How did poor, faulty Griffith receive it?
He raised his head, and turned his brown eye gentle but full upon her. "My poor girl," said he, "I see what you are driving at. But that will not do. I have nothing to give you in exchange. I hate my wife that I loved so dear: d—n her! d—n her! But I hate all womankind for her sake. Keep you clear of me. I would ruin no poor girl for heartless sport. I shall have blood on my hands ere long, and that is enough."
And, with these alarming words, he seemed suddenly to recover all his vigour; for he rose and stalked away at once, and never looked behind him.
Ryder made no further attempt. She sat down and shed bitter tears of sorrow and mortification.
After this cruel rebuff she must hate somebody; and with the justice of her sex, she pitched on Mrs. Gaunt, and hated her like a demon, and watched to do her a mischief by hook or by crook.
Griffith's appearance and manner caused Mrs. Gaunt very serious anxiety. His clothes hung loose on his wasted frame; his face was of one uniform sallow tint, like a maniac's; and he sat silent for hours beside his wife, eyeing her askant from time to time like a surly mastiff guarding some treasure.
She divined what was passing in his mind, and tried to soothe him; but almost in vain. He was sometimes softened for the moment; but hæret lateri lethalis arundo; he still hovered about, watching her and tormenting himself; gnawed mad by three vultures of the mind—doubt, jealousy and suspense.
Then Mrs. Gaunt wrote letters to Father Leonard: hitherto she had only sent him short messages.
Betty Gough carried these letters and brought the answers.
Griffith, thanks to the hint Ryder had given him, suspected this, and waylaid the old woman, and roughly demanded to see the letter she was carrying. She stoutly protested she had none. He seized her, turned her pockets inside out, and found a bunch of keys; item, a printed dialogue between Peter and Herod, omitted in the canonical books, but described by the modern discoverer as an infallible charm for the toothache; item, a brass thimble; item, half a nutmeg.
Curse your cunning, said he; and went off muttering.
The old woman tottered trembling to Mrs. Gaunt, related this outrage with an air of injured innocence, then removed her cap, undid her hair, and took out a letter from Leonard.
This must end, and shall, said Mrs. Gaunt, firmly; "else it will drive him mad and me too." Bolton fair-day came. It was a great fair, and had attractions for all classes. There were cattle and horses of all kinds for sale, and also shows, games, wrestling, and dancing till day-break.
All the servants had a prescriptive right to go to this fair: and Griffith himself had never missed one. He told Kate over-night he would go, if it were not for leaving her alone.
The words were kinder than their meaning; but Mrs. Gaunt had the tact, or the candour, to take them in their best sense. "And I would go with you, my dear," said she; "but I should only be a drag. Never heed me; give yourself a day's pleasure, for indeed you need it. I am in care about you: you are so dull of late."
Well, I will, said Griffith. "I'll not mope here when all the rest are merry-making."
Accordingly, next day about eleven in the morning, he mounted his horse and rode to the fair, leaving the house empty; for all the servants were gone except the old housekeeper; she was tied to the fireside by rheumatics. Even Ryder started, with a new bonnet and red ribbons; but that was only a blind. She slipped back and got unperceived into her own bedroom.
Griffith ran through the fair; but could not enjoy it. Hærebat lateri arundo. He came galloping back to watch his wife, and see whether Betty Gough had come again or not.
As he rode into the stable-yard he caught sight of Ryder's face at an upper window. She looked pale and agitated, and her black eyes flashed with a strange expression. She made him a signal which he did not understand; but she joined him directly after in the stable-yard.
Come quietly with me, said she, solemnly.
He hooked his horse's rein to the wall, and followed her, trembling.
She took him up the back stairs, and, when she got on the landing, she turned and said, "Where did you leave her?"
In her own room.
See if she is there now, said Ryder, pointing to the door.
Griffith tore the door open: the room was empty.
Nor is she to be found in the house, said Ryder; "for I've been in every room."
Griffith's face turned livid, and he staggered and leaned against the wall. "Where is she?" said he, hoarsely.
Humph! said Ryder, fiendishly. "Find him, and you will find her."
I'll find them if they are above ground, cried Griffith, furiously; and he rushed into his bedroom and soon came out again, with a fearful purpose written on his ghastly features and in his bloodshot eyes; and a loaded pistol in his hand.
Ryder was terrified; but instead of succumbing to terror, she flew at him like a cat and wreathed her arms round him.
What would you do? cried she. "Madman, would you hang for them? and break my heart; the only woman in the world that loves you. Give me the pistol. Nay, I will have it."
And, with that extraordinary power excitement lends her sex, she wrenched it out of his hands.
He gnashed his teeth with fury, and clutched her with a gripe of iron: she screamed with pain: he relaxed his grasp a little at that: she turned on him and defied him.
I won't let you get into trouble for a priest and a wanton, she cried; "you shall kill me first. Leave mo the pistol, and pledge me your sacred word to do them no harm, and then I'll tell you where they are. Refuse me this, and you shall go to your grave and know nothing more than you know now."
No, no: if you are a woman have pity on me; let me come at them. There, I'll use no weapon. I'll tear them to atoms with these hands. Where are they?
May I put the pistol away, then?
Yes, take it out of my sight; so best. Where are they?
Ryder locked the pistol up in one of Mrs. Gaunt's boxes. Then she said, in a trembling voice, "Follow me."
He followed her in awful silence.
She went rather slowly to the door that opened on the lawn; and then she hesitated. "If you are a man, and have any feeling for a poor girl who loves you; if you are a gentleman, and respect your word—no violence."
I promise, said he. "Where are they?"
Nay, nay. I fear I shall rue the day I told you. Promise me once more: no bloodshed—upon your soul.
I promise. Where are they?
God forgive me; they are in the Grove.
He bounded away from her like some beast of prey; and she crouched and trembled on the steps of the door: and, now that she realized what she was doing, a sickening sense of dire misgiving came over her and made her feel quite faint.
And so the weak, but dangerous creature sat crouching and quaking, and launched the strong one.
Griffith was soon in the Grove; and the first thing he saw was Leonard and his wife walking together in earnest conversation. Their backs were towards him. Mrs. Gaunt, whom he had left lying on a sofa, and who professed herself scarce able to walk half a dozen times across the room, was now springing along, elastic as a young greyhound, and full of fire and animation. The miserable husband saw, and his heart died within him.
He leaned against a tree and groaned.
The deadly sickness of his heart soon gave way to sombre fury. He came softly after them, with ghastly cheek, and bloodthirsty eyes, like red-hot coals.
They stopped; and he heard his wife say, "'Tis a solemn promise, then: this very night." The priest bowed assent. Then they spoke in so low a voice, he could not hear; but his wife pressed a purse upon Leonard, and Leonard hesitated, but ended by taking it.
Griffith uttered a yell like a tiger, and rushed between them with savage violence, driving the lady one way with his wrists, and the priest another. She screamed: he trembled in silence.
Griffith stood a moment between these two pale faces, silent and awful.
Then he faced his wife. "You vile wretch!" he cried: "so you buy your own dishonour, and mine." He raised his hand high over her head; she never winced. "Oh! but for my oath, I'd lay you dead at my feet. But no; I'll not hang for a priest and a wanton. So, this is the thing you love, and pay it to love you." And with all the mad inconsistency of rage, which mixes small things and great, he tore the purse out of Leonard's hand: then seized him felly by the throat.
At that the high spirit of Mrs. Gaunt gave way to abject terror. "Oh, mercy! mercy!" she cried; "it is all a mistake." And she clung to his knees.
He spurned her furiously away. "Don't touch me, woman," he cried, "or you are dead. Look at this!" And in a moment, with gigantic strength and fury, he dashed the priest down at her feet. "I know ye, ye proud devil," he cried, "love the thing you have seen me tread upon! love it—if ye can." And he literally trampled upon the poor priest with both feet.
Leonard shrieked for mercy.
None, in this world or the next, roared Griffith; but the next moment he took fright at himself. "God!" he cried, "I must go, or kill. Live and be damned for ever, the pair of ye." And with this he fled from them, grinding his teeth and beating the air with his clenched lists.
He darted to the stable-yard, sprang on his horse, and galloped away from Hernshaw Castle, with the face, the eyes, the gestures, the incoherent mutterings of a raving Bedlamite.
该作者其它作品
《The Cloister and the Hearth回廊与壁炉》
At the fair the wrestling was ended, and the tongues going over it all again, and throwing the victors; the greasy pole, with leg of mutton attached by ribbons, was being hoisted, and the swings flying, and the lads and lasses footing it to the fife and tabor, and the people chattering in groups; when the clatter of a horse's feet was heard, and a horseman burst in and rode recklessly through the market-place; indeed, if his noble horse had been as rash as he was, some would have been trampled under foot. The rider's face was ghastly: such as were not exactly in his path, had time to see it, and wonder how this terrible countenance came into that merry place. Thus, as he passed, shouts of dismay arose, and a space opened before him, and then closed behind him with a great murmur that followed at his heels.
Tom Leicester was listening, spell-bound, on the outskirts of the throng, to the songs and humorous tirades of a pedlar selling his wares; and was saying to himself, "I too will be a pedlar." Hearing the row, he turned round, and saw his master just coming down with that stricken face.
Tom could not decipher his own name in print or manuscript; and these are the fellows that beat us all at reading countenances: he saw in a moment that some great calamity had fallen on Griffith's head; and nature stirred in him. He darted to his master's side, and seized the bridle. "What is up?" he cried.
But Griffith did not answer, nor notice; his ears were almost deaf, and his eyes, great and staring, were fixed right ahead; and to all appearance, he did not see the people: he seemed to be making for the horizon.
Master! for the love of Heaven, speak to me, cried Leicester. "What have they done to you? Whither be you going, with the face of a ghost?"
Away, from the hangman, shrieked Griffith, still staring at the horizon. "Stay me not; my hands itch for their throats; my heart thirsts for their blood; but I'll not hang for a priest and a wanton." Then he suddenly turned on Leicester, "Let thou go, or——," and he lifted up his heavy riding whip.
Then Leicester let go the rein, and the whip descended on the horse's flank; he went clattering furiously over the stones, and drove the thinner groups apart like chaff, and his galloping feet were soon heard fainter and fainter till they died away in the distance. Leicester stood gaping.
Griffith's horse, a black hunter of singular power and beauty, carried his wretched master well that day; he went on till sunset, trotting, cantering, and walking, without intermission; the whip ceased to touch him, the rein never checked him. He found he was the master, and he went his own way. He took his broken rider back into the county where he had been foaled. But a few miles from his native place they came to the "Packhorse," a pretty little roadside inn, with farm-yard and buildings at the back. He had often baited here in his infancy; and now, stiff and stumbling with fatigue, the good horse could not pass the familiar place; he walked gravely into the stable-yard, and there fairly came to an end; craned out his drooping head, crooked his limbs, and seemed of wood. And no wonder. He was ninety-three miles from his last corn.
Paul Carrick, a young farrier, who frequented the "Packhorse," happened just then to be lounging at the kitchen door, and saw him come in. He turned directly, and shouted into the house, "Ho! Master Vint, come hither. Here's Black Dick come home, and brought you a worshipful customer."
The landlord bustled out of the kitchen, crying, "They are welcome both." Then he came lowly louting to Griffith, cap in hand, and held the horse, poor immoveable brute; and his wife curtsied perseveringly at the door.
Griffith dismounted, and stood there looking like one in a dream.
Please you come in, sir, said the landlady, smiling professionally
He followed her mechanically.
Would your worship be private? We keep a parlour for gentles.
Ay, let me be alone, he groaned.
Mercy Vint, the daughter, happened to be on the stairs and heard him: the voice startled her, and she turned round directly to look at the speaker; but she only saw his back going into the room, and then he flung himself like a sack into the arm-chair.
The landlady invited him to order supper: he declined. She pressed him. He flung a piece of money on the table, and told her savagely to score his supper, and leave him in peace.
She flounced out with a red face, and complained to her husband in the kitchen.
Harry Vint rung the crown piece on the table before he committed himself to a reply. It rang like a bell. "Churl or not, his coin is good," said Harry Vint, philosophically. "I'll eat his supper, dame, for that matter."
Father, whispered Mercy, "I do think the gentleman is in trouble."
And that is no business of mine, neither, said Harry Vint.
Presently the guest they were discussing called loudly for a quart of burnt wine.
When it was ready, Mercy offered to take it in to him. She was curious. The landlord looked up rather surprised; for his daughter attended to the farm, but fought shy of the inn and its business.
Take it, lass, and welcome for me, said Mrs. Vint, pettishly.
Mercy took the wine in, and found Griffith with his head buried in his hands.
She stood a while with the tray, not knowing what to do.
Then, as he did not move, she said, softly, "The wine, sir, an if it please you."
Griffith lifted his head, and turned two eyes clouded with suffering upon her; he saw a buxom, blooming, young woman, with remarkably dove-like eyes that dwelt with timid, kindly curiosity upon him. He looked at her in a half distracted way, and then put his hand to the mug. "Here's perdition to all false women!" said he, and tossed half the wine down at a single draught.
'Tis not to me you drink, sir, said Mercy, with gentle dignity. Then she curtsied modestly and retired, discouraged, not offended.
The wretched Griffith took no notice—did not even see he had repulsed a friendly visitor. The wine, taken on an empty stomach, soon stupified him, and he staggered to bed.
He awoke at day-break; and, oh the agony of that waking.
He lay sighing a while, with his hot skin quivering on his bones, and his heart like lead; then got up and flung his clothes on hastily, and asked how far to the nearest sea-port.
Twenty miles.
He called for his horse. The poor brute was dead lame.
He cursed that good servant for going lame. He walked round and round like a wild beast, chafing and fuming a while; then sank into a torpor of dejection, and sat with his head bowed on the table all day.
He ate scarcely any food; but drank wine freely, remarking, however, that it was false-hearted stuff; did him no good; and had no taste as wine used to have. "But nothing is what it was," said he. "Even I was happy once. But that seems years ago."
Alas! poor gentleman; God comfort you, said Mercy Vint, and came with the tears in her dove-like eyes, and said to her father, "To be sure his worship hath been crossed in love; and what could she be thinking of? Such a handsome, well-made gentleman!"
Now that is a wench's first thought, said Harry Vint: "more likely lost his money, gambling, or racing. But, indeed, I think 'tis his head is disordered, not his heart. I wish the 'Packhorse' was quit of him, maugre his laced coat. We want no kill-joys here."
That night he was heard groaning and talking, and did not come down at all.
So at noon Mrs. Vint knocked at his door: a weak voice bade her enter; she found him shivering, and he asked her for a fire.
She grumbled, out of hearing, but lighted a fire.
Presently his voice was heard hallooing: he wanted all the windows open: he was so burning hot.
