checks were ghastly, and her black eyes roved like some wild animal's
round the court. She saw her own danger, and had no means of measuring
her inquisitor's information.
"My lord, have pity on me. I was betrayed, abandoned. Why am I so
tormented? I have not committed murder." So, catlike, she squealed and
scratched at once.
_Prisoner._ What! to swear away an innocent life, is not that murder?
_The Judge._ Prisoner, we make allowances for your sex, and your peril,
but you must not remark on the evidence at present. Examine as severely
as you will, but abstain from comment till you address the jury on your
defense.
_Sergeant Wiltshire._ My lord, I submit that this line of examination
is barbarous, and travels out of the case entirely.
_Prisoner._ Not so, Mr. Sergeant. 'Tis done by advice of an able
lawyer. My life is in peril unless I shake this witness's credit. To
that end I show you she is incontinent, and practiced in falsehood.
Unchastity has been held in these courts to disqualify a female
witness, hath it not, my lord?
_The Judge._ Hardly. But to disparage her evidence it has. And wisely;
for she who loses her virtue enters on a life of deceit; and lying
is a habit that spreads from one thing to many. Much wisdom there is
in ancient words. Our forefathers taught us to call a virtuous woman
an honest woman, and the law does but follow in that track; still,
however, leaving much to the discretion of the jury.
_Prisoner._ I would show her more mercy than she has shown to me.
Therefore I leave that matter. Witness, be so good as to examine Mrs.
Hamilton's letter, and compare it with your own. The "y's" and the
"s's" are peculiar in both, and yet the same. Come, confess; Mrs.
Hamilton's is a forgery. You wrote it. Be pleased to hand both letters
up to my lord to compare; the disguise is but thin.
_Ryder._ Forgery there was none. There is no Mrs. Hamilton. (She burst
into tears.) I had my child to provide for, and no man to help me! What
was I to do? A servant must live.
_Prisoner._ Then why not let her mistress live whose bread she has
eaten? My lord, shall not this false witness be sent hence to prison
for perjury?
_Wiltshire._ Certainly not. What woman on earth is expected to
reveal her own shame upon oath? 'Twas not fair nor human to put such
questions. Come, madam, leave torturing this poor creature. Show some
mercy; you may need it yourself.
_The Prisoner._ Sir, 'tis not mercy I ask, but justice according to
law. But, since you do me the honor to make me a request, I will
comply, and ask her but one question more. Describe my apartment into
which you showed Thomas Leicester that night. Begin at the outer door.
_Ryder._ First there is the ante-room; then the boudoir; then there's
your bed-chamber.
_Prisoner._ Into which of those three did you show Thomas Leicester?
_Ryder._ Into the ante-room.
_Prisoner._ Then why did you say it was in my chamber I entertained him?
_Ryder._ Madam, I meant no more than that it was your private apartment
upstairs.
_Prisoner._ You contrived to make the gentlemen think otherwise.
_The Judge._ That you did. 'Tis down in my notes that she received the
pedlar in her bed-chamber.
_Ryder_ (sobbing). God is my witness I did not mean to mislead your
lordship: and I ask my lady's pardon for not being more exact in that
particular.
At this the prisoner bowed to the judge, and sat down with one
victorious flash of her grey eye at the witness, who was in an abject
condition of fear, and hung all about the witness-box limp as a wet
towel.
Sergeant Wiltshire saw she was so thoroughly cowed she would be apt
to truckle, and soften her evidence to propitiate the prisoner; so he
asked her but one question.
"Were you and the prisoner on good terms?"
_Ryder._ On the best of terms. She was always a good and liberal
mistress to me.
_Wiltshire._ I will not prolong your sufferings. You may go down.
_The Judge._ But you will not leave the court till this trial is ended.
I have grave doubts whether I ought not to commit you.
Unfortunately for the prisoner, Ryder was not the last witness for the
Crown. The others that followed were so manifestly honest that it would
have been impolitic to handle them severely. The prisoner, therefore,
put very few questions to them; and, when the last witness went down,
the case looked very formidable.
The evidence for the Crown being now complete, the judge retired for
some refreshment; and the court buzzed like a hum of bees. Mrs. Gaunt's
lips and throat were parched; and her heart quaked.
A woman of quite the lower order thrust forth a great arm, and gave her
an orange. Mrs. Gaunt thanked her sweetly: and the juice relieved her
throat.
Also this bit of sympathy was of good omen, and did her heart good.
She buried her face in her hands, and collected all her powers for
the undertaking before her. She had noted down the exact order of her
topics, but no more.
The judge returned; the crier demanded silence; and the prisoner rose,
and turned her eyes modestly but steadily upon those who held her life
in their hands: and, true to the wisdom of her sex, the first thing she
aimed at was--to please.
"My lord, and you gentlemen of the jury, I am now to reply to a charge
of murder, founded on a little testimony, and a good deal of false,
but, I must needs say, reasonable conjecture.
"I am innocent; but unlike other innocent persons who have stood here
before me, I have no man to complain of.
"The magistrates who committed me proceeded with due caution and
humanity: they weighed my hitherto unspotted reputation, and were in
no hurry to prejudge me; here, in this court, I have met with much
forbearance; the learned counsel for the Crown has made me groan under
his abilities; that was his duty; but he said from the first he would
do nothing hard, and he has kept his word; often he might have stopped
me; I saw it in his face: but, being a gentleman and a Christian,
as well as a learned lawyer, methinks he said to himself, 'this is
a poor gentlewoman pleading for her life; let her have some little
advantage.' As for my lord, he has promised to be my counsel, so far as
his high station, and duty to the Crown, admit; and he has supported
and consoled me more than once with words of justice, that would not,
I think, have encouraged a guilty person, but have comforted and
sustained me beyond expression. So then I stand here, the victim, not
of man's injustice, but of deceitful appearances, and of honest, but
hasty and loose conjectures.
"These conjectures I shall now sift, and hope to show you how hollow
they are.
"Gentlemen, in every disputed matter the best way, I am told, is to
begin by settling what both parties are agreed in, and so to narrow the
matter. To use that way, then, I do heartily agree with the learned
counsel that murder is a heinous crime, and that, black as it is at the
best, yet it is still more detestable when 'tis a wife that murders her
husband, and robs her child of a parent who can never be replaced.
"I also agree with him that circumstantial evidence is often sufficient
to convict a murderer; and, indeed, were it not so, that most monstrous
of crimes would go oftenest unpunished: since, of all culprits,
murderers do most shun the eyes of men in their dark deeds, and so
provide before-hand that direct testimony to their execrable crime
there shall be none. Only herein I am advised to take a distinction
that escaped the learned sergeant; I say that first of all it ought to
be proved directly, and to the naked eye, that a man has been murdered;
and then, if none saw the crime done, let circumstances point out the
murderer.
"But here, they put the cart before the horse; they find a dead
body, with no marks of violence whatever; and labour to prove by
circumstantial evidence alone that this mere dead body is a murdered
body. This, I am advised, is bad in law, and contrary to general
precedents; and the particular precedents for it are not examples, but
warnings; since both the prisoners so rashly convicted were proved
innocent, after their execution."
(The judge took a note of this distinction.)
"Then, to go from principles to the facts, I agree and admit that, in a
moment of anger, I was so transported out of myself as to threaten my
husband's life before Caroline Ryder. But afterwards, when I saw him
face to face, then, that I threatened him with _violence_, that I deny.
The fact is I had just learned that he had committed a capital offense:
and what I threatened him with was the law. This was proved by Jane
Bannister. She says she heard me say the constables should come for him
next morning. For what? to murder him?"
_The Judge._ Give me leave, madam. Shall you prove Mr. Gaunt had
committed a capital offense?
_Prisoner._ I could, my lord; but I am loth to do it. For, if I did, I
should cast him into worse trouble than I am in myself.
_The Judge_ (shaking his head gravely). Let me advise you to advance
nothing you are not able and willing to prove.
_The Prisoner._ Then, I confine myself to this: it was proved by
a witness for the Crown that in the dining-room I threatened my
husband to his face with the law. Now this threat, and not that other
extravagant threat, which he never heard you know, was clearly the
threat which caused him to abscond that night.
"In the next place, I agree with the learned counsel that I was out
of doors at one o'clock that morning. But if he will use me as his
witness in that matter, then he must not pick and choose and mutilate
my testimony. Nay, let him take the whole truth, and not just so much
as he can square with the indictment. Either believe me, that I was out
of doors praying, or do not believe me that I was out of doors at all.
"Gentlemen, hear the simple truth. You may see in the map, on the south
side of Hernshaw Castle, a grove of large fir-trees. 'Tis a reverend
place, most fit for prayer and meditation. Here I have prayed a
thousand times and more before the fifteenth October. Hence 'tis called
'the Dame's haunt' as I shall prove, that am the dame 'tis called after.
"Let it not seem incredible to you that I should pray out of doors in
my grove, on a fine clear starry night. For aught I know, Protestants
may pray only by the fireside. But, remember, I am a Catholic. We
are not so contracted in our praying. We do not confine it to little
comfortable places. Nay, but for seventeen hundred years and more we
have prayed out of doors as much as in doors. And this our custom is
no fit subject for a shallow sneer. How does the learned sergeant know
that, beneath the vault of heaven at night, studded with those angelic
eyes, the stars, is an unfit place to bend the knee, and raise the soul
in prayer? Has he ever tried it?"
This sudden appeal to a learned and eminent, but by no means
devotional, sergeant, so tickled the gentlemen of the bar, that they
burst out laughing with singular unanimity.
This dashed the prisoner, who had not intended to be funny; and she
hesitated, and looked distressed.
_The Judge._ Proceed, madam; these remarks of yours are singular, but
quite pertinent, and no fit subject for ridicule. Gentlemen, remember
the public looks to you for an example.
_Prisoner._ My Lord, 'twas my fault for making that personal which
should be general. But women they are so. 'Tis our foible. I pray the
good Sergeant to excuse me.
"I say, then, generally, that when the sun retires, then earth fades,
but heaven comes out in tenfold glory: and I say the starry firmament
at night is a temple not built with hands, and the bare sight of
it subdues the passions, chastens the heart, and aids the soul in
prayer surprisingly. My lord, as I am a Christian woman, 'tis true
that my husband had wronged me cruelly and broken the law. 'Tis true
that I raged against him and he answered me not again. 'Tis true, as
that witness said, that my bark is worse than my bite. I cooled, and
then felt I had forgotten the wife and the Christian, in my wrath. I
repented, and, to be more earnest in my penitence, I did go and pray
out o' doors beneath those holy eyes of heaven that seemed to look down
with chaste reproach on my ungoverned heat. I left my fireside, my
velvet cushions, and all the little comforts made by human hands, that
adorn our earthly dwellings, but distract our eyes from God."
Some applause followed this piece of eloquence, exquisitely uttered. It
was checked, and the prisoner resumed, with an entire change of manner.
"Gentlemen, the case against me is like a piece of rotten wood
varnished all over. It looks fair to the eye; but will not bear
handling.
