CHAPTER XVII.

The gaze these two persons bent on one another may be half imagined; it

can never be described.

Griffith spoke first. "In black!" said he, in a whisper.

His voice was low; his face, though pale and grim, had not the terrible

aspect he wore at parting.

So she thought he had come back in an amicable spirit; and she flew to

him with a cry of love, and threw her arm round his neck, and panted on

his shoulder.

At this reception, and the tremulous contact of one he had loved so

dearly, a strange shudder ran through his frame: a shudder that marked

his present repugnance, yet indicated her latent power.

He himself felt he had betrayed some weakness; and it was all the worse

for her: he caught her wrist and put her from him, not roughly, but

with a look of horror. "The day is gone by for that, madam," he gasped.

Then, sternly: "Think you I came here to play the credulous husband?"

Mrs. Gaunt drew back in her turn, and faltered out, "What! come back

here, and not sorry for what you have done? not the least sorry? Oh, my

heart! you have almost broken it."

"Prithee, no more of this," said Griffith, sternly. "You and I are

nought to one another now, and for ever. But there, you are but a

woman, and I did not come to quarrel with you." And he fixed his eyes

on the ground.

"Thank God for that," faltered Mrs. Gaunt. "Oh, sir, the sight of

you--the thought of what you were to me once--till jealousy blinded

you. Lend me your arm, if you are a man; my limbs do fail me."

The shock had been too much; a pallor over-spread her lovely features,

her knees knocked together, and she was tottering like some tender tree

cut down, when Griffith, who, with all his faults, was a man, put out

his strong arm, and she clung to it, quivering all over, and weeping

hysterically.

That little hand, with its little feminine clutch, trembling on his

arm, raised a certain male compassion for her piteous condition; and

he bestowed a few cold, sad, words of encouragement on her. "Come,

come," said he, gently; "I shall not trouble you long. I'm cured of my

jealousy. 'Tis gone, along with my love. You and your saintly sinner

are safe from me. I am come hither for my own, my two thousand pounds,

and for nothing more."

"Ah! you are come back for money, not for me?" she murmured, with

forced calmness.

"For money; and not for you, of course," said he, coldly.

The words wore hardly out of his month, when the proud lady flung his

arm from her. "Then money shall you have, and not me; nor ought of me

but my contempt."

But she could not carry it off as heretofore. She turned her back

haughtily on him; but, at the first step, she burst out crying. "Come,

and I'll give you what you are come for," she sobbed. "Ungrateful!

heartless! Oh, how little I knew this man!"

She crept away before him, drooping her head, and crying bitterly; and

he followed her, hanging his head, and ill at ease; for there was such

true passion in her voice, her streaming eyes, and indeed in her whole

body, that he was moved, and the part he was playing revolted him. He

felt confused and troubled, and asked himself how on earth it was that

she, the guilty one, contrived to appear the injured one, and made him,

the wronged one, feel almost remorseful.

Mrs. Gaunt took no more notice of him now than if he had been a dog

following at her heels. She went into the drawing-room, and sank

helplessly on the nearest couch; threw her head wearily back, and shut

her eyes. Yet the tears trickled through the closed lids.

Griffith caught up a hand-bell, and rang it vigorously.

Quick light steps were soon heard pattering; and in darted Caroline

Ryder, with an anxious face; for of late she had conceived a certain

sober regard for her mistress, who had ceased to be her successful

rival, and who bore her grief like a man.

At sight of Griffith, Ryder screamed aloud, and stood panting.

Mrs. Gaunt opened her eyes. "Ay, child, he has come home," said she,

bitterly; "his body, but not his heart."

She stretched her hand out feebly, and pointed to a bottle of salts

that stood on the table. Ryder ran and put them to her nostrils. Mrs.

Gaunt whispered in her ear, "Send a swift horse for Father Francis;

tell him, life or death!"

Ryder gave her a very intelligent look, and presently slipped out, and

ran into the stable-yard.

At the gate she caught sight of Griffith's horse. What does this

quick-witted creature do but send the groom off on that horse, and not

on Mrs. Gaunt's.

"Now, Dame," said Griffith, doggedly, "are you better?"

"Ay, I thank you."

"Then listen to me. When you and I set up house together, I had two

thousand pounds. I spent it on this house. The house is yours. You

told me so, one day, you know."

"Ah, you can remember my faults."

"I remember all, Kate."

"Thank you, at least, for calling me Kate. Well, Griffith, since you

abandoned us, I thought, and thought, and thought, of all that might

befall you; and I said, 'What will he do for money? My jewels, that

you did me the honour to take, would not last you long, I feared. So I

reduced my expenses three-fourths at least, and I put by some money for

your need."

Griffith looked amazed. "For my need?" said he.

"For whose else? I'll send for it, and place it in your

hands--to-morrow."

"To-morrow? Why not to-day?"

"I have a favour to ask of you first."

"What is that?"

"Justice. If you are fond of money, I too have something I prize: my

honour. You have belied and insulted me, sir; but I know you were

under a delusion. I mean to remove that delusion, and make you see

how little I am to blame: for, alas! I own I was imprudent. But, oh

Griffith! as I hope to be saved, it was the imprudence of innocence and

over-confidence."

"Mistress," said Griffith, in a stern, yet agitated voice, "be advised,

and leave all this: rouse not a man's sleeping wrath. Let bygones be

bygones."

Mrs. Gaunt rose, and said, faintly, "So be it. I must go, sir, and give

some orders for your entertainment."

"Oh; don't put yourself about for me," said Griffith, "I am not the

master of this house."

Mrs. Gaunts lip trembled, but she was a match for him. "Then are you my

guest," said she; "and my credit is concerned in your comfort."

She made him a curtsy, as if he were a stranger, and marched to the

door, concealing, with great pride and art, a certain trembling of her

knees.

At the door she found Ryder, and bade her follow, much to that lady's

disappointment; for she desired a tête-à-tête with Griffith, and an

explanation.

As soon as the two women were out of Griffith's hearing, the mistress

laid her hand on the servant's arm, and, giving way to her feelings,

said, all in a flutter, "Child, if I have been a good mistress to thee,

show it now. Help me keep him in the house till Father Francis comes."

"I undertake to do so much," said Ryder, firmly. "Leave it to me,

mistress."

Mrs. Gaunt threw her arms round Ryder's neck and kissed her.

It was done so ardently, and by a woman hitherto so dignified and

proud, that Ryder was taken by surprise, and almost affected.

As for the service Mrs. Gaunt had asked of her, it suited her own

designs.

"Mistress," said she, "be ruled by me; keep out of his way a-bit,

while I get Miss Rose ready. You understand."

"Ah! I have one true friend in the house," said poor Mrs. Gaunt. She

then confided in Ryder, and went away to give her own orders for

Griffith's reception.

Ryder found little Rose, dressed her to perfection, and told her her

dear papa was come home. She then worked upon the child's mind in that

subtle way known to women, so that Rose went downstairs loaded and

primed, though no distinct instructions had been given her.

As for Griffith, he walked up and down, uneasy; and wished he had

stayed at the "Packhorse." He had not bargained for all these emotions;

the peace of mind he had enjoyed for some months seemed trickling away.

"Mercy, my dear," said he, to himself, "'twill be a dear penny to me, I

doubt."

Then he went to the window, and looked at the lawn, and sighed. Then

he sat down, and thought of the past.

Whilst he sat thus moody, the door opened very softly, and a little

cherubic face, with blue eyes and golden hair, peeped in. Griffith

started. "Ah!" cried Rose, with a joyful scream: and out flew her

little arms, and away she came, half running, half dancing, and was on

his knee in a moment, with her arms round his neck.

"Papa! papa!" she cried. "Oh, my dear, dear, dear, darling papa!" And

she kissed and patted his cheek again and again.

Her innocent endearments moved him to tears. "My pretty angel!" he

sighed: "my lamb!"

"How your heart beats: don't cry, dear papa. Nobody is dead: only we

thought you were. I'm so glad you are come home alive. Now we can take

off this nasty black: I hate it."

"What, 'tis for me you wear it, pretty one?"

"Ay. Mamma made us. Poor mamma has been so unhappy. And that reminds

me: you are a wicked man, papa. But I love you all one for that. It tis

so dull when everybody is good like mamma; and she makes me dreadfully

good too; but now you are come back, there will be a little, little,

wickedness again, it is to be hoped. Aren't you glad you are not dead,

and are come home instead? I am."

"I am glad I have seen thee. Come, take my hand, and let us go look at

the old place."

"Ay. But you must wait till I get on my new hat and feather."

"Nay, nay; art pretty enough bareheaded."

"Oh, papa! but I must, for decency. You are company now, you know."

"Dull company, sweetheart, thou'lt find me."

"I don't mean that: I mean, when you were here always, you were only

papa; but now you come once in an age, you're COMPANY. I won't budge

without 'em; so there, now."

"Well, little one, I do submit to thy hat and feather: only be quick or

I shall go forth without thee."

"If you dare," said Rose, impetuously: "for I won't be half a moment."

She ran and extorted from Ryder the new hat and feather, which by

rights she was not to have worn until next month.

Griffith and his little girl went all over the well-known premises, he

sad and moody, she excited and chattering, and nodding her head down,

and cocking her eye up every now and then, to get a glimpse of her

feather.

"And don't you go away again, dear papa. It tis so dull without you.

Nobody comes here. Mamma won't let 'em."

"Nobody except Father Leonard," said Griffith, bitterly.

"Father Leonard? Why, he never comes here. Leonard! That is the

beautiful priest that used to pat me on the head, and bid me love and

honour my parents. And so I do. Only mamma is always crying, and you

keep away: so how can I love and honour you, when I never see you, and

they keep telling me you are good for nothing, and dead."

"My young mistress, when did you see Father Leonard last?" said

Griffith, gnawing his lip.

"How can I tell? Why it was miles ago; when I was a mere girl. You know

he went away before you did."

"I know nothing of the kind. Tell me the truth now. He has visited here

since I went away."

"Nay, papa."

"That is strange. She visits him, then?"

"What, mamma? She seldom stirs out; and never beyond the village. We

keep no carriage now. Mamma is turned such a miser. She is afraid you

will be poor; so she puts it all by for you. But now you are come, we

shall have carriages and things again. Oh, by-the-by, Father Leonard! I

heard them say he had left England, so I did."

"When was that?"

"Well, I think that was a little bit after you went away."

"That is strange," said Griffith, thoughtfully.