The landlady looked at him, and saw his face was flushed and swollen: and he complained of pain in all his bones. She opened the windows, and asked him would he have a doctor sent for: he shook his head contemptuously.
However, towards evening he became delirious, and raved and tossed, and rolled his head as if it was an intolerable weight he wanted to get rid of.
The females of the family were for sending at once for a doctor; but the prudent Harry demurred.
Tell me, first, who is to pay the fee, said he. "I've seen a fine coat with the pockets empty, before to-day."
The women set up their throats at him with one accord, each after her kind.
Out, fie! said Mercy; "are we to do nought for charity?"
Why, there's his horse, ye foolish man, said Mrs. Vint.
Ay, ye are both wiser than me, said Harry Vint, ironically. And soon after that he went out softly.
The next minute he was in the sick man's room, examining his pockets. To his infinite surprise he found twenty gold pieces, a quantity of silver, and some trinkets.
He spread them all out on the table and gloated on them with greedy eyes. They looked so inviting, that he said to himself, they would be safer in his custody than in that of a delirious person, who was even now raving incoherently before him, and could not see what he was doing. He therefore proceeded to transfer them to his own care.
On the way to his pocket, his shaking hand was arrested by another hand, soft, but firm as iron. He shuddered and looked round in abject terror; and there was his daughter's face, pale as his own, but full of resolution. "Nay, father," said she; "I must take charge of these: and well do you know why."
These simple words cowed Harry Vint, so that he instantly resigned the money and jewels, and retired, muttering that "things were come to a pretty pass,"—"a man was no longer master in his own house," etc. etc. etc.
While he inveighed against the degeneracy of the age, the women paid him no more attention than the age did, but just sent for the doctor. He came, and bled the patient. This gave him a momentary relief; but when in the natural progress of the disease, sweating and weakness came on, the loss of the precious vital fluid was fatal, and the patient's pulse became scarce perceptible. There he lay, with wet hair, and gleaming eyes, and haggard face, at death's door.
An experienced old crone was got to nurse him, and she told Mrs. Vint he would live maybe three days.
Paul Carrick used to come to the "Packhorse" after Mercy Vint, and, finding her sad, asked her what was the matter.
What should it be, said she, "but the poor gentleman a-dying overhead; away from all his friends."
Let me see him, said Paul.
Mercy took him softly into the room.
Ay, he is booked, said the farrier. "Doctor has taken too much blood out of the man's body. They kill a many that way."
Alack, Paul! must he die? Can nought be done? said Mercy, clasping her hands.
I don't say that, neither, said the farrier. "He is a well-made man: he is young. I might save him, perhaps, if I had not so many beasts to look to. I'll tell you what you do. Make him soup as strong as strong; have him watched night and day, and let 'em put a spoonful of warm wine into him every hour, and then of soup; egg flip is a good thing, too; change his bed-linen, and keep the doctors from him: that is his only chance: he is fairly dying of weakness. But I must be off; Farmer Blake's cow is down for calving: I must give her an ounce of salts before 'tis too late."
Mercy Vint scanned the patient closely, and saw that Paul Carrick was right. She followed his instructions to the letter, with one exception. Instead of trusting to the old woman, of whom she had no very good opinion, she had the great arm-chair brought into the sick-room, and watched the patient herself by night and day: a gentle hand cooled his temples; a gentle hand brought concentrated nourishment to his lips; and a mellow voice coaxed him to be good and swallow it. There are voices it is not natural to resist; and Griffith learned by degrees to obey this one, even when he was half unconscious.
At the end of three days this zealous young nurse thought she discerned a slight improvement, and told her mother so. Then the old lady came and examined the patient, and shook her head gravely. Her judgment, like her daughter's, was influenced by her wishes.
The fact is, both landlord and landlady were now calculating upon Griffith's decease. Harry had told her about the money and jewels, and the pair had put their heads together, and settled that Griffith was a gentleman highwayman, and his spoil would never be reclaimed after his decease, but fall to those good Samaritans, who were now nursing him, and intended to bury him respectably. The future being thus settled, this worthy couple became a little impatient; for Griffith, like Charles the Second, was "an unconscionable time dying."
We order dinner to hasten a lingering guest, and, with equal force of logic, mine host of the "Packhorse" spoke to White, the village carpenter, about a full-sized coffin: and his wife set the old crone to make a linen shroud, unobtrusively, in the bakehouse.
On the third afternoon of her nursing, Mercy left her patient, and called up the crone to tend him. She herself, worn out with fatigue, threw herself on a bed in her mother's room, hard by, and soon fell asleep.
She had slept about two hours when she was wakened by a strange noise in the sick chamber. A man and a woman quarrelling.
She bounded off the bed, and was in the room directly.
Lo and behold, there were the nurse and the dying man abusing one another like pick-pockets.
The cause of this little misunderstanding was not far to seek. The old crone had brought up her work, videlicet, a winding-sheet all but finished, and certain strips of glazed muslin about three inches deep. She soon completed the winding-sheet, and hung it over two chairs in the patient's sight; she then proceeded to double the slips in six, and nick them; then she unrolled them, and they were frills, and well adapted to make the coming corpse absurd, and divest it of any little dignity the King of Terrors might bestow on it.
She was so intent upon her congenial task, that she did not observe the sick man had awakened, and was viewing her and her work with an intelligent but sinister eye.
What is that you are making? said he, grimly.
The voice was rather clear, and strong, and seemed so loud and strange in that still chamber, that it startled the woman mightily. She uttered a little shriek, and then was wrath. "Plague take the man!" said she; "how you scared me. Keep quiet, do; and mind your own business," [The business of going off the hooks.]
I ask you what is that you are making, said Griffith, louder; and raising himself on his arm.
Baby's frills, replied the woman, coolly, recovering that contempt for the understandings of the dying, which marks the veritable crone.
Ye lie, said Griffith. "And there is a shroud. Who is that for?"
Who should it be for, thou simple body? Keep quiet, do, till the change comes. 'Twon't be long now; art too well to last till sun-down.
So 'tis for me, is it? screamed Griffith. "I'll disappoint ye yet. Give me my clothes. I'll not lie here to be measured for my grave, ye old witch."
Here's manners! cackled the indignant crone. "Ye foul-mouthed knave! is this how you thank a decent woman for making a comfortable corpse of ye, you that has no right to die in your shoes, let a be such dainties as muslin neck-ruff, and shroud of good Dutch flax."
At this Griffith discharged a volley, in which "vulture," "hag," "blood-sucker," etc., blended with as many oaths: during which Mercy came in.
She glided to him, with her dove's eyes full of concern, and laid her hand gently on his shoulder: "You'll work yourself a mischief," said she; "leave me to scold her. Why, my good Nelly, how could you be so hare-brained? prithee take all that trumpery away this minute: none here needeth it, nor shall not this many a year, please God."
They want me dead, said Griffith to her, piteously, finding he had got one friend: and sunk back on his pillow exhausted.
So it seems, said Mercy, cunningly. "But I'd baulk them finely. I'd up and order a beef-steak this minute."
And shall, said Griffith, with feeble spite. "Leastways, do you order it, and I'll eat it:— d——n her!"
Sick men are like children; and women soon find that out, and manage them accordingly. In ten minutes Mercy brought a good rump-steak to the bedside, and said "Now for't. Marry come, up, with her winding-sheets!"
Thus played upon, and encouraged, the great baby ate more than half the steak; and soon after perspired gently, and fell asleep.
Paul Carrick found him breathing gently, with a slight tint of red in his cheek; and told Mercy there was a change for the better. "We have brought him to a true intermission," said he; "so throw in the bark at once."
What, drench his honour's worship! said Mercy, innocently. "Nay, send thou the medicine, and I'll find womanly ways to get it down him."
Next day came the doctor, and whispered softly to Mrs. Vint, "How are we all upstairs?"
Why couldn't you come afore? replied Mrs Vint, crossly. "Here's farrier Carrick stepped in, and curing him out of hand; the meddlesome body."
A farrier rob me of my patient! cried the doctor, in high dudgeon.
Nay, good sir, 'tis no fault of mine. This Paul is a sort of a kind of a follower of our Mercy's: and she is mistress here, I trow.
And what hath his farriership prescribed? Friar's balsam, belike.
Nay, I know not; but you may soon learn, for he is above, physicking the gentleman (a pretty gentleman!) and suiting to our Mercy—after a manner.
The doctor declined to make one in so mixed a consultation.
Give me my fee, dame, said he: "and as for this impertinent farrier, the patient's blood be on his head; and I'd have him beware the law."
Mrs. Vint went to the stair-foot and screamed, "Mercy, the good doctor wants his fee. Who is to pay it, I wonder?"
I'll bring it him anon, said a gentle voice: and Mercy soon came down and paid it with a willing air that half disarmed professional fury.
'Tis a good lass, dame, said the doctor, when she was gone; "and, by the same token, I wish her better mated than to a scrub of a farrier."
Griffith, still weak, but freed of fever, woke one glorious afternoon, and heard a bird-like voice humming a quaint old ditty, and saw a field of golden wheat through an open window, and seated at that window the mellow songstress, Mercy Vint, plying her needle, with lowered lashes but beaming face, a picture of health and quiet womanly happiness. Things were going to her mind in that sick-room.
He looked at her, and at the golden corn and summer haze beyond, and the tide of life seemed to rush back upon him.
My good lass, said he, "tell me, where am I? for I know not."
Mercy started, and left off singing, then rose and came slowly towards him, with her work in her hand.
Innocent joy at this new symptom of convalescence flushed her comely features, but she spoke low.
Good sir, at the 'Packhorse,' said she, smiling. "The 'Packhorse?' and where is that?"
Hard by Allerton village.
And where is that? not in Cumberland?
Nay, in Lancashire, your worship. Why, whence come you that know not the 'Packhorse,' nor yet Allerton township? Come you from Cumberland?
No matter whence I come. I'm going on board ship; like my father before me.
Alas, sir, you are not fit; you have been very ill; and partly distraught.
She stopped: for Griffith turned his face to the wall with a deep groan. It had all rushed over him in a moment.
Mercy stood still, and worked on, but the water gathered in her eyes at that eloquent groan.
By-and-by Griffith turned round again, with a face of anguish, and filmy eyes, and saw her in the same place standing, working, and pitying.
What, are you there still? said he, roughly.
Ay, sir; but I'll go, sooner than be troublesome. Can I fetch you anything?
No. Ay, wine; bring me wine to drown it all.
She brought him a pint of wine.
Pledge me, said he, with a miserable attempt at a smile.
She put the cup to her lips, and sipped a drop or two; but her dove's eyes were looking up at him over the liquor all the time. Griffith soon disposed of the rest; and asked for more.
Nay, said she, "but I dare not: the doctor hath forbidden excess in drinking."
The doctor! what doctor?
Doctor Paul, said she, demurely. "He hath saved your life, sir, I do think."
Plague take him for that!
So say not I.
Here she left him with an excuse. "'Tis milking time, sir: and you shall know that I am our dairymaid. I seldom trouble the inn."
Next day she was on the window-seat, working and beaming. The patient called to her in peevish accents to put his head higher. She laid down her work with a smile, and came and raised his head.
There, now, that is too high, said he: "how awkward you are."
I lack experience, sir, but not good will. There, now, is that a little better?
Ay, a little. I'm sick of lying here: I want to get up. Dost hear what I say? I—want—to get up.
And so you shall. As soon as ever you are fit. To-morrow, perhaps. To-day, you must e'en be patient. Patience is a rare medicine.
Tic, tic, tic! "What a noise they are making downstairs. Go, lass, and bid them hold their peace."
Mercy shook her head. "Good lack-a-day! we might as well bid the river give over running; but, to be sure, this comes of keeping a hostelry, sir. When we had only the farm, we were quiet, and did no ill to no one."
Well, sing me, to drown their eternal buzzing: it worries me dead.
Me sing! alack, sir, I'm no songster.
That is false. You sing like a throstle. I dote on music; and, when I was delirious, I heard one singing about my bed; I thought it was an angel at that time; but 'twas only you, my young mistress: and now I ask you, you say me nay. That is the way with you all. Plague take the girl, and all her curst, unreasonable, hypocritical sex. I warrant me you'd sing if I wanted to sleep; and dance the devil to a standstill.
Mercy, instead of flouncing out of the room, stood looking on him with maternal eyes, and chuckling like a bird.
That is right, sir: tax us all to your heart's content. O, but I'm a joyful woman to hear you; for 'tis a sure sign of mending when the sick take to rating of their nurses.
In sooth, I am too cross-grained, said Griffith, relenting.
Not a whit, sir, for my taste. I've been in care for you: and now you are a little cross, that maketh me easy.
Thou art a good soul. Wilt sing me a stave after all?
La, you now; how you come back to that. Ay, and with a good heart: for, to be sure, 'tis a sin to gainsay a sick man. But indeed I am the homeliest singer. Methinks 'tis time I went down and bade them cook your worship's supper.
Nay, I'll not eat nor sup, till I hear thee sing.
Your will is my law, sir, said Mercy, drily, and retired to the window-seat; that was the first obvious preliminary. Then she fiddled with her apron, and hem'd, and waited in hopes a reprieve might come; but a peevish, relentless voice demanded the song at intervals.
So then she turned her head carefully away from her hearer, lowered her eyes, and, looking the picture of guilt and shame all the time, sang an ancient ditty. The poltroon's voice was rich, mellow, clear, and sweet as honey; and she sang the notes for the sake of the words, not the words for the sake of the notes, as all but Nature's singers do.
The air was grave as well as sweet; for Mercy was of an old Puritan stock, and even her songs were not giddy-paced, but solid, quaint, and tender; all the more did they reach the soul.
In vain was the blushing cheek averted, and the honeyed lips: the ravishing tones set the birds chirping outside, yet filled the room within, and the glasses rang in harmony upon the shelf as the sweet singer poured out from her heart (so it seemed) the speaking song that begins thus——
In vain you tell your parting lover
You wish fair winds may waft him over,
Alas, what winds can happy prove
That bear me far from her I love?
Alas, what dangers on the main
Can equal those that I sustain
From slighted love and cold disdain.
Griffith beat time with his hand awhile, and his own face softened and beautified as the melody curled about his heart. But soon it was too much for him; he knew the song; had sung it to Kate Peyton in their days of courtship. A thousand memories gushed in upon his soul and overpowered him. He burst out sobbing violently, and wept as if his heart must break.
Alas! what have I done? said Mercy: and the tears ran swiftly from her eyes at the sight. Then, with native delicacy, she hurried from the room.
What Griffith went through that night, in silence, was never known but to himself. But the next morning he was a changed man. He was all dogged resolution: put on his clothes unaided, though he could hardly stand to do it; and borrowed the landlord's staff, and crawled out a smart distance into the sun. "It was kill or cure," said he. "I am to live, it seems. Well, then, the past is dead. My life begins again to-day."