"As example of what I say, take three charges on which the learned
sergeant greatly relied on opening his case:
"1st. That I received Thomas Leicester in my bedroom.
"2nd. That he went hot from me after Mr. Gaunt.
"3rd. That he was seen following Mr. Gaunt with a bloody intent.
"How ugly these three proofs looked at first sight! Well, but when we
squeezed the witnesses ever so little, what did these three dwindle
down to?
"1st. That I received Thomas Leicester in an ante-room, which leads to
a boudoir, and that boudoir leads to my bedroom.
"2nd. That Thomas Leicester went from me to the kitchen, and there, for
a good half-hour, drank my ale (as it appears), and made love to his
old sweetheart, Caroline Ryder, the false witness for the Crown; and
went abroad fresh from her, and not from me.
"3rd. That he was not (to speak strictly) seen following Mr. Gaunt, but
just walking on the same road, drunk, and staggering, and going at such
a rate that, as the Crown's own witness swore, he could hardly in the
nature of things overtake Mr. Gaunt, who walked quicker, and straighter
too, than he.
"So then, even if a murder has been done, they have failed to connect
Thomas Leicester with it, or me with Thomas Leicester. Two broken links
in a chain of but three.
"And now I come to the more agreeable part of my defense. I do think
there has been no murder at all.
"There is no evidence of a murder.
"A body is found with the flesh eaten by fishes, but the bones, and
the head, uninjured. They swear a surgeon, who has examined the body,
and certainly he had the presumption to guess it looks like a murdered
body. But, being sifted, he was forced to admit that, so far as his
experience of murdered bodies goes, it is not like a murdered body; for
there is no bone broken, nor bruise on the head.
"Where is the body found? In the water. But water by itself is a
sufficient cause of death, and a common cause too; and kills without
breaking bones, or bruising the head. O perversity of the wise! For
every one creature murdered in England, ten are accidentally drowned;
and they find a dead man in the water, which is as much as to say they
find the slain in the arms of the slayer; yet they do not once suspect
the water, but go about in search of a strange and monstrous crime.
"Mr. Gaunt's cry for help was heard here, if it was heard at all (which
I greatly doubt), here by this clump of trees: the body was found here,
hard by the bridge; which is, by measurement, one furlong and sixty
paces from that clump of trees, as I shall prove. There is no current
in the mere lively enough to move a body, and what there is runs the
wrong way. So this disconnects the cry for help, and the dead body.
Another broken link!
"And now I come to my third defense, I say the body is not the body of
Griffith Gaunt.
"The body, mutilated it was, had two distinguishing marks: a mole on
the brow, and a pair of hobnailed shoes on the feet.
"Now the advisers of the Crown fix their eyes on that mole; but they
turn their heads away from the hobnailed shoes. But why? Articles of
raiment found on a body are legal evidence of identity. How often, my
lord, in cases of murder, hath the Crown relied on such particulars,
especially in cases where corruption had obscured the features.
"I shall not imitate this partiality, this obstinate prejudice; I shall
not ask you to shut your eyes on the mole, as they do on the shoes, but
shall meet the whole truth fairly.
"Mr. Gaunt went from my house, that morning, with boots on his feet,
and with a mole on his brow.
"Thomas Leicester went the same road, with shoes on his feet, and, as I
shall prove, with a mole on his brow.
"To be sure the Crown witnesses did not distinctly admit this mole on
him; but, you will remember, they dared not deny it on their oaths, and
so run their heads into an indictment for perjury.
"But, gentlemen, I shall put seven witnesses into the box, who will all
swear that they have known Thomas Leicester for years, and that he had
a mole upon his left temple.
"One of these witnesses is--the mother that bore him.
"I shall then call witnesses to prove that, on the fifteenth of
October, the bridge over the mere was in bad repair, and a portion of
the side rail gone; and that the body was found within a few yards of
that defective bridge; and then, as Thomas Leicester went that way,
drunk, and staggering from side to side, you may reasonably infer that
he fell into the water in passing the bridge. To show you this is
possible, I shall prove the same thing has actually occurred. I shall
swear the oldest man in the parish, who will depose to a similar event
that happened in his boyhood. He hath said it a thousand times before
to-day, and now will swear it. He will tell you that on a certain
day, sixty-nine years ago, the parson of Hernshaw, the Rev. Augustus
Murthwaite, went to cross this bridge at night, after carousing at
Hernshaw Castle with our great-grandfather, my husband's and mine,
the then proprietor of Hernshaw; and tumbled into the water; and his
body was found, gnawed out of the very form of humanity by the fishes,
within a yard or two of the spot where poor Tom Leicester was found,
that hath cost us all this trouble. So do the same causes bring round
the same events in a cycle of years. The only difference is that the
parson drank his death in our dining-room, and the pedlar in our
kitchen.
"No doubt, my lord, you have observed that sometimes a hasty and
involuntary inaccuracy gives quite a wrong color to a thing. I assure
you I have suffered by this. It is said that the moment Mr. Atkins
proposed to drag my mere, I fainted away. In this account there is
an omission. I shall prove that Mr. Atkins used these words--'And,
underneath that water, I undertake to find the remains of Griffith
Gaunt.' Now, gentlemen, you shall understand that at this time, and
indeed until the moment when I saw the shoes upon that poor corpse's
feet, I was in great terror for my husband's life. How could it be
otherwise? Caroline Ryder had told me she heard his cry for help. He
had disappeared. What was I to think? I feared he had fallen in with
robbers. I feared all manner of things. So when the lawyer said so
positively he would find his body, I was overpowered. Ah, gentlemen,
wedded love survives many wrongs, many angry words; I love my husband
still; and, when the man told me so brutally that he was certainly
dead, I fainted away. I confess it. Shall I be hanged for that?
"But now, thank God, I am full of hope that he is alive, and that good
hope has given me the courage to make this great effort to save my own
life.
"Hitherto I have been able to contradict my accusers positively; but
now I come to a mysterious circumstance that I own puzzles me. Most
persons accused of murder could, if they chose, make a clean breast,
and tell you the whole matter. But this is not my case. I know shoes
from boots, and I know Kate Gaunt from a liar and a murderess; but,
when all is said, this is still a dark mysterious business, and there
are things in it I can only deal with as you do, gentlemen, by bringing
my wits to bear upon them in reasonable conjecture.
"Caroline Ryder swears she heard Mr. Gaunt cry for help. And Mr. Gaunt
has certainly disappeared.
"My accusers have somewhat weakened this by trying to palm off the
body of Thomas Leicester on you for the body of Mr. Gaunt. But the
original mystery remains, and puzzles me. I might fairly appeal to you
to disbelieve the witness. She is proved incontinent, and a practiced
liar, and she forswore herself in this court, and my lord is in two
minds about committing her. But a liar does not always lie, and, to be
honest, I think she really believes she heard Mr. Gaunt cry for help,
for she went straight to his bedroom; and that looks as if she really
thought she heard his voice. But a liar may be mistaken; do not forget
that. Distance affects the voice: and I think the voice she heard was
Thomas Leicester's, and the place it came from higher up the mere.
"This, my notion, will surprise you less when I prove to you that
Leicester's voice bore a family likeness to Mr. Gaunt's. I shall
call two witnesses who have been out shooting with Mr. Gaunt and Tom
Leicester, and have heard Leicester halloo in the wood, and taken it
for Mr. Gaunt.
"Must I tell you the whole truth? This Leicester has always passed for
an illegitimate son of Mr. Gaunt's father. He resembled my husband
in form, stature, and voice: he had the Gaunt mole, and has often
spoken of it by that name. My husband forgave him many faults for no
other reason,--and I bought his wares and filled his pack for no other
reason,--than this; that he was my husband's brother by nature, though
not in law. 'HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE.'"
"Ah, that is a royal device; yet how often in this business have the
advisers of the Crown forgotten it?
"My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, I return from these conjectures to
the indisputable facts of my defense.
"Mr. Gaunt may be alive, or may be dead. He was certainly alive on the
fifteenth October, and it lies on the Crown to prove him dead, and not
on me to prove him alive. But, as for the body that forms the subject
of this indictment, it is the body of Thomas Leicester, who was seen on
the sixteenth October, at one in the morning, drunk and staggering, and
making for Hernshaw bridge, which leads to his mother's house; and on
all his former visits to Hernshaw Castle he went on to his mother's, as
I shall prove. This time, he never reached her, as I shall prove; but
on his way to her did meet his death by the will of God, and no fault
of man or woman, in Hernshaw Mere.
"Swear Sarah Leicester."
_The Judge._ I think you say you have several witnesses?
_Prisoner._ More than twenty, my lord.
_The Judge._ We cannot possibly dispose of them this evening. We
will hear your evidence tomorrow. Prisoner, this will enable you to
consult with your legal advisers, and let me urge upon you to prove,
if you can, that Mr. Gaunt has a sufficient motive for hiding and not
answering Mr. Atkins' invitation to inherit a large estate. Some such
proof is necessary to complete your defense: and I am sorry to see you
have made no mention of it in your address, which was otherwise able.
_Prisoner._ My lord, I think I can prove my own innocence without
casting a slur upon my husband.
_The Judge._ You _think?_ when your life is at stake. Be not so mad
as to leave so large a hole in your defense, if you can mend it. Take
_advice._
He said this very solemnly; then rose and left the court.
Mrs. Gaunt was conveyed back to prison, and there was soon prostrated
by the depression that follows an unnatural excitement.
Mr. Houseman found her on the sofa, pale and dejected, and clasping the
gaoler's wife convulsively, who applied hartshorn to her nostrils.
He proved but a Job's comforter. Her defense, creditable as it was to
a novice, seemed wordy and weak to him, a lawyer: and he was horrified
at the admissions she had made. In her place he would have admitted
nothing he could not throughly explain.
He came to insist on a change of tactics.
When he saw her sad condition, he tried to begin by consoling, and
encouraging her. But his own serious misgivings unfitted him for this
task, and very soon, notwithstanding the state she was in, he was
almost scolding her for being so mad as to withstand the judge, and set
herself against his advice. "There," said he, "my lord kept his word,
and became counsel for you. 'Close that gap in your defense,' says he,
'and you will very likely be acquitted.' 'Nay,' says you, 'I prefer to
chance it.' What madness! what injustice!"
"Injustice! to whom?"
"To whom? why, to yourself."
"What, may I not be unjust to myself?"
"Certainly not; you have no right to be unjust to anybody. Don't
deceive yourself; there is no virtue in this: it is mere miserable
weakness. What right have you to peril an innocent life merely to
screen the malefactor from just obloquy?"
"Alas!" said Mrs. Gaunt, "'tis more than obloquy. They will kill him;
they will brand him with a hot iron."
"Not unless he is indicted: and who will indict him? Sir George Neville
must be got to muzzle the Attorney-General, and the Lancashire jade
will not move against him, for you say they are living together."
"Of course they are: and, as you say, why should I screen him? But
'twill not serve, who can combat prejudice? If what I have said does
not convince them, an angel's voice would not. Sir, I am a Catholic,
and they will hang me. I shall die miserably, having exposed my
husband, who loved me once, oh! so dearly. I trifled with his love. I
deserve it all."
