Brother Leonard, like many holy men, was vain. Not but what he had his
gusts of humility and diffidence; only they blew over.
At first, as you may perhaps remember, he doubted his ability to
replace Father Francis as Mrs. Gaunt's director; but after a slight
disclaimer, he did replace him, and had no more misgivings as to his
fitness. But his tolerance and good sense were by no means equal to
his devotion and his persuasive powers; and so his advice in matters
spiritual and secular somehow sowed the first seeds of conjugal
coolness in Hernshaw Castle.
And now Ryder slily insinuated into Griffith's ear that the mistress
told the priest everything, and did nothing but by his advice. Thus the
fire already kindled was fanned by an artful woman's breath.
Griffith began to hate Brother Leonard, and to show it so plainly and
rudely that Leonard shrank from the encounter, and came less often,
and stayed but a few minutes. Then Mrs. Gaunt remonstrated gently with
Griffith, but received short sullen replies. Then, as the servile
element of her sex was comparatively small in her, she turned bitter
and cold, and avenged Leonard indirectly, but openly, with those
terrible pins and needles a beloved woman has ever at command.
Then Griffith became moody, and downright unhappy, and went more and
more to the "Red Lion," seeking comfort there now as well as company.
Mrs. Gaunt saw, and had fits of irritation, and fits of pity, and sore
perplexity. She knew she had a good husband; and, instead of taking him
to heaven with her, she found that each step she made with Leonard's
help towards the angelic life, seemed somehow to be bad for Griffith's
soul, and for his earthly happiness.
She blamed herself; she blamed Griffith; she blamed the Protestant
heresy; she blamed everybody and everything--except Brother Leonard.
One Sunday afternoon Griffith sat on his own lawn, silently smoking his
pipe. Mrs. Gaunt came to him, and saw an air of dejection on his genial
face. Her heart yearned. She sat down beside him on the bench, and
sighed; then he sighed too.
"My dear," said she, sweetly, "fetch out your viol da gambo, and we
will sing a hymn or two together here this fine afternoon. We can
praise God together, though we must pray apart; alas that it is so."
"With all my heart," said Griffith. "Nay, I forgot; my viol da gambo is
not here. 'Tis at the 'Red Lion.'"
"At the 'Red Lion!'" said she, bitterly. "What, do you sing there as
well as drink? Oh, husband, how can you so bemean yourself?"
"What is a poor man to do, whose wife is priest-ridden, and got to be
no company--except for angels?"
"I did not come here to quarrel," said she, coldly and sadly. Then they
were both silent a minute. Then she got up and left him.
Brother Leonard, like many earnest men, was rather intolerant. He urged
on Mrs. Gaunt that she had too many Protestants in her household: her
cook and her nursemaid ought, at all events, to be Catholics. Mrs.
Gaunt on this was quite ready to turn them both off, and that without
disguise. But Leonard dissuaded her from so violent a measure. She had
better take occasion to part with one of them, and by-and-by with the
other.
The nursemaid was the first to go, and her place was filled by a Roman
Catholic. Then the cook received warning. But this did not pass off so
quietly: Jane Bannister was a buxom hearty woman, well liked by her
fellow-servants; her parents lived in the village, and she had been
six years with the Gaunts, and her honest heart clung to them. She
took to crying; used to burst out in the middle of her work, or while
conversing with fitful cheerfulness on ordinary topics.
One day Griffith found her crying, and Ryder consoling her as
carelessly and contemptuously as possible.
"Hey-day, lasses," said he; "what is your trouble?"
At this Jane's tears flowed in a stream, and Ryder made no reply, but
waited.
At last, and not till the third or fourth time of asking, Jane
blurted out that she had got the sack; such was her homely expression,
dignified, however, by honest tears.
"What for?" asked Griffith, kindly.
"Nay, sir," sobbed Jane, "that is what I want to know. Our Dame ne'er
found a fault in me; and now she does pack me off like a dog. Me that
have been here this six years, and got to feel at home. What will
father say? He'll give me a hiding. For two pins I'd drown myself in
the mere."
"Come, you must not blame the mistress," said the sly Ryder. "She is a
good mistress as ever breathed: 'tis all the priest's doings. I'll tell
you the truth, master, if you will pass me your word I shan't be sent
away for it."