Hen-like Mercy soon learned this sally of her refractory duckling, and was uneasy. So, for an excuse to watch him, she brought him out his money and jewels, and told him she had thought it safest to take charge of them.
He thanked her cavalierly, and offered her a diamond ring.
She blushed scarlet, and declined it; and even turned a meekly reproachful glance on at him with her dove's eyes.
He had a suit of russet made, and put away his fine coat, and forbade any one to call him "Your worship." "I am a farmer, like yourselves," said he; "and my name is——Thomas Leicester."
A brain fever either kills the unhappy lover, or else benumbs the very anguish that caused it.
And so it was with Griffith. His love got benumbed, and the sense of his wrongs vivid. He nursed a bitter hatred of his wife; only, as he could not punish her without going near her, and no punishment short of death seemed enough for her, he set to work to obliterate her from his very memory, if possible. He tried employment: he pottered about the little farm, advising and helping, and that so zealously that the landlord retired altogether from that department, and Griffith, instead of he, became Mercy's ally, agricultural and bucolical. She was a shepherdess to the core, and hated the poor "Packhorse."
For all that it was her fate to add to its attractions: for Griffith bought a viol da gambo, and taught her sweet songs, which he accompanied with such skill and, sometimes, with his voice, that good company often looked in on the chance of a good song sweetly sung and played.
The sick in body, or mind, are egotistical. Griffith was no exception: bent on curing his own deep wound, he never troubled his head about the wound he might inflict.
He was grateful to his sweet nurse, and told her so. And his gratitude charmed her all the more that it had been rather long in coming.
He found this dove-like creature a wonderful soother: he applied her more and more to his sore heart.
As for Mercy, she had been too good and kind to her patient not to take a tender interest in his convalescence. Our hearts warm more to those we have been kind to, than to those who have been kind to us: and the female reader can easily imagine what delicious feelings stole into that womanly heart, when she saw her pale nursling pick up health and strength under her wing, and become the finest, handsomest man in the parish.
Pity and admiration; where these meet, love is not far behind.
And then this man, who had been cross and rough while he was weak, became gentler, kinder, and more deferential to her, the stronger he got.
Mrs. Vint saw they were both fond of each other's company, and disapproved it. She told Paul Garrick if he had any thought of Mercy he had bettor give over shilly-shallying, for there was another man after her. Paul made light of it at first. "She has known me too long to take up her head with a newcomer," said he. "To be sure I never asked her to name the day; but she knows my mind well enough, and I know hers."
Then you know more than I do, said the mother, ironically.
He thought over this conversation, and very wisely determined not to run unnecessary risks: he came up one afternoon, and hunted about for Mercy, till he found her milking a cow in the adjoining paddock.
Well, lass, said he, "I've good news for thee. My old dad says we may have his house to live in. So now you and I can yoke next month if ye will." "Me turn the honest man out of his house!" said Mercy, mighty innocently.
Who asks you? He nobbut bargains for the chimney corner: and you are not the girl to begrudge the old man that.
Oh no, Paul. But what would father do if I were to leave his house? Methinks the farm would go to rack and ruin; he is so wrapped up in his nasty public.
Why, he has got a helper, by all accounts: and if you talk like that, you will never wed at all.
Never is a big word. But I'm too young to marry yet. Jenny, thou jade, stand still.
The attack and defence proceeded upon these terms for some time; and the defendant had one base advantage; and used it. Her forehead was wedged tight against Jenny's ribs, and Paul could not see her face. This, and the feminine evasiveness of her replies, irritated him at last.
Take thy head out o' the coow, said he, roughly, "and answer straight. Is all our wooing to go for nought?"
Wooing? You never said so much to me in all these years, as you have to-day.
Oh, ye knew my mind well enough. There's a many ways of showing the heart.
Speaking out is the best, I trow.
Why, what do I come here for twice a week, this two years past, if not for thee?
Ay, for me, and father's ale.
And thou canst look at me, and tell me that? Ye false hard-hearted hussy. But, nay, thou wast never so: 'tis this Thomas Leicester hath bewitched thee, and set thee against thy true lover.
Mr. Leicester pays no suit to me, said Mercy, blushing: "he is a right civil-spoken gentleman, and you know you saved his life."
The more fool I. I wish I had known he was going to rob me of my lass's heart, I'd have seen him die a hundred times ere I'd have interfered. But they say if you save a man's life he'll make you rue it. Mercy, my lass, you are well respected in the parish; take a thought now: better be a farrier's wife than a gentleman's mistress.
Mercy did take her head "out of the cow" at this, and, for once, her cheek burned with anger; but the unwonted sentiment died before it could find words, and she said, quietly, "I need not be either, against my will."
Young Carrick made many such appeals to Mercy Vint; but he could never bring her to confess to him that he and she had ever been more than friends, or were now anything less than friends. Still he forced her to own to herself, that, if she had never seen Thomas Leicester, her quiet affection and respect for Garrick would probably have carried her to the altar with him.
His remonstrances, sometimes angry, sometimes tearful, awoke her pity, which was the grand sentiment of her heart, and disturbed her peace.
Moreover, she studied the two men in her quiet, thoughtful way, and saw that Carrick loved her with all his honest, though hitherto tepid heart; but Griffith had depths, and could love with more passion than ever he had shown for her. "He is not the man to have a fever by reason of me," said the poor girl, to herself. But I am afraid even this attracted her to Griffith; it nettled a woman's soft ambition; which is, to be as well loved as ever woman was.
And so things went on, and, as generally happens, the man who was losing ground went the very way to lose more. He spoke ill of Griffith behind his back: called him a highwayman, a gentleman, an ungrateful, undermining traitor. But Griffith never mentioned Carrick; and so when he and Mercy were together, her old follower was pleasingly obliterated, and affectionate good humour reigned. Thus Griffith, alias Thomas, became her sunbeam, and Paul her cloud.
But he who had disturbed the peace of others, his own turn came.
One day he found Mercy crying: he sat clown beside her, and said, kindly, "Why, sweetheart, what is amiss?"
No great matter, said she; and turned her head away, but did not check her tears, for it was new and pleasant to be consoled by Thomas Leicester.
Nay, but tell me, child.
Well, then, Jessie Carrick has been at me; that is all.
The vixen! what did she say?
Nay, I'm not pleased enow with it to repeat it. She did cast something in my teeth.
Griffith pressed her to be more explicit: she declined, with so many blushes, that his curiosity was awakened, and he told Mrs. Vint, with some heat, that Jess Carrick had been making Mercy cry.
Like enow, said Mrs. Vint, coolly. "She'll eat her victuals all one for that, please God."
Else I'll ring the cock-nosed jade's neck, next time she comes here, replied Griffith; "but, dame, I want to know what she can have to say to Mercy to make her cry."
Mrs. Vint looked him steadily in the face for some time, and then and there decided to come to an explanation. "Ten to one 'tis about her brother," said she; "you know this Paul is our Mercy's sweetheart."
At these simple words Griffith winced, and his countenance changed remarkably. Mrs. Vint observed it, and was all the more resolved to have it out with him.
Her sweetheart! said Griffith. "Why, I have seen them together a dozen of times, and not a word of courtship."
Oh, the young men don't make many speeches in these parts. They show their hearts by act. "By act? why, I met them coming home from milking t' other evening. Mercy was carrying the pail, brimful; and that oaf sauntered by her side, with his hands in his pockets; was that the act of a lover?"
I heard of it, sir, said Mrs. Vint, quietly; "and as how you took the pail from her, willy nilly, and carried it home. Mercy was vexed about it: she told me you panted at the door, and she was a deal fitter to carry the pail than you, that is just off a sick bed, like. But lawk, sir, ye can't go by the likes of that: the bachelors here they'd see their sweethearts carry the roof into next parish on their backs, like a snail, and never put out a hand; 'tis not the custom hereaway: but, as I was saying, Paul and our Mercy kept company, after a manner: he never had the wit to flatter her as should be, nor the stomach to bid her name, the day, and he'd buy the ring; but he talked to her about his sick beasts more than he did to any other girl in the parish, and she'd have ended by going to church with him; only you came and put a coolness atween 'em."
I! How?
Well, sir, our Mercy is a kind-hearted lass, though I say it, and you were sick, and she did nurse you; and that was a beginning. And, to be sure, you are a fine personable man, and capital company; and you are always about the girl; and, bethink you, sir, she is flesh and blood like her neighbours; and they say, once a body has tasted venison steak, it spoils their stomach for oat porridge. Now that is Mercy's case, I'm thinking; not that she ever said as much to me; she is too reserved. But bless your heart, I'm forced to go about with eyes in my head, and watch 'em all a bit, me that keeps an inn.
Griffith groaned. "I'm a villain!" said he.
Nay, nay, said Mrs. Vint. "'Gentlefolks must be amused, cost what it may; but, hoping no offence, sir, the girl was a good friend to you in time of sickness; and so was this Paul, for that matter."
She was, cried Griffith; "God bless her. How can I ever repay her?"
Well, sir, said Mrs. Vint, "if that comes from your heart, you might take our Mercy apart, and tell her you like her very well, but not enough to marry a farmer's daughter—don't say an inn-keeper's daughter, or you'll be sure to offend her; she is bitter against the 'Packhorse.' Says you, 'This Paul is an honest lad, turn your heart back to him.' And, with that, mount your black horse and ride away, and God speed you, sir; we shall often talk of you at the 'Packhorse,' and nought but good."
Griffith gave the woman his hand, and his breast laboured visibly.
Jealousy was ingrained in the man. Mrs. Vint had pricked his conscience, but she had wounded his foible.
He was not in love with Mercy, but he esteemed her and liked her and saw her value, and, above all, could not bear another man should have her.
Now this gave the matter a new turn. Mrs. Vint had overcome her dislike to him long ago: still he was not her favourite. But his giving her his hand with a gentle pressure, and his manifest agitation, rather won her: and, as uneducated women are your true weathercocks, she went about directly. "To be sure," said she, "our Mercy is too good for the likes of him; she is not like Harry and me: she has been well brought up by her Aunt Prudence, as was governess in a nobleman's house. She can read and write, and cast accounts; good at her sampler, and can churn and make cheeses, and play of the viol, and lead the psalm in church, and dance a minuet, she can, with any lady in the land. As to her nursing in time of sickness, that I leave to you, sir.
She is an angel, cried Griffith, "and my benefactress: no man living is good enough for her." And he went away, visibly discomposed.
Mrs. Vint repeated this conversation to Mercy, and told her Thomas Leicester was certainly in love with her. "Shouldst have seen his face, girl, when I told him Paul and you were sweethearts. 'Twas as if I had run a knife in his heart."
Mercy murmured a few words of doubt; but she kissed her mother eloquently, and went about rosy and beaming, all that afternoon.
As for Griffith, his gratitude and his jealousy were now at war, and caused him a severe mental struggle.
Carrick, too, was spurred by jealousy, and came every day to the house, and besieged Blercy; and Griffith, who saw them together, and did not hear Mercy's replies, was excited, irritated, alarmed.
Mrs. Vint saw his agitation, and determined to bring matters to a climax. She was always giving him a side thrust; and, at last, she told him plainly that he was not behaving like a man. "If the girl is not good enough for you, why make a fool of her, and set her against a good husband?" And when he replied she was good enough for any man in England, "Then," said she, "why not show your respect for her as Paul Carrick does? He likes her well enough to go to church with her."
With the horns of this dilemma she so gored Kate Peyton's husband that, at last, she and Paul Carrick, between them, drove him out of his conscience.
So he watched his opportunity and got Mercy alone: he took her hand and told her he loved her, and that she was his only comfort in the world, and he found he could not live without her.
At this she blushed and trembled a little, and leaned her brow upon his shoulder, and was a happy creature for a few moments.
So far, fluently enough; but then he began to falter and stammer, and say that for certain reasons, he could not marry at all. But if she could be content with anything short of that, he would retire with her into a distant country, and there, where nobody could contradict him, would call her his wife, and treat her as his wife, and pay his debt of gratitude to her by a life of devotion.
As he spoke, her brow retired an inch or two from his shoulder; but she heard him quietly out, and then drew back and confronted him, pale, but to all appearance, calm.
Call things by their right names, said she. "What you offer me this day, in my father's house, is, to be your mistress. Then—God forgive you, Thomas Leicester."
With this oblique and feminine reply, and one look of unfathomable reproach from her soft eyes, she turned her back on him; but remembering her manners, curtsied at the door; and so retired; and unpretending Virtue lent her such true dignity, that he was struck dumb, and made no attempt to detain her.
I think her dignified composure did not last long when she was alone; at least, the next time he saw her, her eyes were red; his heart smote him, and he began to make excuses and beg her forgiveness. But she interrupted him. "Don't speak to me no more, if you please, sir," said she, civilly, but coldly.
Mercy, though so quiet and inoffensive, had depth and strength of character. She never told her mother what Thomas Leicester had proposed to her. Her honest pride kept her silent, for one thing. She would not have it known she had been insulted. And, besides that, she loved Thomas Leicester still, and could not expose or hurt him. Once there was an Israelite without guile; though you and I never saw him; and once there was a Saxon without bile; and her name was Mercy Vint. In this heart of gold the affections were stronger than the passions. She was deeply wounded, and showed it in a patient way to him who had wounded her, but to none other. Her conduct to him in public and private was truly singular, and would alone have stamped her a remarkable character. She declined all communication with him in private, and avoided him steadily and adroitly; but in public she spoke to him, sang with him, when she was asked, and treated him much the same as before. He could see a subtle difference, but nobody else could.
This generosity, coupled with all she had done for him before, penetrated his heart and filled him with admiration and remorse. He yielded to Mrs. Vint's suggestions; and told her she was right; he would tear himself away, and never see the dear "Packhorse" again, "But, oh, dame," said he, "'tis a sorrowful thing to be alone in the world again, and nought to do. If I had but a farm, and a sweet little inn like this, perchance my heart would not be quite so heavy as 'tis this day at thoughts of parting from thee and thine."
Well, sir, said Mrs. Vint, "if that is all, there is the 'Vine' to let at this moment. 'Tis a better place of business than this; and some meadows go with it, and land to be had in the parish."
I'll ride and see it, said Griffith, eagerly: then, dejectedly, "but, alas, I have no heart to keep an inn without somebody to help me, and say a kind word now and then. Ah, Mercy Vint, thou hast spoiled me for living alone."
This vacillation exhausted Mrs. Vint's patience. "What are ye sighing about, ye foolish man?" said she, contemptuously; "you have got it all your own way: if 'tis a wife ye want, ask Mercy, and don't take a nay: if ye would have a housekeeper, you need not want one long. I'll be bound there's plenty of young women where you came from as would be glad to keep the 'Vine' under you. And, if you come to that, our Mercy is a treasure on the farm, but she is no help in the inn, no more than a wax figure: she never brought us a shilling, till you came and made her sing to your base viol. Nay, what you want is a smart handsome girl, with a quick eye and a ready tongue, and one as can look a man in the face, and not given to love nor liquor. Don't you know never such a one?"