"You will not die at all, if you will only be good and obedient,
and listen to wiser heads. I have subpoenaed Caroline Ryder as your
witness, and given her a hint how to escape an indictment for perjury.
You will find her supple as a glove."
"Call a rattlesnake for my witness?"
"I have drawn her fangs. You will also call Sir George Neville, to
prove he saw Gaunt's picture at the 'Packhorse,' and heard the other
wife's tale. Wiltshire will object to this as evidence, and say why
don't you produce Mercy Vint herself. Then you will call me to prove
that I sent the subpoena to Mercy Vint. Come now, I cannot eat or sleep
till you promise me."
Mrs. Gaunt sighed deeply. "Spare me," said she, "I am worn out. Oh that
I could die before the trial begins again!"
Houseman saw the signs of yielding, and persisted. "Come, promise now,"
said he. "Then you will feel better."
"I will do whatever you bid me," said she. "Only, if they let me off, I
will go into a convent. No power shall hinder me."
"You shall go where you like, except to the gallows. Enough, 'tis a
promise, and I never knew you to break one. How I can eat my supper.
You are a good obedient child, and I am a happy attorney.'
"And I am the most miserable woman in all England."
"Child," said the worthy lawyer, "your spirits have given way, because
they were strung so high. You need repose. Go to bed now, and sleep
twelve hours. Believe me you will wake another woman."
"Ah! would I could!" cried Mrs. Gaunt, with all the eloquence of
despair.
Houseman murmured a few more consoling words, and then left her, after
once more exacting a promise that she would receive no more visits, but
go to bed directly. She was to send all intruders to him at the "Angel."
Mrs. Gaunt proceeded to obey his orders, and though it was but eight
o'clock, she made preparations for bed, and then went to her nightly
devotions.
She was in sore trouble; and earthly trouble turns the heart
heavenwards. Yet it was not so with her. The deep languor, that
oppressed her, seemed to have reached her inmost soul. Her beads,
falling one by one from her hand, denoted the number of her
supplications; but, for once, they were preces sine mente dictæ. Her
faith was cold, her belief in Divine justice was shaken for a time. She
began to doubt and to despond. That bitter hour, which David has sung
so well, and Bunyan, from experience, has described in his biography
as well as in his novel, sat heavy upon her, as it had on many a true
believer before her. So deep was the gloom, so paralysing the languor,
that at last she gave up all endeavor to utter words of prayer. She
placed her crucifix at the foot of the wall, and laid herself down on
the ground and kissed His feet, then drawing back, gazed upon that
effigy of the mortal sufferings of our Redeemer.
"O anima Christiana, respice vulnera patientis, sanguinem morientis,
precem redemptions nostræ."
She had lain thus a good half-hour, when a gentle tap came to the door.
"Who is that?" said she.
"Mrs. Menteith," the gaoler's wife replied, softly, and asked leave to
come in.
Now this Mrs. Menteith had been very kind to her, and stoutly
maintained her innocence. Mrs. Gaunt rose, and invited her in.
"Madam," said Mrs. Menteith, "what I come for, there is a person below
who much desires to see you."
"I beg to be excused," was the reply. "He must go to my solicitor at
the 'Angel,' Mr. Houseman."
Mrs. Menteith retired with that message, but in about five minutes
returned to say that the young woman declined to go to Mr. Houseman,
and begged hard to see Mrs. Gaunt. "And, Dame," said she, "if I were
you I'd let her come in; 'tis the honestest face, and the tears in her
soft eyes, at your denying her, 'Oh dear, dear' said she, 'I cannot
tell my errand to any but her.'"
"Well, well," said Mrs. Gaunt; "but what is her business?"
"If you ask me, I think her business is your business. Come, Dame, do
see the poor thing; she is civil spoken, and she tells me she has come
all the way out of Lancashire o' purpose."
Mrs. Gaunt recoiled, as if she had been stung.
"From Lancashire?" said she, faintly.
"Ay, madam," said Mrs. Menteith, "and that is a long road; and a child
upon her arm all the way, poor thing."
"Her name?" said Mrs. Gaunt, sternly.
"Oh, she is not ashamed of it. She gave it me directly."
"What has she the effrontery to take my name?"
Mrs. Menteith stared at her with utter amazement. "_Your_ name?" said
she. "'Tis a simple country body, and her name is Vint--Mercy Vint."
Mrs. Gaunt was very much agitated, and said she felt quite unequal to
see a stranger.
"Well, I'm sure I don't know what to do," said Mrs. Menteith. "She says
she will lie at your door all night, but she will see you. 'Tis the
face of a friend. She may know something. It seems hard to thrust her
and her child out into the street, after their coming all the way from
Lancashire."
Mrs. Gaunt stood silent awhile, and her intelligence had a severe
combat with her deep repugnance to be in the same room with Griffith
Gaunt's mistress (so she considered her). But a certain curiosity came
to the aid of her good sense; and after all she was a brave and haughty
woman, and her natural courage began to rise. She thought to herself,
"What, dare she come to me all this way, and shall I shrink from _her?_"
She turned to Mrs. Menteith with a bitter smile, and she said, very
slowly, and clenching her white teeth, "Since you desire it, and she
_insists_ on it, I will receive Mistress Mercy Vint."
Mrs. Menteith went off, and in about five minutes returned ushering in
Mercy Vint in a hood and travelling-cloak.
Mrs. Gaunt received her standing, and with a very formal curtsy, to
which Mercy made a quiet obeisance, and both women looked one another
all over in a moment.
Mrs. Menteith lingered, to know what on earth this was all about; but,
as neither spoke a word, and their eyes were fixed on each other, she
divined that her absence was necessary, and so retired, slowly, looking
very much amazed at both of them.
CHAPTER XII
"Be seated, mistress, if you please," said Mrs. Gaunt, with icy
civility, "and let me know to what I owe this extraordinary visit."
"I thank you. Dame," said Mercy, "for indeed I am sore fatigued." She
sat quietly down. "Why I have come to you? It was to serve you, and to
keep my word with George Neville."
"Will you be kind enough to explain?" said Mrs. Gaunt, in a freezing
tone, and with a look of her great grey eye to match.
Mercy felt chilled, and was too frank to disguise it. "Alas," said she,
softly, "'tis hard to be received so, and me come all the way from
Lancashire, with a heart like lead, to do my duty, God willing."
The tears stood in her eyes, and her mellow voice was sweet and patient.
The gentle remonstrance was not quite without effect. Mrs. Gaunt
colored a little: she said, stiffly, "Excuse me if I seem discourteous:
but you and I ought not to be in one room a moment. You do not see
this, apparently. But at least I have a right to insist that such an
interview shall be very brief, and to the purpose. Oblige me then, by
telling me in plain terms why you have come hither."
"Madam, to be your witness at the trial."
"_You_ to be _my_ witness?"
"Why not? If I can clear you? What, would you rather be condemned for
murder, than let me show them you are innocent? Alas, how you hate me!"
"Hate you, child?" said Mrs. Gaunt, coloring to her temples: "of course
I hate you. We are both of us flesh and blood, and hate one another.
And one of us is honest enough, and uncivil enough, to say so."
"Speak for yourself, Dame," replied Mercy, quietly, "for I hate you
not; and I thank God for it. To hate is to be miserable. I'd liever be
hated than to hate."
Mrs. Gaunt looked at her. "Your words are goodly and wise," said she;
"your face is honest; and your eyes are like a very dove's. But, for
all that, you hate me quietly, with all your heart. Human nature is
human nature."
"'Tis so. But grace is grace." Mercy was silent a moment, then resumed,
"I'll not deny I did hate you for a time, when first I learned the
man I had married had a wife, and you were she. We that be women are
too unjust to each other, and too indulgent to a man. But I have worn
out my hate. I wrestled in prayer, and the God of Love he did quench
my most unreasonable hate. For 'twas the man betrayed me; _you_ never
wronged me, nor I you. But you are right, madam; 'tis true that nature
without grace is black as pitch: the devil he was busy at my ear, and
whispered me, 'If the fools in Cumberland hang her, what fault o'
thine? Thou wilt be his lawful wife, and thy poor innocent child will
be a child of shame no more.' But, by God's grace, I did defy him. And
I do defy him." She rose swiftly from her chair, and her dove's eyes
gleamed with celestial light. "Get thee behind me, Satan. I tell thee
the hangman shall never have her innocent body, nor thou my soul."
The movement was so unexpected, the words and the look so simply noble,
that Mrs. Gaunt rose too, and gazed upon her visitor with astonishment
and respect--yet still with a dash of doubt.
She thought to herself, "If this creature is not sincere, what a
mistress of deceit she must be!"
But Mercy Vint soon returned to her quiet self. She sat down, and said,
gravely, and, for the first time, a little coldly, as one who had
deserved well, and been received ill--"Mistress Gaunt, you are accused
of murdering your husband. 'Tis false, for two days ago I saw him
alive."
"What do you say?" cried Mrs. Gaunt, trembling all over.
"Be brave, madam; you have borne great trouble, do not give way under
joy. He who has wronged us both--he who wedded you under his own name
of Griffith Gaunt, and me under the false name of Thomas Leicester, is
no more dead than we are; I saw him two days ago, and spoke to him, and
persuaded him to come to Carlisle town and do you justice."
Mrs. Gaunt fell on her knees. "He is alive: He is alive. Thank God! Oh,
thank God! He is alive: and God bless the tongue that tells me so. God
bless you eternally, Mercy Vint."
The tears of joy streamed down her face, and then Mercy's flowed too.
She uttered a little pathetic cry of joy. "Ah," she sobbed, "the bit of
comfort I needed so has come to my heavy heart. _She_ has blessed me!"
But she said this very softly, and Mrs. Gaunt was in a rapture, and did
not hear her.
"Is it a dream? my husband alive? and you the one to come and tell me
so? How unjust I have been to you. Forgive me. Why does he not come
himself?"
Mercy colored at this question, and hesitated.
"Well, Dame," said she, "for one thing, he has been on the fuddle for
the last two months."
"On the fuddle?"
"Ay; he owns he has never been sober a whole day. And that takes the
heart out of a man, as well as the brains. And then he has got it into
his head that you will never forgive him; and that he shall be cast in
prison if he shows his face in Cumberland."
"Why in Cumberland more than in Lancashire?" asked Mrs. Gaunt, biting
her lip.
Mercy blushed faintly: she replied with some delicacy, but did not
altogether mince the matter.
"He knows I shall never punish him for what he has done to me."
"Why not? I begin to think he has wronged you almost as much as he has
me."
"Worse, madam; worse. He has robbed me of my good name. You are still
his lawful wife, and none can point the finger at you. But, look at me:
I was an honest girl; respected by all the parish. What has he made of
me? The man that lay a dying in my house, and I saved his life, and so
my heart did warm to him, he blasphemed God's altar, to deceive and
betray me; and here I am, a poor forlorn creature, neither maid, wife,
nor widow; with a child on my arms that I do nothing but cry over; ay,
my poor innocent, I left thee down below, because I was ashamed she
should see thee; all me! ah me!" She lifted up her voice, and wept.
