies hereinbefore

mentioned), I give, devise, and bequeath the same to my cousin,

Catherine Peyton, daughter of Edward Peyton, Esq., of Peyton Hall, in

the county of Cumberland, her heirs, executors, administrators, and

assigns for ever."

When the lawyer read out this unexpected blow, the whole company

turned in their seats and looked amazed at her, who, in a second and

a sentence, was turned before their eyes from the poorest girl in

Cumberland to an heiress in her own right, and proprietor of the house

they sat in, the chairs they sat on, and the lawn they looked out at.

Ay, we turn to the rising sun: very few looked at Griffith Gaunt to see

how he took his mistress's good fortune, that was his calamity: yet his

face was a book full of strange matter. At first a flash of loving joy

crossed his countenance; but this gave way immediately to a haggard

look, and that to a glare of despair.

As for the lady, she cast one deprecating glance, swifter than

lightning, at him she had disinherited; and then she turned her face

to marble. In vain did curious looks explore her to detect the delight

such a stroke of fortune would have given to themselves. Faulty, but

great of soul, and on her guard against the piercing eyes of her own

sex, she sat sedate, and received her change of fortune with every

appearance of cool composure and exalted indifference: and, as for her

dreamy eyes, they seemed thinking of Heaven or something almost as many

miles away from money and land.

But the lawyer had not stopped a moment to see how people took it,

he had gone steadily on through the usual formal clauses: and now he

brought his monotonous voice to an end, and added in the same breath,

but in a natural and cheerful tone, "Madam, I wish you joy."

This operated like a signal: the company exploded in a body; and then

they all came about the heiress, and congratulated her in turn. She

curtsied politely though somewhat coldly, but said not a word in reply,

till the disappointed one spoke to her.

He hung back at first: to understand his feelings it must be remembered

that in this view of things Kate gained nothing by this bequest

compared with what he lost. As his wife, she would have been mistress

of Bolton Hall, etc. But now she was placed too far above him. Sick

at heart, he stood aloof while they all paid their court to her. But,

by-and-by, he felt it would look base and hostile if he alone said

nothing; so he came forward, struggling visibly for composure and manly

fortitude.

The situation was piquant, and the ladies tongues stopped in a moment,

and they were all eyes and ears.

CHAPTER IX

Griffith, with an effort he had not the skill to hide, stammered out,

"Mistress Kate, I do wish you joy." Then with sudden and touching

earnestness, "Never did good fortune light on one so worthy of it."

"Thank you, Griffith," replied Kate, softly. (She had called him 'Mr.

Gaunt' in public till now.) "But money and lands do not always bring

content. I think I was happier a minute ago than I feel now," said she,

quietly.

The blood rushed into Griffith's face at this; for a minute ago might

mean when he and she were talking almost like lovers about to wed. He

was so overcome by this, he turned on his heel, and retreated hastily

to hide his emotion, and regain, if possible, composure to play his

part of host in the house that was his no longer.

Kate herself soon after retired, nominally to make her toilet before

dinner; but really to escape the public; and think it all over.

The news of her advancement had spread like wildfire: she was waylaid

at the very door by the housekeeper, who insisted on showing her her

house. "Nay, never mind the house," said Kate: "just show me one room

where I can wash my face and do my hair."

Mrs. Hill conducted her to the best bedroom: it was lined with

tapestry, and all the colors flown; the curtains were a deadish yellow.

"Lud! here's a colored room to show _me_ into," said the blonde Kate:

"and a black grate, too. Why not take me out o' doors and bid me wash

in the snow?"

"Alack, mistress," said the woman, feeling very uneasy, "we had no

orders from Mr. Gaunt to light fires _up_ stairs."

"Oh, if you wait for gentlemen's orders to make your house fit to live

in! You knew there were a dozen ladies coming, yet you were not woman

enough to light them fires. Come, take me to your own bedroom."

The woman turned red: "Mine is but a small room, my lady," she

stammered.

"But there's a fire in it," said Kate, spitefully. "You servants don't

wait for gentlemen's orders, to take care of yourselves."

Mrs. Hill said to herself, "I'm to leave; that is flat." However, she

led the way down a passage, and opened the door of a pleasant little

room in a square turret: a large bay window occupied one whole side of

the room, and made it inexpressibly bright and cheerful, though rather

hot and stuffy; a clear coal fire burnt in the grate.

"Ah!" said Kate, "how nice. Please open those little windows every one.

I suppose you have sworn never to let wholesome air into a room. Thank

you: now go and forget every cross word I have said to you--I am out of

sorts, and nervous, and irritable. There, run away, my good soul, and

light fires in every room; and don't you let a creature come near me,

or you and I shall quarrel downright."

Mrs. Hill beat a hasty retreat. Kate locked the door and threw herself

backwards on the bed, with such a weary recklessness and abandon, as

if she was throwing herself into the sea, to end all her trouble--and

burst out crying.

It was one thing to refuse to marry her old sweetheart; it was another

to take his property and reduce him to poverty. But here was she

doing both, and going to be persuaded to marry Neville, and swell his

wealth with the very possessions she had taken from Griffith; and him

wounded into the bargain for love of her. It was really too cruel.

It was an accumulation of different cruelties. Her bosom revolted:

she was agitated, perplexed, irritated, unhappy, and all in a tumult:

and, although she had but one fit of crying,--to the naked eye,--yet a

person of her own sex would have seen that at one moment she was crying

from agitated nerves, at another from worry, and at the next from pity,

and then from grief.

In short she had a good long, hearty, multi-form cry; and it relieved

her swelling heart so far, that she felt able to go down now, and

hide her feelings, one and all, from friend and foe; to do which was,

unfortunately, a part of her nature.

She rose and plunged her face into cold water, and then smoothed her

hair.

Now, as she stood at the glass, two familiar voices came in through the

open window, and arrested her attention directly. It was her father

conversing with Griffith Gaunt. Kate pricked up her quick ears and

listened, with her back hair in her hand. She caught the subject of

their talk, only now and then she missed a word or two.

Mr. Peyton was speaking rather kindly to Griffith, and telling him

he was as sorry for his disappointment as any father could be whose

daughter had just come into a fortune. But then he went on and rather

spoiled this by asking Griffith bluntly what on earth had ever made him

think Mr. Charlton intended to leave him Bolton and Hernshaw.

Griffith replied, with manifest agitation, that Mr. Charlton had

repeatedly told him he was to be his heir. "Not," said Griffith, "that

he meant to wrong Mistress Kate, neither: poor old man, he always

thought she and I should be one."

"Ah! well," said Squire Peyton, coolly, "there is an end of all that

now."

At this observation Kate glided to the window, and laid her cheek on

the sill to listen more closely.

But Griffith made no reply.

Mr. Peyton seemed dissatisfied at his silence, and being a person who,

notwithstanding a certain superficial good-nature, saw his own side of

a question very big, and his neighbor's very little, he was harder than

perhaps he intended to be.

"Why, Master Gaunt," said he, "surely you would not follow my daughter

now; to feed upon a woman's bread. Come, be a man; and, if you are the

girl's friend, don't stand in her light. You know she can wed your

betters, and clap Bolton Hall on to Neville's Court. No doubt it is a

disappointment to _you_: but what can't be cured must be endured; pluck

up a bit of courage, and turn your heart another way; and then I shall

always be a good friend to you, and my doors open to you come when you

will."

Griffith made no reply. Kate strained her ears, but could not hear a

syllable. A tremor ran through her. She was in distance farther from

Griffith than her father was; but superior intelligence provided her

with a bridge from her window to her old servant's mind. And now she

felt that this great silence was the silence of despair.

But the Squire pressed him for a definite answer; and finally insisted

on one. "Come, don't be sulky," said he; "I'm her father: give me an

answer, ay or no."

Then Kate heard a violent sigh, and out rushed a torrent of words that

each seemed tinged with blood from the unfortunate speaker's heart.

"Old man," he almost shrieked, "what did I ever do to you that you

torment me so? Sure you were born without bowels. Beggared but an hour

agone, and now you must come and tell me I have lost _her_ by losing

house and lands! D'ye think I need to be _told_ it? She was too far

above me before, and now she is gone quite out of my reach. But why

come and fling it in my face? Can't you give a poor undone man one hour

to draw his breath in trouble? And, when you know I have got to play

the host this bitter day, and smile, and smirk, and make you all merry,

with my heart breaking. Oh Christ, look down and pity me, for men are

made of stone! Well, then, no; I will not, I cannot, say the word, to

give her up. _She_ will discharge _me_, and then I'll fly the country,

and never trouble you more. And to think that one little hour ago she

was so kind, and I was so happy: Ah, sir, if you were born of a woman,

have a little pity, and don't speak to me of her at all one way or

other. What are you afraid of? I am a gentleman and a man, though sore

my trouble: I shall not run after the lady of Bolton Hall. Why, sir, I

have ordered the servants to set her chair in the middle of the table,

where I shall not be able to speak to her, or even see her. Indeed I

dare not look at her: for I must be merry. Merry! My arm it worries me,

my head it aches, my heart is sick to death. Man! man! show me some

little grace, and do not torture me more than flesh and blood can bear."

"You are mad, young sir," said the Squire, sternly, "and want locking

up on bread and water for a month."