Not I. Humph, to be sure there is Caroline Ryder. She is handsome, and hath a good wit. She is a lady's maid.
That's your woman, if she'll come. And to be sure she will; for to be mistress of an inn, that's a lady's maid's Paradise.
She would have come a few months ago, and gladly: I'll write to her.
Better talk to her, and persuade her.
I'll do that too; but I must write to her first.
So do then; but whatever you do, don't shilly-shally no longer. If wrestling was shilly-shallying, methinks you'd bear the bell, you or else Paul Carrick. Why, all this trouble comes on't. He might have wed our Mercy a year agone for the asking. Shilly-shally belongs to us that be women. 'Tis despisable in a man.
Thus driven on all sides, Griffith rode and inspected the "Vine" (it was only seven miles off): and after the usual chaffering, came to terms with the proprietor.
He fixed the day for his departure, and told Mrs. Vint he must ride into Cumberland first to get some money, and also to see about a housekeeper.
He made no secret of all this; and, indeed, was not without hopes Mercy would relent, or perhaps be jealous of this housekeeper. But the only visible effect was to make her look pale and sad: she avoided him in private as before.
Harry Vint was loud in his regrets, and Carrick openly exultant. Griffith wrote to Caroline Ryder, and addressed the latter in a feigned hand, and took it himself to the nearest post town.
The letter came to hand, and will appear in that sequence of events on which I am now about to enter.
If Griffith Gaunt suffered anguish, he inflicted agony. Mrs. Gaunt was a high-spirited, proud, and sensitive woman; and he crushed her with foul words. Leonard was a delicate, vain, and sensitive man, accustomed to veneration. Imagine such a man hurled to the ground, and trampled upon.
Griffith should not have fled; he should have stayed and enjoyed his vengeance on these two persons. It might have cooled him a little had he stopped and seen the immediate consequences of his savage act.
The priest rose from the ground, pale as ashes, and trembling with fear and hate.
The lady was leaning, white as a sheet, against a tree, and holding it with her very nails for a little support.
They looked round at one another; a piteous glance of anguish and horror: then Mrs. Gaunt turned and flung her arm round so that the palm of her hand, high raised, confronted Leonard. I am thus particular, because it was a gesture grand and terrible as the occasion that called it forth: a gesture that spoke; and said, "Put the whole earth and sea between us for ever after this."
The next moment she bent her head and rushed away, cowering and wringing her hands: she made for her house as naturally as a scared animal for its lair; but, ere she could reach it, she tottered under the shame, the distress, and the mere terror, and fell fainting with her fair forehead on the grass.
Caroline Ryder was crouched in the doorway, and did not see her come out of the grove, but only heard a rustle, and then saw her proud mistress totter forward and lie white, senseless, helpless at her very feet.
Ryder littered a scream, but did not lose her presence of mind. She instantly kneeled over Mrs. Gaunt, and loosened her stays with quick and dexterous hand.
It was very like the hawk perched over and clawing the ringdove she has struck down.
But people with brains are never quite inhuman: a drop of lukewarm pity entered even Ryder's heart as she assisted her victim. She called no one to help her; for she saw something very serious had happened, and she felt sure Mrs. Gaunt would say something imprudent in that dangerous period when the patient recovers consciousness but has not all her wits about her. Now Ryder was equally determined to know her mistress's secrets, and not to share the knowledge with any other person.
It was a long swoon; and, when Mrs. Gaunt came to, the first thing she saw was Ryder leaning over her, with a face of much curiosity, and some concern.
In that moment of weakness the poor lady, who had keen so roughly handled, saw a woman close to her, and being a little kind to her; so what did she do but throw her arms round Ryder's neck and burst out sobbing as if her heart would break.
Then that unprincipled woman shed a tear or two with her, half-crocodile, half impulse.
Mrs. Gaunt not only cried on her servant's neck; she justified Ryder's forecast by speaking unguardedly: "I've been insulted—insulted—insulted!"
But, even while uttering these words, she was recovering her pride: so the first "insulted" seemed to come from a broken-hearted child, the second from an indignant lady the third from a wounded queen.
No more words than this; but rose, with Ryder's assistance, and went, leaning on that faithful creature's shoulder, to her own bedroom. There she sank into a chair, and said, in a voice to melt a stone, "My child! Bring me my little Rose."
Ryder ran and fetched the little girl and Mrs. Gaunt held out both arms to her, angelically, and clasped her so passionately and piteously to her bosom, that Rose cried for fear, and never forgot the scene all her days: and Mrs. Ryder, who was secretly a mother, felt a genuine twinge of pity and remorse. Curiosity, however, was the dominant sentiment: she was impatient to get all these convulsions over, and learn what had actually passed between Mr. and Mrs. Gaunt.
She waited till her mistress appeared calmer: and then, in soft caressing tones, asked her what had happened.
Never ask me that question again, cried Mrs. Gaunt, wildly: then, with inexpressible dignity, "my good girl, you have done all you could for me; now you must leave me alone with my daughter, and my God, who knows the truth."
Ryder curtsied and retired, burning with baffled curiosity.
Towards dusk Thomas Leicester came into the kitchen, and brought her news with a vengeance. He told her and the other maids that the Squire had gone raving mad, and fled the country. "Oh, lasses," said he, "if you had seen the poor soul's face, a riding headlong through the fair all one as if it was a ploughed field; 'twas white as your smocks: and his eyes glowering on t'other world. We shall ne'er see that face alive again."
And this was her doing.
It surprised and overpowered Ryder; she threw her apron over her head, and went off in hysterics, and betrayed her lawless attachment to every woman in the kitchen, she who was so clever at probing others.
This day of violent emotions was followed by a sullen and sorrowful gloom.
Mrs. Gaunt kept her bedroom, and admitted nobody; till, at last, the servants consulted together, and sent little Rose to knock at her door, with a basin of chocolate, while they watched on the stairs.
It's only me, mamma, said Rose.
Come in, my precious, said a trembling voice, and so Rose got in with her chocolate.
The next day she was sent for early: and at noon, Mrs. Gaunt and Rose came downstairs; but their appearance startled the whole household.
The mother was dressed all in black, and so was her daughter, whom she led by the hand. Mrs. Gaunt's face was pale, and sad, and stem; a monument of deep suffering, and high-strung resolution.
It soon transpired that Griffith had left his home for good: and friends called on Mrs. Gaunt to slake their curiosity under the mask of sympathy.
Not one of them was admitted. No false excuses were made. "My mistress sees no one for the present," was the reply.
Curiosity, thus baffled, took up the pen; but was met with a short unvarying formula: "There is an unhappy misunderstanding between my husband and me. But I shall neither accuse him behind his back, nor justify myself."
Thus the proud lady carried herself before the world; but secretly she writhed. A wife abandoned is a woman insulted, and makes the wives, that are not abandoned—cluck.
Ryder was dejected for a time, and, though not honestly penitent, suffered some remorse at the miserable issue of her intrigues. But her elastic nature soon shook it off, and she felt a certain satisfaction at having reduced Mrs. Gaunt to her own level. This disarmed, her hostility: she watched her as keenly as ever, but out of pure curiosity.
One thing puzzled her strangely. Leonard did not visit the house; nor could she even detect any communication between the parties.
At last, one day, her mistress told her to put on her hat and go to Father Leonard.
Ryder's eyes sparkled; and she was soon equipped. Mrs. Gaunt put a parcel and a letter into her hands. Ryder no sooner got out of her sight than she proceeded to tamper with the letter. But to her just indignation she found it so ingeniously folded and sealed that she could not read a word.
The parcel, however, she easily undid, and it contained forty pounds in gold and small notes. "Oho! my lady," said Ryder.
She was received by Leonard with a tender emotion he in vain tried to conceal.
On reading the letter his features contracted sharply, and he seemed to suffer agony. He would not even open the parcel. "You will take that hack," said he, bitterly.
What, without a word?
Without a word. But I will write, when I am able.
Don't be long, sir, suggested Ryder. "I am sure my mistress is wearying for you. Consider, sir, she is all alone now."
Not so much alone as I am, said the priest: "nor half so unfortunate."
And with this he leaned his head despairingly on his hand, and motioned to Ryder to leave him.
Here's a couple of fools, said she to herself, as she went home.
That very evening Thomas Leicester caught her alone, and asked her to marry him.
She stared at first, and then treated it as a jest.
You come at the wrong time, young man, said she. "Marriage is put out of countenance. No, no, I will never marry, after what I have seen in this house."
Leicester would not take this for an answer, and pressed her hard.
Thomas, said this plausible jade, "I like you very well; but I couldn't leave my mistress in her trouble. Time to talk of marrying when master comes here alive and well."
Nay, said Leicester, "my only chance is while he is away: you care more for his little finger than for my whole body; that they all say."
Who says?
Jane, and all the lasses.
You simple man, they want you for themselves; that is why they belie me.
Nay, nay; I saw how you carried on, when I brought word he was gone. You let your heart out for once. Don't take me for a fool: I see how 'tis: but I'll face it: for I worship the ground you walk on. Take a thought, my lass. What good can come of your setting your heart on him? I'm young, I'm healthy, and not ugly enough to set the dogs a barking: I've got a good place; I love you dear; I'll cure you of that fancy, and make you as happy as the day is long. I'll try and make you as happy as you will make me, my beauty.
He was so earnest, and so much in love, that Mrs. Ryder pitied him, and wished her husband was in Heaven.
I am very sorry, Tom, said she, softly: "dear me, I did not think you cared so much for me as this. I must just tell you the truth. I have got one in my own country, and I've promised him. I don't care to break my word: and, if I did, he is such a man, I am sure he would kill me for it. Indeed he has told me as much, more than once or twice."
Killing is a game that two can play at.
Ah! but 'tis an ugly game: and I'll have no hand in it. And—don't you be angry with me, Tom—I've known him longest, and—I love him best.
By pertinacity and variety in lying, she hit the mark at last. Tom swallowed this figment whole.
That is but reason, said he. "I take my answer, and I wish ye both many happy days together, and well spent."
With this he retired, and blubbered a good hour in an outhouse.
Tom avoided the castle, and fell into low spirits. He told his mother all, and she advised him to change the air. "You have been too long in one place," said she; "I hate being too long in one place myself."
This fired Tom's gipsy blood, and he said he would travel to-morrow, if he could but scrape together money enough to fill a pedlar's pack.
He applied for a loan in several quarters, but was denied in all.
At last the poor fellow summoned courage to lay his case before Mrs. Gaunt.
Ryder's influence procured him an interview. She took him into the drawing-room, and bade him wait there. By and by a pale lady, all in black, glided into the room.
He pulled his front hair, and began to stammer something or other.
She interrupted him. "Ryder has told me," said she, softly. "I am sorry for you: and I will do what you require. And, to be sure, we need no gamekeeper here now."
She then gave him some money, and said she would look him up a few trifles besides, to put in his pack.
Toni's mother helped him to lay out this money to advantage, and one day he called at Hernshaw, pack and all, to bid farewell.
The servants all laid out something with him for luck: and Mrs. Gaunt sent for him, and gave him a gold thimble, and a pound of tea, and several yards of gold lace, slightly tarnished, and a Queen Anne's guinea.
He thanked her heartily. "Ay, Dame," said he, "you had always an open hand, married or single. My heart is heavy at leaving you. But I miss the Squire's kindly face too. Hernshaw is not what it used to be."
Mrs. Gaunt turned her head aside, and the man could see his words had made her cry.
My good Thomas, said she, at last, "you are going to travel the country: you might fall in with him."
I might, said Leicester, incredulously.
God grant you may: and, if ever you should, think of your poor mistress, and give him—this. She put her finger into her bosom and drew out a bullet wrapped in silver paper. "You will never lose this," said she. "I value it more than gold or silver. Oh, if ever you should see him, think of me and my daughter, and just put it in his hand without a word."
As he went out of the room Ryder intercepted him, and said, "Mayhap you will fall in with our master: if ever you do, tell him he is under a mistake, and the sooner he comes home the better." Tom Leicester departed: and, for days and weeks, nothing occurred to break the sorrowful monotony of the place.
But the mourner had written to her old friend and confessor Francis: and, after some delay, involuntary on his part, he came to see her.
They were often closeted together, and spoke so low that Ryder could not catch a word.
Francis also paid several visits to Leonard; and the final result of these visits was that the latter left England.
Francis remained at Hernshaw as long as he could; and it was Mrs. Gaunt's hourly prayer that Griffith might return while Francis was with her.
Ho did, at her earnest request, stay much longer than he had intended; but, at length, he was obliged to fix next Monday to return to his own place.
It was on Thursday he made this arrangement; but the very next day the postman brought a letter to the Castle, thus addressed:—
"To Mistress Caroline Ryder, Living Servant with Griffith Gaunt, Esq.,
" "at his house, called Hernshaw Castle, near Wigeonmoor,
" "in the county of Cumberland. These with speed.""
"The address was in a feigned hand. Ryder opened it in the kitchen, and uttered a scream.
Instantly three female throats opened upon her with questions.
She looked them contemptously in them faces, put the letter into her pocket; and, soon after, slipped away to her own room, and locked herself in while she read it. It ran thus:——
"GOOD MISTRESS RYDER,—I am alive yet, by the blessing; though somewhat battered; being now risen from a fever, wherein I lost my wits for a time. And, on coming to myself, I found them making of my shroud; whereby you shall learn how near I was to death. And all this I owe to that false perjured woman that was my wife, and is your mistress. Know that I have donned russet and doffed gentility; for I find a heavy heart's best cure is occupation. I have taken a wayside inn, and think of renting a small farm, which two things go well together. Now you are, of all those I know, most fitted to manage the inn, and I the farm. You were always my good friend: and, if you be so still, then I charge you most solemnly that you utter no word to any living soul about this letter; but meet me privately where we can talk fully of these matters; for I will not set foot in Hernshaw Castle. Moreover, she told me once 'twas hers; and so be it. On Friday I shall be at Stapleton, and the next day, by an easy journey, to the place where I once was so happy.
" "So then at seven of the clock on Saturday evening, be the same wet or dry, prithee come to the gate of the Grove unbeknown, and speak to Your faithful friend
" "and most unhappy master, GRIFFITH GAUNT.
"Be secret as the grave. Would I were in it.
This letter set Caroline Ryder in a tumult. Griffith alive and well, and set against his wife, and coming to her for assistance!