Mrs. Gaunt looked at her wistfully; and, like Mercy before her, had a
bitter struggle with human nature; a struggle so sharp that, in the
midst of it, she burst, out crying with strange violence: but, with
that burst, her great soul conquered.
She darted out of the room, leaving Mercy astonished at her abrupt
departure.
Mercy was patiently drying her eyes, when the door opened, and judge
her surprise when she saw Mrs. Gaunt glide into the room with her
little boy asleep in her arms, and an expression upon her face more
sublime than anything Mercy Vint had ever yet seen on earth. She kissed
the babe softly, and, becoming infantine as well as angelic by this
contact, sat herself down in a moment on the floor with him, and held
out her hand to Mercy. "There," said she, "come sit beside us; and see
how I hate him; no more than you do--sweet innocent."
They looked him all over, discussed his every feature learnedly,
kissed his limbs and extremities after the manner of their sex, and
comprehending at last that to have been both of them wronged by one man
was a bond of sympathy, not hate, the two wives of Griffith Gaunt laid
his child across their two laps, and wept over him together.
Mercy Vint took herself to task. "I am but a selfish woman," said she,
"to talk, or think of anything but that I came here for." She then
proceeded to show Mrs. Gaunt by what means she proposed to secure her
acquittal, without getting Griffith Gaunt into trouble.
Mrs. Gaunt listened with keen and grateful attention, until she came to
that part: then she interrupted her eagerly.
"Don't spare him for me. In your place I'd trounce the villain finely."
"Ay," said Mercy, "and then forgive him. But I am different. I shall
never forgive him; but I am a poor hand at punishing and revenging. I
always was. My name is Mercy, you know. To tell the truth, I was to
have been called Prudence, after my good aunt; but she said, nay: she
had lived to hear Greed, and Selfishness, and a heap of faults, named
Prudence: 'call the child something that means what it does mean, and
not after me,' quoth she. So with me hearing 'Mercy, Mercy,' called out
after me so many years, I do think the quality hath somehow got under
my skin; for I can't abide to see folk smart, let alone to strike the
blow. What, shall I take the place of God, and punish the evil-doers,
because 'tis me they wrong? Nay, Dame, I will never punish him, though
he hath wronged me cruelly: all I shall do is to think very ill of
him, and shun him, and tear his memory out of my heart. You look at
me; do you think I cannot? You don't know me. I am very resolute when
I see clear. Of course I loved him: loved him dearly. He was like a
husband to me, and a kind one. But the moment I knew how basely he
had deceived us both, my heart began to turn against the man, and now
'tis ice to him. Heaven knows what I am made of; for, believe me, I'd
liever ten times be beside you than beside him. My heart it lay like a
lump of lead till I heard your story, and found I could do you a good
turn; you that he had wronged, as well as me. I read your beautiful
eyes; but nay, fear me not; I'm not the woman to pine for the fruit
that is my neighbor's. All I ask for on earth is a few kind words and
looks from you. You are gentle and I am simple; but we are both one
flesh and blood, and your lovely wet eyes do prove it this moment. Dame
Gaunt--Kate--I ne'er was ten miles from home afore, and I am come all
this weary way to serve thee. Oh, give me the one thing that can do me
good in this world, the one thing I pine for--a little of _your_ love."
The words were scarce out of her lips when Mrs. Gaunt caught her
impetuously round the neck with both hands, and laid her on that erring
but noble heart of hers, and kissed her eagerly.
They kissed one another again and again, and wept over one another.
And now Mrs. Gaunt, who did nothing by halves, could not make enough of
Mercy Vint. She ordered supper and ate with her, to make her eat. Mrs.
Menteith offered Mercy a bed; but Mrs. Gaunt said she must lie with
her, she and her child.
"What," said she, "think you I'll let you out of my sight? Alas, who
knows when you and I shall ever be together again?"
"I know," said Mercy, very gravely. "In this world--never."
They slept in one bed, and held each other by the hand all night, and
talked to one another, and in the morning knew each the other's story,
and each the other's mind and character, better than their oldest
acquaintances knew either the one or the other.
CHAPTER XIII
The trial began again: and the court was crowded to suffocation. All
eyes were bent on the prisoner. She rose, calm and quiet, and begged
leave to say a few words to the court.
Mr. Whitworth objected to that. She had concluded her address
yesterday, and called a witness.
_Prisoner._ But I have not examined a witness yet.
_The Judge._ You come somewhat out of time, madam; but, if you will be
brief, we will hear you.
_Prisoner._ I thank you, my lord. It was only to withdraw an error.
The cry for help that was heard by the side of Hernshaw Mere, I said,
yesterday, that cry was uttered by Thomas Leicester. Well, I find I was
mistaken; the cry for help was uttered by my husband, by that Griffith
Gaunt I am accused of assassinating.
This extraordinary admission caused a great sensation in court. The
judge looked grave and sad; and Sergeant Wiltshire, who came into court
just then, whispered his junior, "She has put the rope round her own
neck. The jury would never have believed our witness."
_The Prisoner._ I will only add that a person came into the town last
night, who knows a great deal more about this mysterious business than
I do. I purpose, therefore, to alter the plan of my defense; and, to
save your time, my lord, who have dealt so courteously with me, I shall
call but a single witness.
Ere the astonishment caused by this sudden collapse of the defense was
in any degree abated, she called "Mercy Vint."
There was the usual stir and struggle; and then the calm self-possessed
face and figure of a comely young woman confronted the court. She was
sworn; and examined by the prisoner after this fashion.
"Where do you live?"
"At the 'Packhorse,' near Allerton, in Lancashire."
_Prisoner._ Do you know Mr. Griffith Gaunt?
_Mercy._ Madam, I do.
_Prisoner._ Was he at your place in October last?
_Mercy._ Yes, madam, on the thirteenth of October. On that day he left
for Cumberland.
_Prisoner._ On foot, or on horseback?
_Mercy._ On horseback.
_Prisoner._ With boots on, or shoes?
_Mercy._ He had a pair of new boots on.
_Prisoner._ Do you know Thomas Leicester?
_Mercy._ A pedlar called at our house on the eleventh of October, and
he said his name was Thomas Leicester.
_Prisoner._ How was he shod?
_Mercy._ In hobnailed shoes.
_Prisoner._ Which way went he on leaving you?
_Mercy._ Madam, he went northwards; I know no more for certain.
_Prisoner._ When did you see Mr. Gaunt last?
_Mercy._ Four days ago.
_The Judge._ What is that? you saw him alive four days ago?
_Mercy._ Ay, my lord; the last Wednesday that ever was.
At this the people burst out into a loud agitated murmur, and their
heads went to and fro all the time. In vain the crier cried and
threatened. The noise rose and surged, and took its course. It went
down gradually, as amazement gave way to curiosity; and then there was
a remarkable silence; and then the silvery voice of the prisoner, and
the mellow tones of the witness, appeared to penetrate the very walls
of the building, each syllable of those two beautiful speakers was
heard so distinctly.
_Prisoner._ Be so good as to tell the court what passed on Wednesday
last between Griffith Gaunt and you, relative to this charge of murder.
_Mercy._ I let him know one George Neville had come from Cumberland
in search of him, and had told me you lay in Carlisle gaol charged
with his murder. I did urge him to ride at once to Carlisle, and show
himself; but he refused. He made light of the matter. Then I told him,
not so; the circumstances looked ugly, and your life was in peril. Then
he said, nay, 'twas in no peril, for, if you were to be found guilty,
then he would show himself on the instant. Then I told him he was not
worthy the name of a man; and if he would not go, I would. "Go you,
by all means," said he, "and I'll give you a writing that will clear
her. Jack Houseman will be there, that knows my hand; and so does the
sheriff, and half the grand jury at the least."
_Prisoner._ Have you that writing?
_Mercy._ To be sure I have. Here 'tis.
_Prisoner._ Be pleased to read it.
_The Judge._ Stay a minute. Shall you prove it to be his handwriting?
_Prisoner._ Ay, my lord, by as many as you please.
_The Judge._ Then let that stand over for the present. Let me see it.
It was handed up to him; and he showed it to the sheriff, who said he
thought it was Griffith Gaunt's writing.
The paper was then read out to the jury. It ran as follows:--
"Know all men, that I, Griffith Gaunt, Esq., of Bolton Hall
and Hernshaw Castle, in the county of Cumberland, am alive and
well; and the matter, which has so puzzled the good folk in
Cumberland, befell as follows:--I left Hernshaw Castle in the
dead of night upon the fifteenth of October. Why, is no man's
business but mine. I found the stable locked; so I left my
horse, and went on foot. I crossed Hernshaw Mere by the bridge,
and had got about a hundred yards, as I suppose, on the way,
when I heard some one fall with a great splash into the mere,
and soon after cry dolefully for help. I, that am no swimmer,
ran instantly to the north side to a clump of trees, where a
boat used always to be kept. But the boat was not there. Then
I cried lustily for help, and, as no one came, I fired my
pistol and cried murder! For I had heard men will come sooner
to that cry than to any other. But in truth I was almost out
of my wits, that a fellow-creature should perish miserably so
near me. Whilst I ran wildly to and fro, some came out of the
Castle bearing torches. By this time I was at the bridge; but
saw no signs of the drowning man; yet the night was clear.
Then I knew that his fate was sealed; and for reasons of my
own not choosing to be seen by those who were coming to his
aid, I hastened from the place. My happiness being gone, and my
conscience smiting me sore, and not knowing whither to turn, I
took to drink, and fell into bad ways, and lived like a brute
and not a man, for six weeks or more; so that I never knew of
the good fortune that had fallen on me when least I deserved
it; I mean by old Mr. Gaunt of Coggleswade making of me his
heir. But one day at Kendal I saw Mercy Vint's advertisement;
and I went to her, and learned that my wife lay in Carlisle
gaol for my supposed murder. But I say that she is innocent,
and nowise to blame in this matter; for I deserved every hard
word she ever gave me; and as for killing, she is a spirited
woman with her tongue, but hath not the heart to kill a fly.
She is what she always was, the pearl of womankind; a virtuous,
innocent, and noble lady. I have lost the treasure of her love,
by my fault, not hers; but, at least, I have a right to defend
her life and honour. Whoever molests her after this, out of
pretended regard for me, is a liar, and a fool, and no friend
of mine, but my enemy, and I his--to the death.
"GRIFFITH GAUNT."
It was a day of surprises. This tribute from the murdered man to
his assassin was one of them. People looked in one another's faces
open-eyed.
The prisoner looked in the judge's, and acted on what she saw there.
"That is my defense," said she, quietly; and sat down.
If a show of hands had been called at that moment, she would have been
acquitted by acclamation.
But Mr. Whitworth was a zealous young barrister, burning for
distinction. He stuck to his case, and cross-examined Mercy Vint with
severity; indeed, with asperity.
_Whitworth._ What are you to receive for this evidence?
_Mercy._ Anan.
_Whitworth._ Oh, you know what I mean. Are you not to be paid for
telling us this romance?
_Mercy._ Hay, sir, I ask nought for telling of the truth.