"I _am_ almost mad," said Griffith, humbly. "But if you would only let

me alone, and not tear my heart out of my body, I could hide my agony

from the whole pack of ye, and go through my part like a man. I wish I

was lying where I laid my only friend this afternoon."

"Oh! I don't want to speak to you," said Peyton, angrily; "and, by the

same token, don't you speak to my daughter any more."

"Well, sir, if she speaks to me I shall be sure to speak to her,

without asking your leave or any man's. But I will not force myself

upon the lady of Bolton Hall; don't you think it. Only for God's sake

let me alone. I want to be by myself." And, with this, he hurried away,

unable to bear it any more.

Peyton gave a hostile and contemptuous snort, and also turned on his

heel, and went off in the opposite direction. The effect of this

dialogue on the listener was not to melt, but exasperate her. Perhaps

she had just cried away her stock of tenderness. At any rate, she rose

from her ambush a very basilisk; her eyes, usually so languid, flashed

fire, and her forehead was red with indignation. She bit her lip, and

clenched her hands, and her little foot beat the ground swiftly.

She was still in this state when a timid tap came to the door, and

Mrs. Hill asked her pardon, but dinner was ready, and the ladies and

gentlemen all a waiting for her to sit down.

This reminded Kate she was the mistress of the house. She answered

civilly she would be down immediately. She then took a last look in the

glass; and her own face startled her.

"No," she thought; "they shall none of them know nor guess what I

feel." And she stood before the glass and deliberately extracted all

emotion from her countenance, and by way of preparation screwed on a

spiteful smile.

When she had got her face to her mind, she went down stairs.

The gentlemen awaited her with impatience, the ladies with curiosity,

to see how she would comport herself in her new situation. She entered,

made a formal curtsy, and was conducted to her seat by Mr. Gaunt. He

placed her in the middle of the table. "I play the host for this one

day," said he, with some dignity; and took the bottom of the table

himself.

Mr. Hammersley was to have sat on Kate's left, but the sly Neville

persuaded him to change, and so got next to his inamorata: opposite to

her sat her father, Major Rickards, and others unknown to fame.

Neville was in high spirits. He had the good taste to try and hide his

satisfaction at the fatal blow his rival had received, and he entirely

avoided the topic; but Kate saw at once, by his demure complacency,

he was delighted at the turn things had taken; and he gained nothing

by it: he found her a changed girl. Cold monosyllables were all he

could extract from her. He returned to the charge a hundred times with

indomitable gallantry, but it was no use. Cold, haughty, sullen!

Her other neighbor fared little better; and in short the lady of the

house made a vile impression. She was an iceberg: a beautiful kill-joy:

a wet blanket of charming texture.

And presently Nature began to co-operate with her: long before sunset

it grew prodigiously dark; and the cause was soon revealed by a fall of

snow in flakes as large as a biscuit. A shiver ran through the people;

and old Peyton blurted out, "I shall not go home to-night." Then he

bawled across the table to his daughter: "_You_ are at home. We will

stay and take possession."

"Oh, papa!" said Kate, reddening with disgust.

But if dulness reigned around the lady of the house, it was not so

everywhere: loud bursts of merriment were heard at the bottom of

the table. Kate glanced that way in some surprise, and found it was

Griffith making the company merry; Griffith of all people.

The laughter broke out at short intervals, and by-and-by became

uproarious and constant. At last she looked at Neville inquiringly.

"Our worthy host is setting us an example of conviviality," said he.

"He is getting drunk."

"Oh, I hope not," said Kate. "Has he no friend to tell him not to make

a fool of himself?"

"You take a great interest in him," said Neville, bitterly.

"Of course I do. Pray do you desert your friends when ill luck falls on

them?"

"Nay, Mistress Kate, I hope not."

"You only triumph over the misfortunes of your enemies, eh?" said the

stinging beauty.

"Not even that. And, as for Mr. Gaunt, I am not his enemy."

"Oh no, of course not. You are his best friend. Witness his arm at this

moment."

"I am his rival; but not his enemy: I'll give you a proof." Then he

lowered his voice, and said in her ear: "You are grieved at his losing

Bolton; and, as you are very generous, and noble-minded, you are all

the more grieved because his loss is your gain." (Kate blushed at this

shrewd hit.) Neville went on: "You don't like him well enough to marry

him; and, since you cannot make him happy, it hurts your good heart to

make him poor."

"It is you for reading a lady's Heart," said Kate, ironically.

George proceeded steadily. "I'll show you an easy way out of this

dilemma."

"Thank you," said Kate, rather insolently.

"Give Mr. Gaunt Bolton and Hernshaw, and give me--your hand."

Kate turned and looked at him with surprise: she saw by his eye it was

no jest. For all that, she effected to take it as one. "That would be

long and short division," said she: but her voice faltered in saying it.

"So it would," replied George, coolly; "for Bolton and Hernshaw both

are not worth one finger of that hand I ask of you. But the value of

things lies in the mind that weighs 'em. Mr. Gaunt, you see, values

Bolton and Hernshaw very highly; why, he is in despair at losing them.

Look at him; he is getting rid of his reason before your very eyes, to

drown his disappointment."

"Oh, that is it, is it?" And, strange to say, she looked rather

relieved.

"That is it, believe me: it is a way we men have. But, as I was saying,

I don't care one straw for Bolton and Hernshaw. It is you I love; not

your land nor your house, but your sweet self: so give me that, and let

the lawyers make over this famous house and lands to Mr. Gaunt. His

antagonist I have been in the field, and his rival I am and must be,

but not his enemy, you see, and not his ill-wisher."

Kate was softened a little. "This is all mighty romantic," said she,

"and very like a prolix chevalier, as you are; but you know very well

he would fling land and house in your face if you offered them him on

these terms."

"Ay, in my face if I offered them; but not in yours if you."

"I am sure he would, all the same."

"Try him."

"What is the use?"

"Try him."

Kate showed symptoms of uneasiness. "Well, I will," said she, stoutly.

"No, that I will not. You begin by bribing me; and then you would set

me to bribe him."

"It is the only way to make two honest men happy."

"If I thought that?"

"You know it. Try him."

"And suppose he says nay?"

"Then we shall be no worse than we are."

"And suppose he says ay?"

"Then he will wed Bolton Hall and Hernshaw; and the pearl of England

will wed me."

"I have a great mind to take you at your word," said Kate; "but no; it

is really too indelicate."

George Neville fixed his eyes on her. "Are you not deceiving yourself?"

said he. "Do you not like Mr. Gaunt better than you think? I begin to

fear you dare not put him to this test: you fear his love would not

stand it?"

Kate colored high, and tossed her head proudly.

"How shrewd you gentlemen are," she said. "Much you know of a lady's

heart. Now the truth is I don't know what might happen were I to do

what you bid me. Nay, I'm wiser than you would have me, and I'll pity

Mr. Gaunt at a safe distance, if you please, sir."

Neville bowed gravely: he felt sure this was a plausible evasion; and

that she really was afraid to apply his test to his rival's love.

So now for the first time he became silent and reserved by her side.

The change was noticed by Father Francis, and he fixed a grave

remonstrating glance on Kate. She received it, understood it, affected

not to notice it, and acted upon it.

Drive a donkey too hard; it kicks.

Drive a man too hard; it hits.

Drive a woman too hard; it cajoles.

Now amongst them they had driven Kate Peyton too hard; so she secretly

formed a bold resolution; and, this done, her whole manner changed for

the better. She turned to Neville, and flattered and fascinated him.

The most feline of her sex could scarcely equal her calinerie on this

occasion. But she did not confine her fascination to him. She broke

out, pro bono publico, like the sun in April, with quips and cranks

and dimpled smiles, and made everybody near her quite forget her late

hauteur and coldness, and bask in this sunny sweet hostess. When the

charm was at its height, the Siren cast a seeming merry glance at

Griffith, and said to a lady opposite, "Methinks some of the gentlemen

will be glad to be rid of us," and so carried the ladies off to the

drawing-room.

There, her first act was to dismiss her smiles without ceremony, and

her second was to sit down and write four lines to the gentleman at the

head of the dining-table.

And he was as drunk as a fiddler.

CHAPTER X

Griffith's friends laughed heartily with him while he was getting

drunk, and, when he had got drunk, they laughed still louder, only at

him.

They "knocked him down" for a song; and he sang a rather Anacreontic

one very melodiously, and so loud that certain of the servants,

listening outside, derived great delectation from it; and Neville

applauded ironically.

Soon after, they "knocked him down" for a story; and, as it requires

more brains to tell a story than, to sing a song, the poor butt made an

ass of himself: he maundered and wandered, and stopped, and went on,

and lost one thread and took up and another, and got into a perfect

maze. And, while he was thus entangled, a servant came in and brought

him a note, and put it in his hand. The unhappy narrator received it

with a sapient nod, but was too polite or else too stupid to open it;

so closed his fingers on it and wont maundering on till his story

trickled into the sand of the desert, and somehow ceased; for it could

not be said to end, being a thing without head or tail.

He sat down amidst derisive cheers. About five minutes afterwards,

in some intermittent flash of reason, he found he had got hold of

something. He opened his hand, and lo, a note! On this he chuckled

unreasonably, and distributed sage, cunning, winks around, as if he

by special ingenuity had caught a nightingale, or the like; then with

sudden hauteur and gravity proceeded to examine his prize.

But he knew the handwriting at once, and it gave him a galvanic shock

that half sobered him for the moment.

