Griffith, with an effort he had not the skill to hide, stammered out,
"Mistress Kate, I do wish you joy." Then, with sudden and touching
earnestness, "Never did good fortune light on one so worthy of it."
"Thank you, Griffith," replied Kate, softly. (She had called him "Mr.
Gaunt" in public till now.) "But money and lands do not always bring
content. I think I was happier a minute ago than I feel now," said she,
quietly.
The blood rushed into Griffith's face at this; for a minute ago might
mean when he and she were talking almost like lovers about to wed. He
was so overcome by this, he turned on his heel, and retreated hastily to
hide his emotion, and regain, if possible, composure to play his part of
host in the house that was his no longer.
Kate herself soon after retired, nominally to make her toilet before
dinner; but really to escape the public and think it all over.
The news of her advancement had spread like wildfire; she was waylaid at
the very door by the housekeeper, who insisted on showing her her house.
"Nay, never mind the house," said Kate; "just show me one room where I
can wash my face and do my hair."
Mrs. Hill conducted her to the best bedroom; it was lined with tapestry,
and all the colors flown; the curtains were a deadish yellow.
"Lud! here's a colored room to show _me_ into," said the blonde Kate;
"and a black grate, too. Why not take me out o' doors and bid me wash in
the snow?"
"Alack, mistress," said the woman, feeling very uneasy, "we had no
orders from Mr. Gaunt to light fires _up_ stairs."
"O, if you wait for gentlemen's orders to make your house fit to live
in! You knew there were a dozen ladies coming, yet you were not woman
enough to light them fires. Come, take me to your own bedroom."
The woman turned red. "Mine is but a small room, my lady," she
stammered.
"But there's a fire in it," said Kate, spitefully. "You servants don't
wait for gentlemen's orders, to take care of yourselves."
Mrs. Hill said to herself, "I'm to leave; that's flat." However, she led
the way down a passage, and opened the door of a pleasant little room in
a square turret; a large bay window occupied one whole side of the room,
and made it inexpressibly bright and cheerful, though rather hot and
stuffy; a clear coal fire burned in the grate.
"Ah!" said Kate, "how nice! Please open those little windows, every one.
I suppose you have sworn never to let wholesome air into a room. Thank
you: now go and forget every cross word I have said to you,--I am out of
sorts, and nervous, and irritable. There, run away, my good soul, and
light fires in every room; and don't you let a creature come near me, or
you and I shall quarrel downright."
Mrs. Hill beat a hasty retreat. Kate locked the door and threw herself
backwards on the bed, with such a weary recklessness and _abandon_ as if
she was throwing herself into the sea, to end all her trouble,--and
burst out crying.
It was one thing to refuse to marry her old sweetheart; it was another
to take his property and reduce him to poverty. But here was she doing
both, and going to be persuaded to marry Neville, and swell his wealth
with the very possessions she had taken from Griffith; and him wounded
into the bargain for love of her. It was really too cruel. It was an
accumulation of different cruelties. Her bosom revolted; she was
agitated, perplexed, irritated, unhappy, and all in a tumult; and
although she had but one fit of crying,--to the naked eye,--yet a
person of her own sex would have seen that at one moment she was crying
from agitated nerves, at another from worry, and at the next from pity,
and then from grief.
In short, she had a good long, hearty, multiform cry; and it relieved
her swelling heart, so far that she felt able to go down now, and hide
her feelings, one and all, from friend and foe; to do which was
unfortunately a part of her nature.
She rose and plunged her face into cold water, and then smoothed her
hair.
Now, as she stood at the glass, two familiar voices came in through the
open window, and arrested her attention directly. It was her father
conversing with Griffith Gaunt. Kate pricked up her quick ears and
listened, with her back hair in her hand. She caught the substance of
their talk, only now and then she missed a word or two.
Mr. Peyton was speaking rather kindly to Griffith, and telling him he
was as sorry for his disappointment as any father could be whose
daughter had just come into a fortune. But then he went on and rather
spoiled this by asking Griffith bluntly what on earth had ever made him
think Mr. Charlton intended to leave him Bolton and Hernshaw.
Griffith replied, with manifest agitation, that Mr. Charlton had
repeatedly told him he was to be his heir. "Not," said Griffith, "that
he meant to wrong Mistress Kate, neither: poor old man, he always
thought she and I should be one."
"Ah! well," said Squire Peyton, coolly, "there is an end of all that
now."
At this observation Kate glided to the window, and laid her cheek on the
sill to listen more closely.
But Griffith made no reply.
Mr. Peyton seemed dissatisfied at his silence, and being a person who,
notwithstanding a certain superficial good-nature, saw his own side of a
question very big, and his neighbor's very little, he was harder than
perhaps he intended to be.
"Why, Master Gaunt," said he, "surely you would not follow my daughter
now,--to feed upon a woman's bread. Come, be a man; and, if you are the
girl's friend, don't stand in her light. You know she can wed your
betters, and clap Bolton Hall on to Neville's Court. No doubt it is a
disappointment to _you_: but what can't be cured must be endured; pluck
up a bit of courage, and turn your heart another way; and then I shall
always be a good friend to you, and my doors open to you come when you
will."
