Next morning Mr. Peyton was up betimes in his character of host, and
ordered the servants about, and was in high spirits; only they gave
place to amazement when Griffith Gaunt came down, and played the host,
and was in high spirits.
Neville too watched his rival, and was puzzled at his radiancy.
So breakfast passed in general mystification. Kate, who could have
thrown a light, did not come down to breakfast. She was on her defence.
She made her first appearance out of doors.
Very early in the morning, Mr. Peyton, in his quality of master, had
ordered the gardener to cut and sweep the snow off the gravel walk that
went round the lawn. And on this path Miss Peyton was seen walking
briskly to and fro in the frosty, but sunny air.
Griffith saw her first, and ran out to bid her good morning.
Her reception of him was a farce. She made him a stately courtesy for
the benefit of the three faces glued against the panes, but her words
were incongruous. "You wretch," said she, "don't come here. Hide about,
dearest, till you see me with Father Francis. I'll raise my hand _so_
when you are to cuddle him, and fib. There, make me a low bow, and
retire."
He obeyed, and the whole thing looked mighty formal and ceremonious from
the breakfast-room.
"With your good leave, gentlemen," said Father Francis, dryly, "I will
be the next to pay my respects to her." With this he opened the window
and stepped out.
Kate saw him, and felt very nervous. She met him with apparent delight.
He bestowed his morning benediction on her, and then they walked
silently side by side on the gravel; and from the dining-room window it
looked like anything but what it was,--a fencing match.
Father Francis was the first to break silence. He congratulated her on
her good fortune, and on the advantage it might prove to the true
Church.
Kate waited quietly till he had quite done, and then said, "What, I may
go into a convent _now_ that I can bribe the door open?"
The scratch was feline, feminine, sudden, and sharp. But, alas! Father
Francis only smiled at it. Though not what we call spiritually-minded,
he was a man of a Christian temper. "Not with my good-will, my
daughter," said he; "I am of the same mind still, and more than ever.
You must marry forthwith, and rear children in the true faith."
"What a hurry you are in."
"Your own conduct has made it necessary."
"Why, what have I done now?"
"No harm. It was a good and humane action to prevent bloodshed, but the
world is not always worthy of good actions. People are beginning to make
free with your name for your interfering in the duel."
Kate fired up. "Why can't people mind their own business?"
"I do not exactly know," said the priest, coolly, "nor is it worth
inquiring. We must take human nature as it is, and do for the best. You
must marry him, and stop their tongues."
Kate pretended to reflect. "I believe you are right," said she, at last;
"and indeed I must do as you would have me; for, to tell the truth, in
an unguarded moment, I pitied him so that I half promised I _would_."
"Indeed!" said Father Francis. "This is the first I have heard of it."
Kate replied that was no wonder, for it was only last night she had so
committed herself.
"Last night!" said Father Francis; "how can that be? He was never out of
my sight till we went to bed."
"O, there I beg to differ," said the lady. "While you were all tippling
in the dining-room, he was better employed,--making love by moonlight.
And O what a terrible thing opportunity is, and the moon another! There!
what with the moonlight, and my pitying him so, and all he has suffered
for me, and my being rich now, and having something to give him, we two
are engaged. See else: this was his mother's ring, and he has mine."
"Mr. Neville?"
"Mr. Neville? No. My old servant, to be sure. What, do you think I would
go and marry for wealth, when I have enough and to spare of my own? O,
what an opinion you must have of me!"
Father Francis was staggered by this adroit thrust. However, after a
considerable silence he recovered himself, and inquired gravely why she
had given him no hint of all this the other night, when he had diverted
her from a convent, and advised her to marry Neville.
"That you never did, I'll be sworn," said Kate.
Father Francis reflected.
"Not in so many words, perhaps; but I said enough to show you."
"O!" said Kate, "such a matter was too serious for hints and innuendoes;
if you wanted me to jilt my old servant and wed an acquaintance of
yesterday, why not say so plainly? I dare say I should have obeyed you,
and been unhappy for life; but now my honor is solemnly engaged; my
faith is plighted; and were even you to urge me to break faith, and
behave dishonorably, I should resist. I would liever take poison, and
die."
Father Francis looked at her steadily, and she colored to the brow.
"You are a very apt young lady," said he; "you have outwitted your
director. That may be my fault as much as yours; so I advise you to
provide yourself with another director, whom you will be unable, or
unwilling, to outwit."