He opened the note and spelled it with great difficulty; it was

beautifully written in long, clear letters; but then those letters kept

dancing so.

"I much desire to speak to you before 'tis too late; but can

think of no way save one; I lie in the turreted room: come

under my window at nine of the clock; and prithee come sober,

if you respect yourself, or

KATE."

Griffith put the note in his pocket, and tried to think. But he could

not think to much purpose. Then this made him suspect he was drunk.

Then he tried to be sober; but he found he could not. He sat in a sort

of stupid agony, with Love and Drink battling for his brain. It was

piteous to see the poor fool's struggles to regain the reason he had so

madly parted with. He could not do it; and, when he found that, he took

up a finger-glass and gravely poured the contents upon his head.

At this there was a burst of laughter.

This irritated Mr. Gaunt, and, with that rapid change of sentiments

which marks the sober savage and, the drunken European, he offered to

fight a gentleman he had been hitherto holding up to the company as

his best friend. But his best friend (a very distant acquaintance) was

by this time as tipsy as himself, and offered a piteous disclaimer,

mingled with tears; and these maudlin drops so affected Griffith that

he flung his one available arm round his best friend's head, and

wept in turn; and down went both their lachrymose, empty noddles on

the table. Griffith's remained there; but his best friend extricated

himself, and, shaking his skull, said, dolefully, "He is very drunk."

This notable discovery, coming from such a quarter, caused considerable

merriment.

"Let him alone," said an old toper; and Griffith remained a good hour

with his head on the table. Meantime the other gentlemen soon put it

out of their power to ridicule him on the score of intoxication.

Griffith, keeping quiet, got a little better, and suddenly started up

with a notion he was to go to Kate this very moment. He muttered an

excuse, and staggered to a glass door that led to the lawn; he opened

this door, and rushed out into the open air. He thought it would set

him all right: but, instead of that, it made him so much worse that

presently his legs came to a misunderstanding, and he measured his

length on the ground, and could not get up again, but kept slipping

down.

Upon this he groaned and lay quiet.

Now there was a foot of snow on the ground, and it melted about

Griffith's hot temples and flashed face, and mightily refreshed and

revived him.

He sat up and kissed Kate's letter, and Love began to get the upper

hand of Liquor a little.

Finally he got up, and half strutted, half staggered to the turret, and

stood under Kate's window.

The turret was covered with luxuriant ivy, and that ivy with snow. So

the glass of the window was set in a massive frame of winter; but a

bright fire burned inside the room, and this set the panes all aflame.

It was cheery and glorious to see the window glow like a sheet of

transparent fire in its deep frame of snow; but Griffith could not

appreciate all that. He stood there a sorrowful man. The wine he had

taken to drown his despair had lost its stimulating effect, and had

given him a heavy head, but left him his sick heart.

He stood and puzzled his drowsy faculties why Kate had sent for him.

Was it to bid him good-bye for ever; or to lessen his misery by

telling him she would not marry another? He soon gave up cudgeling his

enfeebled brains; Kate was a superior being to him, and often said

things, and did things, that surprised him. She had sent for him, and

that was enough; he should see her, and speak to her once more, at all

events. He stood, alternately nodding and looking up at her glowing

room, and longing for its owner to appear. But, as Bacchus had inspired

him to mistake eight o'clock for nine, and as she was not a votary of

Bacchus, she did not appear; and he stood there till he began to shiver.

The shadow of a female passed along the wall, and Griffith gave a great

start. Then he heard the fire poked. Soon after he saw the shadow

again; but it had a large servant's cap on; so his heart had beaten

high for Mary or Susan. He hung his head disappointed; and, holding on

by the ivy, fell a nodding again.

By-and-by one of the little casements was opened softly. He looked up,

and there was the right face peering out.

Oh, what a picture she was in the moonlight and the firelight! They

both fought for that fair head, and each got a share of it: the full

moon's silvery beams shone on her rose-like cheeks and lilyfield them

a shade, and lit her great grey eyes and made them gleam astoundingly;

but the ruby firelight rushed at her from behind, and flowed over her

golden hair, and reddened and glorified it till it seemed more than

mortal. And all this in a very picture-frame of snow.

Imagine, then, how sweet and glorious she glowed on him who loved her,

and who looked at her perhaps for the last time.

The sight did wonders to clear his head; he stood open-mouthed, with

his heart beating. She looked him all over a moment. "Ah!" said

she. Then, quietly, "I am so glad you are come." Then, kindly and

regretfully, "How pale you look! you are unhappy."

This greeting, so gentle and land, overpowered Griffith. His heart was

too full to speak.

Kate waited a moment; and then, as he did not reply to her, she began

to plead to him. "I hope you are not angry with _me_" she said. "_I_

did not want him to leave me your estates. I would not rob you of them

for the world, if I had my way."

"Angry with you!" said Griffith. "I'm not such a villain. Mr. Charlton

did the right thing, and--" He could say no more.

"I do not think so," said Kate. "But don't you fret: all shall be

settled to your satisfaction. I cannot quite love you, but I have a

sincere affection for you; and so I ought. Cheer up, dear Griffith;

don't you be down-hearted about what has happened to-day."

Griffith smiled. "I don't feel unhappy," he said; "I did feel as if

my heart was broken. But then you seemed parted from me. Now we are

together I feel as happy as ever. Mistress, don't you ever shut that

window and leave me in the dark again. Let me stand and look at your

sweet face all night, and I shall be the happiest man in Cumberland."

"Ay," said Kate, blushing at his ardor; "happy for a single night;

but when I go away you will be in the dumps again, and perhaps get

tipsy; as if that could mend matters. Nay, I must set your happiness on

stronger legs than that. Do you know I have got permission to undo this

cruel will, and let you have Bolton Hall and Hernshaw again?"

Griffith looked pleased, but rather puzzled.

Kate went on, but not so glibly now. "However," said she, a little

nervously, "there is one condition to it that will cost us both some

pain. If you consent to accept those two estates from me, who don't

value them one straw, why then--"

She hesitated.

"Well, what?" he gasped.

"Why, then, my poor Griffith, we shall be bound in honor,--you

and I,--not to meet for some months: perhaps for a whole year:

in one word--do not hate me--not till you can bear to see

me--another--man's--wife."

The murder being out, she hid her face in her hands directly, and in

that attitude awaited his reply.

Griffith stood petrified a moment; and I don't think his intellects

were even yet quite clear enough to take it all in at once. But at last

he did comprehend it, and, when he did, he just uttered a loud cry of

agony, and then turned his back on her without a word.

Man does not speak by words alone. A mute glance of reproach has ere

now pierced the heart a tirade would have left untouched; and even an

inarticulate cry may utter volumes.

Such an eloquent cry was that with which Griffith Gaunt turned his back

upon the angelical face he adored, and the soft persuasive tongue.

There was agony, there was shame, there was wrath, all in that one

ejaculation.

It frightened Kate. She called him back. "Don't leave me so," she said.

"I know I have affronted you; but I meant all for the best. Do not let

us part in anger."

At this Griffith returned in violent agitation. "It is your fault for

making me speak," he cried "I was going away without a word, as a man

should, that is insulted by a woman. You heartless girl! What! you bid

me sell you to that man for two dirty farms! Oh, well you know Bolton

and Hernshaw were but the steps by which I hoped to climb to you:

and now you tell me to part with you, and take those miserable acres

instead of my darling. Ah! mistress, you have never loved: or you would

hate yourself and despise yourself for what you have done. Love! if you

had known what that word means, you couldn't look in my face and stab

me to the heart like this. God forgive you! And sure I hope he will;

for after all, it is not _your_ fault that you were born without a

heart. WHY, KATE, YOU ARE CRYING."

CHAPTER XI

"Crying!" said Kate. "I could cry my eyes out to think what I have

done; but it is not my fault: they egged me on. I knew you would fling

those two miserable things in my face if I did, and I said so; but they

would be wiser than me, and insist on my putting you to the proof."

"They? Who is they?"

"No matter. Whoever it was they will gain nothing by it, and you will

lose nothing. Ah, Griffith, I am so ashamed of myself--and so proud of

you."

"They?" repeated Griffith, suspiciously. "Who is this they?"

"What does that matter, so long as it was not Me? Are you going to

be jealous again? Let us talk of you and me, and never mind who them

is. You have rejected my proposal with just scorn; so now let me hear

yours; for we must agree on something this very night. Tell me, now,

what can I say or do to make you happy?"

Griffith was sore puzzled. "Alas! sweet Kate," said he, "I don't know

what you can do for me now, except stay single for my sake."

"I should like nothing better," replied Kate, warmly; "but

unfortunately they won't let me do that. Father Francis will be at me

to-morrow, and insist on my marrying Mr. Neville."

"But you will refuse."

"I would, if I could but find a good excuse."

"Excuse? why, say you don't love him."

"Oh, they won't allow that for a reason."

"Then I am undone," sighed Griffith.

"No, no, you are not; if I could be brought to pretend I love somebody

else. And really, if I don't quite love you, I like you too well to

let you be unhappy. Besides, I cannot bear to rob you of these unlucky

farms: I think there is nothing I would not do rather than that. I

think--I would rather--do--something very silly indeed. But I suppose

you don't want me to do that now? Why don't you answer me? Why don't

you say something? Are you drunk, sir, as they pretend? or are you

asleep? Oh, I can't speak any plainer: this is intolerable. Mr. Gaunt,

I'm going to shut the window."