He led his little girl by the hand, but scarcely listened to her

prattle; he was so surprised and puzzled by the information he had

elicited from her.

Upon the whole, however, he concluded that his wife and the priest had

perhaps been smitten with remorse, and had parted,--when it was too

late.

This, and the peace of mind he had found elsewhere, somewhat softened

his feelings towards them. "So," thought he, "they were not hardened

creatures after all. Poor Kate!"

As these milder feelings gained on him, Rose suddenly uttered a joyful

cry; and, looking up, he saw Mrs. Gaunt coming towards him, and Ryder

behind her. Both were in gay colours, which, in fact, was what had so

delighted Rose.

They came up, and Mrs. Gaunt seemed a changed woman. She looked young

and beautiful, and bent a look of angelic affection on her daughter;

and said to Griffith, "Is she not grown? Is she not lovely? Sure you

will never desert her again."

"'Twas not her I deserted, but her mother; and she had played me false

with her d----d priest," was Griffith's reply.

Mrs. Gaunt drew back with horror. "This, before my girl?" she cried.

"Griffith Gaunt, you lie!"

And this time it was the woman who menaced the man. She rose to six

feet high, and advanced on him with her great grey eyes flashing flames

at him. "Oh, that I were a man!" she cried: "this insult should be the

last. I'd lay you dead at her feet and mine."

Griffith actually drew back a step; for the wrath of such a woman was

terrible; more terrible perhaps to a brave man than to a coward.

Then he put his hands in his pockets with a dogged air; and said,

grinding his teeth: "But--as you are not a man, and I'm not a woman, we

can't settle it that way. So I give you the last word, and good day.

I'm sore in want of money; but I find I can't pay the price it is like

to cost me. Farewell."

"Begone!" said Mrs. Gaunt: "and, this time, for ever. Ruffian, and

fool, I loathe the sight of you."

Rose ran weeping to her. "Oh, mamma, don't quarrel with papa:" then

back to Griffith, "Oh, papa, don't quarrel with mamma--for my sake."

Griffith hung his head, and said, in a broken voice: "No, my lamb,

we twain must not quarrel before thee. We will part in silence, as

becomes those that once were dear, and have thee to show for't. Madam,

I wish you all health and happiness. Adieu."

He turned on his heel; and Mrs. Gaunt took Rose to her knees, and bent

and wept over her. Niobe over her last was not more graceful, nor more

sad.

As for Ryder she stole quietly after her retiring master. She found him

peering about, and asked him demurely what he was looking for.

"My good black horse, girl, to take me from this cursed place. Did I

not tie him to your gate?"

"The black horse? Why I sent him for Father Francis. Nay, listen to me,

master; you know I was always your friend, and hard upon her. Well,

since you went, things have come to pass that make me doubt. I do begin

to fear you were too hasty."

"Do you tell me this now, woman?" cried Griffith, furiously.

"How could I tell you before? Why did you break your tryst with me? If

you had come according to your letter, I'd have told you months ago

what I tell you now; but, as I was saying, the priest never came near

her after you left; and she never stirred abroad to meet him. More than

that, he has left England."

"Remorse! Too late."

"Perhaps it may, sir. I couldn't say; but there is one coming that

knows the very truth."

"Who is that?"

"Father Francis. The moment you came, sir, I took it on me to send for

him. You know the man: he won't tell a lie to please our Dame. And he

knows all: for Leonard has confessed to him. I listened and heard him

say as much. Then, master, be advised, and get the truth from Father

Francis."

Griffith trembled. "Francis is an honest man," said he; "I'll wait till

he comes. But oh, my lass, I find money may be bought too dear."

"Your chamber is ready, sir; and your clothes put out. Supper is

ordered. Let me show you your room. We are all so happy now."

"Well," said he, listlessly, "since my horse is gone, and Francis

coming, and I'm wearied and sick of the world, do what you will with me

for this one day."

He followed her mechanically to a bedroom, where was a bright fire, and

a fine shirt, and his silver-laced suit of clothes airing.

A sense of luxurious comfort struck him at the sight.

"Ay," he said, "I'll dress, and so to supper; I'm main hungry. It seems

a man must eat, let his heart be ever so sore."

Before she left him, Ryder asked him coldly why he had broken his

appointment with her.

"That is too long a story to tell you now," said he, coolly.

"Another time then," said she; and went out smiling, but bitter at

heart.

Griffith had a good wash, and enjoyed certain little conveniences which

he had not at the "Packhorse." He doffed his riding suit, and donned

the magnificent dress Ryder had selected for him; and with his fine

clothes he somehow put on more ceremonious manners.

He came down to the dining-room. To his surprise he found it

illuminated with wax candles, and the table and sideboard gorgeous with

plate.

Supper soon smoked upon the board; but, though it was set for three,

nobody else appeared.

Griffith inquired of Ryder whether he was to sup alone.

She replied, "My mistress desires you not to wait for her. She has no

stomach."

"Well, then, I have," said Griffith; and fell o with a will.

Ryder, who waited on this occasion, stood and eyed him with curiosity.

His conduct was so unlike a woman's.

Just as he concluded, the door opened, and a burly form entered.

Griffith rose and embraced him with his arms and lips, after the

fashion of the day. "Welcome, thou one honest priest!" said he.

"Welcome, thrice welcome, my long-lost son!" said the cordial Francis.

"Sit down, man, and eat with me. I'll begin again, for you."

"Presently, Squire; I've work to do first. Go thou and bid thy mistress

to come hither to me."

Ryder, to whom this was addressed, went out, and left the gentlemen

together.

Father Francis drew out of his pocket two packets, carefully tied and

sealed. He took a knife from the table and cut the strings, and broke

the seals. Griffith eyed him with curiosity.

Father Francis looked at him. "These," said he, very gravely, "are

the letters that Brother Leonard hath written, at sundry times, to

Catherine Gaunt, and these are the letters Catherine Gaunt hath written

to Brother Leonard."

Griffith trembled, and his face was convulsed.

"Let me read them at once," said he: and stretched out his hand, with

eyes like a dog's in the dark.

Francis withdrew them, quietly. "Not till she is also present," said he.

At that Griffith's good-nature, multiplied by a good supper, took the

alarm. "Come, come, sir," said he, "have a little mercy. I know you are

a just man, and, though a boon companion, most severe in all matters

of morality. But, I tell you plainly, if you are going to drag this

poor woman in the dirt, I shall go out of the room. What is the use

tormenting her? I've told her my mind before her own child: and now I

wish I had not. When I caught them in the Grove I lifted my hand to

strike her, and she never winced; I had better have left that alone

too, methinks. D--n the women: you are always in the wrong if you treat

'em like men. They are not wicked; they are weak. And this one hath

lain in my bosom, and borne me two children, and one he lieth in the

churchyard, and t'other hath her hair and my very eyes: and the truth

is, I can't bear any man on earth to miscall her but myself. God help

me: I doubt I love her still too well to sit by and see her tortured.

She was all in black for her fault, poor penitent wretch. Give me the

letters; but let her be."

Francis was moved by this appeal, but shook his head solemnly; and, ere

Griffith could renew his argument, the door was flung open by Ryder,

and a stately figure sailed in that took both the gentlemen by surprise.

It was Mrs. Gaunt, in full dress. Rich brocade that swept the ground:

magnificent bust, like Parian marble varnished; and on her brow a

diadem of emeralds and diamonds that gave her beauty an imperial stamp.

She swept into the room as only fine women can sweep, made Griffith

a haughty curtsy, and suddenly lowered her head, and received Father

Francis's blessing: then seated herself, and quietly awaited events.

"The brazen jade!" thought Griffith. "But how divinely beautiful!" And

he became as agitated as she was calm--in appearance. For, need I say

her calmness was put on? Defensive armour made for her by her pride and

her sex.

The voice of Father Francis now rose, solid, grave, and too impressive

to be interrupted.

"My daughter, and you who are her husband and my friend, I am here to

do justice between you both, with God's help; and to show you both your

faults.

"Catherine Gaunt, you began the mischief, by encouraging; another man

to interfere between you and your husband in things secular."

"But, father, he was my director, my priest."

"My daughter, do you believe, with the Protestants, that marriage is

a mere civil contract; or do you hold, with us, that it is one of the

holy sacraments?"

"Can you ask me?" murmured Kate, reproachfully.

"Well, then, those whom God and the whole Church have in holy sacrament

united, what right hath a single priest to disunite in heart, and make

the wife false to any part whatever of that most holy vow? I hear,

and not from you, that Leonard did set you against your husband's

friends, withdrew you from society, and sent him abroad alone. In

one word, he robbed your husband of his companion and his friend. The

sin was Leonard's: but the fault was yours. You were five years older

than Leonard, and a woman of sense and experience; he but a boy by

comparison. What right had you to surrender your understanding, in a

matter of this kind, to a poor silly priest, fresh from his seminary,

and as manifestly without a grain of common sense as he was full of

piety?"

This remonstrance produced rather a striking effect on both those who

heard it. Mrs. Gaunt seemed much struck with it. She leaned back in her

chair, and put her hand to her brow with a sort of despairing gesture

that Griffith could not very well understand: it seemed to him so

disproportionate.

It softened him, however, and he faltered out, "Ay, father, that is how

it all began. Would to heaven it had stopped there."

Francis resumed. "This false step led to consequences you never dreamed

of; for one of your romantic notions is, that a priest is an angel.

I have known you, in former times, try to take me for an angel: then

would I throw cold water on your folly by calling lustily for chines of

beef and mugs of ale. But I suppose Leonard thought himself an angel

too; and the upshot was, he fell in love with his neighbour's wife."

"And she with him," groaned Griffith.

"Not so," said Francis; "but perhaps she was nearer it than she thinks."

"Prove that," said Mrs. Gaunt, "and I'll fall on my knees to him before

you."

Francis smiled, and proceeded. "To be sure, from the moment you

discovered Leonard was in love with you, you drew back, and conducted

yourself with prudence and propriety. Read these letters, sir, and tell

me what you think of them."

He handed them to Griffith. Griffith's hand trembled visibly as he took

them.

"Stay," said Father Francis; "your better way will be to read the

whole correspondence according to their dates. Begin with this of Mrs.

Gaunt's."

Griffith read the letter in an audible whisper.

Mrs. Gaunt turned her head a little, and for the first time lowered her

eyes to the ground.

END OF VOL. II.