Griffith made no reply. Kate strained her ears, but could not hear a
syllable, A tremor ran through her. She was in distance farther from
Griffith than her father was; but superior intelligence provided her
with a bridge from her window to her old servant's mind. And now she
felt that this great silence was the silence of despair.
But the Squire pressed him for a definite answer, and finally insisted
on one. "Come, don't be so sulky," said he; "I'm her father: give me an
answer, ay or no."
Then Kate heard a violent sigh, and out rushed a torrent of words that
each seemed tinged with blood from the unfortunate speaker's heart. "Old
man," he almost shrieked, "what did I ever do to you, that you torment
me so? Sure you were born without bowels. Beggared but an hour agone,
and now you must come and tell me I have lost _her_ by losing house and
lands! D'ye think I need to be _told_ it? She was too far above me
before, and now she is gone quite out of my reach. But why come and
fling it in my face? Can't you give a poor, undone man one hour to draw
his breath in trouble? And when you know I have got to play the host
this bitter day, and smile, and smirk, and make you all merry, with my
heart breaking! O Christ, look down and pity me, for men are made of
stone! Well, then, no; I will not, I cannot say the word to give her up.
_She_ will discharge _me_, and then I'll fly the country and never
trouble you more. And to think that one little hour ago she was so kind,
and I was so happy! Ah, sir, if you were born of a woman, have a little
pity, and don't speak to me of her at all, one way or other. What are
you afraid of? I am a gentleman and a man, though sore my trouble: I
shall not run after the lady of Bolton Hall. Why, sir, I have ordered
the servants to set her chair in the middle of the table, where I shall
not be able to speak to her, or even see her. Indeed I dare not look at
her: for I must be merry. Merry! My arm it worries me, my head it aches,
my heart is sick to death. Man! man! show me some little grace, and do
not torture me more than flesh and blood can bear."
"You are mad, young sir," said the Squire, sternly, "and want locking up
on bread and water for a month."
"I _am_ almost mad," said Griffith, humbly. "But if you would only let
me alone, and not tear my heart out of my body, I can hide my agony from
the whole pack of ye, and go through my part like a man. I wish I was
lying where I laid my only friend this afternoon."
"O, I don't want to speak to you," said Peyton, angrily; "and, by the
same token, don't you speak to my daughter no more."
"Well, sir, if she speaks to me, I shall be sure to speak to her,
without asking your leave or any man's. But I will not force myself upon
the lady of Bolton Hall; don't you think it. Only for God's sake let me
alone. I want to be by myself." And with this he hurried away, unable to
bear it any more.
Peyton gave a hostile and contemptuous snort, and also turned on his
heel, and went off in the opposite direction.
The effect of this dialogue on the listener was not to melt, but
exasperate her. Perhaps she had just cried away her stock of tenderness.
At any rate, she rose from her ambush a very basilisk; her eyes, usually
so languid, flashed fire, and her forehead was red with indignation. She
bit her lip, and clenched her hands, and her little foot beat the ground
swiftly.
She was still in this state, when a timid tap came to the door, and Mrs.
Hill asked her pardon, but dinner was ready, and the ladies and
gentlemen all a waiting for her to sit down.
This reminded Kate she was the mistress of the house. She answered
civilly she would be down immediately. She then took a last look in the
glass; and her own face startled her.
"No," she thought, "they shall none of them know nor guess what I feel."
And she stood before the glass and deliberately extracted all emotion
from her countenance, and by way of preparation screwed on a spiteful
smile.
When she had got her face to her mind, she went down stairs.
The gentlemen awaited her with impatience, the ladies with curiosity, to
see how she would comport herself in her new situation. She entered,
made a formal courtesy, and was conducted to her seat by Mr. Gaunt. He
placed her in the middle of the table. "I play the host for this one
day," said he, with some dignity; and took the bottom of the table
himself.
Mr. Hammersley was to have sat on Kate's left, but the sly Neville
persuaded him to change, and so got next to his inamorata; opposite to
her sat her father, Major Rickards, and others unknown to fame.
Neville was in high spirits. He had the good taste to try and hide his
satisfaction at the fatal blow his rival had received, and he entirely
avoided the topic; but Kate saw at once, by his demure complacency, he
was delighted at the turn things had taken, and he gained nothing by it:
he found her a changed girl. Cold monosyllables were all he could
extract from her. He returned to the charge a hundred times, with
indomitable gallantry, but it was no use. Cold, haughty, sullen!
Her other neighbor fared little better; and in short the lady of the
house made a vile impression. She was an iceberg,--a beautiful
kill-joy,--a wet blanket of charming texture.
And presently Nature began to co-operate with her: long before sunset it
grew prodigiously dark; and the cause was soon revealed by a fall of
snow in flakes as large as a biscuit. A shiver ran through the people;
and old Peyton blurted out, "I shall not go home to-night." Then he
bawled across the table to his daughter: "_You_ are at home. We will
stay and take possession."
"O papa!" said Kate, reddening with disgust.