Kate's high spirit fell before this: she turned her eyes, full of tears,
on him. "O, do not desert me, now that I shall need you more than ever,
to guide me in my new duties. Forgive me; I did not know my own
heart--quite. I'll go into a convent now, if I must; but I can't marry
any man but poor Griffith. Ah, father, he is more generous than any of
us! Would you believe it? when he thought Bolton and Hernshaw were
coming to him, he said if I married him I should have the money to build
a convent with. He knows how fond I am of a convent."
"He was jesting; his religion would not allow it."
"His religion!" cried Kate. Then, lifting her eyes to Heaven, and
looking just like an angel, "Love is _his_ religion!" said she, warmly.
"Then his religion is Heathenism," said the priest, grimly.
"Nay, there is too much charity in it for that," retorted Kate, keenly.
Then she looked down, like a cunning, guilty thing, and murmured: "One
of the things I esteem him for is he always speaks well of _you_. To be
sure, just now the poor soul thinks you are his best friend with me. But
that is my fault; I as good as told him so: and it is true, after a
fashion; for you kept me out of the convent that was his only real
rival. Why, here he comes. O father, now don't you go and tell him you
side with Mr. Neville."
At this crisis Griffith, who, to tell the truth, had received a signal
from Kate, rushed at Father Francis and fell upon his neck, and said
with great rapidity: "O Father Francis, 'tis to you I owe her,--you and
I are friends for life. So long as we have a house there is a bed in it
for you, and whilst we have a table to sit down to there's a plate at it
for you, and a welcome, come when you will."
Having gabbled these words he winked at Kate, and fled swiftly.
Father Francis was taken aback a little by this sudden burst of
affection. First he stared,--then he knitted his brows,--then he
pondered.
Kate stole a look at him, and her eyes sought the ground.
"That is the gentleman you arranged matters with last night?" said he,
drily.
"Yes," replied Kate, faintly.
"Was this scene part of the business?"
"O father!"
"Why I ask, he did it so unnatural. Mr. Gaunt is a worthy, hospitable
gentleman; he and I are very good friends; and really I never doubted
that I should be welcome in his house----until this moment."
"And can you doubt it now?"
"Almost: his manner just now was so hollow, so forced; not a word of all
that came from his heart, you know."
"Then his heart is changed very lately."
The priest shook his head. "Anything more like a puppet, and a parrot to
boot, I never saw. 'Twas done so timely, too. He ran in upon our
discourse. Let me see your hand, mistress. Why, where is the string with
which you pulled yonder machine in so pat upon the word?"
"Spare me!" muttered Kate, faintly.
"Then do you drop deceit and the silly cunning of your sex, and speak to
me from your heart, or not at all." (Diapason.)
At this Kate began to whimper.
"Father," she said, "show me some mercy." Then, suddenly clasping her
hands: "HAVE PITY ON HIM, AND ON ME."
This time Nature herself seemed to speak, and the eloquent cry went
clean through the priest's heart.
"Ah!" said he; and his own voice trembled a little: "now you are as
strong as your cunning was weak. Come, I see how it is with you; and I
am human, and have been young, and a lover into the bargain, before I
was a priest. There, dry thy eyes, child, and go to thy room; he thou
couldst not trust shall bear the brunt for thee this once."
Then Kate bowed her fair head and kissed the horrid paw of him that had
administered so severe but salutary a pat. She hurried away up stairs,
right joyful at the unexpected turn things had taken.
Father Francis, thus converted to her side, lost no time; he walked into
the dining-room and told Neville he had bad news for him.
"Summon all your courage, my young friend," said he, with feeling, "and
remember that this world is full of disappointments."
Neville said nothing, but rose and stood rather pale, waiting like a man
for the blow. Its nature he more than half guessed: he had been at the
window.
* * * * *
It fell.
"She is engaged to Gaunt, since last night; and she loves him."
"The double-faced jade!" cried Peyton, with an oath.
"The heartless coquette!" groaned Neville.
Father Francis made excuses for her: "Nay, nay, she is not the first of
her sex that did not know her own mind all at once. Besides, we men are
blind in matters of love; perhaps a woman would have read her from the
first. After all, she was not bound to give us the eyes to read a female
heart."
He next reminded Neville that Gaunt had been her servant for years.