"I pledge you my word as a gentleman," said Griffith.
"Well, then, sir, Jane's fault is yours and mine. She is not a papist;
and that is why she is to go. How I come to know, I listened in the
next room, and heard the priest tell our dame she must send away two
of us, and have Catholics. The priest's word it is law in this house;
'twas in March he gave the order: Harriet, she went in May, and now
poor Jane is to go--for walking to church behind you, sir. But there,
Jane, I believe he would get our very master out of the house if he
could; and then what would become of us all?"
Griffith turned black, and then ashy pale, under this venomous tongue,
and went away without a word, looking dangerous.
Ryder looked after him, and her black eye glittered with a kind of
fiendish beauty.
Jane, having told her mind, now began to pluck up a little spirit.
"Mrs. Ryder," said she, "I never thought to like you so well;" and,
with that, gave her a great, hearty, smacking kiss; which Ryder, to
judge by her countenance, relished, as epicures albumen. "I won't cry
no more. After all, this house is no place for us that be women: 'tis
a fine roost to be sure! where the hen she crows and the cock do but
cluck."
Town-bred Ryder laughed at the rustic maid's simile; and, not to be
out-done in metaphor, told her there were dogs that barked, and dogs
that bit. "Our master is one of those that bite. I've done the priest's
business. He is as like to get the sack as you are."
Griffith found his wife seated on the lawn reading. He gulped down his
ire as well as he could; but nevertheless his voice trembled a little
with suppressed passion.
"So Jane is turned off now," said he.
"I don't know about being turned off," replied Mrs. Gaunt, calmly; "but
she leaves me next month, and Cicely Davis comes back."
"And Cicely Davis is a useless slut that cannot boil a potato fit to
eat; but then she is a Papist, and poor Jenny is a Protestant, and can
cook a dinner."
"My dear," said Mrs. Gaunt, "do not you trouble about the servants;
leave them to me."
"And welcome; but this is not your doing, it is that Leonard's: and I
cannot allow a Popish priest to turn off all my servants that are worth
their salt. Come, Kate, you used to be a sensible woman, and a tender
wife: now I ask you, is a young bachelor a fit person to govern a man's
family?"
Mrs. Gaunt laughed in his face. "A young bachelor!" said she; "whoever
heard of such a term applied to a priest: and a saint upon earth?"
"Why, he is not married, so he must be a bachelor; and I say again it
is monstrous for a young bachelor to come between old married folk, and
hear all their secrets, and have a finger in every pie, and set up to
be master of my house, and order my wife to turn away my servants for
going to church behind me. Why not turn me away too? Their fault is
mine."
"Griffith, you are in a passion, and I begin to think you want to put
me in one."
"Well, perhaps I am. Job's patience went at last, and mine has been
sore tried this many a month. 'Twas bad enough when the man was
only your confessor: you told him everything, and you don't tell me
everything. He knew your very heart, better than I do, and that was
a bitter thing for me to bear that love you and have no secrets from
you. But every man who marries a Catholic must endure this; so I put a
good face on it, though my heart was often sore; 'twas the price I had
to pay for my pearl of womankind. But since he set up your governor as
well, you are a changed woman; you shun company abroad, you freeze my
friends at home. You have made the house so cold that I am fain to
seek the 'Red Lion' for a smile or a kindly word: and now, to please
this fanatical priest, you would turn away the best servants I have,
and put useless, dirty slatterns in their place, that happen to be
Papists. You did not use to be so uncharitable, nor so unreasonable.
'Tis the priest's doing. He is my secret, underhand enemy; I feel him
undermining me, inch by inch, and I can bear it no longer. I must make
a stand somewhere, and I may as well make it here; for Jenny is a good
girl, and her folk live in the village, and she helps them. Think
better of it, Kate, and let the poor wench stay, though she does go to
church behind your husband."
"Griffith," said Mrs. Gaunt, "I might retort, and say that you are a
changed man; for to be sure you did never use to interfere between me
and my maids. Are you sure some mischief-making woman is not advising
you? But there, do not let us chafe one another, for you know we are
hot-tempered both of us. Well, leave it for the present, my dear;
prithee let me think it over till to-morrow, at all events, and try if
I can satisfy you."