After the first agitation she read it again, and weighed every syllable. There was one book she had studied more than most of us—the Heart. And she soon read Griffith's in this letter. It was no love-letter: he really intended business: but, weak in health, and broken in spirit, and alone in the world, he naturally turned to one who had confessed an affection for him, and would therefore be true to his interests, and study his happiness.
The proposal was every way satisfactory to Mrs. Ryder. To be mistress of an inn, and have servants under her instead of being one herself. And then, if Griffith and she began as allies in business, she felt very sure she could make herself, first necessary to him, and then dear to him.
She was so elated she could hardly contain herself; and all her fellow servants remarked that Mrs. Ryder had heard good news.
Saturday came, and never did hours seem to creep so slowly.
But at last the sun set, and the stars came out: there was no moon. Ryder opened the window and looked out: it was an admirable night for an assignation.
She washed her face again, put on her grey silk gown, and purple petticoat—Mrs. Gaunt had given them to her—and, at the last moment, went and made up her mistress's fire, and put out everything she thought could be wanted, and, five minutes after seven o'clock, tied a scarlet hand-kerchief over her head, and stepped out at the back door.
What with her coal black hair, so streaked with red, her black eyes, flashing in the starlight, and her glowing cheeks, she looked bewitching.
And, thus armed for conquest, wily, yet impassioned, she stole out, with noiseless foot and beating heart, to her appointment with her imprudent master.
The bill was paid; the black horse saddled and brought round to the door. Mr. and Mrs. Vint stood bareheaded to honour the parting guest; and the latter offered him the stirrup cup.
Griffith looked round for Mercy; she was nowhere to be seen.
Then he said, piteously, to Mrs. Vint, "What, not even bid me good-bye?"
Mrs. Vint replied, in a very low voice, that there was no disrespect intended. "The truth is, sir, she could not trust herself to see you go; but she bade me give you a message. Says she, 'Mother, tell him I pray God to bless him, go where he will.'"
Something rose in Griffith's throat. "Oh, dame!" said he, "if she only knew the truth, she would think better of me than she does. God bless her!"
And he rode sorrowfully away, alone in the world once more.
At the first turn in the road, he wheeled his horse, and took a last lingering look.
There was nothing vulgar, nor inn-like, in the "Packhorse." It stood fifty yards from the road on a little rural green, and was picturesque itself. The front was entirely clad with large-leaved ivy. Shutters there were none: the windows, with their diamond panes, were lustrous squares, set like great eyes in the green ivy. It looked a pretty, peaceful retreat, and in it Griffith had found peace, and a dove-like friend.
He sighed, and rode away from the sight; not raging and convulsed, as when he rode from Hernshaw Castle, but somewhat sick at heart and very heavy.
He paced so slowly that it took him a quarter of an hour to reach the "Woodman," a wayside inn not two miles distant. As he went by, a farmer hailed him from the porch, and insisted on drinking with him; for he was very popular in the neighbourhood. Whilst they were thus employed, who should come out but Paul Carrick, booted and spurred; and flushed in the face, and rather the worse for liquor imbibed on the spot.
So you are going, are ye? said he. "A good job too." Then, turning to the other, "Master Gutteridge, never you save a man's life if you can anywise help it. I saved this one's: and what does he do but turn round and poison my sweetheart against me."
How can you say so? remonstrated Griffith. "I never belied you. Your name scarce ever passed my lips."
Don't tell me, said Carrick. "However, she has come to her senses, and given your worship the sack. Ride you into Cumberland, and I to the 'Packhorse,' and take my own again."
With this he unhooked his nag from the wall, and clattered off to the "Packhorse."
Griffith sat a moment stupified, and then his face was convulsed by his ruling passion. He wheeled his horse, gave him the spur, and galloped after Carrick.
He soon came up with him, and yelled in his ear, "I'll teach you to spit your wormwood in my cup of sorrow."
Carrick shook his fist defiantly, and spurred his horse in turn.
It was an exciting race, and a novel one; but soon decided. The great black hunter went ahead, and still improved his advantage. Carrick, purple with rage, was full a quarter of a mile behind, when Griffith dashed furiously into the stable of the "Packhorse," and, leaving Black Dick panting and covered with foam, ran in search of Mercy.
The girl told him she was in the dairy: he looked in at the window, and there she was with her mother. With instinctive sense and fortitude she had fled to work. She was trying to churn; but it would not do: she had laid her shapely arm all across the churn, and her head on it, and was crying. Mrs. Vint was praising Carrick, and offering homely consolation.
Ah, mother, sighed Mercy, "I could have made him happy. He does not know that; and he has turned his back on content. What will become of him now?"
Griffith heard no more: he went round to the front door, and rushed in.
Take your own way, Dame, said he, in great agitation. "Put up the banns when you like. Sweetheart, wilt wed with me? I'll make thee the best husband I can."
Mercy screamed faintly, and lifted up her hands; then she blushed and trembled to her very finger ends; but it ended in smiles of joy and her brow upon his shoulder. In which attitude, with Mrs. Vint patting him approvingly on the back, they were surprised by Paul Carrick. He came to the door, and there stood aghast.
The young man stared ruefully at the picture, and then said, very drily, "I'm too late, methinks."
That you be, Paul, said Mrs. Vint, cheerfully. "She is meat for your master."
Don't—you—never—come to me—to save your life—no more, blubbered Paul, breaking down all of a sudden.
He then retired, little heeded, and came no more to the "Packhorse" for several days.
It is desirable that improper marriages should never be solemnized: and the Christian Church saw this many hundred years ago, and ordained that before a marriage, the banns should be cried in a church three Sundays, and any person there present might forbid the union of the parties, and allege the just impediment.
This precaution was feeble, but not wholly inadequate—in the middle ages; for we know by good evidence that the priest was often interrupted and the banns forbidden.
But in modern days the banns are never forbidden: in other words, the precautionary measure that has come down to us from the thirteenth century is out of date and useless. It rests, indeed, on an estimate of publicity, that has become childish. If persons about to marry were compelled to inscribe their names and descriptions in a Matrimonial Weekly Gazette, and a copy of this were placed on a desk in ten thousand churches, perhaps we might stop one lady per annum from marrying her husband's brother, and one gentleman from wedding his neighbour's wife. But the crying of banns in a single parish church is a waste of the people's time and the parson's breath.
And so it proved in Griffith Gaunt's case. The Rev. William Wentworth published, in the usual recitative, the banns of marriage between Thomas Leicester, of the parish of Marylebone in London, and Mercy Vint, spinster, of this parish: and creation, present ex hypothesi mediævale, but absent in fact, assented, by silence, to the union.
So Thomas Leicester wedded Mercy Vint, and took her home to the "Packhorse."
It would be well if those who stifle their consciences, and commit crimes, would set up a sort of medico-moral diary, and record their symptoms minutely day by day. Such records might help to clear away some vague, conventional notions.
To tell the truth, our hero, and now malefactor (the combination is of high antiquity), enjoyed, for several months, the peace of mind that belongs of right to innocence; and his days passed in a state of smooth complacency. Mercy was a good, wise, and tender wife; she naturally looked up to him after marriage more than she did before: she studied his happiness, as she had never studied her own: she mastered his character, admired his good qualities, discerned his weaknesses, but did not view them as defects; only as little traits to be watched, lest she should give pain to "her master," as she called him.
Affection, in her, took a more obsequious form than it could ever assume in Kate Peyton. And yet she had great influence, and softly governed "her master" for his good. She would come into the room and take away the bottle, if he was committing excess; but she had a way of doing it, so like a good but resolute mother, and so unlike a termagant, that he never resisted. Upon the whole, she nursed his mind as, in earlier days, she had nursed his body.
And then she made him so comfortable; she observed him minutely to that end. As is the eye of a maid to the hand of her mistress, so Mercy Leicester's dove-like eye was ever watching "her master's" face, to learn the minutest features of his mind.
One evening he came in tired, and there was a black fire in the parlour. His countenance fell the sixteenth of an inch. You and I, sir, should never have noticed it. But Mercy did, and, ever after, there was a clear fire when he came in.
She noted, too, that he loved to play the viol da gambo; but disliked the trouble of tuning it. So then she tuned it for him.
When he came home at night, early or late, he was sure to find a dry pair of shoes on the rug, his six-stringed viol tuned to a hair, a bright fire, and a brighter wife smiling and radiant at his coming, and always neat: for, said she, "Shall I don my bravery for strangers, and not for my Thomas, that is the best of company?"
They used to go to church, and come back together, hand in hand like lovers: for the arm was rarely given in those days. And Griffith said to himself every Sunday, "What a comfort to have a Protestant wife."
But one day he was off his guard, and called her "Kate, my dear."
Who is Kate? said she, softly; but with a degree of trouble and intelligence that made him tremble.
No matter, said he, all in a flutter: then, solemnly, "Whoever she was, she is dead; dead."
Ah! said Mercy, very tenderly and solemnly, and under her breath. "You loved her; yet she must die." She paused; then, in a tone so exquisite I can only call it an angel's whisper, "Poor Kate!"
Griffith groaned aloud. "For God's sake never mention that name to me again. Let me forget she ever lived. She was not the true friend to me that you have been."
Mercy replied, softly, "Say not so, Thomas. You loved her well. Her death had all but cost me thine. Ah, well! we cannot all be the first. I am not very jealous, for my part; and I thank God for't. Thou art a dear good husband to me, and that is enow."
Paul Carrick, unable to break off his habits, came to the "Packhorse" now and then; but Mercy protected her husband's heart from pain. She was kind, and even pitiful; but so discreet and resolute, and contrived to draw the line so clearly between her husband and her old sweetheart, that Griffith's foible could not burn him, for want of fuel.
And so passed several months, and the man's heart was at peace. He could not love Mercy passionately as he had loved Kate; but he was full of real regard and esteem for her: it was one of those gentle, clinging attachments that outlast grand passions, and survive till death; a tender, pure affection; though built upon a crime.
They had been married, and lived in sweet content, about three quarters of a year—when trouble came; but in a vulgar form. A murrain carried off several of Harry Vint's cattle; and it then came out that he had purchased six of them on credit, and had been induced to set his hands to bills of exchange for them. His rent was also behind, and, in fact, his affairs were in a desperate condition.
He hid it as long as he could from them all; but, at last, being served with a process for debt, and threatened with a distress, and an execution, he called a family council and exposed the real state of things.
Mrs. Vint rated him soundly for keeping all this secret so long.
He whom they called Thomas Leicester remonstrated with him. "Had you told me in time," said he, "I had not paid forfeit for 'The Vine,' but settled there, and given you a home."
Mercy said never a word but "Poor father!"
As the peril drew nearer, the conversation became more animated and agitated, and soon the old people took to complaining of Thomas Leicester to his wife.
Thou hast married a gentleman; and he hath not the heart to lift a hand to save thy folk from ruin.
Say not so, pleaded Mercy: "to be sure he hath the heart, but not the means. 'Twas but yestreen he bade me sell his jewels for you. But, mother, I think they belonged to some one he loved; and she died. So, poor thing, how could I? Then, if you love me, blame me, and not him."
Jewels, quotha! will they stop such a gap as ours? was the contemptuous reply.
From complaining of him behind his back, the old people soon came to launching innuendoes obliquely at him. Here is one specimen out of a dozen.
Wife, if our Mercy had wedded one of her own sort, mayhap he'd have helped us a bit.
Ay, poor soul; and she so near her time: if the bailiffs come down on us next month 'tis my belief we shall lose her as well as house and home.
The false Thomas Leicester let them run on, in dogged silence; but every word was a stab.
And, one day, when he had been baited sore with hints, he turned round on them fiercely, and said, "Did I get you into this mess? It's all your own doing. Learn to see your own faults, and not be so hard on one that has been the best servant you ever had, gentleman or not."
Men can resist the remonstrances that wound them, and so irritate them, better than they can those gentle appeals that rouse no anger, but soften the whole heart. The old people stung him; but Mercy, without design, took a surer way. She never said a word; but sometimes, when the discussions were at their height, she turned her dove-like eyes on him, with a look so loving, so humbly inquiring, so timidly imploring, that his heart melted within him.
Ah, that is a true touch of nature, and genuine observation of the sexes, in the old song—
My feyther urged me sair;
My mither didna speak;
But she looked me in the face,
Till my hairt was like to break.
These silent, womanly, imploring looks of patient Mercy, were mightier than argument, or invective.
The man knew all along where to get money, and how to get it. He had only to go to Hernshaw Castle. But his very soul shuddered at the idea. However, for Mercy's sake, he took the first step: he compelled himself to look the thing in the face, and discuss it with himself. A few months ago he could not have done this, he loved his lawful wife too much; hated her too much. But now, Mercy, and Time, had blunted both those passions; and he could ask himself whether he could not encounter Kate and her priest without any very violent emotion.
When they first set up house together, he had spent his whole fortune, a sum of two thousand pounds, on repairing and embellishing Hernshaw Castle and grounds. Since she had driven him out of the house, he had a clear right to have back the money; and now he resolved he would have it; only what he wanted was to get it without going to the place in person.
And now Mercy's figure, as well as her imploring looks, moved him greatly. She was in that condition which appeals to a man's humanity, and masculine pity, as well as to his affection. To use the homely words of Scripture, she was great with child: and, in that condition, moved slowly about him, filling his pipe, and laying his slippers, and ministering to all his little comforts; she would make no difference: and when he saw the poor dove move about him so heavily, and rather languidly, yet so zealously and tenderly, the man's very bowels yearned over her, and he felt as if he could die to do her a service.
So, one day, when she was standing by him, bending over his little round table, and filling his pipe with her neat hand, he took her by the other hand and drew her gently on his knee, her burden and all.
Child! said he, "do not thou fret. I know how to get money; and I'll do't, for thy sake."
I know that, said she, softly; "can I no read thy face by this time?" and so laid her cheek to his. "But, Thomas, for my sake, get it honestly; or not at all," said she, still filling his pipe, with her cheek to his, "I'll but take back my own," said he; "fear nought."
But, after thus positively pledging himself to Mercy, he became thoughtful and rather fretful; for he was still most averse to go to Hernshaw, and yet could hit upon no other way; since to employ an agent would be to let out that he had committed bigamy; and so risk his own neck, and break Mercy's heart.
After all his scale was turned by his foible.
Mrs. Vint had been weak enough to confide her trouble to a friend: it was all over the parish in three days.
Well, one day, in the kitchen of the inn, Paul Carrick having drunk two pints of good ale, said to Vint, "Landlord, you ought to have married her to me. I've got two hundred pounds laid by. I'd have pulled you out of the mire, and welcome."
Would you, though, Paul? said Harry Vint; "then, by G——, I wish I had."
Now Carrick bawled that out, and Griffith, who was at the door, heard it.
He walked into the kitchen, ghastly pale, and spoke to Harry Vint first.
I take your inn, your farm, and your debts, on me, said he; "not one without t'other."