_Whitworth._ You were in the prisoner's company yesterday.
_Mercy._ Yes, sir, I did visit her in the gaol last night.
_Whitworth._ And there concerted this ingenious defense.
_Mercy._ Well, sir, for that matter, I told her that her man was alive,
and I did offer to be her witness.
_Whitworth._ For nought.
_Mercy._ For no money or reward, if 'tis that you mean. Why, 'tis a joy
beyond money, to clear an innocent body, and save her life; and that
satisfaction is mine this day.
_Whitworth_ (sarcastically). These are very fine sentiments for a
person in your condition. Confess that Mrs. Gaunt primed you with all
that.
_Mercy._ Nay, sir, I left home in that mind; else I had not come at
all. Bethink you; 'tis a long journey for one in my way of life; and
this dear child on my arm all the way.
Mrs. Gaunt sat boiling with indignation. But Mercy's good temper and
meekness parried the attack that time. Mr. Whitworth changed his line.
_Whitworth._ You ask the jury to believe that Griffith Gaunt, Esquire,
a gentleman, and a man of spirit and honor, is alive, yet skulks and
sends you hither, when by showing his face in this court he could clear
his wife without a single word spoken?
_Mercy._ Yes, sir, I do hope to be believed; for I speak the naked
truth. But, with due respect to you, Mr. Gaunt did not send me hither
against my will. I could not bide in Lancashire and let an innocent
woman be murdered in Cumberland.
_Whitworth._ Murdered, quotha. That is a good jest. I'd have you to
know we punish murders here, not do them.
_Mercy._ I am glad to hear that, sir, on the lady's account.
_Whitworth._ Come, come. You pretend you discovered this Griffith Gaunt
alive, by means of an advertisement. If so, produce the advertisement.
Mercy Vint colored, and cast a swift uneasy glance at Mrs. Gaunt.
Rapid as it was, the keen eye of the counsel caught it.
"Nay, do not look to the culprit for orders," said he. "Produce it, or
confess the truth. Come, you never advertised for him."
"Sir, I did advertise for him."
"Then produce the advertisement."
"Sir, I will not," said Mercy, calmly.
"Then I shall move the court to commit you."
"For what offense, if you please?"
"For perjury, and contempt of court."
"I am guiltless of either, God knows. But I will not show the
advertisement."
_The Judge._ "This is very extraordinary. Perhaps you have it not about
you."
_Mercy._ "My lord, the truth is I have it in my bosom. But, if I show
it, it will not make this matter one whit clearer, and 'twill open the
wounds of two poor women. 'Tis not for myself. But, oh my lord, look at
her; hath she not gone through grief enow?"
The appeal was made with a quiet touching earnestness, that affected
every hearer. But the judge had a duty to perform. "Witness," said he,
"you mean well; but indeed you do the prisoner an injury by withholding
this paper. Be good enough to produce it at once."
_The Prisoner_ (with a deep sigh). Obey my lord.
_Mercy_ (with a deep sigh). There, sir, may the Lord forgive you the
useless mischief you are doing.
_Whitworth._ I am doing my duty, young woman. And yours is to tell the
whole truth, and not a part only.
_Mercy_ (acquiescing). That is true, sir.
_Whitworth._ Why, what is this? This not Mr. Gaunt you advertise for in
these papers. 'Tis Thomas Leicester.
_The Judge._ What is that? I don't understand.
_Whitworth._ Nor I neither.
_The Judge._ Let me see the papers. 'Tis Thomas Leicester sure enough.
_Whitworth._ And you mean to swear that Griffith Gaunt answered an
advertisement inviting Thomas Leicester?
_Mercy._ I do. Thomas Leicester was the name he went by in our part.
_Whitworth._ What? what? You are jesting.
_Mercy._ Is this a place or a time for jesting? I say he called himself
Thomas Leicester.
Here the business was interrupted again by a multitudinous murmur of
excited voices. Everybody was whispering astonishment to his neighbor.
And the whisper of a great crowd has the effect of a loud murmur.
_Whitworth._ Oh, he called himself Thomas Leicester, did he? Then what
makes you say he is Griffith Gaunt?
_Mercy._ Well, sir, the pedlar, whose real name was Thomas Leicester,
came to our house one day, and saw his picture, and knew it; and said
something to a neighbor that raised my suspicions. When he came home, I
took this shirt out of a drawer; 'twas the shirt he wore when he first
came to us. 'Tis marked "G. G." (The shirt was examined). Said I, "For
God's sake speak the truth: what does G. G. stand for?" Then he told me
his real name was Griffith Gaunt, and he had a wife in Cumberland. "Go
back to her," said I, "and ask her to forgive you." Then he rode north,
and I never saw him again till last Wednesday.
_Whitworth_ (satirically). You seem to have been mighty intimate with
this Thomas Leicester, whom you now call Griffith Gaunt. May I ask what
was, or is, the nature of your connection with him?
Mercy was silent.
_Whitworth._ I must press for a reply, that we may know what value to
attach to your most extraordinary evidence. Were you his wife--or his
mistress?
_Mercy._ Indeed I hardly know; but not his mistress, or I should not be
here.
_Whitworth._ You don't know whether you were married to the man or not?
_Mercy._ I do not say so. But--
She hesitated, and cast a piteous look at Mrs. Gaunt, who sat boiling
with indignation.
At this look, the prisoner, who had long contained herself with
difficulty, rose, with scarlet cheeks and flashing eyes, in defense of
her witness, and flung her prudence to the wind.
"Fie, sir," she cried. "The woman you insult is as pure as your own
mother, or mine. She deserves the pity, the respect, the veneration of
all good men. Know, my lord, that my miserable husband deceived and
married her under the false name he had taken; she has the marriage
certificate in her bosom. Pray make her show it whether she will or
not. My lord, this Mercy Vint is more an angel than a woman. I am her
rival after a manner; yet out of the goodness and greatness of her
noble heart, she came all that way to save me from an unjust death.
And is such a woman to be insulted? I blush for the hired advocate who
cannot see his superior in an incorruptible witness, a creature all
truth, piety, purity, unselfishness, and goodness. Yes, sir, you began
by insinuating that she was as venal as yourself; for you are one that
can be bought by the first comer; and now you would cast a slur on her
chastity, For shame! for shame! This is one of those rare women that
adorn our whole sex, and embellish human nature: and, so long as you
have the privilege of exchanging words with her, I shall stand here
on the watch, to see that you treat her with due respect: ay, sir,
with reverence; for I have measured you both, and she is as much your
superior as she is mine."
This amazing burst was delivered with such prodigious fire and
rapidity, that nobody was self-possessed enough to stop it in time. It
was like a furious gust of words sweeping over the court.
Mr. Whitworth, pale with auger, merely said, "Madam, the good taste
of these remarks I leave the court to decide upon. But you cannot be
allowed to give evidence in your own defense."
"No, but in hers I will," said Mrs. Gaunt; "no power shall hinder me."
_The Judge_ (coldly). Had you not better go on cross-examining the
witness?
_Whitworth._ Let me see your marriage certificate, if you have one?
It was handed to him.
"Well, now how do you know that this Thomas Leicester was Griffith
Gaunt?"
_The Judge._ Why, she has told you he confessed it to her.
_Mercy._ Yes, my lord; and, besides, he wrote me two letters signed
Thomas Leicester. Here they are, and I desire they may be compared with
the paper he wrote last Wednesday, and signed Griffith Gaunt. And more
than that, whilst we lived together as man and wife, one Hamilton, a
travelling painter, took our portraits, his and mine. I have brought
his with me. Let his friends and neighbors look on this portrait, and
say whose likeness it is. What I say and swear is, that on Wednesday
last I saw and spoke with that Thomas Leicester, or Griffith Gaunt,
whose likeness I now show you.
With that she lifted the portrait up, and showed it to all the court.
Instantly there was a roar of recognition.
It was one of those hard daubs that are nevertheless so monstrously
like the originals.
_The Judge_ (to Mr. Whitworth). Young gentleman, we are all greatly
obliged to you. You have made the prisoner's case. There was but one
weak point in it; I mean the prolonged absence of Griffith Gaunt. You
have now accounted for that. You have forced a very truthful witness to
depose that this Gaunt is himself a criminal, and is hiding from fear
of the law. The case for the Crown is a mere tissue of conjectures,
on which no jury could safely convict, even if there was no defense
at all. Under other circumstances I might decline to receive evidence
at second hand that Griffith Gaunt is alive; but here such evidence
is sufficient, for it lies on the Crown to prove the man dead; but
you have only proved that he was alive on the fifteenth of October,
and that, since then, _somebody_ is dead with shoes on. This somebody
appears on the balance of proof to be Thomas Leicester, the pedlar; and
he has never been heard of since, and Griffith Gaunt has. Then I say
you cannot carry the case farther. You have not a leg to stand on. What
say you, brother Wiltshire?
_Wiltshire._ My lord, I think there is no case against the prisoner,
and am thankful to your lordship for relieving me of a very unpleasant
task.
The question of guilty or not guilty was then put as a matter of form
to the jury, who instantly brought the prisoner in not guilty.
_The Judge._ Catherine Gaunt, you leave this court without a stain, and
with our sincere respect and sympathy. I much regret the fear and pain
you have been put to: you have been terribly punished for a hasty word.
Profit now by this bitter lesson; and may heaven enable you to add a
well-governed spirit to your many virtues and graces.
He half rose from his seat, and bowed courteously to her. She curtsied
reverently, and retired.
He then said a few words to Mercy Vint.
"Young woman, I have no words to praise you as you deserve. You have
shown us the beauty of the female character, and, let me add, the
beauty of the Christian religion. You have come a long way to clear the
innocent. I hope you will not stop there; but also punish the guilty
person, on whom we have wasted so much pity."
"Me, my lord," said Mercy, "I would not harm a hair of his head for as
many guineas as there be hairs in mine."
"Child," said my lord, "thou art too good for this world: but go thy
ways; and God bless thee."
Thus abruptly ended a trial that, at first, had looked so formidable
for the accused.
The Judge now retired for some refreshment, and while he was gone, Sir
George Neville dashed up to the Town Hall, four in hand, and rushed in
by the magistrate's door, with a pedlar's pack, which he had discovered
in the mere, a few yards from the spot where the mutilated body was
found.
He learned the prisoner was already acquitted. He left the pack with
the sheriff, and begged him to show it to the judge; and went in search
of Mrs. Gaunt.
He found her in the gaoler's house. She and Mercy Vint were seated hand
in hand. He started at first sight of the latter. There was a universal
shaking of hands, and glistening of eyes. And, when this was over,
Mrs. Gaunt turned to him, and said, piteously, "She will go back to
Lancashire to-morrow; nothing I can say will turn her."
"No, Dame," said Mercy, quietly, "Cumberland is no place for me.
My work is done here. Our paths in this world do lie apart. George
Neville, persuade her to go home at once, and not trouble about me."
"Indeed, madam," said Sir George, "she speaks wisely: she always does.
My carriage is at the door, and the people waiting by thousands in the
street to welcome your deliverance."