The jealous husband saw through this proposal directly. He turned
purple. "That is to say, you must ask your priest first for leave to
show your husband one grain of respect and affection, and not make him
quite a cipher in his own house. No, Kate, no man who respects himself
will let another man come between himself and the wife of his bosom.
This business is between you and me; I will brook no interference in
it; and I tell you plainly, if you turn this poor lass off to please
this d----d priest, I'll turn the priest off to please her and her
folk. They are as good as he is, any way."
The bitter contempt with which he spoke of Brother Leonard, and this
astounding threat, imported a new and dangerous element into the
discussion: it stung Mrs. Gaunt beyond bearing. She turned with
flashing eyes upon Griffith.
"As good as he is? The scum of my kitchen! You will make me hate the
mischief-making hussy. She shall pack out of the house to-morrow
morning."'
"Then I say that priest shall never darken my doors again."
"Then I say they are my doors, not yours; and that holy man shall
brighten them whenever he will."
If to strike an adversary dumb is the tongue's triumph, Mrs. Gaunt was
victorious: for Griffith gasped, but did not reply.
They faced each other, pale with fury; but no more words.
No: an ominous silence succeeded this lamentable answer, like the
silence that follows a thunder-clap.
Griffith stood still awhile, benumbed as it were, by the cruel stroke;
then cast one speaking look of anguish and reproach upon her, drew
himself haughtily up, and stalked away like a wounded lion.
Well said the ancients that anger is a short madness. When we reflect
in cold blood on the things we have said in hot, how impossible they
seem! how out of character with our real selves! And this is one of the
recognized symptoms of mania.
There were few persons could compare with Mrs. Gaunt in native
magnanimity; yet how ungenerous a stab had she given.
And had he gone on, she would have gone on; but when he turned silent
at her bitter thrust, and stalked away from her, she came to herself
almost directly.
She thought, "Good God! what have I said to him?"
And the flush of shame came to her cheek, and her eyes filled with
tears.
He saw them not; he had gone away, wounded to the heart.
You see it was true. The house was hers; tied up as tight as wax. The
very money (his own money) that had been spent on the place, had become
hers by being expended on real property; he could not reclaim it; he
was her lodger; a dependant on her bounty.
During all the years they had lived together she had never once assumed
the proprietor. On the contrary, she put him forward as the Squire, and
slipped quietly into the background. Bene latuit. But, lo! let a hand
be put out to offend her saintly favourite, and that moment she could
waken her husband from his dream, and put him down into his true legal
position with a word. The matrimonial throne for him till he resisted
her priest; and then, a stool at her feet, and his.
He was enraged as well as hurt; but being a true lover, his fury was
levelled not at the woman who had hurt him, but at the man who stood
out of sight and set her on.
By this time the reader knows his good qualities, and his defects;
superior to his wife in one or two things, he was by no means so
thorough a gentleman as she was a lady. He had begun to make a party
with his own servants against the common enemy; and, in his wrath, he
now took another step, or rather a stride, in the same direction. As he
hurried away to the public-house, white with ire, he met his gamekeeper
coming in with a bucketful of fish fresh caught. "What have ye got
there?" said Griffith, roughly; not that he was angry with the man, but
that his very skin was full of wrath, and it must exude. Mr. Leicester
did not relish the tone, and replied, bluntly and sulkily, "Pike for
our Papists." The answer, though rude, did not altogether displease
Griffith; it smacked of odium theologicum, a sentiment he was learning
to understand. "Put 'em down, and listen to me, Thomas Leicester," said
he. And his manner was now so impressive that Leicester put down the
bucket with ludicrous expedition, and gaped at him.
"How, my man, why do I keep you here?"
"To take care of your game, Squire, I do suppose."
"What? when you are the worst gamekeeper in the county. How many
poachers do you catch in the year? They have only to set one of their
gang to treat you at the public-house on a moonshiny night, and the
rest can have all my pheasants at roost while you are boozing and
singing."
"Like my betters in the parlour," muttered Tom.
"But that is not all," continued Gaunt, pretending not to hear him.
"You wire my rabbits, and sell them in the town. Don't go to deny
it; fore I've half a dozen to prove it." Mr. Leicester looked very
uncomfortable. His master continued--"I have known it this ten months,
yet you are none the worse for't. Now, why do I keep you here, that any
other gentleman in my place would send to Carlisle gaol on a justice's
warrant?"