Spoke like a man! cried the landlord, joyfully: "and so be it—before these witnesses."
Griffith turned on Carrick: "This house is mine. Get out on't, ye jealous, mischief-making cur." And he took him by the collar and dragged him furiously out of the place, and sent him whirling into the middle of the road; then ran back for his hat and flung it out after him.
This done, he sat down boiling, and his eyes roved fiercely round the room in search of some other antagonist. But his strength was so great, and his face so altered with this sudden spasm of reviving jealousy, that nobody cared to provoke him farther.
After a while, however, Harry Vint muttered, drily, "There goes one good customer."
Griffith took him up sternly: "If your debts are to be mine, your trade shall be mine too, that you had not the head to conduct."
So be it, son-in-law, said the old man; "only you go so fast: you do take possession afore you pays the fee."
Griffith winced. "That shall be the last of your taunts, old man." He turned to the ostler, "Bill, give Black Dick his oats at sunrise: and in ten days at farthest I'll pay every shilling this house and farm do owe. Now, Master White, you'll put in hand a new sign-board for this inn; a fresh 'Packhorse,' and paint him jet black, with one white hoof (instead of chocolate), in honour of my nag Dick; and in place of Harry Vint you'll put in Thomas Leicester. See that is done against I come back, or come you here no more." Soon after this scene he retired to tell Mercy: and on his departure, the suppressed tongues went like mill-clacks.
Dick came round saddled at peep of day; but Mercy had been up more than an hour, and prepared her man's breakfast. She clung to him at parting, and cried a little; and whispered something in his ear, for nobody else to hear: it was an entreaty that he would not be long gone, lest he should be far from her in the hour of her peril.
Thereupon he promised her, and kissed her tenderly, and bade her be of good heart; and so rode away northwards with dogged resolution.
As soon as he was gone, Mercy's tears flowed without restraint.
Her father set himself to console her. "Thy good man," he said, "is but gone back to the high road for a night or two, to follow his trade of 'stand and deliver.' Fear nought, child; his pistols are well primed; I saw to that myself; and his horse is the fleetest in the county; you'll have him back in three days, and money in both pockets. I warrant you his is a better trade than mine; and he is a fool to change it."
Griffith was two days upon the road, and all that time he was turning over and discussing in his mind how he should conduct the disagreeable but necessary business he had undertaken.
He determined, at last, to make the visit one of business only: no heat; no reproaches. That lovely, hateful woman might continue to dishonour his name, for he had himself abandoned it. He would not deign to receive any money that was hers; but his own two thousand pounds he would have: and two or three hundred on the spot by way of instalment. And, with these hard views, he drew near to Hernshaw; but the nearer he got, the slower he went; for, what at a distance had seemed tolerably easy, began to get more and more difficult, and repulsive. Moreover, his heart, which he thought he had steeled, began now to flutter a little, and somehow to shudder at the approaching interview.
该作者其它作品
《The Cloister and the Hearth回廊与壁炉》
Caroline Ryder went to the gate of the Grove, and stayed there two hours; but, of course, no Griffith came.
She returned the next night, and the next: and then she gave it up, and awaited an explanation. None came, and she was bitterly disappointed, and indignant.
She began to hate Griffith, and to conceive a certain respect, and even a tepid friendship, for the other woman he had insulted.
Another clue to this change of feeling is to be found in a word she let drop in talking to another servant. "Sly mistress," said she, "bears it like a man."
In fact, Mrs. Gaunt's conduct at this period was truly noble.
She suffered months of torture, months of grief; but the high-spirited creature hid it from the world, and maintained a sad but high composure.
She wore her black, for she said, "How do I know he is alive?" She retrenched her establishment, reduced her expenses two-thirds; and busied herself in works of charity and religion.
Her desolate condition attracted a gentleman who had once loved her, and now esteemed and pitied her profoundly: Sir George Neville.
He was still unmarried, and she was the cause; so far at least as this: she had put him out of conceit with the other ladies at that period when he had serious thoughts of marriage: and the inclination to marry at all had not since returned.
If the Gaunts had settled at Bolton, Sir George would have been their near neighbour; but Neville's Court was nine miles from Hernshaw Castle: and when they met, which was not very often, Mrs. Gaunt was on her guard to give Griffith no shadow of uneasiness. She was therefore rather more dignified and distant with Sir George, than her own inclination and his merits would have prompted; for he was a superior and very agreeable man.
When it became quite certain that her husband had left her, Sir George rode up to Hernshaw Castle, and called upon her.
She begged to be excused from seeing him.
Now, Sir George was universally courted, and this rather nettled him: however, he soon learned that she received nobody except a few religious friends of her own sex.
Sir George then wrote her a letter that did him credit; it was full of worthy sentiment and good sense. For instance, he said he desired to intrude his friendly offices and his sympathy upon her, but nothing more. Time had cured him of those warmer feelings which had once ruffled his peace; but Time could not efface his tender esteem for the lady he had loved in his youth, nor his profound respect for her character.
Mrs. Gaunt wept over his gentle letter, and was on the verge of asking herself why she had chosen Griffith instead of this chevalier. She sent him a sweet, yet prudent reply; she did not encourage him to visit her; but said, that, if ever she should bring herself to receive visits from the gentlemen of the county during her husband's absence, he should be the first to know it. She signed herself his unhappy, but deeply grateful, servant and friend.
One day, as she came out of a poor woman's cottage, with a little basket on her arm, which she had emptied in the cottage, she met Sir George Neville full.
He took his hat off, and made her a profound bow. He was then about to ride on, but altered his mind, and dismounted to speak to her.
The interview was constrained at first; but ere long he ventured to tell her she really ought to consult with some old friend and practical man like himself. He would undertake to scour the country, and find her husband, if he was above ground.
Me go a hunting the man, cried she, turning red; "not if he was my king as well as my husband. He knows where to find me; and that is enough."
Well, but madam, would you not like to learn where he is, and what he is doing?
Why, yes, my good, kind friend, I should like to know that. And having pronounced these words with apparent calmness, she burst out crying, and almost ran away from him.
Sir George looked sadly after her; and formed a worthy resolution. He saw there was but one road to her regard. He resolved to hunt her husband for her, without intruding on her, or giving her a voice in the matter. Sir George was a magistrate, and accustomed to organize inquiries. Spite of the length of time that had elapsed, he traced Griffith for a considerable distance; pending further inquiries, he sent Mrs. Gaunt word that the truant had not made for the sea, but had gone due south.
Mrs. Gaunt returned him her warm thanks for this scrap of information. So long as Griffith remained in the island there was always a hope he might return to her. The money he had taken would soon be exhausted: and poverty might drive him to her; and she was so far humbled by grief, that she could welcome him even on those terms.
Affliction tempers the proud. Mrs. Gaunt was deeply injured as well as insulted; but, for all that, in her many days and weeks of solitude and sorrow, she took herself to task, and saw her fault. She became more gentle, more considerate of her servants' feelings, more womanly.
For many months she could not enter "the Grove." The spirited woman's very flesh revolted at the sight of the place where she had been insulted and abandoned. But as she went deeper in religion, she forced herself to go to the gate and look in, and say out loud, "I gave the first offence," and then she would go in-doors again, quivering with the internal conflict.
Finally, being a Catholic, and therefore attaching more value to self-torture than we do, the poor soul made this very grove her place of penance Once a week she had the fortitude to drag herself to the very spot where Griffith had denounced her; and there she would kneel and pray for him and for herself. And, certainly, if humility and self-abasement were qualities of the body, here was to be seen their picture; for her way was to set her crucifix up at the foot of a tree; then to bow herself all down, between kneeling and lying; and put her lips meekly to the foot of the crucifix and so pray long and earnestly.
Now, one day, while she was thus crouching in prayer, a gentleman, booted, and spurred, and splashed, drew near, with hesitating steps. She was so absorbed, she did not hear those steps at all, till they were very near; but then she trembled all over; for her delicate ear recognized a manly tread she had not heard for many a day. She dared not move nor look, for she thought it was a mere sound, sent to her by heaven to comfort her.
But the next moment a well-known mellow voice came like a thunder-clap, it shook her so.
Forgive me, my good dame, but I desire to know——
The question went no farther, for Kate Gaunt sprang to her feet, with a loud scream, and stood glaring at Griffith Gaunt, and he at her.
And thus husband and wife met again—met, by some strange caprice of Destiny, on the very spot where they had parted so horribly.
The gaze these two persons bent on one another may be half imagined; it can never be described.
Griffith spoke first. "In black!" said he, in a whisper.
His voice was low; his face, though pale and grim, had not the terrible aspect he wore at parting.
So she thought he had come back in an amicable spirit; and she flew to him with a cry of love, and threw her arm round his neck, and panted on his shoulder.
At this reception, and the tremulous contact of one he had loved so dearly, a strange shudder ran through his frame: a shudder that marked his present repugnance, yet indicated her latent power.
He himself felt he had betrayed some weakness; and it was all the worse for her: he caught her wrist and put her from him, not roughly, but with a look of horror. "The day is gone by for that, madam," he gasped. Then, sternly: "Think you I came here to play the credulous husband?"
Mrs. Gaunt drew back in her turn, and faltered out, "What! come back here, and not sorry for what you have done? not the least sorry? Oh, my heart! you have almost broken it."
Prithee, no more of this, said Griffith, sternly. "You and I are nought to one another now, and for ever. But there, you are but a woman, and I did not come to quarrel with you." And he fixed his eyes on the ground.
Thank God for that, faltered Mrs. Gaunt. "Oh, sir, the sight of you—the thought of what you were to me once—till jealousy blinded you. Lend me your arm, if you are a man; my limbs do fail me."
The shock had been too much; a pallor over-spread her lovely features, her knees knocked together, and she was tottering like some tender tree cut down, when Griffith, who, with all his faults, was a man, put out his strong arm, and she clung to it, quivering all over, and weeping hysterically.
That little hand, with its little feminine clutch, trembling on his arm, raised a certain male compassion for her piteous condition; and he bestowed a few cold, sad, words of encouragement on her. "Come, come," said he, gently; "I shall not trouble you long. I'm cured of my jealousy. 'Tis gone, along with my love. You and your saintly sinner are safe from me. I am come hither for my own, my two thousand pounds, and for nothing more."
Ah! you are come back for money, not for me? she murmured, with forced calmness.
For money; and not for you, of course, said he, coldly.
The words wore hardly out of his month, when the proud lady flung his arm from her. "Then money shall you have, and not me; nor ought of me but my contempt."
But she could not carry it off as heretofore. She turned her back haughtily on him; but, at the first step, she burst out crying. "Come, and I'll give you what you are come for," she sobbed. "Ungrateful! heartless! Oh, how little I knew this man!"
She crept away before him, drooping her head, and crying bitterly; and he followed her, hanging his head, and ill at ease; for there was such true passion in her voice, her streaming eyes, and indeed in her whole body, that he was moved, and the part he was playing revolted him. He felt confused and troubled, and asked himself how on earth it was that she, the guilty one, contrived to appear the injured one, and made him, the wronged one, feel almost remorseful.
Mrs. Gaunt took no more notice of him now than if he had been a dog following at her heels. She went into the drawing-room, and sank helplessly on the nearest couch; threw her head wearily back, and shut her eyes. Yet the tears trickled through the closed lids.
Griffith caught up a hand-bell, and rang it vigorously.
Quick light steps were soon heard pattering; and in darted Caroline Ryder, with an anxious face; for of late she had conceived a certain sober regard for her mistress, who had ceased to be her successful rival, and who bore her grief like a man.
At sight of Griffith, Ryder screamed aloud, and stood panting.
Mrs. Gaunt opened her eyes. "Ay, child, he has come home," said she, bitterly; "his body, but not his heart."
She stretched her hand out feebly, and pointed to a bottle of salts that stood on the table. Ryder ran and put them to her nostrils. Mrs. Gaunt whispered in her ear, "Send a swift horse for Father Francis; tell him, life or death!"
Ryder gave her a very intelligent look, and presently slipped out, and ran into the stable-yard.
At the gate she caught sight of Griffith's horse. What does this quick-witted creature do but send the groom off on that horse, and not on Mrs. Gaunt's.
Now, Dame, said Griffith, doggedly, "are you better?"
Ay, I thank you.
Then listen to me. When you and I set up house together, I had two thousand pounds. I spent it on this house. The house is yours. You told me so, one day, you know.
Ah, you can remember my faults.
I remember all, Kate.
Thank you, at least, for calling me Kate. Well, Griffith, since you abandoned us, I thought, and thought, and thought, of all that might befall you; and I said, 'What will he do for money? My jewels, that you did me the honour to take, would not last you long, I feared. So I reduced my expenses three-fourths at least, and I put by some money for your need.
Griffith looked amazed. "For my need?" said he.
For whose else? I'll send for it, and place it in your hands—to-morrow.
To-morrow? Why not to-day?
I have a favour to ask of you first.
What is that?
Justice. If you are fond of money, I too have something I prize: my honour. You have belied and insulted me, sir; but I know you were under a delusion. I mean to remove that delusion, and make you see how little I am to blame: for, alas! I own I was imprudent. But, oh Griffith! as I hope to be saved, it was the imprudence of innocence and over-confidence.
Mistress, said Griffith, in a stern, yet agitated voice, "be advised, and leave all this: rouse not a man's sleeping wrath. Let bygones be bygones."
Mrs. Gaunt rose, and said, faintly, "So be it. I must go, sir, and give some orders for your entertainment."
Oh; don't put yourself about for me, said Griffith, "I am not the master of this house."
Mrs. Gaunts lip trembled, but she was a match for him. "Then are you my guest," said she; "and my credit is concerned in your comfort."
She made him a curtsy, as if he were a stranger, and marched to the door, concealing, with great pride and art, a certain trembling of her knees.
At the door she found Ryder, and bade her follow, much to that lady's disappointment; for she desired a tête-à-tête with Griffith, and an explanation.
As soon as the two women were out of Griffith's hearing, the mistress laid her hand on the servant's arm, and, giving way to her feelings, said, all in a flutter, "Child, if I have been a good mistress to thee, show it now. Help me keep him in the house till Father Francis comes."
I undertake to do so much, said Ryder, firmly. "Leave it to me, mistress."
Mrs. Gaunt threw her arms round Ryder's neck and kissed her.
It was done so ardently, and by a woman hitherto so dignified and proud, that Ryder was taken by surprise, and almost affected.
As for the service Mrs. Gaunt had asked of her, it suited her own designs.
Mistress, said she, "be ruled by me; keep out of his way a-bit, while I get Miss Rose ready. You understand."
Ah! I have one true friend in the house, said poor Mrs. Gaunt. She then confided in Ryder, and went away to give her own orders for Griffith's reception.