Mrs. Gaunt drew herself up with fiery and bitter disdain.
"Are they so," said she, grimly. "Then I'll baulk them. I'll steal away
in the dead of night. No, miserable populace, that howls and hisses
with the strong against the weak, you shall have no part in my triumph;
'tis sacred to my friends. You honoured me with your hootings; you
shall not disgrace me with your acclamations. Here I stay till Mercy
Vint, my guardian angel, leaves me for ever."
She then requested Sir George to order his horses hack to the inn, and
the coachman was to hold himself in readiness to start when the whole
town should be asleep.
Meantime a courier was despatched to Hernshaw Castle, to prepare for
Mrs. Gaunt's reception.
Mrs. Menteith made a bed up for Mercy Vint, and, at midnight, when the
coast was clear, came the parting.
It was a sad one.
Even Mercy, who had great self-command, could not then restrain her
tears.
To apply the sweet and touching words of Scripture, "They sorrowed most
of all for this, that they should see each other's face no more."
Sir George accompanied Mrs. Gaunt to Hernshaw.
She drew back into her corner of the carriage, and was very silent and
distrait.
After one or two attempts at conversation, he judged it wisest and even
most polite to respect her mood.
At last she burst out, "I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it!"
"Why, what is amiss?" inquired Sir George.
"What is amiss? Why, 'tis all amiss. 'Tis so heartless, so ungrateful,
to let that poor angel go home to Lancashire all alone, now she has
served my turn. Sir George, do not think I undervalue your company,
but if you _would_ but take her home instead of taking me! Poor thing,
she is brave; but, when the excitement of her good action is over, and
she goes back the weary road all alone, what desolation it will be. My
heart bleeds for her. I know I am an unconscionable woman, to ask such
a thing; but then you are a true chevalier; you always were; and you
saw her merit directly; oh, do pray leave me to slip unnoticed into
Hernshaw Castle, and do you accompany my benefactress to her humble
home. Will you, dear Sir George? 'Twould be such a load off my heart."
To this appeal, uttered with trembling lip and moist eyes, Sir George
replied in character. He declined to desert Mrs. Gaunt until he had
seen her safe home; but that done, he would ride back to Carlisle, and
escort Mercy home.
Mrs. Gaunt sighed, and said she was abusing his friendship, and should
kill him with fatigue, and he was a good creature. "If anything could
make me easy, this would," said she: "you know how to talk to a woman,
and comfort her. I wish I was a man: I'd cure her of Griffith before we
reached the 'Packhorse.' And, now I think of it, you are a very happy
man to travel eighty miles with an angel, a dove-eyed angel."
"I am a happy man to have an opportunity of complying with your
desires, madam," was the demure reply. "Tis not often you do me the
honor to lay your orders on me."
After this, nothing of any moment passed until they reached Hernshaw
Castle; and then, as they drove up to the door, and saw the hall
blazing with lights, Mrs. Gaunt laid her hand softly on Sir George, and
whispered, "You were right. I thank you for not leaving me."
The servants were all in the hall, to receive their mistress; and
amongst them were those who had given honest but unfavorable testimony
at the trial, being called by the Crown. These had consulted together,
and, after many pros and cons, had decided that they had better not
follow their natural impulse, and hide from her face, since that might
be a fresh offense. Accordingly, these witnesses, dressed in their
best, stood with the others in the hall, and made their obeisances,
quaking inwardly.
Mrs. Gaunt entered the hall leaning on Sir George's arm. She scarcely
bestowed a look upon the late witnesses for the Crown, but made them
one sweeping curtsy in return, and passed on; only Sir George felt her
taper fingers just nip his arm.
She made him partake of some supper, and then this chevalier des dames
rode home, snatched a few hours' sleep, put on the yeoman's suit in
which he had first visited the "Packhorse," and arriving at Carlisle,
engaged the whole inside of the coach; for his orders were to console,
and he did not see his way clear to do that with two or three strangers
listening to every word.
CHAPTER XIV
A great change was observable in Mrs. Gaunt after this fiery and
chastening ordeal. In a short time she had been taught many lessons.
She had learned that the law will not allow even a woman to say
anything and everything with impunity. She had been in a court of
justice, and seen how gravely, soberly, and fairly, an accusation is
sifted there; and, if false, annihilated; which, elsewhere, it never
is. Member of a sex that could never have invented a court of justice,
she had found something to revere and bless in that other sex, to which
her erring husband belonged. Finally, she had encountered, in Mercy
Vint, a woman, whom she recognised at once as her moral superior. The
contact of that pure and well-governed spirit told wonderfully upon
her; she began to watch her tongue, and to bridle her high spirit.
She became slower to give offense, and slower to take it. She took
herself to task, and made some little excuses even for Griffith. She
was resolved to retire from the world altogether; but, meantime, she
bowed her head to the lessons of adversity. Her features, always
lovely, but somewhat too haughty, were now softened and embellished
beyond description, by a mingled expression of grief, humility, and
resignation.
She never mentioned her husband; but it is not to be supposed she
never thought of him. She waited the course of events in dignified and
patient silence.
As for Griffith Gaunt, he was in the hands of two lawyers, Atkins and
Houseman. He waited on the first, and made a friend of him. "I am at
your service," said he; "but not if I am to be indicted for bigamy, and
burned in the hand."
"These fears are idle," said Atkins. "Mercy Vint declared in open court
she will not proceed against you."
"Ay, but there's my wife."
"She will keep quiet; I have Houseman's word for it."
"Ay, but there's the Attorney-General."
"Oh, he will not move, unless he is driven. We must use a little
influence. Mr. Houseman is of my mind, and he has the ear of the
county."
To be brief, it was represented in high quarters that to indict Mr.
Gaunt would only open Mrs. Gaunt's wounds afresh, and do no good; and
so Houseman found means to muzzle the Attorney-General.
Just three weeks after the trial, Griffith Gaunt, Esq., reappeared
publicly. The place of his reappearance was Coggleswade. He came and
set about finishing his new mansion with feverish rapidity. He engaged
an army of carpenters and painters, and spent thousands of pounds
on the decorating and furnishing of the mansion, and laying out the
grounds.
This was duly reported to Mrs. Gaunt, who said--not a word.
But at last one day came a letter to Mrs. Gaunt, in Griffith's
well-known handwriting.
With all her acquired self-possession, her hand trembled as she broke
open the seal.
It contained but these words:--
"MADAM,--I do not ask you to forgive me; for, if you had done
what I have, I could never forgive you. But, for the sake of
Rose, and to stop their tongues, I do hope you will do me the
honor to live under this my roof. I dare not face Hernshaw
Castle. Your own apartments here are now ready for you. The
place is large. Upon my honor I will not trouble you; but show
myself always, as now,
"Your penitent and very humble servant,
"GRIFFITH GAUNT."
The messenger was to wait for her reply.
This letter disturbed Mrs. Gaunt's sorrowful tranquillity at once. She
was much agitated, and so undecided, that she sent the messenger away,
and told him to call next day.
Then she sent off to Father Francis to beg his advice.
But her courier returned, late at night, to say Father Francis was away
from home.
Then she took Rose, and said to her, "My darling, papa wants us to go
to his new house, and leave dear old Hernshaw; I know not what to say
about that. What do _you_ say?"
"Tell him to come to us," said Bose, dictatorially. "Only," (lowering
her little voice very suddenly), "if he is naughty and won't, why then
we had better go to him. For he amuses me."
"As you please," said Mrs. Gaunt; and sent her husband this reply:--
"SIR,--Rose and I are agreed to defer to your judgment and
obey your wishes. Be pleased to let me know what day you will
require us; and I must trouble you to send a carriage.
"I am, sir,
"Your faithful Wife, and humble Servant,
"CATHERINE GAUNT."
At the appointed day, a carriage and four came wheeling up to the
door. The vehicle was gorgeously emblazoned, and the servants in rich
liveries; all which finery glittering in the sun, and the glossy
coats of the horses, did mightily please Mistress Rose. She stood on
the stone steps, and clapped her hands with delight. Her mother just
sighed, and said, "Ay, 'tis in pomp and show we must seek our happiness
now."
She leaned back in the carriage, and closed her eyes, yet not so close
but now and then a tear would steal out, as she thought of the past.
They drove up under an avenue to a noble mansion; and landed at the
foot of some marble steps, low and narrow, but of vast breadth.
As they mounted these, a hall door, through which the carriage could
have passed, was flung open, and discovered the servants all drawn up
to do honor to their mistress.
She entered the hall, leading Rose by the hand, the servants bowed and
curtsied down to the ground.
She received this homage with dignified courtesy, and her eye stole
round to see if the master of the house was coming to receive her.
The library door was opened hastily, and out came to meet her--Father
Francis.
"Welcome, madam, a thousand times welcome to your new home," said he,
in a stentorian voice, with a double infusion of geniality. "I claim
the honour of showing you your part of the house, though 'tis all yours
for that matter." And he led the way.
Now this cheerful stentorian voice was just a little shaky for once,
and his eyes were moist.
Mrs. Gaunt noticed, but said nothing before the people. She smiled
graciously, and accompanied him.
He took her to her apartments. They consisted of a salle-à-manger,
three delightful bedrooms, a boudoir, and a magnificent drawing-room,
fifty feet long, with two fire-places, and a bay-window thirty feet
wide, filled with the choicest flowers.
An exclamation of delight escaped Mrs. Gaunt. Then she said, "One
would think I was a queen." Then she sighed, "Ah," said she, "'tis a
fine thing to be rich." Then, despondently, "Tell him I think it very
beautiful."
"Nay, madam, I hope you will tell him so yourself."
Mrs. Gaunt made no reply to that; she added: "And it was kind of him
to have you here the first day: I do not feel so lonely as I should
without you."
She took Griffith at his word, and lived with Rose in her own
apartments.
For some time Griffith used to slip away whenever saw her coming.
One day she caught him at it, and beckoned him.
He came to her.
"You need not run away from me," said she: "I did not come into your
house to quarrel with you. Let us he friends." And she gave him her
hand sweetly enough, but oh so coldly.
"I hope for nothing more," said Griffith. "If you ever have a wish,
give me the pleasure of gratifying it--that is all."
"I wish to retire to a convent," said she, quietly.
"And desert your daughter?"
"I would leave her behind, to remind you of days gone by."
By degrees they saw a little more of one another; they even dined
together, now and then. But it brought them no nearer. There was no
anger, with its loving reaction. They were friendly enough, but an icy
barrier stood between them.
One person set himself quietly to sap this barrier. Father Francis was
often at the Castle, and played the peace-maker very adroitly.
The line he took might be called the innocent Jesuitical. He saw that
it would be useless to exhort these two persons to ignore the terrible
things that happened, and to make it up as if it was only a squabble.
What he did was to repeat to the husband every gracious word the wife
let fall, and _vice versa_, and to suppress all either said that might
tend to estrange them.
In short, he acted the part of Mr. Harmony in the play, and acted it to
perfection.
Gutta cavat lapidem.
Though no perceptible effect followed his efforts, yet there is no
doubt that he got rid of some of the bitterness. But the coldness
remained.