GRIFFITH GAUNT; OR, JEALOUSY

BY CHARLES READE

In Three Volumes. Vol III

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 I

"DEAR FATHER AND FRIEND,--The words you spoke to me to-day

admit but one meaning; you are jealous of my husband.

"Then you must be--how can I write it?--almost in love with me."

"So then my poor husband was wiser than I. He saw a rival in

you: and he has one.

"I am deeply, deeply shocked. I ought to be very angry too;

but, thinking of your solitary condition, and all the good you

have done to my soul, my heart has no place for ought but pity.

Only, as I am in my senses, and you are not, you must now obey

me, as heretofore I have obeyed you. You must seek another

sphere of duty without delay.

"These seem harsh words from me to you. You will live to see

they are kind ones.

"Write me one line, and no more, to say you will be ruled by me

in this.

"God and the saints have you in their holy keeping. So prays

your affectionate and

"Sorrowful daughter and true friend,

"CATHERINE GAUNT."

"Poor soul!" said Griffith. "Said I not that women are not wicked, but

weak? Who would think that after this he could get the better of her

good resolves--the villain!"

"Now read his reply," said Father Francis.

"Ay," said Griffith. "So this is his one word of reply, is it? three

pages closely writ--the villain, oh the villain!"

"Read the villain's letter," said Francis, calmly.

The letter was very humble and pathetic; the reply of a good, though

erring man, who owned, that in a moment of weakness, he had been

betrayed into a feeling inconsistent with his holy profession. He

begged his correspondent, however, not to judge him quite so hardly. He

reminded her of his solitary life, his natural melancholy, and assured

her that all men in his condition had moments when they envied those

whose bosoms had partners. "Such a cry of anguish," said he, "was once

rung from a maiden queen, maugre all her pride. The Queen of Scots hath

a son: and I am but a barren stock." He went on to say that prayer

and vigilance united do much. "Do not despair so soon of me. Flight

is not cure: let me rather stay and, with God's help and the saints',

overcome this unhappy weakness. If I fail, it will indeed be time for

me to go and never again see the angelic face of my daughter and my

benefactress."

Griffith laid down the letter. He was somewhat softened by it; and

said, gently, "I cannot understand it. This is not the letter of a

thorough bad man neither."

"No," said Father Francis, coldly, "'tis the letter of a self-deceiver:

and there is no more dangerous man, to himself and others, than your

self-deceiver. But now let us see whether he can throw dust in her

eyes, as well as his own." And he handed him Kate's reply.

The first word of it was, "You deceive yourself." The writer then

insisted, quietly, that he owed it to himself, to her, and to her

husband, whose happiness he was destroying, to leave the place at her

request.

"Either you must go, or I," said she: "and pray let it be you. Also

this place is unworthy of your high gifts: and I love you, in my way,

the way I mean to love you when we meet again--in Heaven; and I labour

your advancement to a sphere more worthy of you."

I wish space permitted me to lay the whole correspondence before the

reader; but I must confine myself to its general purport.

It proceeded in this way: the priest, humble, eloquent, pathetic; but

gently, yet pertinaciously, clinging to the place: the lady, gentle,

wise, and firm, detaching with her soft fingers, first one hand, then

another, of the poor priest's, till at last he was driven to the sorry

excuse that he had no money to travel with, nor place to go to.

"I can't understand it," said Griffith. "Are these letters all forged,

or are there two Kate Gaunts? the one that wrote these prudent letters,

and the one I caught upon this very priest's arm. Perdition!"

Mrs. Gaunt started to her feet. "Methinks 'tis time for me to leave the

room," said she, scarlet.

"Gently, my good friends; one thing at a time," said Francis. "Sit thou

down, impetuous. The letters, sir, what think you of them?"

"I see no harm in them," said Griffith.

"No harm! is that all? But I say these are very remarkable letters,

sir: and they show us that a woman may be innocent and unsuspicious,

and so seem foolish, yet may be wise for all that. In her early

communication with Leonard

'----at Wisdom's gate Suspicion slept;

And thought no ill where no ill seemed.'

But, you see, suspicion being once aroused, wisdom was not to be lulled

nor blinded. But that is not all: these letters breathe a spirit of

Christian charity; of true, and rare, and exalted piety; tender are

they, without passion; wise, yet not cold; full of conjugal love, and

of filial pity for an erring father, whom she leads, for his good, with

firm yet dutiful hand. Trust to my great experience: doubt the chastity

of snow rather than hers who could write these pure and exquisite

lines. My good friend, you heard me rebuke and sneer at this poor lady,

for being too innocent and unsuspicious of man's frailty: now hear me

own to you that I could no more have written these angelic letters,

than a barn-door fowl could soar to the mansions of the saints in

heaven."

This unexpected tribute took Mrs. Gaunt's heart by storm; she threw her

arms round Father Francis's neck, and wept upon his shoulder.

"Ah!" she sobbed, "you are the only one left that loves me."

She could not understand justice praising her: it must be love.

"Ay," said Griffith, in a broken voice, "she writes like an angel: she

speaks like an angel: she looks like an angel. My heart says she is an

angel. But my eyes have shown me she is naught. I left her, unable to

walk, by her way of it; I came back, and found her on that priest's

arm, springing along, like a greyhound." He buried his head in his

hands, and groaned aloud.

Francis turned to Mrs. Gaunt, and said, a little severely, "How do you

account for that?"

"I'll tell _you_, Father," said Kate, "because you love me. I do not

speak to _you_, sir: for you never loved me."

"I could give thee the lie," said Griffith, in a trembling voice; "but

'tis not worth while. Know, sir, that within twenty-four hours after

I caught her with that villain, I lay a dying for her sake; and lost

my wits; and, when I came to, they were a making my shroud in the very

room where I lay. No matter; no matter; I never loved her."

"Alas! poor soul!" sighed Kate: "would I had died ere I brought thee to

that!" And, with this, they both began to cry at the same moment.

"Ay, poor fools," said Father Francis, softly; "neither of ye loved

t'other; that is plain. So now sit you there, and let us have your

explanation; for you must own appearances are strong against you."

Mrs. Gaunt drew her stool to Francis's knee, and addressing herself to

him alone, explained as follows:--

"I saw Father Leonard was giving way, and only wanted one good push,

after a manner. Well, you know I had got him, by my friends, a good

place in Ireland: and I had money by me for his journey; so, when my

husband talked of going to the fair, I thought, 'Oh if I could but get

this settled to his mind before he comes back.' So I wrote a line to

Leonard. You can read it if you like. Tis dated the 30th of September,

I suppose."

"I will," said Francis: and read this out:--

"DEAR FATHER AND FRIEND,--You have fought the good fight, and

conquered. Now, therefore, I will see you once more, and thank

you for my husband (he is so unhappy), and put the money for

your journey into your hand myself; your journey to Ireland.

You are the Duke of Leinster's chaplain; for I have accepted

that place for you. Let me see you to-morrow in the Grove, for

a few minutes, at high noon. God bless you.

"CATHERINE GAUNT."

"Well, father," said Mrs. Gaunt, "'tis true that I could only walk two

or three times across the room. But, alack, you know what women are;

excitement gives us strength. With thinking that our unhappiness was at

an end; that, when he should come back from the fair, I should fling my

arm round his neck, and tell him I had removed the cause of his misery,

and so of mine, I seemed to have wings; and I did walk with Leonard,

and talked with rapture of the good he was to do in Ireland, and how

he was to be a mitred abbot one day (for he is a great man), and poor

little me be proud of him; and how we were all to be happy together

in heaven, where is no marrying nor giving in marriage. This was our

discourse; and I was just putting the purse into his hands, and bidding

him God-speed, when he--for whom I fought against my woman's nature,

and took this trying task upon me--broke in upon us, with a face of a

fiend; trampled on the poor good priest, that deserved veneration and

consolation from him, of all men; and raised his hand to me; and was

not man enough to kill me after all; but called me--ask him what he

called me--see if he dares to say it again before you; and then ran

away, like a coward as he is, from the lady he had defiled with his

rude tongue, and the heart he had broken. Forgive him? that I never

will; never; never."

"Who asked you to forgive him?" said the shrewd priest. "Your own

heart. Come, look at him."

"Not I," said she, irresolutely. Then, still more feebly: "He is nought

to me." And so stole a look at him.

Griffith, pale as ashes, had his hand on his brow, and his eyes were

fixed with horror and remorse.

"Something tells me she has spoken the truth," he said, in a quavering

voice. Then, with concentrated horror, "But if so--oh God, what have I

done?--What shall I do?"

Mrs. Gaunt extended her arms towards him, across the priest.

"Why, fall at thy wife's knees, and ask her to forgive thee."

Griffith obeyed: he fell on his knees, and Mrs. Gaunt leaned her

head on Francis's shoulder, and gave her hand across him to her

remorse-stricken husband.

Neither spoke, nor desired to speak; and even Father Francis sat silent

and enjoyed that sweet glow which sometimes blesses the peacemaker,

even in this world of wrangles and jars.

But the good soul had ridden hard, and the neglected meats emitted

savory odors, and by-and-by he said, drily, "I wonder whether that fat

pullet tastes as well as it smells: can you tell me, Squire?"

"Oh, inhospitable wretch that I am," said Mrs. Gaunt: "I thought but of

my own heart."

"And forgot the stomach of your unspiritual father. But, madam, you are

pale, you tremble."

"'Tis nothing, sir: I shall soon be better. Sit you down and sup: I

will return anon."

She retired, not to make a fuss; but her heart palpitated violently,

and she had to sit down on the stairs.

Ryder, who was prowling about, found her there, and fetched her

hartshorn.

Mrs. Gaunt got better; but felt so languid and also hysterical, that

she retired to her own room for the night, attended by the faithful

Ryder, to whom she confided that a reconciliation had taken place, and,

to celebrate it, gave her a dress she had only worn a year. This does

not sound queenly to you ladies; but know that a week's wear tells far

more on the flimsy trash you wear now-a-days, than a year did on the

glorious silks of Lyons Mrs. Gaunt put on; thick as broad-cloth, and

embroidered so cunningly by the loom, that it would pass for rarest

needle-work. Besides, in those days, silk was silk.

As Ryder left her, she asked, "Where is the master to lie to-night?"

Mrs. Gaunt was not pleased at this question being put to her. Being a

singular mixture of frankness and finesse, she had retired to her own

room partly to test Griffith's heart. If he was as sincere as she was,

he would not be content with a _public_ reconciliation.

But the question being put to her plump, and by one of her own sex, she

colored faintly, and said, "Why, is there not a bed in his room?"