"You knew that," said he, "yet you came between them----at your peril.
Put yourself in his place: say you had succeeded: would not his wrong be
greater than yours is now? Come, be brave; be generous; he is wounded,
he is disinherited; only his love is left him: 'tis the poor man's lamb;
and would you take it?"
"O, I have not a word to say against the _man_," said George, with a
mighty effort.
"And what use is your quarrelling with the woman?" suggested the
practical priest.
"None whatever," said George, sullenly. After a moment's silence he rang
the bell feverishly. "Order my horse round directly," said he. Then he
sat down, and buried his face in his hands, and did not, and could not,
listen to the voice of consolation.
Now the house was full of spies in petticoats, amateur spies, that ran
and told the mistress everything of their own accord, to curry favor.
And this no doubt was the cause that, just as the groom walked the
piebald out of the stable towards the hall door, a maid came to Father
Francis with a little note: he opened it, and found these words written
faintly, in a fine Italian hand:--
"I scarce knew my own heart till I saw him wounded and poor,
and myself rich at his expense. Entreat Mr. Neville to forgive
me."
He handed the note to Neville without a word.
Neville read it, and his lip trembled; but he said nothing, and
presently went out into the hall, and put on his hat, for he saw his nag
at the door.
Father Francis followed him, and said, sorrowfully, "What, not one word
in reply to so humble a request?"
"Well, here's my reply," said George, grinding his teeth. "She knows
French, though she pretends not.
'Le bruit est pour le fat, la plainte est pour le sot,
L'honnête homme trompé s'eloigne et ne dit mot.'"
And with this he galloped furiously away.
He buried himself at Neville's Cross for several days, and would neither
see nor speak to a soul. His heart was sick, his pride lacerated. He
even shed some scalding tears in secret; though, to look at him, that
seemed impossible.
* * * * *
So passed a bitter week: and in the course of it he bethought him of the
tears he had made a true Italian lady shed, and never pitied her a grain
till now.
He was going abroad: on his desk lay a little crumpled paper. It was
Kate's entreaty for forgiveness. He had ground it in his hand, and
ridden away with it.
Now he was going away, he resolved to answer her.
He wrote a letter full of bitter reproaches; read it over; and tore it
up.
He wrote a satirical and cutting letter; read it; and tore it up.
He wrote her a mawkish letter; read it; and tore it up.
The priest's words, scorned at first, had sunk into him a little.
He walked about the room, and tried to see it all like a by-stander.
He examined her writing closely: the pen had scarcely marked the paper.
They were the timidest strokes. The writer seemed to kneel to him. He
summoned all his manhood, his fortitude, his generosity, and, above all,
his high-breeding; and produced the following letter; and this one he
sent:--
"MISTRESS KATE,--I leave England to-day for your sake; and
shall never return unless the day shall come when I can look on
you but as a friend. The love that ends in hate, that is too
sorry a thing to come betwixt you and me.
"If you have used me ill, your punishment is this; you have
given me the right to say to you----I forgive you.
"GEORGE NEVILLE."
And he went straight to Italy.
* * * * *
Kate laid his note upon her knee, and sighed deeply; and said, "Poor
fellow! How noble of him! What _can_ such men as this see in any woman
to go and fall in love with her?"
Griffith found her with a tear in her eye. He took her out walking, and
laid all his radiant plans of wedded life before her. She came back
flushed, and beaming with complacency and beauty.
Old Peyton was brought to consent to the marriage. Only he attached one
condition, that Bolton and Hernshaw should be settled on Kate for her
separate use.
To this Griffith assented readily; but Kate refused plump. "What, give
him _myself_, and then grudge him my _estates_!" said she, with a look
of lofty and beautiful scorn at her male advisers.
But Father Francis, having regard to the temporal interests of his
Church, exerted his strength and pertinacity, and tired her out; so
those estates were put into trustees' hands, and tied up tight as wax.
This done, Griffith Gaunt and Kate Peyton were married, and made the
finest pair that wedded in the county that year.
As the bells burst into a merry peal, and they walked out of church man
and wife, their path across the churchyard was strewed thick with
flowers, emblematic, no doubt, of the path of life that lay before so
handsome a couple.
They spent the honeymoon in London, and tasted earthly felicity.
Yet did not quarrel after it; but subsided into the quiet complacency of
wedded life.