One day he was sent for all in a hurry by Griffith.
He found him looking gloomy and agitated.
The cause came out directly. Griffith had observed, at last, what all
the females in the house had seen two months ago, that Mrs. Gaunt was
in the family-way.
He now communicated this to Father Francis, with a voice of agony, and
looks to match.
"All the better, my son," said the genial priest; "'twill be another
tie between you. I hope it will be a fine boy to inherit your estates."
Then, observing a certain hideous expression distorting Griffith's
face, he fixed his eyes full on him, and said, sternly, "Are you not
cured yet of that madness of yours?"
"No, no, no," said Griffith, deprecatingly; "but why did she not tell
me?"
"You had better ask her."
"Not I. She will remind me I am nothing to her now. And, though 'tis
so, yet I would not hear it from her lips."
In spite of this wise resolution, the torture he was in drove him to
remonstrate with her on her silence.
She blushed high, and excused herself as follows:--
"I should have told you as soon as I knew it myself. But you were not
with me. I was all by myself--in Carlisle gaol."
This reply, uttered with hypocritical meekness, went through Griffith
like a knife. He turned white, and gasped for breath, but said nothing.
He left her, with a deep groan, and never ventured to mention the
matter again.
All he did in that direction was to redouble his attentions and
solicitude for her health.
The relation between these two was now more anomalous than ever.
Even Father Francis, who had seen strange things in families, used to
watch Mrs. Gaunt rise from table and walk heavily to the door, and her
husband dart to it and open it obsequiously, and receive only a very
formal reverence in return--and wonder how all this was to end.
However, under this icy surface, a change was gradually going on; and
one afternoon, to his great surprise, Mrs. Gaunt's maid came to ask
Griffith if he would come to Mrs. Gaunt's apartment.
He found her seated in her bay window, among her flowers. She seemed
another woman all of a sudden, and smiled on him her exquisite smile of
days gone by.
"Come, sit beside me," said she, "in this beautiful window that you
have given me."
"Sit beside you, Kate," said Griffith; "nay, let me kneel at your
knees; that is my place."
"As you will," said she, softly; and continued, in the same tone, "Now
listen to me; you and I are two fools; we have been very happy together
in days gone by; and we should both of us like to try again; but we
neither of us know how to begin. You are afraid to tell me you love
me and I am ashamed to own to you or anybody else that I love you, in
spite of it all--I do, though."
"You love me! a wretch like me, Kate? 'Tis impossible. I cannot be so
happy!"
"Child," said Mrs. Gaunt, "love is not reason; love is not common
sense. 'Tis a passion; like your jealousy, poor fool. I love you, as a
mother loves her child, all the more for all you have made me suffer.
I might not say as much if I thought we should be long together. But
something tells me I shall die this time: I never felt so before. I
want you to bury me at Hernshaw. After all, I spent more happy years
there than most wives ever know. I see you are very sorry for what you
have done. How could I die and leave thee in doubt of my forgiveness,
and my love? Kiss me, poor jealous fool; for I do forgive thee, and
love thee with all my sorrowful heart," And even with the words she
bowed herself and sank quietly into his arms, and he kissed her and
cried bitterly over her: bitterly. But she was comparatively calm. For
she said to herself, "the end is at hand."
Griffith, instead of pooh-poohing his wife's forebodings, set himself
to baffle them.
He used his wealth freely; and, besides the county doctor, had two very
eminent practitioners from London, one of whom was a grey-headed man,
the other singularly young for the fame he had obtained. But then he
was a genuine enthusiast in his art.
CHAPTER XV
Griffith, white as a ghost, and unable to shake off the forebodings
Catherine had communicated to him, walked incessantly up and down the
room; and at his earnest request, one or other of the four doctors in
attendance was constantly coming to him with information.
The case proceeded favorably, and to Griffith's surprise and joy, a
healthy boy was born about two o'clock in the morning. The mother was
reported rather feverish, but nothing to cause alarm.
Griffith threw himself on two chairs and fell fast asleep.
Towards morning lie found himself shaken, and there was Ashley, the
young doctor, standing beside him with a very grave face. Griffith
started up, and cried, "What is wrong, in God's name?"
"I am sorry to say there has been a sudden hemorrhage, and the patient
is much exhausted."
"She is dying, she is dying!" cried Griffith, in anguish.
"Not dying. But she will infallibly sink unless some unusual
circumstance occur to sustain vitality."
Griffith laid hold of him. "Oh, sir, take my whole fortune, but save
her! save her! save her!"
"Mr. Gaunt," said the young doctor, "be calm, or you will make matters
worse. There is one chance to save her; but my professional brethren
are prejudiced against it. However, they have consented, at my earnest
request, to refer my proposal to you. She is sinking for want of blood:
if you consent to my opening a vein and transfusing healthy blood from
a living subject into hers, I will undertake the operation. You had
better come and see her; you will be more able to judge."
"Let me lean on you," said Griffith. And the strong wrestler went
tottering up the stairs. There they showed him poor Kate, white as the
bed-clothes, breathing hard, and with a pulse that hardly moved.
Griffith looked at her horror-struck.
"Death has got hold of my darling," he screamed. "Snatch her away! for
God's sake, snatch her from him!"
The young doctor whipped off his coat, and bared his arm.
"There," he cried, "Mr. Gaunt consents. Now, Come, be quick with the
lancet, and hold this tube as I tell you; warm it first in that water."
Here came an interruption. Griffith Gaunt griped the young doctor's
arm, and with an agonized and ugly expression of countenance cried out,
"What? _your_ blood! What right have you to lose blood for her?"
"The right of a man who loves his art better than his blood," cried
Ashley, with enthusiasm.
Griffith tore off his coat and waistcoat, and bared his arm to the
elbow. "Take every drop I have. No man's blood shall enter her veins
but mine." And the creature seemed to swell to double his size, as with
flushed cheek and sparkling eyes he held out a bare arm corded like a
black-smith's, and white as a duchess's.
The young doctor eyed the magnificent limb a moment with rapture: then
fixed his apparatus and performed an operation which then, as now, was
impossible in theory; only he did it. He sent some of Griffith Gaunt's
bright red blood smoking hot into Kate Gaunt's veins.
This done, he watched his patient closely, and administered stimulants
from time to time.
She hung between life and death for hours. But at noon next day she
spoke, and seeing Griffith sitting beside her, pale with anxiety and
loss of blood, she said, "My dear, do not thou fret. I died last night.
I knew I should. But they gave me another life; and now I shall live to
a hundred."
They showed her the little boy; and, at sight of him, the whole woman
made up her mind to live.
And live she did. And, what is very remarkable, her convalescence was
more rapid than on any former occasion.
It was from a talkative nurse she first learned that Griffith had
given his blood for her. She said nothing at the time, but lay with an
angelic, happy smile, thinking of it.
The first time she saw him after that, she laid her hand on his arm,
and looking Heaven itself into his eyes, she said, "My life is very
dear to me now. 'Tis a present from thee."
She wanted a good excuse for loving him as frankly as before, and
now he had given her one. She used to throw it in his teeth in the
prettiest way. Whenever she confessed a fault, she was sure to turn
slyly round and say, "but what could one expect of me? I have his blood
in my veins."
But once she told Father Francis, quite seriously, that she had never
been quite the same woman since she lived by Griffith's blood; she was
turned jealous; and moreover it had given him a fascinating power over
her; and she could tell blindfold when he was in the room. Which last
fact indeed she once proved by actual experiment. But all this I leave
to such as study the occult sciences in this profound age of ours.
Starting with this advantage, Time, the great curer, gradually healed a
wound that looked incurable.
Mrs. Gaunt became a better wife than she had ever been before. She
studied her husband, and found he was not hard to please. She made his
home bright and genial; and so he never went abroad for the sunshine he
could have at home.
And he studied her; he added a chapel to the house, and easily
persuaded Francis to become the chaplain. Thus they had a peacemaker,
and a friend, in the house, and a man severe in morals, but candid in
religion, and an inexhaustible companion to them and their children.
And so, after that terrible storm, this pair pursued the even tenour of
a peaceful united life, till the olive branches rising around them, and
the happy years gliding on, almost obliterated that one dark passage,
and made it seem a mere fantastical, incredible, dream.
Mercy Vint and her child went home in the coach. It was empty at
starting, and, as Mrs. Gaunt had foretold, a great sense of desolation
fell upon her.
She leaned back, and the patient tears coursed steadily down her comely
cheeks.
At the first stage a passenger got down from the outside, and entered
the coach.
"What, George Neville!" said Mercy.
"The same," said he.
She expressed her surprise that he should be going her way.
"'Tis strange," said he; "but to me most agreeable."
"And to me too, for that matter," said she.
Sir George observed her eyes were red, and, to divert her mind and keep
up her spirits, launched into a flow of small talk.
In the midst of it, Mercy leaned back in the coach, and began to cry
bitterly. So much for that mode of consolation.
Upon this he faced the situation, and begged her not to grieve. He
praised the good action she had done, and told her how everybody
admired her for it, especially himself.
At that she gave him her hand in silence, and turned away her pretty
head. He carried her hand respectfully to his lips; and his manly heart
began to yearn over this suffering virtue; so grave, so dignified, so
meek. He was no longer a young man; he began to talk to her like a
friend. This tone, and the soft sympathetic voice in which a gentleman
speaks to a woman in trouble, unlocked her heart, and for the first
time in her life she was led to talk about herself.
She opened her heart to him. She told him she was not the woman to pine
for any man. Her youth, her health, and love of occupation would carry
her through. What she mourned was the loss of esteem, and the blot upon
her child. At that she drew the baby with inexpressible tenderness, and
yet with a half defiant air, closer to her bosom.
Sir George assured her she would lose the esteem of none but fools. "As
for me," said he, "I always respected you, but now I revere you. You
are a martyr, and an angel."
"George," said Mercy, gravely, "be you my friend, not my enemy."
"Why, madam," said he, "sure you can't think me such a wretch."
"I mean, our flatterers are our enemies."
Sir George took the hint, given, as it was, very gravely and decidedly;
and henceforth showed her his respect by his acts; he paid her as
much attention as if she had been a princess. He handed her out, and
handed her in; and coaxed her to eat here, and to drink there; and at
the inn where the passengers slept for the night, he showed his long
purse, and secured her superior comforts. Console her he could not; but
he broke the sense of utter desolation and loneliness with which she
started from Carlisle. She told him so in the inn, and descanted on the
goodness of God, who had sent her a friend in that bitter hour.
"You have been very kind to me, George," said she. "Now Heaven bless
you for it, and give you many happy days, and well spent."
This, from one who never said a word she did not mean, sank deep into
Sir George's; heart, and he went to sleep thinking of her, and asking
himself, was there nothing he could do for her.
Next morning Sir George handed Mercy and her babe into the coach; and
the villain tried an experiment to see what value she set on him. He
did not get in, so Mercy thought she had seen the last of him.
"Farewell, good, kind George," said she; "alas, there's nought but
meeting and parting in this weary world."
The tears stood in her sweet eyes, and she thanked him, not with words
only, but with the soft pressure of her womanly hand.