"Oh yes, madam."

"Then see it be well aired. Put down all the things before the fire;

and then tell me; I'll come and see. The feather bed, mind, as well as

the sheets and blankets."

Ryder executed all this with zeal. She did more: though Griffith and

Francis sat up very late, she sat up too; and, on the gentlemen leaving

the supper-room, she met them both, with bed-candles, in a delightful

cap, and undertook, with cordial smiles, to show them both their

chambers.

"Tread softly on the landing, an if it please you, gentlemen. My

mistress hath been unwell; but she is in a fine sleep now, by the

blessing, and I would not have her disturbed."

Father Francis went to bed thoughtful. There was something about

Griffith he did not like: the man every now and then broke out into

boisterous raptures; and presently relapsed into moody thoughtfulness.

Francis almost feared that his cure was only temporary.

In the morning, before he left, he drew Mrs. Gaunt aside, and told her

his misgivings. She replied that she thought she knew what was amiss,

and would soon set that right.

Griffith tossed and turned in his bed, and spent a stormy night. His

mind was in a confused whirl, and his heart distracted. The wife he had

loved so tenderly, proved to be the very reverse of all he had lately

thought her! She was pure as snow, and had always loved him; loved him

now, and only wanted a good excuse to take him to her arms again. But

Mercy Vint!--his wife, his benefactress! a woman as chaste as Kate,

as strict in life and morals--what was to become of her? How could he

tell her she was not his wife? how to reveal to her her own calamity,

and his treason? And, on the other hand, desert her without a word! and

leave her hoping, fearing, pining, all her life! Affection, humanity,

gratitude, alike forbade it.

He came down in the morning, pale for him, and worn with the inward

struggle.

Naturally there was a restraint between him and Mrs. Gaunt; and only

short sentences passed between them.

He saw the peacemaker off, and then wandered all over the premises,

and the past came nearer, and the present seemed to retire into the

background.

He wandered about like one in a dream; and was so self-absorbed, that

he did not see Mrs. Gaunt coming towards him with observant eyes.

She met him full; he started like a guilty thing.

"Are you afraid of me?" said she, sweetly.

"No, my dear, not exactly; and yet I am: afraid, or ashamed, or both."

"You need not. I said I forgive you; and you know I am not one that

does things by halves."

"You are an angel!" said he, warmly; "but (suddenly relapsing into

despondency) we shall never be happy together again."

She sighed. "Say not so. Time and sweet recollections may heal even

this wound by degrees."

"God grant it," said he, despairingly.

"And, though we can't be lovers again all at once, we may be friends;

to begin, tell me, what have you on your mind? Come, make a friend of

me."

He looked at her in alarm.

She smiled. "Shall I guess?" said she.

"You will never guess," said he; "and I shall never have the heart to

tell you."

"Let me try. Well, I think you have run in debt, and are afraid to ask

me for the money."

Griffith was greatly relieved by this conjecture; he drew a long

breath: and, after a pause, said, cunningly, "What made you think that?"

"Because you came here for money, and not for happiness. You told me so

in the Grove."

"That is true. What a sordid wretch you must think me?"

"No, because you were under a delusion. But I do believe you are just

the man to turn reckless, when you thought me false, and go drinking

and dicing." She added, eagerly, "I do not suspect you of anything

worse."

He assured her that was not the way of it.

"Then tell me the way of it. You must not think, because I pester you

not with questions, I have no curiosity. Oh, how often have I longed to

be a bird, and watch you day and night unseen. How would you have liked

that? I wish you had been one, to watch me. Ah, you don't answer. Could

you have borne so close an inspection, sir?"

Griffith shuddered at the idea; and his eyes fell before the full grey

orbs of his wife.

"Well, never mind," said she, "tell me your story."

"Well, then, when I left you I was raving mad."

"That is true, I'll be sworn."

"I let my horse go; and he took me near a hundred miles from here, and

stopped at--at--a farmhouse. The good people took me in."

"God bless them for it. I'll ride and thank them."

"Nay, nay; 'tis too far. There I fell sick of a fever, a brain-fever:

the doctor blooded me."

"Alas! would he had taken mine instead."

"And I lost my wits for several days; and when I came back I was weak

as water, and given up by the doctor: and the first thing I saw, was an

old hag set a making of my shroud."

Here the narrative was interrupted a moment by Mrs. Gaunt seizing him

convulsively, and then holding him tenderly, as if he was even now

about to be taken from her.

"The good people nursed me, and so did their daughter, and I came back

from the grave. I took an inn; but I gave up that, and had to pay

forfeit; and so my money all went; but they kept me on. To be sure I

helped on the farm: they kept a hostelry as well. By-and-by came that

murrain among the cattle. Did you have it in these parts too?"

"I know not; nor care. Prithee, leave cattle, and talk of thyself."

"Well, in a word, they were ruined, and going to be sold up. I could

not bear that: I became bondsman for the old man. It was the least I

could do. Kate, they had saved thy husband's life."

"Not a word more, Griffith. How much stand you pledged for?"

"A large sum."

"Would five hundred pounds be of any avail?"

"Five hundred pounds! Ay, that it would, and to spare; but where can I

get so much money? And the time so short."

"Give me thy hand, and come with me," said Mrs. Gaunt, ardently.

She took his hand, and made a swift rush across the lawn. It was not

exactly running, nor walking, but some grand motion she had when

excited. She put him to his stride to keep up with her at all; and in

two minutes she had him into her boudoir. She unlocked a bureau, all in

a hurry, and took out a bag of gold. "There!" she cried, thrusting it

into his hand, and blooming all over with joy and eagerness: "I thought

you would want money; so I saved it up. You shall not be in debt a day

longer. Now mount thy horse, and carry it to those good souls: only,

for my sake, take the gardener with thee--I have no groom now but

he--and both well armed."

"What! go this very day?"

"Ay, this very hour. I can bear thy absence for a day or two more; I

have borne it so long: but I cannot bear thy plighted word to stand in

doubt a day, no not an hour. I am your wife, sir, your true and loving

wife; your honor is mine, and is as dear to me now as it was when you

saw me with Father Leonard in the Grove, and read me all awry. Don't

wait a moment, begone at once."

"Nay, nay, if I go to-morrow I shall be in time."

"Ay, but," said Mrs. Gaunt, very softly, "I am afraid if I keep you

another hour I shall not have the heart to let you go at all: and the

sooner gone, the sooner back for good, please God. There, give me one

kiss, to live on, and begone this instant."

He covered her hands with kisses and tears. "I'm not worthy to kiss any

higher than thy hand," he said: and so ran sobbing from her.

CHAPTER II

He went straight to the stable, and saddled Black Dick.

But, in the very act, his nature revolted. What, turn his back on her

the moment he had got hold of her money, to take to the other. He could

not do it.

He went back to her room, and came so suddenly that he caught her

crying. He asked her what was the matter.

"Nothing," said she, with a sigh: "only a woman's foolish misgivings. I

was afraid perhaps you would not come back. Forgive me."

"No fear of that," said he. "However, I have taken a resolve not to go

to-day. If I go tomorrow, I shall be just in time; and Dick wants a

good day's rest."

Mrs. Gaunt said nothing; but her expressive face was triumphant.

Griffith and she took a walk together; and he, who used to be the more

genial of the two, was dull, and she full of animation.

This whole day she laid herself out to bewitch her husband, and put him

in high spirits.

It was uphill work; but, when such a woman sets herself in earnest to

delight a man, she reads our sex a lesson in the art, that shows us we

are all babies at it.

However, it was at supper she finally conquered.

Here the lights, her beauty set off with art, her deepening eyes, her

satin skin, her happy excitement, her wit and tenderness, and joyous

sprightliness, enveloped Griffith in an atmosphere of delight, and

drove everything out of his head but herself: and with this, if the

truth must be told, the sparkling wines co-operated.

Griffith plied the bottle a little too freely. But Mrs. Gaunt, on this

one occasion, had not the heart to check him. The more he toasted her,

the more uxorious he became, and she could not deny herself even this

joy; but, besides, she had less of the prudent wife in her just then,

than of the weak indulgent mother. Anything rather than check his love:

she was greedy of it.

At last, however, she said to him, "Sweetheart, I shall go to bed: for,

I see, if I stay longer, I shall lead thee into a debauch. Be good now:

drink no more when I am gone. Else I'll say thou lovest thy bottle more

than thy wife."

He promised faithfully. But, when she was gone, modified his pledge by

drinking just one bumper to her health: which bumper let in another:

and, when at last he retired to rest, he was in that state of mental

confusion wherein the limbs appear to have a memory independent of the

mind.

In this condition do some men's hands wind up their watches, the mind

taking no appreciable part in the ceremony.

By some such act of what physicians call "organic memory," Griffith's

feet carried him to the chamber he had slept in a thousand times, and

not into the one Mrs. Ryder had taken him to the night before.

The next morning he came down rather late for him, and found himself

treated with a great access of respect by the servants.

His position was no longer doubtful; he was the master of the house.

Mrs. Gaunt followed in due course, and sat at breakfast with him,

looking young and blooming as Hebe, and her eye never off him long.

She had lived temperately, and had not yet passed the age when

happiness can restore a woman's beauty and brightness in a single day.

As for him, he was like a man in a heavenly dream: he floated in the

past and the present: the recent and the future seemed obscure and

distant, and comparatively in a mist.

But that same afternoon, after a most affectionate farewell, and

many promises to return as soon as ever he had discharged his

obligations, Griffith Gaunt started for the "Packhorse," to carry to

Mercy Leicester, alias Vint, the money Catherine Gaunt had saved by

self-denial and economy.

And he went south a worse man than he came.

When he left Mercy Leicester, he was a bigamist in law, but not at

heart. Kate was dead to him: he had given her up for ever: and was

constant and true to his new wife.

But now he was false to Mercy, yet not true to Kate; and, curiously

enough, it was a day or two passed with his lawful wife that had

demoralized him. His unlawful wife had hitherto done nothing but

improve his character.

But a great fault once committed is often the first link in a chain of

acts, that look like crimes, but are, strictly speaking, consequences.

This man, blinded at first by his own foible, and, after that,

the sport of circumstances, was single-hearted by nature; and his

conscience was not hardened. He desired earnestly to free himself and

both his wives from the cruel situation; but, to do this, one of them

he saw must be abandoned entirely; and his heart bled for her.

A villain or a fool would have relished the situation; many men would

have dallied with it; but, to do this erring man justice, he writhed

and sorrowed under it, and sincerely desired to end it.

