Not long after these events came the county ball. Griffith was there,
but no Mrs. Gaunt. This excited surprise, and, among the gentlemen,
disappointment. They asked Griffith if she was unwell; he thanked them
drily, she was very well; and that was all they could get out of him.
But to the ladies he let out that she had given up balls, and, indeed,
all reasonable pleasures. "She does nothing but fast, and pray, and
visit the sick." He added, with rather a weak smile: "I see next to
nothing of her." A minx stood by and put in her word. "You should catch
the small-pox; then who knows? she might look in upon _you_."
Griffith laughed, but not heartily. In truth, Mrs. Gaunt's religious
fervour knew no bounds. Absorbed in pious schemes and religious duties,
she had little time, and much distaste, for frivolous society; invited
none but the devout, and found polite excuses for not dining abroad.
She sent her husband into the world alone, and laden with apologies.
"My wife is turned saint. 'Tis a sin to dance, a sin to hunt, a sin to
enjoy ourselves. We are here to fast and pray, and build schools, and
go to church twice a day."
And so he went about publishing his household ill; but, to tell the
truth, a secret satisfaction peeped through his lugubrious accents. An
ugly saint is an unmixed calamity to jolly fellows; but to be lord and
master, and possessor of a beautiful saint, was not without its piquant
charm. His jealousy was dormant, not extinct; and Kate's piety tickled
that foible, not wounded it. He found himself the rival of heaven; and
the successful rival; for, let her be ever so strict, ever so devout,
she must give her husband many comforts she could not give to heaven.
This soft and piquant phase of the passion did not last long. All
things are progressive.
Brother Leonard was director now as well as confessor; his visits
became frequent; and Mrs. Gaunt often quoted his authority for her acts
or her sentiments. So Griffith began to suspect that the change in
his wife was entirely due to Leonard; and that with all her eloquence
and fervour she was but a priest's echo. This galled him. To be sure
Leonard was only an ecclesiastic; but, if he had been a woman, Griffith
was the man to wince. His wife to lean so on another: his wife to
withdraw from the social pleasures she had hitherto shared with him;
and all because another human creature disapproved them. He writhed
in silence a while, and then remonstrated. He was met at first with
ridicule: "Are you going to be jealous of my confessor?" and, on
repeating the offence, with a kind, but grave admonition, that silenced
him for the time, but did not cure him, nor even convince him.
The facts were too strong: Kate was no longer to him the genial
companion she had been; gone was the ready sympathy with which she
had listened to all his little earthly concerns; and, as for his
hay-making, he might as well talk about it to an iceberg as to the
partner of his bosom.
He was genial by nature, and could not live without sympathy. He sought
it in the parlour of the "Red Lion."
Mrs. Gaunt's high-bred nostrils told her where he haunted, and it
caused her dismay. Woman-like, instead of opening her battery at once,
she wore a gloomy and displeased air, which a few months ago would have
served her turn and brought about an explanation at once; but Griffith
took it for a stronger dose of religious sentiment, and trundled off
to the "Red Lion," all the more.
So then at last she spoke her mind; and asked him how he could lower
himself so, and afflict her.
"Oh!" said he, doggedly, "this house is too cold for me now. My mate is
priest-rid. Plague on the knave that hath put coldness 'twixt thee and
me."
Mrs. Gaunt froze visibly, and said no more at that time.
One bit of sunshine remained in the house and shone brighter than ever
on its chilled master; shone through two black, seducing eyes.
Some three months before the date we have now reached, Caroline
Ryder's two boxes were packed and corded ready to go next day. She had
quietly persisted in her resolution to leave, and Mrs. Gaunt, though
secretly angry, had been just and magnanimous enough to give her a good
character.
Now female domestics are like the little birds; if that great hawk,
their mistress, follows them about, it is a deadly grievance; but
if she does not, they follow her about, and pester her with idle
questions, and invite the beak and claws of petty tyranny and needless
interference.
So the afternoon before she was to leave, Caroline Ryder came to her
mistress's room on some imaginary business. She was not there. Ryder,
forgetting that it did not matter a straw, proceeded to hunt her
everywhere; and at last ran out with only her cap on to "the Dame's
Haunt," and there she was; but not alone: she was walking up and down
with Brother Leonard. Their backs were turned, and Ryder came up behind
them. Leonard was pacing gravely, with his head gently drooping as
usual. Mrs. Gaunt was walking elastically, and discoursing with great
fire and animation.
Ryder glided after, noiseless as a serpent, more bent on wondering and
watching now than on overtaking; for inside the house her mistress
showed none of this charming vivacity.
Presently the keen black eyes observed a "trifle light as air" that
made them shine again.
She turned and wound herself amongst the trees, and disappeared. Soon
after she was in her own room, a changed woman. With glowing cheeks,
sparkling eyes, and nimble fingers, she uncorded her boxes, unpacked
her things, and placed them neatly in the drawers.
What more had she seen than I have indicated?
Only this: Mrs. Gaunt, in the warmth of discourse, laid her hand
lightly for a moment on the priest's elbow: that was nothing, she had
laid the same hand on Ryder; for, in fact, it was a little womanly
way she had, and a hand that settled like down. But this time, as she
withdrew it again, that delicate hand seemed to speak; it did not leave
Leonard's elbow all at once, it glided slowly away, first the palm,
then the fingers, and so parted lingeringly.
The other woman saw this subtle touch of womanhood, coupled it with
Mrs. Gaunt's vivacity and the air of happiness that seemed to inspire
her whole eloquent person, and formed a harsh judgment on the spot,
though she could not see the lady's face.
When Mrs. Gaunt came in she met her, and addressed her thus: "If you
please, ma'am, have you any one coming in my place?"
Mrs. Gaunt looked her full in the face. "You know I have not," said
she, haughtily.
"Then, if it is agreeable to you, ma'am, I will stay. To be sure the
place is dull; but I have got a good mistress-and----"
"That will do, Ryder: a servant has always her own reasons, and never
tells them to her mistress. You can stay this time; but the next, you
go; and once for all. I am not to be trifled with."
Ryder called up a look all submission, and retired with an obeisance.
But, once out of sight, she threw off the mask and expanded with
insolent triumph. "Yes, I have my own reasons," said she. "Keep you the
priest, and I'll take the man."
From that hour Caroline Ryder watched her mistress like a lynx, and
hovered about her master, and poisoned him slowly with vague insidious
hints.