Griffith got alarmed, and it sharpened his wits. "Kate, Kate!" he

cried, "what do you mean? am I in a dream? would you marry poor me

after all?"

"How on earth can I tell, till I am asked?" inquired Kate, with an air

of childlike innocence, and inspecting the stars attentively.

"Kate, will you marry me?" said Griffith, all in a flutter.

"Of course I will--if you will let me," replied Kate, coolly, but

rather tenderly, too.

Griffith burst into raptures; Kate listened to them with a complacent

smile; then delivered herself after this fashion:--"You have very

little to thank me for, dear Griffith. I don't exactly downright love

you; but I could not rob you of those unlucky farms, and you refuse to

take them back, any way but this; so what can I do? And then, for all

I don't love you, I find I am always unhappy if you are unhappy, and

happy when you are happy; so it comes pretty much to the same thing. I

declare I am sick of giving you pain, and a little sick of crying in

consequence. There, I have cried more in the last fortnight than in all

my life before, and you know nothing spoils one's beauty like crying:

and then you are so good, and kind, and true, and brave; and everybody

is so unjust, and so unkind to you; papa and all. You were quite in

the right about the duel, dear; he is an impudent puppy; and I threw

dust in your eyes, and made you own you were in the wrong; and it was

a great shame of me; but it was because I liked you best. I could take

liberties with _you_, dear. And you are wounded for me; and now I have

disinherited you; oh, I can't bear it, and I won't. My heart yearns for

you; bleeds for you. I would rather die than you should be unhappy; I

would rather follow you in rags round the world than marry a prince and

make you wretched. Yes, dear, I am yours. Make me your wife; and then

some day I daresay I shall love you as I ought."

She had never showed her heart to him like this before; and now it

overpowered him. So, being also a little under vinous influence, he

stammered out something, and then fairly blubbered with joy. Then what

does Kate do, but cry for company.

Presently, to her surprise, he was half way up the turret, coming to

her.

"Oh, take care! take care!" she cried. "You'll break your neck."

"Nay," cried he, "I must come at you, if I die for it."

The turret was ornamented from top to bottom with short ledges

consisting of half bricks. This ledge, shallow as it was, gave a slight

foothold, insufficient in itself, but he grasped the strong branches of

the ivy with a powerful hand; and so between the two contrived to get

up and hang himself out close to her.

"Sweet mistress," said he, "put out your hand to me; for I can't take

it against your will this time; I have got but one arm."

But this she declined. "No, no," said she; "you do nothing but torment

and terrify me,--there." And so, gave it him; and he mumbled it.

This last feat won her quite. She thought no other man could have got

to her there, with two arms, and Griffith had done it with one. She

said to herself, "How he loves me! more than his own neck." And then

she thought. "I shall be wife to a strong man; that is one comfort."

In this softened mood she asked him demurely, would he take a friend's

advice.

"If that friend is you, ay.'

"Then," said she, "I'll do a downright brazen thing, now my hand is

in. I declare I'll tell you how to secure me. You make me plight my

troth with you this minute, and exchange rings with you, _whether I

like or not_; engage my honor in this foolish business, and, if you

do that, I really do think you will have me in spite of them all. But

there--la!--am I worth all this trouble?"

Griffith did not share this chilling doubt. He poured forth his

gratitude, and then told her he had got his mother's ring on his

finger; "I meant to ask you to wear it," said he.

"And why didn't you?"

"Because you became an heiress all of a sudden."

"Well, what signifies which of us has the dross, so that there is

enough for both?"

"That is true," said Griffith, approving his own sentiment, but not

recognizing his own words. "Here's my mother's ring, on my little

finger, sweet mistress. But I must ask you to draw it off, for I have

but one hand."

Kate made a wry face. "Well, that is my fault," said she, "or I would

not take it from you so."

She drew off his ring, and put it on her finger. Then she gave him her

largest ring, and had to put it on his little finger for him.

"You are making a very forward girl of me," said she, pouting

exquisitely.

He kissed her hand while she was doing it.

"Don't you be so silly," said she; "and, you horrid creature, how you

smell of wine! The bullet, please."

"The bullet!" exclaimed Griffith. "What bullet?"

"_The_ bullet. The one you were wounded with for my sake. I am told you

put it in your pocket; and I see something bulge in your waistcoat;

that bullet belongs to me now."

"I think you are a witch," said he. "I do carry it about next my heart.

Take it out of my waistcoat, if you will be so good."

She blushed, and declined, and with the refusal on her very lips,

fished it out with her taper fingers. She eyed it with a sort of tender

horror. The sight of it made her feel faint a moment. She told him so:

and that she would keep it to her dying day. Presently her delicate

finger found something was written on it; she did not ask him what it

was, but withdrew, and examined it by her candle. Griffith had engraved

it with these words:

"I LOVE KATE."

He looked through the window, and saw her examine it by the candle. As

she read the inscription, her face, glorified by the light, assumed a

celestial tenderness he had never seen it wear before.

She came back and leaned eloquently out as if she would fly to him.

"Ah, Griffith! Griffith!" she murmured; and, somehow or other, their

lips met in spite of all the difficulties, and grew together in a long

and tender embrace.

It was the first time she had ever given him more than her hand to

kiss; and the rapture repaid him for all.

But, as soon as she had made this great advance, virginal instinct

suggested a proportionate retreat.

"You must go to bed," she said, austerely; "you will catch your death

of cold out here."

He remonstrated: she insisted. He held out: she smiled sweetly in

his face, and shut the window in it pretty sharply, and disappeared.

He went disconsolately down his ivy ladder. As soon as he was at the

bottom, she opened the window again, and asked him, demurely, if he

would do something to oblige her.

He replied like a lover; he was ready to be cut in pieces, drawn

asunder with wild horses, and so on.

"Oh, I know you would do anything stupid for me," said she; "but will

you do something clever for a poor girl that is in a fright at what she

is going to do for you?"

"Give your orders, mistress," said Griffith; "and don't talk of me

obliging you. I feel quite ashamed to hear you talk so: to-night

especially."

"Well, then," said Kate, "first and foremost, I want you to throw

yourself on Father Francis's neck."

"I'll throw myself on Father Francis's neck," said Griffith, stoutly.

"Is that all?"

"No; nor half. Once upon his neck you must say something. There--I had

better settle the very words, or perhaps you will make a mess of it.

Say after me now: Oh, Father Francis, 'tis to you I owe her."

"Oh, Father Francis, 'tis to you I owe her."

"You and I are friends for life."

"You and I are friends for life."

"And mind, there is always a bed in our home for you, and a plate at

our table, and a right welcome, come when you will."

Griffith repeated this last correctly; but, when requested to say the

whole, broke down. Kate had to repeat the oration a dozen times; and he

said it after her, like a Sunday-school scholar, till he had it pat.

The task achieved, he inquired of her what Father Francis was to say in

reply.

At this question Kate showed considerable alarm.

"Gracious Heavens!" she cried; "you must not stop talking to him; he

will turn you inside out, and I shall be undone. Nay, you must gabble

those words out, and then run away as hard as you can gallop."

"But is it true?" asked Griffith: "is he so much my friend?"

"Hum!" said Kate; "it is quite true; and he is not at all your friend.

There, don't you puzzle yourself, and pester me; but do as you are bid,

or we are both undone."

Quelled by a menace so mysterious, Griffith promised blind obedience;

and Kate thanked him and bade him good-night; and ordered him

peremptorily to bed.

He went.

She beckoned him back.

He came.

She leaned out, and inquired, in a soft delicious whisper, as follows:

"Are you happy, dearest?"

"Ay, Kate, the happiest of the happy."

"Then so am I," she murmured.

And now she slowly closed the window, and gradually retired from the

eyes of her enraptured lover.

CHAPTER XII

But while Griffith was thus sweetly employed, his neglected guests

were dispersing, not without satirical comments on their truant host.

Two or three, however, remained, and slept in the house, upon special

invitation. And that invitation came from Squire Peyton. He chose to

conclude that Griffith, disappointed by the will, had vacated the

premises in disgust, and had left him in charge of them: accordingly

he assumed the master with alacrity, and ordered beds for Neville,

and Father Francis, and Major Rickards, and another. The weather was

inclement, and the roads heavy; so the gentlemen thus distinguished

accepted Mr. Peyton's offer cordially.

There were a great many things sung and said at the festive board in

the course of the evening; but very few of them would amuse or interest

the reader, as they did the hearers. One thing, however, must not be

passed by, as it had its consequences: Major Rickards drank bumpers

apiece to the King, the Prince, Church and State, the Army, the

Navy, and Kate Peyton. By the time he got to her, two-thirds of his

discretion had oozed away in loyalty, _esprit du corps_, and port wine;

so he sang the young lady's praises in vinous terms, and of course

immortalized the very exploit she most desired to consign to oblivion:

_Arma viraginemque canebat._ He sang the duel: and in a style which I

could not, consistently with the interests of literature, reproduce on

a larger scale. Hasten we to the concluding versicles of his song.

"So then, sir, we placed our men for the third time, and you may

take my word for it, one or both of these heroes would have bit the

dust at that discharge; but, by Jove, sir, just as they were going

to pull trigger, in galloped your adorable daughter, and swooned off

her foaming horse in the middle of us. Disarmed us, sir, in a moment,

melted our valor, bewitched our senses; and the great God of War had to

retreat before little Cupid, and the charms of beauty in distress."