Ryder found little Rose, dressed her to perfection, and told her her dear papa was come home. She then worked upon the child's mind in that subtle way known to women, so that Rose went downstairs loaded and primed, though no distinct instructions had been given her.
As for Griffith, he walked up and down, uneasy; and wished he had stayed at the "Packhorse." He had not bargained for all these emotions; the peace of mind he had enjoyed for some months seemed trickling away.
Mercy, my dear, said he, to himself, "'twill be a dear penny to me, I doubt."
Then he went to the window, and looked at the lawn, and sighed. Then he sat down, and thought of the past.
Whilst he sat thus moody, the door opened very softly, and a little cherubic face, with blue eyes and golden hair, peeped in. Griffith started. "Ah!" cried Rose, with a joyful scream: and out flew her little arms, and away she came, half running, half dancing, and was on his knee in a moment, with her arms round his neck.
Papa! papa! she cried. "Oh, my dear, dear, dear, darling papa!" And she kissed and patted his cheek again and again.
Her innocent endearments moved him to tears. "My pretty angel!" he sighed: "my lamb!"
How your heart beats: don't cry, dear papa. Nobody is dead: only we thought you were. I'm so glad you are come home alive. Now we can take off this nasty black: I hate it.
What, 'tis for me you wear it, pretty one?
Ay. Mamma made us. Poor mamma has been so unhappy. And that reminds me: you are a wicked man, papa. But I love you all one for that. It tis so dull when everybody is good like mamma; and she makes me dreadfully good too; but now you are come back, there will be a little, little, wickedness again, it is to be hoped. Aren't you glad you are not dead, and are come home instead? I am.
I am glad I have seen thee. Come, take my hand, and let us go look at the old place.
Ay. But you must wait till I get on my new hat and feather.
Nay, nay; art pretty enough bareheaded.
Oh, papa! but I must, for decency. You are company now, you know.
Dull company, sweetheart, thou'lt find me.
I don't mean that: I mean, when you were here always, you were only papa; but now you come once in an age, you're COMPANY. I won't budge without 'em; so there, now.
Well, little one, I do submit to thy hat and feather: only be quick or I shall go forth without thee.
If you dare, said Rose, impetuously: "for I won't be half a moment."
She ran and extorted from Ryder the new hat and feather, which by rights she was not to have worn until next month.
Griffith and his little girl went all over the well-known premises, he sad and moody, she excited and chattering, and nodding her head down, and cocking her eye up every now and then, to get a glimpse of her feather.
And don't you go away again, dear papa. It tis so dull without you. Nobody comes here. Mamma won't let 'em.
Nobody except Father Leonard, said Griffith, bitterly.
Father Leonard? Why, he never comes here. Leonard! That is the beautiful priest that used to pat me on the head, and bid me love and honour my parents. And so I do. Only mamma is always crying, and you keep away: so how can I love and honour you, when I never see you, and they keep telling me you are good for nothing, and dead.
My young mistress, when did you see Father Leonard last? said Griffith, gnawing his lip.
How can I tell? Why it was miles ago; when I was a mere girl. You know he went away before you did.
I know nothing of the kind. Tell me the truth now. He has visited here since I went away.
Nay, papa.
That is strange. She visits him, then?
What, mamma? She seldom stirs out; and never beyond the village. We keep no carriage now. Mamma is turned such a miser. She is afraid you will be poor; so she puts it all by for you. But now you are come, we shall have carriages and things again. Oh, by-the-by, Father Leonard! I heard them say he had left England, so I did.
When was that?
Well, I think that was a little bit after you went away.
That is strange, said Griffith, thoughtfully.
He led his little girl by the hand, but scarcely listened to her prattle; he was so surprised and puzzled by the information he had elicited from her.
Upon the whole, however, he concluded that his wife and the priest had perhaps been smitten with remorse, and had parted,—when it was too late.
This, and the peace of mind he had found elsewhere, somewhat softened his feelings towards them. "So," thought he, "they were not hardened creatures after all. Poor Kate!"
As these milder feelings gained on him, Rose suddenly uttered a joyful cry; and, looking up, he saw Mrs. Gaunt coming towards him, and Ryder behind her. Both were in gay colours, which, in fact, was what had so delighted Rose.
They came up, and Mrs. Gaunt seemed a changed woman. She looked young and beautiful, and bent a look of angelic affection on her daughter; and said to Griffith, "Is she not grown? Is she not lovely? Sure you will never desert her again."
'Twas not her I deserted, but her mother; and she had played me false with her d——d priest, was Griffith's reply.
Mrs. Gaunt drew back with horror. "This, before my girl?" she cried. "Griffith Gaunt, you lie!"
And this time it was the woman who menaced the man. She rose to six feet high, and advanced on him with her great grey eyes flashing flames at him. "Oh, that I were a man!" she cried: "this insult should be the last. I'd lay you dead at her feet and mine."
Griffith actually drew back a step; for the wrath of such a woman was terrible; more terrible perhaps to a brave man than to a coward.
Then he put his hands in his pockets with a dogged air; and said, grinding his teeth: "But—as you are not a man, and I'm not a woman, we can't settle it that way. So I give you the last word, and good day. I'm sore in want of money; but I find I can't pay the price it is like to cost me. Farewell."
Begone! said Mrs. Gaunt: "and, this time, for ever. Ruffian, and fool, I loathe the sight of you."
Rose ran weeping to her. "Oh, mamma, don't quarrel with papa:" then back to Griffith, "Oh, papa, don't quarrel with mamma—for my sake."
Griffith hung his head, and said, in a broken voice: "No, my lamb, we twain must not quarrel before thee. We will part in silence, as becomes those that once were dear, and have thee to show for't. Madam, I wish you all health and happiness. Adieu."
He turned on his heel; and Mrs. Gaunt took Rose to her knees, and bent and wept over her. Niobe over her last was not more graceful, nor more sad.
As for Ryder she stole quietly after her retiring master. She found him peering about, and asked him demurely what he was looking for.
My good black horse, girl, to take me from this cursed place. Did I not tie him to your gate?
The black horse? Why I sent him for Father Francis. Nay, listen to me, master; you know I was always your friend, and hard upon her. Well, since you went, things have come to pass that make me doubt. I do begin to fear you were too hasty.
Do you tell me this now, woman? cried Griffith, furiously.
How could I tell you before? Why did you break your tryst with me? If you had come according to your letter, I'd have told you months ago what I tell you now; but, as I was saying, the priest never came near her after you left; and she never stirred abroad to meet him. More than that, he has left England.
Remorse! Too late.
Perhaps it may, sir. I couldn't say; but there is one coming that knows the very truth.
Who is that?
Father Francis. The moment you came, sir, I took it on me to send for him. You know the man: he won't tell a lie to please our Dame. And he knows all: for Leonard has confessed to him. I listened and heard him say as much. Then, master, be advised, and get the truth from Father Francis.
Griffith trembled. "Francis is an honest man," said he; "I'll wait till he comes. But oh, my lass, I find money may be bought too dear."
Your chamber is ready, sir; and your clothes put out. Supper is ordered. Let me show you your room. We are all so happy now.
Well, said he, listlessly, "since my horse is gone, and Francis coming, and I'm wearied and sick of the world, do what you will with me for this one day."
He followed her mechanically to a bedroom, where was a bright fire, and a fine shirt, and his silver-laced suit of clothes airing.
A sense of luxurious comfort struck him at the sight.
Ay, he said, "I'll dress, and so to supper; I'm main hungry. It seems a man must eat, let his heart be ever so sore."
Before she left him, Ryder asked him coldly why he had broken his appointment with her.
That is too long a story to tell you now, said he, coolly.
Another time then, said she; and went out smiling, but bitter at heart.
Griffith had a good wash, and enjoyed certain little conveniences which he had not at the "Packhorse." He doffed his riding suit, and donned the magnificent dress Ryder had selected for him; and with his fine clothes he somehow put on more ceremonious manners.
He came down to the dining-room. To his surprise he found it illuminated with wax candles, and the table and sideboard gorgeous with plate.
Supper soon smoked upon the board; but, though it was set for three, nobody else appeared.
Griffith inquired of Ryder whether he was to sup alone.
She replied, "My mistress desires you not to wait for her. She has no stomach."
Well, then, I have, said Griffith; and fell o with a will.
Ryder, who waited on this occasion, stood and eyed him with curiosity. His conduct was so unlike a woman's.
Just as he concluded, the door opened, and a burly form entered. Griffith rose and embraced him with his arms and lips, after the fashion of the day. "Welcome, thou one honest priest!" said he.
Welcome, thrice welcome, my long-lost son! said the cordial Francis.
Sit down, man, and eat with me. I'll begin again, for you.
Presently, Squire; I've work to do first. Go thou and bid thy mistress to come hither to me.
Ryder, to whom this was addressed, went out, and left the gentlemen together.
Father Francis drew out of his pocket two packets, carefully tied and sealed. He took a knife from the table and cut the strings, and broke the seals. Griffith eyed him with curiosity.
Father Francis looked at him. "These," said he, very gravely, "are the letters that Brother Leonard hath written, at sundry times, to Catherine Gaunt, and these are the letters Catherine Gaunt hath written to Brother Leonard."
Griffith trembled, and his face was convulsed.
Let me read them at once, said he: and stretched out his hand, with eyes like a dog's in the dark.
Francis withdrew them, quietly. "Not till she is also present," said he.
At that Griffith's good-nature, multiplied by a good supper, took the alarm. "Come, come, sir," said he, "have a little mercy. I know you are a just man, and, though a boon companion, most severe in all matters of morality. But, I tell you plainly, if you are going to drag this poor woman in the dirt, I shall go out of the room. What is the use tormenting her? I've told her my mind before her own child: and now I wish I had not. When I caught them in the Grove I lifted my hand to strike her, and she never winced; I had better have left that alone too, methinks. D—n the women: you are always in the wrong if you treat 'em like men. They are not wicked; they are weak. And this one hath lain in my bosom, and borne me two children, and one he lieth in the churchyard, and t'other hath her hair and my very eyes: and the truth is, I can't bear any man on earth to miscall her but myself. God help me: I doubt I love her still too well to sit by and see her tortured. She was all in black for her fault, poor penitent wretch. Give me the letters; but let her be."
Francis was moved by this appeal, but shook his head solemnly; and, ere Griffith could renew his argument, the door was flung open by Ryder, and a stately figure sailed in that took both the gentlemen by surprise.
It was Mrs. Gaunt, in full dress. Rich brocade that swept the ground: magnificent bust, like Parian marble varnished; and on her brow a diadem of emeralds and diamonds that gave her beauty an imperial stamp.
She swept into the room as only fine women can sweep, made Griffith a haughty curtsy, and suddenly lowered her head, and received Father Francis's blessing: then seated herself, and quietly awaited events.
The brazen jade! thought Griffith. "But how divinely beautiful!" And he became as agitated as she was calm—in appearance. For, need I say her calmness was put on? Defensive armour made for her by her pride and her sex.
The voice of Father Francis now rose, solid, grave, and too impressive to be interrupted.
"My daughter, and you who are her husband and my friend, I am here to do justice between you both, with God's help; and to show you both your faults. Catherine Gaunt, you began the mischief, by encouraging; another man to interfere between you and your husband in things secular.""
"But, father, he was my director, my priest.
My daughter, do you believe, with the Protestants, that marriage is a mere civil contract; or do you hold, with us, that it is one of the holy sacraments?
Can you ask me? murmured Kate, reproachfully.
Well, then, those whom God and the whole Church have in holy sacrament united, what right hath a single priest to disunite in heart, and make the wife false to any part whatever of that most holy vow? I hear, and not from you, that Leonard did set you against your husband's friends, withdrew you from society, and sent him abroad alone. In one word, he robbed your husband of his companion and his friend. The sin was Leonard's: but the fault was yours. You were five years older than Leonard, and a woman of sense and experience; he but a boy by comparison. What right had you to surrender your understanding, in a matter of this kind, to a poor silly priest, fresh from his seminary, and as manifestly without a grain of common sense as he was full of piety?
This remonstrance produced rather a striking effect on both those who heard it. Mrs. Gaunt seemed much struck with it. She leaned back in her chair, and put her hand to her brow with a sort of despairing gesture that Griffith could not very well understand: it seemed to him so disproportionate.
It softened him, however, and he faltered out, "Ay, father, that is how it all began. Would to heaven it had stopped there."
Francis resumed. "This false step led to consequences you never dreamed of; for one of your romantic notions is, that a priest is an angel. I have known you, in former times, try to take me for an angel: then would I throw cold water on your folly by calling lustily for chines of beef and mugs of ale. But I suppose Leonard thought himself an angel too; and the upshot was, he fell in love with his neighbour's wife."
And she with him, groaned Griffith.
Not so, said Francis; "but perhaps she was nearer it than she thinks."
Prove that, said Mrs. Gaunt, "and I'll fall on my knees to him before you."
Francis smiled, and proceeded. "To be sure, from the moment you discovered Leonard was in love with you, you drew back, and conducted yourself with prudence and propriety. Read these letters, sir, and tell me what you think of them."
He handed them to Griffith. Griffith's hand trembled visibly as he took them.
Stay, said Father Francis; "your better way will be to read the whole correspondence according to their dates. Begin with this of Mrs. Gaunt's."
Griffith read the letter in an audible whisper.
Mrs. Gaunt turned her head a little, and for the first time lowered her eyes to the ground.
该作者其它作品
《The Cloister and the Hearth回廊与壁炉》
"DEAR FATHER AND FRIEND,—The words you spoke to me to-day admit but one meaning; you are jealous of my husband.
Then you must be—how can I write it?—almost in love with me.
"So then my poor husband was wiser than I. He saw a rival in you: and he has one. I am deeply, deeply shocked. I ought to be very angry too; but, thinking of your solitary condition, and all the good you have done to my soul, my heart has no place for ought but pity. Only, as I am in my senses, and you are not, you must now obey me, as heretofore I have obeyed you. You must seek another sphere of duty without delay.
" "These seem harsh words from me to you. You will live to see they are kind ones. Write me one line, and no more, to say you will be ruled by me in this.
" "God and the saints have you in their holy keeping. So prays your affectionate and Sorrowful daughter and true friend,
"CATHERINE GAUNT.
Poor soul! said Griffith. "Said I not that women are not wicked, but weak? Who would think that after this he could get the better of her good resolves—the villain!"
Now read his reply, said Father Francis.
Ay, said Griffith. "So this is his one word of reply, is it? three pages closely writ—the villain, oh the villain!"
Read the villain's letter, said Francis, calmly.