He slipped up behind the coach, and was ashamed of himself, and his
heart warmed to her more and more.
As soon as the coach stopped, my lord opened the door for Mercy to
alight. Her eyes were very red, he saw that. She started, and beamed
with surprise and pleasure.
"Why, I thought I had lost you for good," said she. "Whither are you
going? to Lancaster?"
"Not quite so far. I am going to the 'Packhorse.'"
Mercy opened her eyes, and blushed high. Sir George saw, and, to divert
her suspicions, told her merrily to beware of making objections. "I am
only a sort of servant in the matter. 'Twas Mrs. Gaunt ordered me."
"I might have guessed it," said Mercy. "Bless her; she knew I should be
lonely."
"She was not easy till she had got rid of me, I assure you," said Sir
George. "So let us make the best on't, for she is a lady that likes to
have her own way."
"She is a noble creature. George, I shall never regret anything I
have done for her. And she will not be ungrateful. Oh, the sting of
ingratitude: I have felt that. Have you?"
"No," said Sir George; "I have escaped that, by never doing any good
actions."
"I doubt you are telling me a lie," said Mercy Vint.
She now looked upon Sir George as Mrs. Gaunt's representative, and
prattled freely to him. Only now and then her trouble came over her,
and then she took a quiet cry without ceremony.
As for Sir George, he sat and studied, and wondered at her.
Never in his life had he met such a woman as this, who was as candid
with him as if he had been a woman. She seemed to have a window in her
bosom, through which he looked, and saw the pure and lovely soul within.
In the afternoon they reached a little town, whence a cart conveyed
them to the "Packhorse."
Here Mercy Vint disappeared, and busied herself with Sir George's
comforts.
He sat by himself in the parlor, and missed his gentle companion.
In the morning Mercy thought of course he would go.
But instead of that, he stayed, and followed her about, and began to
court her downright.
But the warmer he got, the cooler she. And at last she said, mighty
drily, "This is a very dull place for the likes of you."
"'Tis the sweetest place in England," said he; "at least to me; for it
contains--the woman I love."
Mercy drew back, and colored rosy red. "I hope not," said she.
"I loved you the first day I saw you, and heard your voice. And now I
love you ten times more. Let me dry thy tears for ever, sweet Mercy. Be
my wife."
"You are mad," said Mercy. "What, would you wed a woman in my
condition? I am more your friend than to take you at your word. And
what do you think I am made of, to go from one man to another, like
that?"
"Take your time, sweetheart; only give me your hand."
"George," said Mercy, very gravely, "I am beholden to you; but my duty
it lies another way. There is a young man in these parts (Sir George
groaned) that was my follower for two years and better. I wronged him
for one I never name now. I must marry that poor lad, and make him
happy, or else live and die as I am."
Sir George turned pale. "One word: do you love him?"
"I have a regard for him."
"Do you love him?"
"Hardly. But I wronged him, and I owe him amends. I shall pay my debt."
Sir George bowed, and retired sick at heart, and deeply mortified.
Mercy looked after him and sighed.
Next day, as he walked disconsolate up and down, she came to him and
gave him her hand. "You were a good friend to me that bitter day," said
she. "Now let me be yours. Do not bide here: 'twill but vex you."
"I am going, madam," said Sir George, stiffly. "I but wait to see the
man you prefer to me. If he is not too unworthy of you, I'll go; and
trouble you no more. I have learned his name."
Mercy blushed: for she knew Paul Carrick would bear no comparison with
George Neville.
The next day Sir George took leave to observe that this Paul Carrick
did not seem to appreciate her preference so highly as he ought. "I
understand he has never been here."
Mercy colored, but made no reply: and Sir George was sorry he had
taunted her. He followed her about, and showed her great attention, but
not a word of love.
There were fine trout streams in the neighborhood, and he busied
himself fishing, and in the evening read aloud to Mercy, and waited to
see Paul Carrick.
Paul never came; and, from a word Mercy let drop, he saw that she was
mortified. Then, being no tyro in love, he told her he had business in
Lancaster, and must leave her for a few days. But he would return, and
by that time perhaps Paul Carrick would be visible.
Now his main object was to try the effect of correspondence.
Every day he sent her a long love-letter from Lancaster.
Paul Carrick, who, in absenting himself for a time, had acted upon his
sister's advice rather than his own natural impulse, learned that Mercy
received a letter every day. This was a thing unheard of in that parish.
So then Paul defied his sister's advice, and presented himself to
Mercy; when the following dialogue took place:--
"Welcome home, Mercy."
"Thank you, Paul."
"Well, I'm single still, lass."
"So I hear."
"I'm come to say, let bygones be bygones."
"So be it," said Mercy, drily.
"You have tried a gentleman; now try a farrier."
"I have; and he did not stand the test."
"Anan."
"Why did you not come near mo for ten days?"
Paul blushed up to the eyes. "Well," said he, "I'll tell you the truth.
'Twas our Jess advised me to leave you quiet just at first."
"Ay, ay. I was to be humbled, and made to smart for my fault; and then
I should be thankful to take you. My lad, if ever you should be really
in love, take a friend's advice; listen to your own heart, and not to
shallow advisers. You have mortified a poor sorrowful creature who was
going to make a sacrifice for you, and you have lost her for ever."
"What d'ye mean?"
"I mean that ye are to think no more of Mercy Vint."
"Then it is true, ye jade; ye've gotten a fresh lover already."
"Say no more Than you know. If you were the only man on earth I would
not wed you, Paul Carrick."
Paul Carrick retired home, and blew up his sister; and told her that
she had "gotten him the sack again."
The next day Sir George came back from Lancaster, and Mercy lowered her
lashes for once at sight of him.
"Well," said he, "has this Carrick shown a sense of your goodness?"
"He has come,--and gone."
She then, with her usual frankness, told him what had passed. "And,"
said she, with a smile, "you are partly to blame; for how could I help
comparing your behavior to me with his? You came to my side when I was
in trouble, and showed me respect when I expected scorn from all the
world. A friend in need is a friend indeed."
"Reward me, reward me!" said Sir George, gaily; "you know the way."
"Nay, but I am too much _your_ friend," said Mercy.
"Be less my friend, then, and more my darling."
He pressed her, he urged her, he stuck to her, he pestered her.
She snubbed, and evaded, and parried, and liked him all the better for
his pestering her.
At last, one day, she said, "If Mrs. Gaunt thinks it will be for
your happiness, I will--in six months' time: but you shall not marry
in haste to repent at leisure. And I must have time to learn two
things--whether you can be constant to a simple woman like me, and
whether I can love again as tenderly as you deserve to be loved."
All his endeavors to shake this determination were vain. Mercy Vint had
a terrible deal of quiet resolution.
He retired to Cumberland, and in a long letter, asked Mrs. Gaunt's
advice. She replied characteristically. She began very soberly to
say that she should be the last to advise a marriage between persons
of different conditions in life. "But then," said she, "this Mercy is
altogether an exception. If a flower grows on a dunghill, 'tis still
a flower, and not a part of the dunghill. She has the essence of
gentility, and indeed her _manners_ are better bred than most of our
ladies. There is too much affectation abroad, and that is your true
vulgarity. Tack 'my lady' on to 'Mercy Vint,' and that dignified and
quiet simplicity of hers will carry her with credit through every court
in Europe. Then think of her virtues--(here the writer began to lose
her temper)--where can you hope to find such another? she is a moral
genius, and acts well, no matter under what temptation, as surely as
Claude and Raphael paint well. Why, sir, what do you seek in a wife?
Wealth? title? family? But you possess them already; you want something
in addition that will make you happy. Well, take that angelic goodness
into your house, and you will find, by your own absolute happiness, how
ill your neighbors have wived. For my part I see but one objection:
the child. Well, if you are man enough to take the mother, I am woman
enough to take the babe. In one word, he who has the sense to fall in
love with such an angel, and has not the sense to marry it, if he can,
is a fool."
"Postscript--My poor friend, to what end think you I sent you down in
the coach with her?"
Sir George, thus advised, acted as he would have done had the advice
been just the opposite.
He sent Mercy a love-letter by every post, and he often received one in
return; only his were passionate, and hers gentle and affectionate.
But one day came a letter that was a mere cry of distress.
"George; my child is dying. What shall I do?"
He mounted his horse, and rode to her.
He came too late. The little boy had died suddenly of croup, and was to
be buried next morning.
The poor mother received him upstairs, and her grief was terrible. She
clung sobbing to him, and could not be comforted. Yet she felt his
coming. But a mother's anguish overpowered all.
Crushed by this fearful blow, her strength gave way for a time, and she
clung to George Neville, and told him she had nothing left but him, and
one day implored him not to die and leave her.
Sir George said all he could think of to comfort her; and at the end of
a fortnight persuaded her to leave the "Packhorse" and England, as his
wife.
She had little power to resist now; and indeed little inclination.
They were married by special license, and spent a twelvemonth abroad.
At the end of that time they returned to Neville's Court, and Mercy
took her place there with the same dignified simplicity that had
adorned her in a humbler station.
Sir George had given her no lessons; but she had observed closely, for
his sake; and being already well educated, and very quick and docile,
she seldom made him blush except with pride.
They were the happiest pair in Cumberland. Her merciful nature now
found a larger field for its exercise, and, backed by her husband's
purse, she became the Lady Bountiful of the parish and the county.
The day after she reached Neville's Court came an exquisite letter to
her from Mrs. Gaunt. She sent an affectionate reply.
But the Gaunts and the Nevilles did not meet in society.
Sir George Neville and Mrs. Gaunt, being both singularly brave and
haughty people, rather despised this arrangement.
But it seems that, one day, when they were all four in the Town Hall,
folk whispered and looked; and both Griffith Gaunt and Lady Neville
surprised these glances, and determined, by one impulse, it should
never happen again. Hence it was quite understood that the Nevilles and
the Gaunts were not to be asked to the same party or ball.
The wives, however, corresponded, and Lady Neville easily induced Mrs.
Gaunt to co-operate with her in her benevolent acts, especially in
saving young women, who had been betrayed, from sinking deeper.
Living a good many miles apart, Lady Neville could send her stray sheep
to service near Mrs. Gaunt; and _vice versa_; and so, merciful, but
discriminating, they saved many a poor girl who had been weak, not
wicked.
So then, though they could not eat nor dance together in earthly
mansions, they could do good together; and, methinks, in the eternal
world, where years of social intercourse will prove less than cobwebs,
these their joint acts of mercy will be links of a bright, strong
chain, to bind their souls in everlasting amity.
It was a remarkable circumstance, that the one child of Lady Neville's
unhappy marriage died, but her nine children by Sir George all grew to
goodly men and women. That branch of the Nevilles became remarkable for
high principle and good sense; and this they owe to Mercy Vint, and to
Sir George's courage in marrying her. This Mercy was granddaughter to
one of Cromwell's ironsides, and brought her rare personal merit into
their house, and also the best blood of the old Puritans, than which
there is no blood in Europe more rich in male courage, female chastity,
and all the virtues.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy, by Charles Reade