"Little idiot!" observed the tender parent; and was much distempered.

He said no more about it to Major Rickards; but, when they all retired

for the night, he undertook to show Father Francis his room, and sat in

it with him a good half-hour talking about Kate.

"Here's a pretty scandal!" said he: "I must marry the silly girl out of

hand, before this gets wind; and you must help me."

In a word, the result of the conference was, that Kate should be

publicly engaged to Neville to-morrow and married to him as soon as her

month's mourning should be over.

The conduct of the affair was confided to Father Francis, as having

unbounded influence with her.

CHAPTER XIII

Next morning Mr. Peyton was up betimes in his character of Host, and

ordered the servants about, and was in high spirits; only they gave

place to amazement when Griffith Gaunt came down, and played the Host;

and was in high spirits.

Neville too watched his rival, and was puzzled at his radiancy.

So breakfast passed in general mystification. Kate, who could have

thrown a light, did not come down to breakfast. She was on her defense.

She made her first appearance out of doors.

Very early in the morning, Mr. Peyton, in his quality of master, had

ordered the gardener to cut and sweep the snow off the gravel walk that

went round the lawn. And on this path Miss Peyton was seen walking

briskly to and fro in the frosty, but sunny air.

Griffith saw her first, and ran out to bid her good-morning.

Her reception of him was a farce: she made him a stately curtsy for

the benefit of the three faces glued against the panes; but her words

were incongruous. "You wretch," said she, "don't come here: hide about,

dearest, till you see me with Father Francis. I'll raise my hand _so_,

when you are to cuddle him; and fib. There, make me a low bow, and

retire."

He obeyed, and the whole thing looked mighty formal and ceremonious

from the breakfast-room.

"With your good leave, gentlemen," said Father Francis, drily, "I will

be the next to pay my respects to her." With this he opened the window

and stepped out.

Kate saw him, and felt very nervous: she met him with apparent delight.

He bestowed his morning benediction on her and then they walked

silently side by side on the gravel; and from the dining-room window it

looked like anything but what it was--a fencing match.

Father Francis was the first to break silence. He congratulated her

on her good fortune, and on the advantage it might prove to the true

Church.

Kate waited quietly till he had quite done, and then said, "What, I may

go into a convent now that I can bribe the door open?"

The scratch was feline, feminine, sudden, and sharp. But alas, Father

Francis only smiled at it: though not what we call spiritually-minded,

he was a man of a Christian temper. "Not with my good will, my

daughter," said he; "I am of the same mind still, and more than ever.

You must marry forthwith, and rear children in the true faith."

"What a hurry you are in."

"Your own conduct has made it necessary."

"Why, what have I done now?"

"No harm; it was a good and humane action, to prevent bloodshed; but

the world is not always worthy of good actions. People are beginning to

make free with your name, for your interfering in the duel."

Kate fired up. "Why can't people mind their own business?"

"I do not exactly know," said the priest, coolly; "nor is it worth

inquiring: we must take human nature as it is, and do for the best. You

must marry him, and stop their tongues."

Kate pretended to reflect. "I believe you are right," said she, at

last; "and indeed I must do as you would have me; for, to tell the

truth--in an unguarded moment--I pitied him so--that I half promised I

_would._"

"Indeed!" said Father Francis. "This is the first I have heard of it."

Kate replied that was no wonder; for it was only last night she had so

committed herself.

"Last night!" said Father Francis; "how can that he? He was never out

of my sight till we went to bed."

"Oh, there I beg to differ," said the lady. "While you were all

tippling in the dining-room, he was better employed; making love by

moonlight. And, oh what a terrible thing opportunity is; and the moon

another. There! what with the moonlight--and my pitying him so--and all

he has suffered for me--and my being rich now, and having something to

give him--we two are engaged. See, else: this was his mother's ring;

and he has mine."

"Mr. Neville?"

"Mr. Neville? No. My old servant, to be sure. What, do you think I

would go and marry for wealth, when I have enough and to spare of my

own? Oh! what an opinion you must have of me."

Father Francis was staggered by this adroit thrust. However, after a

considerable silence, he recovered himself, and inquired, gravely, why

she had given him no hint of all this the other night, when he had

diverted her from a convent and advised her to marry Neville.

"That you never did, I'll be sworn," said Kate.

Father Francis reflected. "Not in so many words, perhaps; but I said

enough to show you."

"Oh!" said Kate, "such a matter was too serious for hints and

innuendoes: if you wanted me to jilt my old servant and wed an

acquaintance of yesterday, why not say so plainly? I dare say I should

have obeyed you, and been unhappy for life; but now my honor is

solemnly engaged; my faith is plighted; and were even you to urge me to

break faith, and behave dishonorably, I should resist. I would never

take poison, and die."

Father Francis looked at her steadily, and she colored to the brow.

"You are a very apt young lady," said he; "you have outwitted your

director. That may be my fault as much as yours; so I advise you to

provide yourself with another director, whom you will be unable, or

unwilling, to outwit."

Kate's high spirit fell before this: she turned her eyes, full of

tears, on him.

"Oh, do not desert me, now that I shall need you more than ever

to guide me in my new duties. Forgive me; I did not know my own

heart--quite. I'll go into a convent now, if I must; but I can't marry

any man but poor Griffith. Ah, father, he is more generous than any

of us. Would you believe it? when he thought Bolton and Hernshaw were

coming to him, he said if I married him I should have the money to

build a convent with. He knows how fond I am of a convent."

"He was jesting: his religion would not allow it."

"His religion!" cried Kate. Then, lifting her eyes to Heaven, and

looking just like an angel, "Love is _his_ religion!" said she, warmly.

"Then his religion is Heathenism," said the priest, grimly.

"Nay, there is too much charity in it for that," retorted Kate, keenly.

Then she looked down like a cunning, guilty thing, and murmured, "One

of the things I esteem him for is he always speaks well of you. To be

sure just now the poor soul thinks you are his best friend with me.

But that is my fault: I as good as told him so: and it is true, after

a fashion; for you kept me out of the convent that was his only real

rival. Why, here he comes. Oh, father, now don't you go and tell him

you side with Mr. Neville."

At this crisis Griffith, who, to tell the truth, had received a signal

from Kate, rushed at Father Francis, and fell upon his neck, and said

with great rapidity, "Oh, Father Francis, 'tis to you I owe her--you

and I are friends for life. So long as we have a house there is a bed

in it for you, and whilst we have a table to sit down to, there's a

plate at it for you, and a welcome come when you will."

Having gabbled these words he winked at Kate, and fled swiftly.

Father Francis was taken aback a little by this sudden burst of

affection.

First he stared--then he knitted his brows--then he pondered.

Kate stole a look at him, and her eyes sought the ground.

"That is the gentleman you arranged matters with last night?" said he,

drily.

"Yes," replied Kate, faintly.

"Was this scene part of the business?"

"Oh father!"

"Why I ask, he did it so unnatural. Mr. Gaunt is a worthy, hospitable

gentleman; he and I are very good friends; and really I never doubted

that I should be welcome in his house--until this moment."

"And can you doubt it now?"

"Almost: his manner just now was so hollow, so forced: not a word of

all that came from his heart, you know."

"Then his heart is changed very lately."

The priest shook his head. "Anything more like a puppet, and a parrot

to boot, I never saw. 'Twas done so timely too; he ran in upon our

discourse. Let me see your hand, mistress. Why, where is the string

with which you pulled yonder machine in so pat upon the word?"

"Spare me!" muttered Kate, faintly.

"Then do you drop deceit and the silly cunning of your sex, and speak

to me from your heart, or not at all." (Diapason.)

At this Kate began to whimper. "Father," she said, "show me some

mercy." Then, suddenly clasping her hands: "HAVE PITY ON HIM, AND ON

ME."

This time Nature herself seemed to speak, and the eloquent cry went

clean through the priest's heart. "Ah!" said he; and his own voice

trembled a little: "now you are as strong as your cunning was weak.

Come; I see how it is with you; and I am human, and have been young,

and a lover into the bargain, before I was a priest. There, dry thy

eyes, child, and go to thy room: he thou couldst not trust shall bear

the brunt for thee; this once."

Then Kate bowed her fair head and kissed the horrid paw of him that had

administered so severe but salutary a pat. She hurried away upstairs,

right joyful at the unexpected turn things had taken.

Father Francis, thus converted to her side, lost no time: he walked

into the dining-room and told Neville he had bad news for him. "Summon

all your courage, my young friend," he said, with feeling; "and

remember that this world is full of disappointments."

Neville said nothing; but rose and stood rather pale, waiting like a

man for the blow. Its nature he more than half guessed: he had been at

the window.

It fell.

"She is engaged to Gaunt, since last night: and she loves him."

"The double-faced jade!" cried Peyton, with an oath. "The heartless

coquette!" groaned Neville.

Father Francis made excuses for her:--"Nay, nay, she is not the first

of her sex that did not know her own mind all at once. Besides, we men

are blind in matters of love: perhaps a woman would have read her from

the first. After all she was not bound to give us the eyes to read a

female heart."

He next reminded Neville that Gaunt had been her servant for years.

"You knew that," said he, "yet you came between them--at your peril.