Mr. Leicester, who had thought his master blind, and was so suddenly
undeceived, hung his head and snivelled out, "'Tis because you have a
good heart, Squire, and would not ruin a poor fellow for an odd rabbit
or two."
"Stuff and nonsense!" cried Gaunt. "Speak your mind, for once, or else
begone for a liar as well as a knave."
Thus appealed to, Leicester's gipsy eyes roved to and fro as if he
were looking for some loophole to escape by; but at last he faced the
situation.
He said, with a touch of genuine feeling, "D----n the rabbits! I wish
my hand had withered ere I touched one on them." But after this
preface he sunk his voice to a whisper, and said, "I see what you are
driving at, Squire; and since there is nobody with us (he took off his
cap)--why, sir, 'tis this here mole I am in debt to, no doubt."
Then the gentleman and his servant looked one another silently in the
face, and what with their standing in the same attitude and being both
excited and earnest, the truth must be owned, a certain family likeness
came out. Certainly, their eyes were quite unlike. Leicester had his
gipsy mother's: black, keen, and restless. Gaunt had his mother's:
brown, calm, and steady. But the two men had the same stature, the same
manly mould and square shoulders; and, though Leicester's cheek was
brown as a berry, his forehead was singularly white for a man in his
rank of life, and over his left temple, close to the roots of the hair,
was an oblong mole as black as ink, that bore a close resemblance in
appearance and position to his master's.
"Tom Leicester; I have been insulted."
"That won't pass, sir. Who is the man?"
"One that I cannot call out like a gentleman, and yet I must not lay on
him with my cane, or I am like to get the sack, as well as my servants.
'Tis the Popish priest, lad; Brother Leonard, own brother to Old Kick;
he has got our Dame's ear, she cannot say him 'nay.' She is turning
away all my people, and filling the house with Papists, to please him.
And when I interfered, she as good as told me I should go next; and so
I shall, I or else that priest."
This little piece of exaggeration fired Tom Leicester. "Say ye so,
Squire? then just you whisper a word in my ear, and George and I will
lay that priest by the heels, and drag him through the horse-pond. He
won't come here to trouble you after that, I know."
Gaunt's eyes flashed triumph. "A friend in need is a friend indeed,"
said he. "Ay, you are right, lad. There must be no broken bones, and
no bloodshed; the horse-pond is the very thing: and if she discharges
you for it, take no heed of her. You shall never leave Hernshaw Castle
for that good deed; or, if you do, I'll go with you; for the world it
is wide, and I'll never live a servant in the house where I have been
a master." They then put their heads together and concerted the means
by which the priest at his very next visit was to be decoyed into the
neighbourhood of the horse-pond.
And then they parted, and Griffith went to the "Red Lion." And a pair
of black eyes that had slily watched this singular interview from an
upper window, withdrew quietly; and soon after, Tom Leicester found
himself face to face with their owner, the sight of whom always made
his heart beat a little faster.
Caroline Ryder had been rather cold to him of late; it was therefore
a charming surprise when she met him, all wreathed in smiles, and,
drawing him apart, began to treat him like a bosom friend, and tell him
what had passed between the master, and her and Jane. Confidence begets
confidence; and so Tom told her in turn that the Squire and the Dame
had come to words over it. "However," said he, "'tis all the priest's
fault; but bide awhile, all of ye."
With this mysterious hint he meant to close his revelations. But Ryder
intended nothing of the kind. Her keen eye had read the looks and
gestures of Gaunt and Leicester, and these had shown her that something
very strange and serious was going on. She had come out expressly to
learn what it was, and Tom was no match for her arts. She so smiled
on him, and agreed with him, and led him, and drew him, and pumped
him, that she got it all out of him on a promise of secresy. She then
entered into it with spirit, and being what they called a scholar,
undertook to write a paper for Tom and his helper to pin on the
priest's back. No sooner said than done. She left him, and speedily
returned with the following document written out in large and somewhat
straggling letters:----
"HONEST FOLK, BEHOLD A
MISCHIEVIOUS PRIEST, WHICH
FOR CAUSING OF STRIFE
'TWIXT MAN AND WYFE
HATH MADE ACQUAINTAUNCE
WITH SQUIRE'S HORSE-POND."
And so a female conspirator was added to the plot.
