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 recognized
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 offence,
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."
"O, 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 Rose, 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,
"CATHARINE 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
courtesied 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
honor 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 fireplaces, 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 he 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 be _friends_,"--and she gave him her
hand sweetly enough, but O 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 peacemaker 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 had 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 versâ_, 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 jail."
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 the 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? 'T is impossible. I cannot be so
happy."
"Child," said Mrs. Gaunt, "love is not reason; love is not common sense.
'T is 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. 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 gray-headed man,
the other singularly young for the fame he had obtained. But then he was
a genuine enthusiast in his art.