Put yourself in his place: say you had succeeded would not his wrong be

greater than yours is now? Come, be brave; be generous; he is wounded,

he is disinherited; only his love is left him: 'tis the poor man's

lamb; and would you take it?"

"Oh, I have not a word to say against the _man_," said George, with a

mighty effort.

"And what use quarreling with a woman?" suggested the practical priest.

"None whatever," said George, sullenly. After a moment's silence he

rang the bell feverishly. "Order my horse round directly," said he:

then he sat down, and buried his face in his hands, and did not, and

could not, listen to the voice of consolation.

Now the house was full of spies in petticoats, amateur spies, that ran

and told the mistress everything of their own accord, to curry favor.

And this no doubt was the cause that, just as the groom walked the

piebald out of the stable towards the hall door, a maid came to Father

Francis with a little note: he opened it, and found these words written

faintly, in a fine Italian hand:--

"I scarce knew my own heart till I saw him wounded and poor,

and myself rich at his expense. Entreat Mr. Neville to forgive

me."

He handed the note to Neville without a word.

Neville read it, and his lip trembled; but he said nothing, and

presently went out into the hall, and put on his hat, for he saw his

nag at the door.

Father Francis followed him, and said, sorrowfully, "What, not one word

in reply to so humble a request?"

"Well, here's my reply," said George, grinding his teeth. "She knows

French, though she pretends not.

"Le bruit est pour le fat, la plainte est pour le sot,

L'honnête homme trompé s'éloigne et ne dit mot.'"

And with this he galloped furiously away.

He buried himself at Neville's Cross for several days, and would

neither see nor speak to a soul. His heart was sick, his pride

lacerated. He even shed some scalding tears in secret; though to look

at him that seemed impossible.

So passed a bitter week: and in the course of it he bethought him of

the tears he had made a true Italian lady shed; and never pitied her a

grain till now.

He was going abroad: on his desk lay a little crumpled paper. It was

Kate's entreaty for forgiveness. He had ground it in his hand, and

ridden away with it.

Now he was going away, he resolved to answer her.

He wrote a letter full of bitter reproaches; read it over; and tore it

up.

He wrote a satirical and cutting letter: read it; and tore it up.

He wrote her a mawkish letter; read it; and tore it up.

The priest's words, scorned at first, had sunk into him a little.

He walked about the room, and tried to see it all like a bystander.

He examined her writing closely: the pen had scarcely marked the paper.

They were the timidest strokes. The writer seemed to kneel to him. He

summoned all his manhood, his fortitude, his generosity, and, above

all, his high-breeding; and produced the following letter; and this one

he sent:

"MISTRESS KATE,--I leave England to-day for your sake; and

shall never return unless the day shall come when I can look on

you but as a friend. The love that ends in hate, that is too

sorry a thing to come betwixt you and me.

"If you have used me ill, your punishment is this; you have

given me the right to say to you--I forgive you.

"GEORGE NEVILLE."

And he went straight to Italy.

Kate laid his note upon her knee, and sighed deeply; and said, "Poor

fellow! How noble of him! What can such men as this see in any woman to

go and fall in love with her?"

Griffith found her with a tear in her eye. He took her out walking, and

laid all his radiant plans of wedded life before her. She came back

flushed, and beaming with complacency and beauty.

Old Peyton was brought to consent to the marriage. Only he attached one

condition, that Bolton and Hernshaw should be settled on Kate for her

separate use.

To this Griffith assented readily; but Kate refused plump. "What, give

him _myself_, and then grudge him my _estates!_" said she, with a look

of lofty and beautiful scorn at her male advisers.

But Father Francis, having regard to the temporal interests of his

Church, exerted his strength and pertinacity, and tired her out; so

those estates were put into trustees' hands, and tied up as tight as

wax.

This done, Griffith Gaunt and Kate Peyton were married, and made the

finest pair that wedded in the county that year.

As the bells burst into a merry peal, and they walked out of church

man and wife, their path across the churchyard was strewed thick with

flowers, emblematic no doubt of the path of life, that lay before so

handsome a couple.

They spent the honeymoon in London, and tasted earthly felicity.

Yet did not quarrel after it; but subsided into the quiet complacency

of wedded life.

CHAPTER XIV

Mr. and Mrs. Gaunt lived happily together--as times went.

A fine girl and boy were born to them; and need I say how their hearts

expanded and exulted; and seemed to grow twice as large.

The little boy was taken from them at three years old: and how can I

convey to any but a parent the anguish of that first bereavement?

Well they suffered it together, and that poignant grief was one tie

more between them.

For many years they did not furnish any exciting or even interesting

matter to this narrator. And all the better for them: without these

happy periods of dulness our lives would be hell, and our hearts

eternally bubbling and boiling in a huge pot made hot with thorns.

In the absence of striking incidents, it may be well to notice the

progress of character, and note the tiny seeds of events to come.

Neither the intellectual nor the moral character of any person stands

stock-still: a man improves, or he declines. Mrs. Gaunt had a great

taste for reading; Mr. Gaunt had not: what was the consequence? at the

end of seven years the lady's understanding had made great strides; the

gentleman's had, apparently, retrograded.

Now we all need a little excitement, and we all seek it, and get it by

hook or by crook. The girl, who satisfies that natural craving with

what the canting dunces of the day call a "sensational" novel, and the

girl, who does it by waltzing till daybreak, are sisters; only one

obtains the result intellectually, and the other obtains it like a

young animal, and a pain in her empty head next day.

Mrs. Gaunt could enjoy company, but was never dull with a good book.

Mr. Gaunt was a pleasant companion, but dull out of company. So, rather

than not have it, he would go to the parlor of the "Red Lion," and chat

and sing with the yeomen and rollicking young squires that resorted

thither: and this was matter of grief and astonishment to Mrs. Gaunt.

It was balanced by good qualities she knew how to appreciate.

Morals were much looser then than now; and more than one wife of

her acquaintance had a rival in the village, or even among her own

domestics; but Griffith had no loose inclinations of that kind, and

never gave her a moment's uneasiness. He was constancy and fidelity in

person.

Sobriety had not yet been invented. But Griffith was not so intemperate

as most squires; he could always mount the stairs to tea, and generally

without staggering.

He was uxorious, and it used to come out after his wine. This Mrs.

Gaunt permitted at first, but by-and-by says she, expanding her

delicate nostrils, "You may be as affectionate as you please dear, and

you may smell of wine, if you will; but please not to smell of wine and

be affectionate at the same moment. I value your affection too highly

to let you disgust me with it."

And the model husband yielded to this severe restriction, and, as

it never occurred to him to give up his wine, he forebode to be

affectionate in his cups.

One great fear Mrs. Gaunt had entertained before marriage, ceased to

haunt her. Now and then her quick eye saw Griffith writhe at the great

influence her director had with her; but he never spoke out to offend

her, and she, like a good wife, saw, smiled, and adroitly, tenderly

soothed: and this was nothing compared to what she had feared.

Griffith saw his wife admired by other men, yet never chid nor chafed.

The merit of this belonged in a high degree to herself. The fact is,

that Kate Peyton, even before marriage, was not a coquette at heart,

though her conduct might easily bear that construction: and she was

now an experienced matron, and knew how to be as charming as ever, yet

check or parry all approaches of gallantry on the part of her admirers.

Then Griffith observed how delicate and prudent his lovely wife was,

without ostentatious prudery; and his heart was at peace.

He was the happier of the two, for he looked up to his wife, as well

as loved her, whereas she was troubled at times with a sense of

superiority to her husband. She was amiable enough, and wise enough, to

try and shut her eyes to it; and often succeeded; but not always.

Upon the whole, they were a contented couple; though the lady's dreamy

eyes seemed still to be exploring earth and sky in search of something

they had not yet found, even in wedded life.

They lived at Hernshaw. A letter had been found among Mr. Charlton't

papers explaining his will. He counted on their marrying, and begged

them to live at the castle. He had left it on his wife's death; it

reminded him too keenly of happier days; but, as he drew near his end,

and must leave all earthly things, he remembered the old house with

tenderness, and put out his dying hand to save it from falling into

decay.

Unfortunately considerable repairs were needed, and, as Kate's property

was tied up so tight, Griffith's two thousand pounds went in repairing

the house, lawn, park railings, and walled gardens; went, every penny,

and left the bridge over the lake still in a battered, rotten, and, in

a word, picturesque condition.

This lake was, by the older inhabitants, sometimes called the "mere,"

and sometimes the "fish-pools;" it resembled an hour-glass in shape,

only curved like a crescent.

In medieval times it had no doubt been a main defense of the place.

It was very deep in parts, especially at the waist or narrow that was

spanned by the decayed bridge. There were hundreds of carp and tench in

it older than any be in Cumberland, and also enormous pike and eels;

and fish from one to five pounds' weight by the million. The water

literally teemed from end to end; and this was a great comfort to so

good a Catholic as Mrs. Gaunt. When she was seized with a desire to

fast, and that was pretty often, the gardener just, went down to the

lake and flung a casting-net in some favorite hole, and drew out half

a bushel the first cast; or planted a flue-net round a patch of weeds,

then belabored the weeds with a long pole, and a score of fine fish

were sure to run out into the meshes.

The "mere" was clear as plate glass, and came to the edge of the shaven

lawn, and reflected flowers, turf, and overhanging shrubs, deliciously.