And this was why he prized Kate's money so. It enabled him to render a

great service to her he had injured worse than he had the other, to her

he saw he must abandon.

But this was feeble comfort after all. He rode along a miserable

man; none the less wretched and remorseful, that, ere he got into

Lancashire, he saw his way clear. This was his resolve: to pay old

Vint's debts with Kate's money; take the "Packhorse," get it made over

to Mercy; give her the odd two hundred pounds and his jewels, and fly.

He would never see her again: but would return home, and get the rest

of the two thousand pounds from Kate, and send it Mercy by a friend,

who should tell her he was dead, and had left word with his relations

to send her all his substance.

At last the "Packhorse" came in sight. He drew rein, and had half a

mind to turn back; but, instead of that, he crawled on, and very sick

and cold he felt.

Many a man has marched to the scaffold with a less quaking heart than

he to the "Packhorse."

His dejection contrasted strangely with the warm reception he met from

everybody there. And the house was full of women; and they seemed,

somehow, all cock-a-hoop, and filled with admiration of _him._

"Where is she?" said he, faintly.

"Hark to the poor soul!" said a gossip. "Dame Vint, where's thy

daughter? gone out a-walking belike?"

At this the other women present chuckled and clucked.

"I'll bring you to her," said Mrs. Vint; "but prithee be quiet and

reasonable; for to be sure she is none too strong."

There was some little preparation, and then Griffith was ushered into

Mercy's room, and found her in bed, looking a little pale, but sweeter

and comelier than ever. She had the bedclothes up to her chin.

"You look wan, my poor lass," said he; "what ails ye?"

"Nought ails me now thou art come," said she, lovingly.

Griffith put the bag on the table. "There," said he, "there's five

hundred pounds in gold. I come not to thee empty-handed."

"Nor I to thee," said Mercy, with a heavenly smile. "See!"

And she drew down the bedclothes a little, and showed the face of a

babe scarcely three days old: a little boy.

She turned in the bed, and tried to hold him up to his father, and

said, "Here's _my_ treasure for thee!" And the effort, the flush on

her cheek, and the deep light in her dove-like eyes, told plainly that

the poor soul thought she had contributed to their domestic wealth

something far richer than Griffith had with his bag of gold.

The father littered an ejaculation, and came to her side, and, for a

moment, Nature overpowered everything else. He kissed the child; he

kissed Mercy again and again.

"Now God he praised for both," said he, passionately; "but most for

thee, the best wife, the truest friend--." He, thinking of her virtues,

and the blow he had come to strike her, he broke down, and was almost

choked with emotion; whereupon Mrs. Vint exerted female authority, and

bundled him out of the room. "Is that the way to carry on at such a

time?" said she. "'Twas enow to upset her altogether. Oh, but you men

have little sense in women's matters. I looked to _you_ to give her

courage, not to set her off into hysterics after a manner. Nay, keep up

her heart, or keep your distance, say I, that am her mother."

Griffith took this hint, and ever after took pity on Mercy's weak

condition; and, suspending the fatal blow, did all he could to restore

her to health and spirits.

Of course, to do that, he must deceive her; and so his life became a

lie.

For, hitherto, she had never looked forward much; but now her eyes were

always diving into futurity: and she lay smiling and discussing the

prospects of her boy; and Griffith had to sit by her side, and see her

gnaw the boy's hand, and kiss his feet, and anticipate his brilliant

career. He had to look and listen with an aching heart, and assent with

feigned warmth, and an inward chill of horror and remorse.

One Drummond, a travelling artist, called; and Mercy, who had often

refused to sit to him, consented now; for, she said, when he grows up

he shall know how his parents looked in their youth, the very year

their darling was born. So Griffith had to sit with her, and excellent

likenesses the man produced; but a horrible one of the child. And

Griffith thought,--"Poor soul; a little while and this picture will be

all that shall be left to thee of me."

For all this time he was actually transacting the preliminaries of

separation. He got a man of law to make all sure. The farm, the

stock, the furniture and goodwill of the "Packhorse," all these he

got assigned to Mercy Leicester for her own use, in consideration of

three hundred and fifty pounds, whereof three hundred were devoted to

clearing the concern of its debts, the odd fifty was to sweeten the

pill to Harry Vint.

When the deed came to be executed, Mercy was surprised, and uttered a

gentle remonstrance. "What have I to do with it?" said she. "'Tis thy

money, not mine."

"No matter," said Griffith; "I choose to have it so."

"Your will is my law," said Mercy.

"Besides," said Griffith, "the old folk will not feel so sore, nor be

afraid of being turned out, if it is in thy name."

"And that is true," said Mercy. "Now who had thought of that, but my

good man?" And she threw her arms lovingly round his neck, and gazed on

him adoringly.

But his lion-like eyes avoided her dove-like eyes; and an involuntary

shudder ran through him.

The habit of deceiving Mercy led to a consequence he had not

anticipated. It tightened the chain that held him. She opened his eyes

more and more to her deep affection, and he began to fear she would die

if he abandoned her.

And then her present situation was so touching. She had borne him a

lovely boy: that must be abandoned too, if he left her; and somehow the

birth of this child had embellished the mother; a delicious pink had

taken the place of her rustic bloom; and her beauty was more refined

and delicate. So pure, so loving, so fair, so maternal, to wound her

heart now, it seemed like stabbing an angel.

One day succeeded to another, and still Griffith had not the heart to

carry out his resolve. He temporized; he wrote to Kate that he was

detained by the business; and he stayed on and on, strengthening his

gratitude and his affection, and weakening his love for the absent,

and his resolution; till, at last, he became so distracted and divided

in heart, and so demoralized, that he began to give up the idea of

abandoning Mercy, and babbled to himself about fate and destiny, and

decided that the most merciful course would be to deceive both women.

Mercy was patient. Mercy was unsuspicious. She would content herself

with occasional visits, if he could only feign some plausible tale to

account for long absences.

Before he got into this mess he was a singularly truthful person; but

now a he was nothing to him. But, for that matter, many a man has been

first made a liar by his connexion with two women; and by degrees has

carried his mendacity into other things.

However, though now blessed with mendacity, he was cursed with a lack

of invention; and sorely puzzled how to live at Hernshaw, yet visit the

"Packhorse."

The best thing he could hit upon was to pretend to turn bagman; and so

Mercy would believe he was travelling all over England, when all the

time he was quietly living at Hernshaw.

And perhaps these long separations might prepare her heart for a final

parting, and so let in his original plan a few years hence.

He prepared this manœuvre with some art: he told her, one day, he had

been to Lancaster, and there fallen in with a friend, who had as good

as promised him the place of a commercial traveller for a mercantile

house.

"A traveller!" said Mercy. "Heaven forbid! If you knew how I wearied

for you when you went to Cumberland."

"To Cumberland! How know you I went thither?"

"Oh, I but guessed that; but now I know it, by your face. But go where

thou wilt, the house is dull directly. Thou art our sunshine. Isn't he,

my poppet?"

"Well, well; if it kept me too long from thee, I could give it up. But,

child, we must think of young master. You could manage the inn, and

your mother the farm, without me; and I should be earning money on my

side. I want to make a gentleman of him."

"Anything for him," said Mercy, "anything in the world." But the tears

stood in her eyes.

In furtherance of this deceit, Griffith did one day actually ride to

Lancaster, and slept there. He wrote to Kate, from that town, to say he

was detained by a slight illness, but hoped to be home in a week: and

the next day brought Mercy home some ribbons, and told her he had seen

the merchant, and his brother, and they had made him a very fair offer.

"But I've a week to think of it," said he, "so there's no hurry."

Mercy fixed her eyes on him in a very peculiar way, and made no reply.

You must know that something very curious had happened whilst Griffith

was gone to Lancaster.

A travelling pedlar, passing by, was struck with the name on the

signboard. "Halloo!" said he, "why here's a namesake of mine; I'll have

a glass of his ale any way."

So he came into the public room, and called for a glass; taking care to

open his pack and display his inviting wares. Harry Vint served him.

"Here's your health," said the pedlar. "You must drink with me, you

must."

"And welcome," said the old man.

"Well," said the pedlar, "I do travel five counties; but for all that

you are the first namesake I have found. I am Thomas Leicester, too, as

sure as you are a living sinner."

The old man laughed, and said, "Then no namesake of mine are you; for

they call me Harry Vint. Thomas Leicester, he that keeps this inn now,

is my son-in-law: he is gone to Lancaster this morning."

The pedlar said that was a pity, he should have liked to see his

namesake, and drink a glass with him.

"Come again to-morrow," said Harry Vint, ironically. "Dame," he cried,

"come hither. Here's another Thomas Leicester for ye, wants to see our

one."

Mrs. Vint turned her head, and inspected the pedlar from afar, as if he

was some natural curiosity.

"Where do you come from, young man?" said she.

"Well, I came from Kendal last; but I am Cumberland born."

"Why, that is where t'other comes from," suggested Paul Carrick, who

was once more a frequenter of the house.

"Like enow," said Mrs. Vint.

With that she dropped the matter as one of no consequence, and retired.

But she went straight to Mercy, in the parlor, and told her there was a

man in the kitchen that called himself Thomas Leicester.

"Well, mother?" said Mercy, with high indifference, for she was trying

new socks on King Baby.

"He comes from Cumberland."

"Well, to be sure, names do run in counties."

"That is true; but, seems to me, he favors your man: much of a height,

and--There, do just step into the kitchen a moment."

"La, mother," said Mercy, "I don't desire to see any more Thomas

Leicesters than my own: 'tis the man, not the name. Isn't it, my lamb?"

Mrs. Vint went back to the kitchen discomfited; but, with quiet

pertinacity, she brought Thomas Leicester into the parlor, pack and all.

"There, Mercy," said she, "lay out a penny with thy husband's namesake."

Mercy did not reply, for, at that moment, Thomas Leicester caught

sight of Griffith's portrait, and gave a sudden start, and a most

extraordinary look besides.

Both the women's eyes happened to be upon him, and they saw at once

that he knew the original.

"You know my husband?" said Mercy Vint, after a while.

"Not I," said Leicester, looking askant at the picture.

"Don't tell no lies," said Mrs. Vint. "You do know him well." And she

pointed her assertion by looking at the portrait.

"Oh, I know him, whose picture hangs there, of course," said Leicester.

"Well, and that is her husband."

"Oh, that is her husband, is it?" And he was unaffectedly puzzled.