But if dulness reigned around the lady of the house, it was not so
everywhere. Loud bursts of merriment were heard at the bottom of the
table. Kate glanced that way in some surprise, and found it was Griffith
making the company merry,--Griffith of all people.
The laughter broke out at short intervals, and by and by became
uproarious and constant. At last she looked at Neville inquiringly.
"Our worthy host is setting us an example of conviviality," said he. "He
is getting drunk."
"O, I hope not," said Kate. "Has he no friend to tell him not to make a
fool of himself?"
"You take a great interest in him," said Neville, bitterly.
"Of course I do. Pray, do you desert your friends when ill luck falls on
them?"
"Nay, Mistress Kate, I hope not."
"You only triumph over the misfortunes of your enemies, eh?" said the
stinging beauty.
"Not even that. And as for Mr. Gaunt, I am not his enemy."
"O no, of course not. You are his best friend. Witness his arm at this
moment."
"I am his rival, but not his enemy. I'll give you a proof." Then he
lowered his voice, and said in her ear: "You are grieved at his losing
Bolton; and, as you are very generous and noble-minded, you are all the
more grieved because his loss is your gain." (Kate blushed at this
shrewd hit.) Neville went on: "You don't like him well enough to marry
him; and since you cannot make him happy, it hurts your good heart to
make him poor."
"It is you for reading a lady's heart," said Kate, ironically.
George proceeded steadily. "I'll show you an easy way out of this
dilemma."
"Thank you," said Kate, rather insolently.
"Give Mr. Gaunt Bolton and Hernshaw, and give me--your hand."
Kate turned and looked at him with surprise; she saw by his eye it was
no jest. For all that, she affected to take it as one. "That would be
long and short division," said she; but her voice faltered in saying it.
"So it would," replied George, coolly; "for Bolton and Hernshaw both are
not worth one finger of that hand I ask of you. But the value of things
lies in the mind that weighs 'em. Mr. Gaunt, you see, values Bolton and
Hernshaw very highly; why, he is in despair at losing them. Look at him;
he is getting rid of his reason before your very eyes, to drown his
disappointment."
"Ah! oh! that is it, is it?" And, strange to say, she looked rather
relieved.
"That is it, believe me: it is a way we men have. But, as I was saying,
_I_ don't care one straw for Bolton and Hernshaw. It is _you_ I
love,--not your land nor your house, but your sweet self; so give me
that, and let the lawyers make over this famous house and lands to Mr.
Gaunt. His antagonist I have been in the field, and his rival I am and
must be, but not his enemy, you see, and not his ill-wisher."
Kate was softened a little. "This is all mighty romantic," said she,
"and very like a _preux chevalier_, as you are; but you know very well
he would fling land and house in your face, if you offered them him on
these terms."
"Ay, in my face, if I offered them; but not in yours, if you."
"I am sure he would, all the same."
"Try him."
"What is the use?"
"Try him."
Kate showed symptoms of uneasiness. "Well, I will," said she, stoutly.
"No, that I will not. You begin by bribing me; and then you would set me
to bribe him."
"It is the only way to make two honest men happy."
"If I thought that--"
"You know it. Try him."
"And suppose he says nay?"
"Then we shall be no worse than we are."
"And suppose he says ay?"
"Then he will wed Bolton Hall and Hernshaw, and the pearl of England
will wed me."
"I have a great mind to take you at your word," said Kate; "but no; it
is really too indelicate."
George Neville fixed his eyes on her. "Are you not deceiving yourself?"
said he. "Do you not like Mr. Gaunt better than you think? I begin to
fear you dare not put him to this test: you fear his love would not
stand it?"
Kate colored high, and tossed her head proudly. "How shrewd you
gentlemen are!" she said. "Much you know of a lady's heart. Now the
truth is, I don't know what might not happen were I to do what you bid
me. Nay, I'm wiser than you would have me; and I'll pity Mr. Gaunt at a
safe distance, if you please, sir."
Neville bowed gravely. He felt sure this was a plausible evasion, and
that she really was afraid to apply his test to his rival's love.
So now, for the first time, he became silent and reserved by her side.
The change was noticed by Father Francis, and he fixed a grave,
remonstrating glance on Kate. She received it, understood it, affected
not to notice it, and acted upon it.
Drive a donkey too hard, it kicks.
Drive a man too hard, it hits.
Drive a woman too hard, it cajoles.
Now amongst them they had driven Kate Peyton too hard; so she secretly
formed a bold resolution; and, this done, her whole manner changed for
the better. She turned to Neville, and flattered and fascinated him. The
most feline of her sex could scarcely equal her _calinerie_ on this
occasion. But she did not confine her fascination to him. She broke out,
_pro bono publico_, like the sun in April, with quips and cranks and
dimpled smiles, and made everybody near her quite forget her late
hauteur and coldness, and bask in this sunny, sweet hostess. When the
charm was at its height, the siren cast a seeming merry glance at
Griffith, and said to a lady opposite, "Methinks some of the gentlemen
will be glad to be rid of us," and so carried the ladies off to the
drawing-room.
There her first act was to dismiss her smiles without ceremony; and her
second was to sit down and write four lines to the gentleman at the head
of the dining-table.
And he was as drunk as a fiddler.