Yet an ill name brooded over its seductive waters. For two persons had

been drowned in it during the last hundred years: and the last one was

the parson of the parish, returning from the Squire's dinner in the

normal condition of a guest, at that epoch. But what most affected

the popular mind, was, not the jovial soul hurried into eternity, but

the material circumstance that the greedy pike had cleared the flesh

off his bones in a single night; so that little more than a skeleton,

with here and there a black rag hanging to it, had been recovered next

morning.

This ghastly detail being stoutly maintained and constantly repeated by

two ancient eye-witnesses, whose one melodramatic incident and treasure

it was, the rustic mind saw no beauty whatever in those pellucid

waters, where flowers did glass themselves.

As for the women of the village, they looked on this sheet of water as

a trap for their poor bodies, and those of their children, and spoke of

it as a singular hardship in their lot, that Hernshaw mere had not been

filled up threescore years agone.

The castle itself was no castle, nor had it been for centuries: it was

just a house with battlements; but attached to the stable was an old

square tower that really had formed part of the medieval castle.

However, that unsubstantial shadow, a name, is often more durable than

the thing; especially in rural parts: but, indeed, what is there in a

name for Time's teeth to catch hold of?

Though no castle, it was a delightful abode. The drawing-room and

dining-room had both spacious bay windows, opening on to the lawn that

sloped very gradually down to the clear lake, and there was mirrored.

On this sweet lawn the inmates and guests walked for sun and mellow

air, and often played bowls at eventide.

On the other side was the drive up to the house door, and a sweep,

or small oval plot, of turf, surrounded by gravel; and a gate at the

corner of this sweep opened into a grove of the grandest old spruce

firs in the island.

This grove, dismal in winter, and awful at night, was deliciously

cool and sombre in the dog days. The trees were spires, and their

great stems stood serried like infantry in column, and flung a mighty

canopy of sombre plumes over head. A strange, antique, and classic

grove--_nulli penetrabilis astro._

This retreat was enclosed on three sides by a wall, and on the east

side came nearly to the house; a few laurel bushes separated the two.

At night it was shunned religiously, on account of the ghosts. Even by

daylight it was little frequented, except by one person: and she took

to it amazingly. That person was Mrs. Gaunt. There seems to be, even

in educated women, a singular, instinctive love of twilight; and here

was twilight at high noon. The place, too, suited her dreamy meditative

nature. Hither, then, she often retired for peace and religious

contemplation, and moved slowly in and out among the tall stems, or

sat still, with her thoughtful brow leaned on her white hand: till the

cool, umbrageous retreat got to be called among the servants, "The

Dame's Haunt."

This, I think, is all needs to be told about the mere place, where the

Gaunts lived comfortably many years; and little dreamed of the strange

events in store for them; little knew the passions that slumbered in

their own bosoms, and, like other volcanoes, bided their time.

END OF VOL. I.

GRIFFITH GAUNT; OR, JEALOUSY

BY CHARLES READE

In Three Volumes. Vol. II

London

CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY

1866

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER I

One day, at dinner, Father Francis let them know that he was ordered to

another part of the county, and should no longer be able to enjoy their

hospitality. "I am sorry for it," said Griffith, heartily; and Mrs.

Gaunt echoed him out of politeness; but, when husband and wife came to

talk it over in private, she let out all of a sudden, and for the first

time, that the spiritual coldness of her governor had been a great

misfortune to her all these years. "His mind," said she, "is set on

earthly things. Instead of helping the angels to raise my thoughts to

heaven, and heavenly things, he drags me down to earth. Oh, that man's

soul was born without wings."

Griffith ventured to suggest that Francis was, nevertheless, an honest

man, and no mischief-maker.

Mrs. Gaunt soon disposed of this. "Oh, there are plenty of honest men

in the world," said she; "but in one's spiritual director, one needs

something more than that, and I have pined for it like a thirsty soul

in the desert all these years. Poor good man, I love him dearly; but,

thank heaven, he is going."

The next time Francis came, Mrs. Gaunt took an opportunity to inquire,

but in the most delicate way, who was to be his successor.

"Well," said he, "I fear you will have no one for the present: I mean

no one very fit to direct you in practical matters; but in all that

tends directly to the welfare of the soul you will have one young in

years but old in good works, and very much my superior in piety."

"I think you do yourself injustice, father," said Mrs. Gaunt, sweetly.

She was always polite; and, to be always polite, you must be sometimes

insincere.

"No, my daughter," said Father Francis, quietly, "thank God, I know

my own defects, and they teach me a little humility. I discharge my

religious duties punctually, and find them wholesome and composing; but

I lack that holy unction, that spiritual imagination, by which more

favoured Christians have fitted themselves to converse with angels. I

have too much body, I suppose, and too little soul. I own to you that I

cannot look, forward to the hour of death as a happy release from the

burden of the flesh. Life is pleasant to me; immortality tempts me not;

the pure in heart delight me; but in the sentimental part of religion I

feel myself dry and barren. I fear God, and desire to do His will; but

I cannot love Him as the saints have done; my spirit is too dull, too

gross. I have often been unable to keep pace with you in your pious and

lofty aspirations: and this softens my regret at quitting you; for you

will be in better hands, my daughter."

Mrs. Gaunt was touched by her old friend's humility, and gave him both

hands, with the tears in her eyes. But she said nothing; the subject

was delicate; and really she could not honestly contradict him.

A day or two afterwards he brought his successor to the house; a man so

remarkable that Mrs. Gaunt almost started at first sight of him. Born

of an Italian mother, his skin was dark, and his eyes coal black; yet

his ample but symmetrical forehead was singularly white and delicate.

Very tall and spare, and both face and figure were of that exalted kind

which make ordinary beauty seem dross. In short, he was one of those

ethereal priests the Roman Catholic Church produces every now and then

by way of incredible contrast to the thickset peasants in black that

form her staple. This Brother Leonard looked and moved like a being who

had come down from some higher sphere to pay the world a very little

visit, and be very kind and patient with it all the time.

He was presented to Mrs. Gaunt, and bowed calmly, coldly, and with

a certain mixture of humility and superiority, and gave her but one

tranquil glance, then turned his eyes inward as before.

Mrs. Gaunt, on the contrary, was almost fluttered at being presented

so suddenly to one who seemed to her Religion embodied. She blushed,

and looked timidly at him, and was anxious not to make an unfavourable

impression.

She found it, however, very difficult to make any impression at all.

Leonard had no small talk, and met her advances in that line with

courteous monosyllables; and when she, upon this, turned and chatted

with Father Francis, he did not wait for an opening to strike in, but

sought a shelter from her commonplaces in his own thoughts.

Then Mrs. Gaunt yielded to her genuine impulse, and began to talk about

the prospects of the Church, and what might be done to reconvert the

British Isles to the true faith. Her cheek flushed, and her eye shone

with the theme; and Francis smiled paternally: but the young priest

drew back; Mrs. Gaunt saw in a moment that he disapproved of a woman

meddling with so high a matter uninvited. If he had said so she had

spirit enough to have resisted; but the cold, lofty look of polite but

grave disapproval, dashed her courage and reduced her to silence.

She soon recovered so far as to be piqued. She gave her whole attention

to Francis, and, on parting with her guests, she curtsied coldly to

Leonard, and said to Francis, "Ah, my dear friend, I foresee I shall

miss you terribly."

I am afraid this pretty speech was intended as a side cut at Leonard.

But on the impassive ice the lightnings play.

Her new confessor retired, and left her with a sense of inferiority,

which would have been pleasing to her woman's nature, if Leonard

himself had appeared less conscious of it, and had shown ever so little

approval of herself; but, impressed upon her too sharply, it piqued and

mortified her.

However, like a gallant champion, she awaited another encounter. She so

rarely failed to please, she could not accept defeat.

Father Francis departed.

Mrs. Gaunt soon found that she really missed him. She had got into a

habit of running to her confessor twice a week, and to her director

nearly every day that he did not come of his own accord to her.

Her good sense showed her at once she must not take up Brother

Leonard's time in this way. She went a long while, for her, without

confession: at last she sent a line to Leonard asking him when it would

be convenient to him to confess her. Leonard wrote back to say that

he received penitents in the chapel for two hours after matins every

Monday, Tuesday, and Saturday.

This implied first come, first served; and was rather galling to Mrs.

Gaunt.

However, she rode one morning, with her groom behind her, and had

to wait until an old woman in a red cloak and black bonnet was

first disposed of. She confessed a heap. And presently the soft but

chill tones of Brother Leonard broke in with these freezing words:

"My daughter, excuse me; but confession is one thing, gossip about

ourselves is another."

This distinction was fine, but fatal. The next minute the fair penitent

was in her carriage, her eyes filled with tears of mortification.

"The man is a spiritual machine," said she; and her pride was mortified

to the core.

In these happy days she used to open her heart to her husband; and she

went so far as to say some bitter little feminine things of her new

confessor, before him.

He took no notice at first; but at last he said one day, "Well, I am of

your mind; he is very poor company compared with that jovial old blade,

Francis. But why so many words, Kate? You don't use to bite twice at a

cherry: if the milksop is not to your taste, give him the sack and be

hanged to him." And with this homely advice Squire Gaunt dismissed the

matter and went to the stable to give his mare a ball.

So you see Mrs. Gaunt was discontented with Francis for not being an

enthusiast, and nettled with Leonard for being one.