The letter was very humble and pathetic; the reply of a good, though erring man, who owned, that in a moment of weakness, he had been betrayed into a feeling inconsistent with his holy profession. He begged his correspondent, however, not to judge him quite so hardly. He reminded her of his solitary life, his natural melancholy, and assured her that all men in his condition had moments when they envied those whose bosoms had partners. "Such a cry of anguish," said he, "was once rung from a maiden queen, maugre all her pride. The Queen of Scots hath a son: and I am but a barren stock." He went on to say that prayer and vigilance united do much. "Do not despair so soon of me. Flight is not cure: let me rather stay and, with God's help and the saints', overcome this unhappy weakness. If I fail, it will indeed be time for me to go and never again see the angelic face of my daughter and my benefactress."
Griffith laid down the letter. He was somewhat softened by it; and said, gently, "I cannot understand it. This is not the letter of a thorough bad man neither."
No, said Father Francis, coldly, "'tis the letter of a self-deceiver: and there is no more dangerous man, to himself and others, than your self-deceiver. But now let us see whether he can throw dust in her eyes, as well as his own." And he handed him Kate's reply.
The first word of it was, "You deceive yourself." The writer then insisted, quietly, that he owed it to himself, to her, and to her husband, whose happiness he was destroying, to leave the place at her request.
Either you must go, or I, said she: "and pray let it be you. Also this place is unworthy of your high gifts: and I love you, in my way, the way I mean to love you when we meet again—in Heaven; and I labour your advancement to a sphere more worthy of you."
I wish space permitted me to lay the whole correspondence before the reader; but I must confine myself to its general purport.
It proceeded in this way: the priest, humble, eloquent, pathetic; but gently, yet pertinaciously, clinging to the place: the lady, gentle, wise, and firm, detaching with her soft fingers, first one hand, then another, of the poor priest's, till at last he was driven to the sorry excuse that he had no money to travel with, nor place to go to.
I can't understand it, said Griffith. "Are these letters all forged, or are there two Kate Gaunts? the one that wrote these prudent letters, and the one I caught upon this very priest's arm. Perdition!"
Mrs. Gaunt started to her feet. "Methinks 'tis time for me to leave the room," said she, scarlet.
Gently, my good friends; one thing at a time, said Francis. "Sit thou down, impetuous. The letters, sir, what think you of them?"
I see no harm in them, said Griffith.
"No harm! is that all? But I say these are very remarkable letters, sir: and they show us that a woman may be innocent and unsuspicious, and so seem foolish, yet may be wise for all that. In her early communication with Leonard '——at Wisdom's gate Suspicion slept; And thought no ill where no ill seemed.' But, you see, suspicion being once aroused, wisdom was not to be lulled nor blinded. But that is not all: these letters breathe a spirit of Christian charity; of true, and rare, and exalted piety; tender are they, without passion; wise, yet not cold; full of conjugal love, and of filial pity for an erring father, whom she leads, for his good, with firm yet dutiful hand. Trust to my great experience: doubt the chastity of snow rather than hers who could write these pure and exquisite lines. My good friend, you heard me rebuke and sneer at this poor lady, for being too innocent and unsuspicious of man's frailty: now hear me own to you that I could no more have written these angelic letters, than a barn-door fowl could soar to the mansions of the saints in heaven.
"This unexpected tribute took Mrs. Gaunt's heart by storm; she threw her arms round Father Francis's neck, and wept upon his shoulder.
Ah! she sobbed, "you are the only one left that loves me."
She could not understand justice praising her: it must be love.
Ay, said Griffith, in a broken voice, "she writes like an angel: she speaks like an angel: she looks like an angel. My heart says she is an angel. But my eyes have shown me she is naught. I left her, unable to walk, by her way of it; I came back, and found her on that priest's arm, springing along, like a greyhound." He buried his head in his hands, and groaned aloud.
Francis turned to Mrs. Gaunt, and said, a little severely, "How do you account for that?"
I'll tell you, Father, said Kate, "because you love me. I do not speak to you, sir: for you never loved me."
I could give thee the lie, said Griffith, in a trembling voice; "but 'tis not worth while. Know, sir, that within twenty-four hours after I caught her with that villain, I lay a dying for her sake; and lost my wits; and, when I came to, they were a making my shroud in the very room where I lay. No matter; no matter; I never loved her."
Alas! poor soul! sighed Kate: "would I had died ere I brought thee to that!" And, with this, they both began to cry at the same moment.
Ay, poor fools, said Father Francis, softly; "neither of ye loved t'other; that is plain. So now sit you there, and let us have your explanation; for you must own appearances are strong against you."
Mrs. Gaunt drew her stool to Francis's knee, and addressing herself to him alone, explained as follows:—
I saw Father Leonard was giving way, and only wanted one good push, after a manner. Well, you know I had got him, by my friends, a good place in Ireland: and I had money by me for his journey; so, when my husband talked of going to the fair, I thought, 'Oh if I could but get this settled to his mind before he comes back.' So I wrote a line to Leonard. You can read it if you like. Tis dated the 30th of September, I suppose.
I will, said Francis: and read this out:—
"DEAR FATHER AND FRIEND,—You have fought the good fight, and conquered. Now, therefore, I will see you once more, and thank you for my husband (he is so unhappy), and put the money for your journey into your hand myself; your journey to Ireland. You are the Duke of Leinster's chaplain; for I have accepted that place for you. Let me see you to-morrow in the Grove, for a few minutes, at high noon. God bless you. CATHERINE GAUNT.""
"Well, father, said Mrs. Gaunt, "'tis true that I could only walk two or three times across the room. But, alack, you know what women are; excitement gives us strength. With thinking that our unhappiness was at an end; that, when he should come back from the fair, I should fling my arm round his neck, and tell him I had removed the cause of his misery, and so of mine, I seemed to have wings; and I did walk with Leonard, and talked with rapture of the good he was to do in Ireland, and how he was to be a mitred abbot one day (for he is a great man), and poor little me be proud of him; and how we were all to be happy together in heaven, where is no marrying nor giving in marriage. This was our discourse; and I was just putting the purse into his hands, and bidding him God-speed, when he—for whom I fought against my woman's nature, and took this trying task upon me—broke in upon us, with a face of a fiend; trampled on the poor good priest, that deserved veneration and consolation from him, of all men; and raised his hand to me; and was not man enough to kill me after all; but called me—ask him what he called me—see if he dares to say it again before you; and then ran away, like a coward as he is, from the lady he had defiled with his rude tongue, and the heart he had broken. Forgive him? that I never will; never; never."
Who asked you to forgive him? said the shrewd priest. "Your own heart. Come, look at him."
Not I, said she, irresolutely. Then, still more feebly: "He is nought to me." And so stole a look at him.
Griffith, pale as ashes, had his hand on his brow, and his eyes were fixed with horror and remorse.
Something tells me she has spoken the truth, he said, in a quavering voice. Then, with concentrated horror, "But if so—oh God, what have I done?—What shall I do?"
Mrs. Gaunt extended her arms towards him, across the priest.
Why, fall at thy wife's knees, and ask her to forgive thee.
Griffith obeyed: he fell on his knees, and Mrs. Gaunt leaned her head on Francis's shoulder, and gave her hand across him to her remorse-stricken husband.
Neither spoke, nor desired to speak; and even Father Francis sat silent and enjoyed that sweet glow which sometimes blesses the peacemaker, even in this world of wrangles and jars.
But the good soul had ridden hard, and the neglected meats emitted savory odors, and by-and-by he said, drily, "I wonder whether that fat pullet tastes as well as it smells: can you tell me, Squire?"
Oh, inhospitable wretch that I am, said Mrs. Gaunt: "I thought but of my own heart."
And forgot the stomach of your unspiritual father. But, madam, you are pale, you tremble.
'Tis nothing, sir: I shall soon be better. Sit you down and sup: I will return anon.
She retired, not to make a fuss; but her heart palpitated violently, and she had to sit down on the stairs.
Ryder, who was prowling about, found her there, and fetched her hartshorn.
Mrs. Gaunt got better; but felt so languid and also hysterical, that she retired to her own room for the night, attended by the faithful Ryder, to whom she confided that a reconciliation had taken place, and, to celebrate it, gave her a dress she had only worn a year. This does not sound queenly to you ladies; but know that a week's wear tells far more on the flimsy trash you wear now-a-days, than a year did on the glorious silks of Lyons Mrs. Gaunt put on; thick as broad-cloth, and embroidered so cunningly by the loom, that it would pass for rarest needle-work. Besides, in those days, silk was silk.
As Ryder left her, she asked, "Where is the master to lie to-night?"
Mrs. Gaunt was not pleased at this question being put to her. Being a singular mixture of frankness and finesse, she had retired to her own room partly to test Griffith's heart. If he was as sincere as she was, he would not be content with a public reconciliation.
But the question being put to her plump, and by one of her own sex, she colored faintly, and said, "Why, is there not a bed in his room?"
Oh yes, madam.
Then see it be well aired. Put down all the things before the fire; and then tell me; I'll come and see. The feather bed, mind, as well as the sheets and blankets.
Ryder executed all this with zeal. She did more: though Griffith and Francis sat up very late, she sat up too; and, on the gentlemen leaving the supper-room, she met them both, with bed-candles, in a delightful cap, and undertook, with cordial smiles, to show them both their chambers.
Tread softly on the landing, an if it please you, gentlemen. My mistress hath been unwell; but she is in a fine sleep now, by the blessing, and I would not have her disturbed.
Father Francis went to bed thoughtful. There was something about Griffith he did not like: the man every now and then broke out into boisterous raptures; and presently relapsed into moody thoughtfulness. Francis almost feared that his cure was only temporary.
In the morning, before he left, he drew Mrs. Gaunt aside, and told her his misgivings. She replied that she thought she knew what was amiss, and would soon set that right.
Griffith tossed and turned in his bed, and spent a stormy night. His mind was in a confused whirl, and his heart distracted. The wife he had loved so tenderly, proved to be the very reverse of all he had lately thought her! She was pure as snow, and had always loved him; loved him now, and only wanted a good excuse to take him to her arms again. But Mercy Vint!—his wife, his benefactress! a woman as chaste as Kate, as strict in life and morals—what was to become of her? How could he tell her she was not his wife? how to reveal to her her own calamity, and his treason? And, on the other hand, desert her without a word! and leave her hoping, fearing, pining, all her life! Affection, humanity, gratitude, alike forbade it.
He came down in the morning, pale for him, and worn with the inward struggle.
Naturally there was a restraint between him and Mrs. Gaunt; and only short sentences passed between them.
He saw the peacemaker off, and then wandered all over the premises, and the past came nearer, and the present seemed to retire into the background.
He wandered about like one in a dream; and was so self-absorbed, that he did not see Mrs. Gaunt coming towards him with observant eyes.
She met him full; he started like a guilty thing.
Are you afraid of me? said she, sweetly.
No, my dear, not exactly; and yet I am: afraid, or ashamed, or both.
You need not. I said I forgive you; and you know I am not one that does things by halves.
You are an angel! said he, warmly; "but (suddenly relapsing into despondency) we shall never be happy together again."
She sighed. "Say not so. Time and sweet recollections may heal even this wound by degrees."
God grant it, said he, despairingly.
And, though we can't be lovers again all at once, we may be friends; to begin, tell me, what have you on your mind? Come, make a friend of me.
He looked at her in alarm.
She smiled. "Shall I guess?" said she.
You will never guess, said he; "and I shall never have the heart to tell you."
Let me try. Well, I think you have run in debt, and are afraid to ask me for the money.
Griffith was greatly relieved by this conjecture; he drew a long breath: and, after a pause, said, cunningly, "What made you think that?"
Because you came here for money, and not for happiness. You told me so in the Grove.
That is true. What a sordid wretch you must think me?
No, because you were under a delusion. But I do believe you are just the man to turn reckless, when you thought me false, and go drinking and dicing. She added, eagerly, "I do not suspect you of anything worse."
He assured her that was not the way of it.
Then tell me the way of it. You must not think, because I pester you not with questions, I have no curiosity. Oh, how often have I longed to be a bird, and watch you day and night unseen. How would you have liked that? I wish you had been one, to watch me. Ah, you don't answer. Could you have borne so close an inspection, sir?
Griffith shuddered at the idea; and his eyes fell before the full grey orbs of his wife.
Well, never mind, said she, "tell me your story."
Well, then, when I left you I was raving mad.
That is true, I'll be sworn.
I let my horse go; and he took me near a hundred miles from here, and stopped at—at—a farmhouse. The good people took me in.
God bless them for it. I'll ride and thank them.
Nay, nay; 'tis too far. There I fell sick of a fever, a brain-fever: the doctor blooded me.
Alas! would he had taken mine instead.
And I lost my wits for several days; and when I came back I was weak as water, and given up by the doctor: and the first thing I saw, was an old hag set a making of my shroud.
Here the narrative was interrupted a moment by Mrs. Gaunt seizing him convulsively, and then holding him tenderly, as if he was even now about to be taken from her.
The good people nursed me, and so did their daughter, and I came back from the grave. I took an inn; but I gave up that, and had to pay forfeit; and so my money all went; but they kept me on. To be sure I helped on the farm: they kept a hostelry as well. By-and-by came that murrain among the cattle. Did you have it in these parts too?
I know not; nor care. Prithee, leave cattle, and talk of thyself.
Well, in a word, they were ruined, and going to be sold up. I could not bear that: I became bondsman for the old man. It was the least I could do. Kate, they had saved thy husband's life.
Not a word more, Griffith. How much stand you pledged for?
A large sum.
Would five hundred pounds be of any avail?
Five hundred pounds! Ay, that it would, and to spare; but where can I get so much money? And the time so short.
Give me thy hand, and come with me, said Mrs. Gaunt, ardently.
She took his hand, and made a swift rush across the lawn. It was not exactly running, nor walking, but some grand motion she had when excited. She put him to his stride to keep up with her at all; and in two minutes she had him into her boudoir. She unlocked a bureau, all in a hurry, and took out a bag of gold. "There!" she cried, thrusting it into his hand, and blooming all over with joy and eagerness: "I thought you would want money; so I saved it up. You shall not be in debt a day longer. Now mount thy horse, and carry it to those good souls: only, for my sake, take the gardener with thee—I have no groom now but he—and both well armed."
What! go this very day?
Ay, this very hour. I can bear thy absence for a day or two more; I have borne it so long: but I cannot bear thy plighted word to stand in doubt a day, no not an hour. I am your wife, sir, your true and loving wife; your honor is mine, and is as dear to me now as it was when you saw me with Father Leonard in the Grove, and read me all awry. Don't wait a moment, begone at once.
Nay, nay, if I go to-morrow I shall be in time.
Ay, but, said Mrs. Gaunt, very softly, "I am afraid if I keep you another hour I shall not have the heart to let you go at all: and the sooner gone, the sooner back for good, please God. There, give me one kiss, to live on, and begone this instant."
He covered her hands with kisses and tears. "I'm not worthy to kiss any higher than thy hand," he said: and so ran sobbing from her.