Mercy turned pale. "Yes, he is my husband," said she, "and this is our

child. Can you tell me anything about him? for he came a stranger to

these parts. Belike you are a kinsman of his?"

"So they say."

This reply puzzled both women.

"Any way," said the pedlar, "you see we are marked alike." And he

showed a long black mole on his forehead. Mercy was now as curious as

she had been indifferent. "Tell me all about him," said she: "how comes

it that he is a gentleman and thou a pedlar?"

"Well, because my mother was a gipsy, and his a gentlewoman."

"What brought him to these parts?"

"Trouble, they say."

"What trouble?"

"Nay, I know not." This after a slight but visible hesitation.

"But you have heard say."

"Well, I am always on the foot, and don't bide long enough in one

place to learn all the gossip. But I do remember hearing he was gone

to sea: and that was a lie, for he had settled here, and married you.

I'fackins, he might have done worse. He has got a bonny buxom wife, and

a rare fine boy, to be sure."

And now the pedlar was on his guard, and determined he would not be

the one to break up the household he saw before him, and afflict the

dove-eyed wife and mother. He was a good-natured fellow, and averse

to make mischief with his own hands. Besides, he took for granted

Griffith loved his new wife better than the old one; and above all, the

punishment of bigamy was severe, and was it for him to get the Squire

indicted, and branded in the hand for a felon?

So the women could get nothing more out of him; he lied, evaded,

shuffled, and feigned utter ignorance; pleading, adroitly enough, his

vagrant life.

All this, however, aroused vague suspicions in Mrs. Vint's mind, and

she went and whispered them to her favorite, Paul Carrick. "And, Paul,"

said she, "call for what you like, and score it to me; only treat this

pedlar till he leaks out summut: to be sure he'll tell a man more than

he will us."

Paul entered with zeal into this commission: treated the pedlar to a

chop, and plied him well with the best ale.

All this failed to loose the pedlar's tongue at the time, but it

muddled his judgment: on resuming his journey, he gave his entertainer

a wink. Carrick rose and followed him out.

"You seem a decent lad," said the pedlar, "and a good-hearted one. Will

do me a favor?"

Carrick said he would, if it lay in his power.

"Oh, it is easy enow," said the pedlar, "'Tis just to give you Thomas

Leicester, into his own hand, this here trifle as soon as ever he comes

home." And he handed Carrick a hard substance wrapped in paper. Carrick

promised.

"Ay, ay, lad," said the pedlar, "but see you play fair, and give it

him unbeknown. Now don't you be so simple as show it to any of the

women-folk. Dy'e understand?"

"All right," said Carrick, knowingly. And so the boon companions for a

day shook hands and parted.

And Carrick took the little parcel straight to Mrs. Vint, and told her

every word the pedlar had said.

And Mrs. Vint took the little parcel straight to Mercy, and told her

what Carrick said the pedlar had said.

And the pedlar went off flushed with beer and self-complacency; for he

thought he had drawn the line precisely; had faithfully discharged his

promise to his lady and benefactress, but not so as to make mischief in

another household.

Such was the power of Ale--in the last century.

Mercy undid the paper and found the bullet, on which was engraved

"I LOVE KATE."

As she read these words a knife seemed to enter her heart; the pang was

so keen.

But she soon took herself to task. "Thou naughty woman," said she.

"What! jealous of the dead?"

She wrapped the bullet up; put it carefully away; had a good cry; and

was herself again.

But all this set her watching Griffith, and reading his face. She

had subtle, vague, misgivings; and forbade her mother to mention the

pedlar's visit to Griffith yet awhile. Woman-like, she preferred to

worm out the truth.

On the evening of his return from Lancaster, as he was smoking his

pipe, she quietly tested him. She fixed her eyes on him, and said,

"One was here to-day that knows thee, and brought thee this." She then

handed him the bullet, and watched his face.

Griffith undid the paper carelessly enough; but, at sight of the

bullet, uttered a loud cry, and his eyes seemed ready to start out of

his head.

He turned as pale as ashes, and stammered piteously, "What? what? what

d'ye mean? In Heaven's name, what is this? How? Who?"

Mercy was surprised, but also much concerned at his distress, and tried

to soothe him. She also asked him, piteously, whether she had done

wrong to give it him. "God knows," said she, "'tis no business of mine

to go and remind thee of her thou hast loved better mayhap than thou

lovest me. But to keep it from thee, and she in her grave, oh I had not

the heart!"

But Griffith's agitation increased instead of diminishing; and, even

while she was trying to soothe him, he rushed wildly out of the room,

and into the open air.

Mercy went, in perplexity and distress, and told her mother.

Mrs. Vint, not being blinded by affection, thought the whole thing had

a very ugly look, and said as much. She gave it as her opinion that

this Kate was alive, and had sent the token herself, to make mischief

between man and wife.

"That shall she never," said Mercy, stoutly; but now her suspicions

were thoroughly excited, and her happiness disturbed.

The next day Griffith found her in tears: he asked her what was the

matter. She would not tell him.

"You have your secrets," said she: "and so now I have mine."

Griffith became very uneasy.

For now Mercy was often in tears, and Mrs. Vint looked daggers at him.

All this was mysterious, and unintelligible, and, to a guilty man, very

alarming.

At last he implored Mercy to speak out. He wanted to know the worst.

Then Mercy did speak out. "You have deceived me," said she. "Kate is

alive. This very morning, between sleeping and waking, you whispered

her name; ay, false man, whispered it like a lover. You told me she was

dead. But she is alive; and has sent you a reminder, and the bare sight

of it hath turned your heart her way again. What shall I do? Why did

you marry me, if you could not forget her? I did not want you to desert

any woman for me. The desire of my heart was always for your happiness.

But oh, Thomas, deceit and falsehood will not bring you happiness, no

more than they will me. What shall I do? what shall I do?"

Her tears flowed freely, and Griffith sat down, and groaned with horror

and remorse, beside her.

He had not the courage to tell her the horrible truth, that Kate was

his wife, and she was not.

"Do not thou afflict thyself," he muttered. "Of course, with you

putting that bullet in my hand so sudden, it set my fancy a wandering

back to other days."

"Ah!" said Mercy, "if it be no worse than that, there's little harm.

But why did thy namesake start so at sight of thy picture?"

"My namesake!" cried Griffith, all aghast.

"Ay, he that brought thee that love-token; Thomas Leicester. Nay, for

very shame, feign not ignorance of him; why, he hath thy very mole on

his temple, and knew thy picture in a moment. He is thy half-brother,

is he not?"

"I am a ruined man," cried Griffith; and sank into a chair without

power of motion.

"God help me, what is all this?" cried Mercy. "Oh, Thomas, Thomas, I

could forgive thee ought but deceit: for both our sakes speak out, and

tell me the worst; no harm shall come near thee while I live."

"How can I tell thee? I am an unfortunate man. The world will call me

a villain; yet I am not a villain at heart. But who will believe me? I

have broken the law. Thee I could trust, but not thy folk; they never

loved me. Mercy, for pity's sake, when was that Thomas Leicester here?"

"Four days ago."

"Which way went he?"

"I hear he told Paul he was going to Cumberland."

"If he gets there before me, I shall rot in gaol."

"Now Heaven forbid! Oh, Thomas, then mount and ride after him."

"I will, and this very moment."

He saddled Black Dick, and loaded his pistols for the journey; but, ere

he went, a pale face looked out into the yard, and a finger beckoned.

It was Mercy. She bade him follow her. She took him to her room, where

their child was sleeping; and then she closed, and even locked the door.

"No soul can hear us," said she; "now, look me in the face, and tell me

God's truth. Who and what are you?"

Griffith shuddered at this exordium; he made no reply.

Mercy went to a box, and took out an old shirt of his; the one he wore

when he first came to the "Packhorse." She brought it to him and showed

him "G. G." embroidered on it with a woman's hair. (Ryder's.)

"Here are your initials," said she, "now leave useless falsehoods; be a

man, and tell me your real name."

"My name is Griffith Gaunt."

Mercy, sick at heart, turned her head away; but she had the resolution

to urge him on. "Go on," said she, in an agonized whisper: "if you

believe in God, and a judgment to come, deceive me no more. The truth!

I say: the truth!"

"So be it," said Griffith, desperately: "when I have told thee what a

villain I am. I can die at thy feet, and then thou wilt forgive me."

"Who is Kate?" was all she replied.

"Kate is--MY WIFE."

"I thought her false; who could think any other; appearances were so

strong against her: others thought so beside me. I raised my hand

to kill her; but she never winced. I trampled on him I believed her

paramour: I fled, and soon I lay a dying in this house for her sake. I

told thee she was dead. Alas! I thought her dead to me. I went back to

our house (it is her house) sore against the grain, to get money for

thee and thine. Then she cleared herself, bright as the sun, and pure

as snow. She was all in black for me; she had put by money, against

I should come to my senses and need it. I told her I owed a debt in

Lancashire, a debt of gratitude as well as money: and so I did. How

have I repaid it? The poor soul forced five hundred pounds on me. I had

much ado to keep her from bringing it hither with her own hands; oh,

villain! villain! Then I thought to leave thee, and send thee word I

was dead; and heap money on thee. Money! But how could I? Thou wast my

benefactress, my more than wife. All the riches of the world can make

no return to thee. What, what shall I do? Shall I fly with thee and thy

child across the seas? Shall I go back to her? No, the best thing I can

do is to take this good pistol, and let the life out of my dishonorable

carcass, and free two honest women from me by one resolute act."

In his despair he cocked the pistol; and, at a word from Mercy, this

tale had ended.

But the poor woman, pale and trembling, tottered across the room, and

took it out of his hand. "I would not harm thy body, nor thy soul," she

gasped. "Let me draw my breath, and think."

She rocked herself to and fro in silence.

Griffith stood trembling like a criminal before his judge.

It was long ere she could speak, for anguish. Yet when she did speak,

it was with a sort of deadly calm.

"Go tell the truth to _her_, as you have done to me: and, if she can

forgive you, all the better for you. I can never forgive you, nor yet

can harm you. My child, my child! Thy father is our ruin. Oh begone,

man, or the sight of you will kill us both."

"At that he fell at her knees; kissed, and wept over her cold hand,

and, in his pity and despair, offered to cross the seas with her and

her child, and so repair the wrong he had done her.

"Tempt me not," she sobbed. "Go: leave me. None here shall ever know

thy crime, but she whose heart thou hast broken, and ruined her good

name."