Mrs. Gaunt co-operated too, but, need I say, unconsciously.
She was unhappy, and full of regret at what she had said. She took
herself severely to task and drew a very unfavourable comparison
between herself and Brother Leonard. "How ill," she thought, "am I
fitted to carry out that meek saint's views. See what my ungoverned
temper has done." So then, having made so great a mistake, she thought
the best thing she could do was to seek advice of Leonard at once.
She was not without hopes he would tell her to postpone the projected
change in her household, and so soothe her offended husband directly.
She wrote a line requesting Leonard to call on her as soon as possible,
and advise her in a great difficulty; and she gave this note to Ryder,
and told her to send the groom off with it at once.
Ryder squeezed the letter, and peered into it, and gathered its nature
before she gave it to the groom to take to Leonard.
When he was gone she went and told Tom Leicester, and he chuckled, and
made his preparations accordingly.
Then she retired to her own room and went through a certain process I
have indicated before as one of her habits: knitted her great black
brows, and pondered the whole situation with a mental power that was
worthy of a nobler sphere and higher materials.
Her practical reverie, so to speak, continued until she was rung for to
dress her mistress for dinner.
Griffith was so upset, so agitated and restless, he could not stay
long in any one place, not even in the "Red Lion." So he came home to
dinner, though he had mighty little appetite for it. And this led to
another little conjugal scene.
Mrs. Gaunt mounted the great oak staircase to dress for dinner,
languidly, as ladies are apt to do, when reflection and regret come
after excitement.
Presently she heard a quick foot behind her: she knew it directly for
her husband's, and her heart yearned. She did not stop, nor turn her
head: womanly pride withheld her from direct submission; but womanly
tenderness and tact opened a way to reconciliation. She drew softly
aside, almost to the wall, and went slower; and her hand, her sidelong
drooping head, and her whole eloquent person, whispered plainly enough,
"If somebody would like to make friends, here is the door open."
Griffith saw, but was too deeply wounded: he passed her without
stopping (the staircase was eight feet broad).
But as he passed he looked at her and sighed, for he saw she was sorry.
She heard, and sighed too. Poor things, they had lived so happy
together for years.
He went on.
Her pride bent: "Griffith!" said she, very timidly. He turned and
stopped at that.
"Sweetheart," she murmured, "I was to blame. I was ungenerous. I forgot
myself. Let me recall my words. You know they did not come from my
heart."
"You need not tell me that," said Griffith doggedly. "I have no quarrel
with you, and never will. You but do what you are bidden, and say what
you are bidden. I take the wound from you as best I may: the man that
set you on, 'tis him I'll be revenged on."
"Alas! that you will think so," said she. "Believe me, dearest, that
holy man would be the first to rebuke me for rebelling against my
husband and flouting him. Oh, how could I say such things? I thank you,
and love you dearly for being so blind to my faults; but I must not
abuse your blindness. Father Leonard will put me to penance for the
fault you forgive. He will hear no excuses. Prithee, now, be more just
to that good man."
Griffith listened quietly, with a cold sneer upon his lip; and this
was his reply: "Till that mischief-making villain came between you
and me, you never gave me a bitter word: we were the happiest pair in
Cumberland. But now what are we? And what shall we be in another year
or two?--REVENGE!!"
He had begun gravely enough, but suddenly burst into an ungovernable
rage; and as he yelled out that furious word his face was convulsed and
ugly to look at; very ugly.
Mrs. Gaunt started: she had not seen that vile expression in his face
for many a year; but she knew it again.
"Ay!" he cried, "he has made me drink a bitter cup this many a day.
But I'll force as bitter a one down his throat, and you shall see it
done."
Mrs. Gaunt turned pale at this violent threat; but being a
high-spirited woman, she stiffened and hid her apprehensions loftily.
"Madman that you are," said she. "I throw away excuses on Jealousy, and
I waste reason upon phrenzy. I'll say no more things to provoke you;
but, to be sure, 'tis I that am offended now, and deeply too, as you
will find."
"So be it," said Griffith, sullenly; then, grinding his teeth, "he
shall pay for that too."
Then he went to his dressing-room, and she to her bedroom. Griffith
hating Leonard, and Kate deeply indignant with Griffith.
And, ere her blood could cool, she was subjected to the keen, cold,
scrutiny of another female, and that female a secret rival.