The very next Sunday morning she went and heard Leonard preach. His

first sermon was an era in her life. After twenty years of pulpit

prosers, there suddenly rose before her a sacred orator; an orator

born; blest with that divine and thrilling eloquence that no heart can

really resist. He prepared his great theme with art at first; but, once

warm, it carried him away and his hearers went with him like so many

straws on the flood. And in the exercise of this great gift the whole

man seemed transfigured; abroad, he was a languid, rather slouching

priest, who crept about, a picture of delicate humility, but with a

shade of meanness; for, religious prejudice apart, it is ignoble to

sweep the wall in passing as he did, and eye the ground; but, once in

the pulpit, his figure rose and swelled majestically, and seemed to fly

over them all like a guardian angel's; his sallow cheek burned, his

great Italian eye shot black lightning at the impenitent, and melted

ineffably when he soothed the sorrowful.

Observe that great, mean, brown bird in the Zoological Gardens, which

sits so tame on its perch, and droops and slouches like a drowsy duck.

That is the great and soaring eagle. Who would believe it, to look at

him? Yet all he wants is to be put in his right place instead of his

wrong. He is not himself in man's cages, belonging to God's sky. Even

so Leonard was abroad in the world, but at home in the pulpit: and so

he somewhat crept and slouched about the parish; but soared like an

eagle in his native air.

Mrs. Gaunt sat thrilled, enraptured, melted. She hung upon his words;

and, when they ceased, she still sat motionless, spell-bound; loath to

believe that accents so divine could really come to an end.

Even, whilst all the rest were dispersing, she sat quite still, and

closed her eyes. For her soul was too high-strung now to endure the

chit-chat she knew would attack her on the road home--chit-chat that

had been welcome enough, coming home from other preachers.

And by this means she came hot and undiluted to her husband; she laid

her white hand on his shoulder, and said, "Oh, Griffith, I have heard

the voice of God."

Griffith looked alarmed, and rather shocked than elated.

Mrs. Gaunt observed that, and tacked on, "Speaking by the lips of his

servant." But she fired again the next moment, and said, "The grave

hath given us back St. Paul in the Church's need; and I have heard him

this day."

"Good heavens! where?"

"At St. Mary's Chapel."

Then Griffith looked very incredulous. Then she gushed out with, "What,

because it is a small chapel, you think a great saint cannot be in it.

Why, our Saviour was born in a stable, if you go to that."

"Well, but my dear, consider," said Griffith; "who ever heard of

comparing a living man to St. Paul, for preaching? Why, he was an

apostle, for one thing; and there are no apostles nowadays. He made

Felix tremble on his throne, and almost persuaded Whatsename, another

heathen gentleman, to be a Christian."

"That is true," said the lady, thoughtfully; "but he sent one man that

_we_ know of to sleep. Catch Brother Leonard sending any man to sleep!

And then nobody will ever say of _him_ that he was long preaching."

"Why, I do say it," replied Griffith. "By the same token, I have been

waiting dinner for you this half-hour, along of his preaching."

"Ah, that's because you did not hear him," retorted Mrs. Gaunt: "if you

had, it would have seemed too short, and you would have forgotten all

about your dinner for once."

Griffith made no reply, He even looked vexed at her enthusiastic

admiration. She saw, and said no more. But after dinner she retired

to the grove, and thought of the sermon and the preacher: thought of

them all the more that she was discouraged from enlarging on them.

And it would have been kinder, and also wiser, of Griffith, if he had

encouraged her to let out her heart to him on this subject, although

it did not happen to interest him. A husband should not chill an

enthusiastic wife, and, above all, should never separate himself from

her favourite topic, when she loves him well enough to try and share it

with him.

Mrs. Gaunt, however, though her feelings were quick, was not cursed

with a sickly or irritable sensibility; nor, on the other hand, was

she one of those lovely little bores who cannot keep their tongues off

their favourite theme. She quietly let the subject drop for a whole

week; but the next Sunday morning she asked her husband if he would do

her a little favour.

"I'm more likely to say ay than nay," was the cheerful reply.

"It is just to go to chapel with me; and then you can judge for

yourself."

Griffith looked rather sheepish at this proposal; and said he could not

very well do that.

"Why not, dearest, just for once?"

"Well, you see, parties run so high in this parish; and everything one

does is noted. Why, if I was to go to chapel, they'd say directly,

'Look at Griffith Gaunt: he is so tied to his wife's apron he is going

to give up the faith of his ancestors.'"

"The faith of your ancestors! That is a good jest. The faith of your

grandfather at the outside: the faith of your ancestors was the faith

of mine and me."

"Well, don't let us differ about a word," said Griffith; "you know what

I mean. Did ever I ask you to go to church with me? and, if I were to

ask you, would you go?"

Mrs. Gaunt coloured; but would not give in. "That is not the same

thing," said she. "I do profess religion: you do not. You scarce think

of God on week days; and, indeed, never mention his name except in the

way of swearing; and on Sunday you go to church--for what? to doze

before dinner, you know you do. Come now, with you 'tis no question of

religion, but just of nap or no nap: for Brother Leonard won't let you

sleep, I warn you fairly."

Griffith shook his head. "You are too hard on me, wife. I know I am

not so good as you are, and never shall be; but that is not the fault

of the Protestant faith, which hath reared so many holy men: and some

of 'em our _ancestors_ burnt alive, and will burn in hell themselves

for the deed. But, look you, sweetheart, if I'm not a saint I'm a

gentleman, and, say I wear my faith loose, I won't drag it in the dirt

none the more for that. So you must excuse me."

Mrs. Gaunt was staggered; and, if Griffith had said no more, I think

she would have withdrawn her request, and so the matter ended. But

persons unversed in argument can seldom let well alone; and this simple

squire must needs go on to say, "Besides, Kate, it would come to the

parson's ears, and he is a friend of mine, you know. Why, I shall be

sure to meet him to-morrow."

"Ay," retorted the lady, "by the cover-side. Well, when you do, tell

him you refused your wife your company for fear of offending the

religious views of a fox-hunting parson."

"Nay, Kate," said Griffith, "this is not to ask thy man to go with

thee: 'tis to say go he must, willy nilly." With that he rose and rang

the bell. "Order the chariot," said he, "I am to go with our dame."

Mrs. Gaunt's face beamed with gratified pride and affection.

The chariot came round, and Griffith handed his dame in. He then gave

an involuntary sigh, and followed her with a hang-dog look.

She heard the sigh, and saw the look, and laid her hand quickly on his

shoulder, and said, gently but coldly, "Stay you at home, my dear. We

shall meet at dinner."

"As you will," said he, cheerfully: and they went their several ways.

He congratulated himself on her clemency, and his own escape. She went

along, sorrowful at having to drink so great a bliss alone; and thought

it unkind and stupid of Griffith not to yield with a good grace if he

could yield at all; and, indeed, women seem cleverer than men in this,

that, when they resign their wills, they do it graciously and not by

halves. Perhaps they are more accustomed to knock under; and you know

practice makes perfect.

But every smaller feeling was swept away by the preacher, and Mrs.

Gaunt came home full of pious and lofty thoughts.

She found her husband seated at the dinner-table, with one turnip

before him; and even that was not comestible; for it was his

grandfather's watch, with a face about the size of a new-born child's.

"Forty-five minutes past one, Kate," said he, ruefully.

"Well, why not bid them serve the dinner?" said she, with an air of

consummate indifference.

"What, dine alone o' Sunday? Why, you know I couldn't eat a morsel

without you, set opposite."

Mrs. Gaunt smiled affectionately. "Well, then, my dear, we had better

order dinner an hour later next Sunday."

"But that will upset the servants, and spoil their Sunday."

"And am I to be their slave?" said Mrs. Gaunt, getting a little warm.

"Dinner! dinner! What! shall I starve my soul, by hurrying away from

the oracles of God to a sirloin? Oh, these gross appetites! how they

deaden the immortal half, and wall out Heaven's music! For my part, I

wish there was no such thing as eating and drinking; 'tis like falling

from Heaven down into the mud, to come back from such divine discourse

and be greeted with 'dinner! dinner! dinner!'"

The next Sunday, after waiting half an hour for her, Griffith began,

his dinner without her.

And this time, on her arrival, instead of remonstrating with her,

he excused himself. "Nothing," said he, "upsets a man's temper like

waiting for his dinner."

"Well, but you have not waited."

"Yes, I did, a good half-hour. Till I could wait no longer."

"Well, dear, if I were you I would not have waited at all, or else

waited till your wife came home."

"Ah, dame, that is all very well for you to say. You could live on

hearing of sermons and smelling to rosebuds. You don't know what 'tis

to be a hungry man."

The next Sunday he sat sadly down, and finished his dinner without her.

And she came home and sat down to half-empty dishes; and ate much less

than she used when she had him to keep her company in it.

Griffith, looking on disconsolate, told her she was more like a bird

pecking, than a Christian eating of a Sunday.

"No matter, child," said she; "so long as my soul is filled with the

bread of Heaven."

Leonard's eloquence suffered no diminution, either in quantity or

quality, and, after a while, Gaunt gave up his rule of never dining

abroad on the Sunday. If his wife was not punctual, his stomach was:

and he had not the same temptation to dine at home he used to have.

And, indeed, by degrees, instead of quietly enjoying his wife's company

on that sweet day, he got to see less of her than on the week days.