He took her in his arms, in spite of her resistance, and kissed her

passionately; but, for the first time, she shuddered at his embrace,

and that gave him the power to leave her.

He rushed from her, all but distracted, and rode away to Cumberland;

but not to tell the truth to Kate, if he could possibly help it.

CHAPTER III

At this particular time, no man's presence was more desired in that

county than Griffith Gaunt's.

And this I need not now he telling the reader, if I had related this

story on the plan of a miscellaneous chronicle. But the affairs of the

heart are so absorbing, that, even in a narrative, they thrust aside

important circumstances of a less moving kind.

I must therefore go back a step, before I advance further. You must

know that forty years before our Griffith Gaunt saw the light, another

Griffith Gaunt was born in Cumberland: a younger son, and the family

estate entailed; but a shrewd lad, who chose rather to hunt fortune

elsewhere, than to live in miserable dependence on his elder brother.

His godfather, a city merchant, encouraged him, and he left Cumberland.

He went into commerce, and in twenty years became a wealthy man, so

wealthy that he lived to look down on his brother's estate, which he

had once thought opulence. His life was all prosperity, with a single

exception; but that a bitter one. He laid out some of his funds in a

fashionable and beautiful wife. He loved her before marriage: and, as

she was always cold to him, he loved her more and more.

In the second year of their marriage she ran away from him; and no

beggar in the streets of London was so miserable as the wealthy

merchant.

It blighted the man, and left him a sore heart all his days. He never

married again; and railed on all womankind for this one. He led a

solitary life in London till he was sixty-nine; and then, all of a

sudden, Nature, or accident, or both, changed his whole habits. Word

came to him that the family estate, already deeply mortgaged, was for

sale, and a farmer who had rented a principal farm on it, and held a

heavy mortgage, had made the highest offer.

Old Griffith sent down Mr. Atkins, his solicitor, post haste, and

snapped the estate out of that purchaser's hands.

When the lands and house had been duly conveyed to him, he came down,

and his heart seemed to bud again, in the scenes of his childhood.

Finding the house small, and built in a valley instead of on rising

ground, he got an army of bricklayers, and began to build a mansion

with a rapidity unheard of in those parts; and he looked about for some

one to inherit it.

The name of Gaunt had dwindled down to three since he left Cumberland;

but a rich man never lacks relations. Featherstonhaughs, and

Underhills, and even Smiths, poured in, with parish registers in their

laps, and proved themselves Gauntesses; and flattered and carneyed the

new head of the family.

Then the perverse old gentleman felt inclined to look elsewhere. He

knew he had a namesake at the other side of the county, but this

namesake did not come near him.

This independent Gaunt excited his curiosity and interest. He made

inquiries, and heard that young Griffith had just quarrelled with his

wife, and gone away in despair.

Griffith senior took for granted that the fault lay with Mrs. Gaunt,

and wasted some good sympathy on Griffith junior.

On further inquiry he learnt that the truant was dependent on his wife.

Then, argued the moneyed man, he would not run away from her, but that

his wound was deep.

The consequence of all this was, that he made a will very favorable to

his absent and injured (?) namesake. He left numerous bequests; but

made Griffith his residuary legatee; and having settled this matter,

urged on, and superintended his workmen.

Alas! just as the roof was going on, a narrower house claimed him, and

he made good the saying of the wise bard--

--Tu secanda marmora

Locas sub ipsum funus et sepulchri

Immemor struis domos.

The heir of his own choosing could not be found to attend his funeral;

and Mr. Atkins, his solicitor, a very worthy man, was really hurt at

this. With the quiet bitterness of a displeased attorney, he merely

sent Mrs. Gaunt word her husband inherited something under the will,

and she would do well to produce him, or else furnish him (Atkins) with

proof of his decease.

Mrs. Gaunt was offended by this cavalier note, and replied very like a

woman, and very unlike Business.

"I do not know where he is," said she, "nor whether he is alive or

dead. Nor do I feel disposed to raise the hue and cry after him. But,

favor me with your address, and I shall let you know should I hear

anything about him."

Mr. Atkins was half annoyed, half amused, at this piece of

indifference. It never occurred to him that it might be all put on.

He wrote back to say that the estate was large, and, owing to the terms

of the will, could not be administered without Mr. Griffith Gaunt;

and, in the interest of the said Griffith Gaunt, and also of the other

legatees, he really must advertise for him.

La Gaunt replied that he was very welcome to advertise for whomsoever

he pleased.

Mr. Atkins was a very worthy man; but human. To tell the truth, he

was himself one of the other legatees. He inherited (and, to be just,

had well deserved,) four thousand guineas, under the will, and could

not legally touch it without Griffith Gaunt. This little circumstance

spurred his professional zeal.

Mr. Atkins advertised for Griffith Gaunt, in the London and Cumberland

papers, and in the usual enticing form. He was to apply to Mr. Atkins,

Solicitor, of Gray's Inn, and he would hear of something greatly to his

advantage.

These advertisements had not been out a fortnight, when Griffith came

home, as I have related.

But Mr. Atkins had punished Mrs. Gaunt for her insouciance, by not

informing her of the extent of her good fortune; so she merely told

Griffith, casually, that old Griffith Gaunt had left him some money,

and the solicitor, Mr. Atkins, could not get on without him. Even this

information she did not vouchsafe until she had given him her 500_l_.,

for she grudged Atkins the pleasure of supplying her husband with money.

However, as soon as Griffith left her, she wrote to Mr. Atkins to say

that her husband had come home in perfect health, thank God; had only

stayed two days, but was to return in a week.

When ten days had elapsed, Atkins wrote to inquire.

She replied he had not yet returned: and this went on till Mr. Atkins

showed considerable impatience.

As for Mrs. Gaunt, she made light of the matter to Mr. Atkins; but, in

truth, this new mystery irritated her and pained her deeply.

In one respect she was more unhappy than she had been before he came

back at all. Then she was alone; her door was closed to commentators.

But now, on the strength of so happy a reconciliation, she had

re-entered the world, and received visits from Sir George Neville,

and others; and, above all, had announced that Griffith would be back

for good in a few days. So now his continued absence exposed her to

sly questions from her own sex, to the interchange of glances between

female visitors, as well as to the internal torture of doubt and

suspense.

But what distracted her most, was the view Mrs. Ryder took of the

matter.

That experienced lady had begun to suspect some other woman was at the

bottom of Griffith's conduct: and her own love for Griffith was now

soured; repeated disappointments and affronts, spretæque injuria formæ,

had not quite extinguished it, but had mixed so much spite with it,

that she was equally ready to kiss or to stab him.

So she took every opportunity to instill into her mistress, whose

confidence she had won at last, that Griffith was false to her.

"That is the way with these men that are so ready to suspect others.

Take my word for it. Dame, he has carried your money to his leman. 'Tis

still the honest woman that must bleed for some nasty trollop or other."

She enforced this theory by examples drawn from her own observations in

families, and gave the very names; and drove Mrs. Gaunt almost mad with

fear, anger, jealousy, and cruel suspense. She could not sleep, she

could not eat; she was in a constant fever.

Yet before the world she battled it out bravely, and indeed none but

Ryder knew the anguish of her spirit, and her passionate wrath.

At last there came a most eventful day.

Mrs. Gaunt had summoned all her pride and fortitude, and invited

certain ladies and gentlemen to dine and sup.

She was one of the true Spartan breed, and played the hostess as well

as if her heart had been at ease. It was an age in which the host

struggled fiercely to entertain the guests; and Mrs. Gaunt was taxing

all her powers of pleasing in the dining-room, when an unexpected guest

strolled into the kitchen. The pedlar, Thomas Leicester.

Jane welcomed him cordially, and he was soon seated at a table eating

his share of the feast.

Presently Mrs. Ryder came down, dressed in her best, and looking

handsomer than ever.

At sight of her, Tom Leicester's affection revived; and he soon took

occasion to whisper an inquiry whether she was still single.

"Ay," said she, "and like to be."

"Waiting for the master still? Mayhap I could cure you of that

complaint. But least said is soonest mended."

This mysterious hint showed Ryder he had a secret burning his bosom.

The sly hussy said nothing just then, but plied him with ale and

flattery; and, when he whispered a request for a private meeting out of

doors, she cast her eyes down, and assented.

And in that meeting she carried herself so adroitly, that he renewed

his offer of marriage, and told her not to waste her fancy on a man who

cared neither for her nor any other she in Cumberland.

"Prove that to me," said Ryder, cunningly, "and may be I'll take you at

your word."

The bribe was not to be resisted. Tom revealed to her, under a solemn

promise of secrecy, that the Squire had got a wife and child in

Lancashire; and had a farm and an inn, which latter he kept, under the

name of Thomas Leicester.

In short, he told her, in his way, all the particulars I have told in

mine.

She led him on with a voice of very velvet. He did not see how her

cheek paled and her eyes flashed jealous fury.

When she had sucked him dry, she suddenly turned on him, with a cold

voice, and said, "I can't stay any longer with you just now. She will

want me."

"You will meet me here again, lass?" said Tom, ruefully.

"Yes, for a minute, after supper."

She then left him and went to Mrs. Gaunt's room, and sat crouching

before the fire, all hate and bitterness.

What? he had left the wife he loved, and yet had not turned to her!

She sat there, waiting for Mrs. Gaunt, and nursing her vindictive fury,

two mortal hours.

At last, just before supper, Mrs. Gaunt came up to her room, to cool

her fevered hands and brow, and found this creature crouched by her

fire, all in a heap, with pale cheek, and black eyes that glittered

like basilisk's.

"What is the matter, child?" said Mrs. Gaunt. "Good Heavens! what hath

happened?"

"Dame!" said Ryder, sternly, "I have got news of him."

"News of him?" faltered Mrs. Gaunt. "Bad news?"

"I don't know whether to tell you or not," said Ryder, sulkily, but

with a touch of human feeling.

"What cannot I bear? What have I not borne? Tell me the truth."

The words were stout, but she trembled all over in uttering them.

"Well, it is as I said; only worse. Dame, he has got a wife and child

in another county; and no doubt been deceiving her, as he has us."

"A wife!" gasped Mrs. Gaunt, and one white hand clutched her bosom, and

the other the mantelpiece.

"Ay, Thomas Leicester, that is in the kitchen now, saw her, and saw

his picture hanging aside hers on the wall. And he goes by the name of

Thomas Leicester: that was what made Tom go into the inn, seeing his

own name on the sign-board. Nay, Dame, never give way like that, lean

on me; so. He is a villain, a false, jealous, double-faced villain."

Mrs. Gaunt's head fell on Ryder's shoulder, and she said no word;

but only moaned and moaned, and her white teeth clicked convulsively

together.

Ryder wept over her sad state: the tears were half impulse, half

crocodile.

She applied hartshorn to the sufferer's nostrils, and tried to rouse

her mind by exciting her anger. But all was in vain. There hung the

betrayed wife, pale, crushed, and quivering under the cruel blow.

Ryder asked her if she should go down and excuse her to her guests.

She nodded a feeble assent.

Ryder then laid her down on the bed with her head low, and was just

about to leave her on that errand, when hurried steps were heard

outside the door, and one of the female servants knocked; and, not

waiting to be invited, put her head in, and cried, "Oh, Dame, the

Master is come home. He is in the kitchen."

CHAPTER IV

Mrs. Ryder made an agitated motion with her hand, and gave the girl

such a look withal, that she retired precipitately.

But Mrs. Gaunt had caught the words, and they literally transformed

her. She sprang off the bed, and stood erect, and looked a Saxon

Pythoness: golden hair streaming down her back and grey eyes gleaming

with fury.

She caught up a little ivory-handled knife, and held it above her head.

"I'll drive this into his heart before them all," she cried," and tell

them the reason _afterwards!_"

Ryder looked at her for a moment in utter terror. She saw a woman with

grander passions than herself: a woman that looked quite capable of

executing her sanguinary threat. Ryder made no more ado, but slipped

out directly to prevent a meeting that might be attended with such

terrible consequences.

She found her master in the kitchen, splashed with mud, drinking a horn

of ale after his ride, and looking rather troubled and anxious; and, by

the keen eye of her sex, she saw that the female servants were also in

considerable anxiety. The fact is they had just extemporized a lie.

Tom Leicester being near the kitchen window, had seen Griffith ride

into the court-yard.

At sight of that well-known figure, he drew back, and his heart quaked

at his own imprudence, in confiding Griffith's secret to Caroline Ryder.

"Lasses," said he, hastily, "do me a kindness for old acquaintance.

Here's the Squire. For heaven's sake don't let him know I am in the

house, or there will be bloodshed between us; he is a hasty man, and

I'm another. I'll tell ye more by and by."

The next moment Griffith's tread was heard approaching the very door,

and Leicester darted into the housekeeper's room, and hid in a cupboard

there.

Griffith opened the kitchen door, and stood upon the threshold.

The women curtseyed to him, and were loud in welcome.

He returned their civilities briefly; and then his first word

was--"Hath Thomas Leicester been here?"

You know how servants stick together against their master. The girls

looked him in the face, like candid doves, and told him Leicester had

not been that way for six months or more.

Why, I have tracked him to within two miles," said Griffith, doubtfully.

"Then he is sure to come here," said Jane, adroitly. "He wouldn't ever

think to go by us."

"The moment he enters the house you let me know. He is a

mischief-making loon."

He then asked for a horn of ale; and, as he finished it, Ryder came in,

and he turned to her, and asked her after her mistress.

"She is well, just now," said Ryder; "but she has been took with a

spasm: and it would be well, sir, if you could dress, and entertain the

company in her place awhile. For I must tell you your being so long

away hath set their tongues going, and almost broken my lady's heart."

Griffith sighed, and said he could not help it, and now he was here, he

would do all in his power to please her. I'll go to her at once," said

he.

"No, sir!" said Ryder, firmly. "Come with me. I want to speak to you."

She took him to his bachelor's room, and stayed a few minutes to talk

to him.

"Master," said she, solemnly; "things are very serious here. Why did

you stay so long away? Our Dame says some woman is at the bottom of it,

and she'll put a knife into you if you come a nigh her."

This threat did not appall Griffith, as Ryder expected. Indeed, he

seemed rather flattered.

"Poor Kate!" said he, "she is just the woman to do it. But I am afraid

she does not love me enough for that. But indeed how should she?"

"Well, sir," replied Ryder, "oblige me by keeping clear of her for a

little while. I have got orders to make your bed here. Now, dress, like

a good soul, and then go down and show respect to the company that is

in your house; for they know you are here."

"Why, that is the least I can do," said Griffith. "Put you out what I

am to wear, and then run and say I'll be with them anon."

Griffith walked into the dining-room, and, somewhat to his surprise,

after what Ryder had said, found Mrs. Gaunt seated at the head of her

own table, and presiding like a radiant queen over a brilliant assembly.

He walked in, and made a low bow to his guests first: then he

approached, to greet his wife more freely; but she drew back decidedly,

and made him a curtsy, the dignity and distance of which struck the

whole company.

Sir George Neville, who was at the bottom of the table, proposed, with

his usual courtesy, to resign his place to Griffith. But Mrs. Gaunt

forbade the arrangement.

"No, Sir George," said she, "this is but an occasional visitor: you are

my constant friend."

If this had been said pleasantly, well and good; but the guests looked

in vain into their hostess's face for the smile that ought to have

accompanied so strange a speech and disarmed it.

"Rarities are the more welcome," said a lady, coming to the rescue; and

edged aside to make room for him.

"Madam," said Griffith, "I am in your debt for that explanation; but I

hope you will be no rarity here, for all that."

Supper proceeded; but the mirth languished. Somehow or other, the chill

fact that there was a grave quarrel between two at the table, and those

two man and wife, insinuated itself into the spirits of the guests.

There began to be lulls: fatal lulls. And in one of these, some unlucky

voice was heard to murmur, "Such a meeting of man and wife, I never

saw."

The hearers felt miserable at this personality, that fell upon the ear

of Silence like a thunderbolt.

Griffith was ill-advised enough to notice the remark, though clearly

not intended for his ears. For one thing, his jealousy had actually

revived at the cool preference Kate had shown his old rival, Neville.

"Oh!" said he, bitterly, "a man is not always his wife's favorite."

"He does not always deserve to he," said Mrs. Gaunt, sternly.

When matters had gone that length, one idea seemed to occur pretty

simultaneously to all the well-bred guests: and that idea was, _Sauve

qui peut._

Mrs. Gaunt took leave of them, one by one, and husband and wife were

left alone.

Mrs. Gaunt by this time was alarmed at the violence of her own

passions, and wished to avoid Griffith for that night at all events. So

she cast one terribly stern look upon him, and was about to retire in

grim silence. But he, indignant at the public affront she had put on

him, and not aware of the true cause, unfortunately detained her. He

said, sulkily, "What sort of a reception was that you gave me?"

This was too much. She turned on him furiously. "Too good for thee,

thou heartless creature! Thomas Leicester is here, and I know thee for

a villain."

"You know nothing," cried Griffith. "Would you believe that

mischief-making knave? What has he told you?"

"Go back to her!" cried Mrs. Gaunt furiously. "Me you can deceive

and pillage no more. So, this was your jealousy! False and forsworn

yourself, you dared to suspect and insult me. Ah! and you think I am

the woman to endure this? I'll have your life for it! I'll have your

life."

Griffith endeavored to soften her; protested that, notwithstanding

appearances, he had never loved but her.

"I'll soon be rid of you, and your love," said the raging woman. "The

constables shall come for you to-morrow. You have seen how I can love,

you shall know how I can hate."

She then, in her fury, poured out a torrent of reproaches and threats

that made his blood run cold. He could not answer her: he _had_

suspected her wrongfully, and been false to her himself. He _had_

abused her generosity, and taken her money for Mercy Vint.

After one or two vain efforts to check the torrent, he sank into a

chair, and hid his face in his hands.

But this did not disarm her, at the time. Her raging voice and raging

words were heard by the very servants, long after he had ceased to

defend himself.

At last she came out, pale with fury, and finding Ryder near the door,

shrieked out, "Take that reptile to his den, if he is mean enough

to lie in this house:" then, lowering her voice, "and bring Thomas

Leicester to me."

Ryder went to Leicester, and told him. But he objected to come. "You

have betrayed me," said he. "Curse my weak heart, and my loose tongue. I

have done the poor Squire an ill turn. I can never look him in the face

again. But 'tis all thy fault, double-face. I hate the sight of thee."

At this Ryder shed some crocodile tears; and very soon, by her

blandishments, obtained forgiveness.

And Leicester, since the mischief was done, was persuaded to see the

Dame, who was his recent benefactor, you know. He bargained, however,

that the Squire should be got to bed first, for he had a great dread of

meeting him. "He'll break every bone in my skin," said Tom; "or else I

shall do _him_ a mischief in my defense."

Ryder herself saw the wisdom of this: she bade him stay quiet, and she

went to look after Griffith.

She found him in the drawing-room, with his head on the table, in deep

dejection.

She assumed authority, and said he must go to bed.

He rose humbly, and followed her like a submissive dog.

She took him to his room. There was no fire.

"That is where you are to sleep," said she, spitefully.

"It is better than I deserve," said he, humbly.

The absurd rule about not hitting a man when he is down, has never

obtained a place in the great female soul; so Ryder lashed him without

mercy.

"Well, sir," said she, "methinks you have gained little by breaking

faith with me. Y' had better have set up your inn with me, than gone

and sinned against the law."

"Much better: would to Heaven I had!"

"What d'ye mean to do now? You know the saying. Between two stools--."

"Child," said Griffith, faintly, "methinks I shall trouble neither

long. I am not so ill a man as I seem; but who will believe that? I

shall not live long. And I shall leave an ill name behind me. _She_

told me so just now. And, oh, her eye was so cruel; I saw my death in

it."

"Come, come," said Ryder, relenting a little, "you mustn't believe

every word an angry woman says. There, take my advice; go to bed; and

in the morning don't speak to her; keep out of her way a day or two."

And with this piece of friendly advice she left him; and waited about

till she thought he was in bed and asleep.

Then she brought Thomas Leicester up to her mistress.

But Griffith was not in bed; and he heard Leicester's heavy tread cross

the landing. He waited and waited behind his door for more than half an

hour, and then he heard the same heavy tread go away again.

By this time nearly all the inmates of the house were asleep.

About twenty-five minutes after Leicester left Mrs. Gaunt, Caroline

Ryder stole quietly upstairs from the kitchen; and sat down to think it

all over.

She then proceeded to undress: but had only taken off her gown, when

she started and listened; for a cry of distress reached her from

outside the house.

She darted to the window and threw it open.

Then she heard a cry more distinct. "Help! help!"

It was a clear starlight night, but no moon.