Griffith Gaunt; Or, Jealousy

CHAPTER XXVI.

HE was gone for good, this time.

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, spellbound, on the outskirts of the throng, to the songs and humorous tirades of a pedler selling his wares ; and was saying to himself, “ I too will be a pedler.” Hearing the row, he turned round, and saw his master just coming down with that stricken face.

Tom could not read 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 God, 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 his heavy ridingwhip.

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 stableyard, 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 immovable brute ; and his wife courtesied 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 parlor 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 V int 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 awhile 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 halfdistracted 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.

“’T is not to me you drink, sir,” said Mercy, with gentle dignity. Then she courtesied 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 stupefied him, and he staggered to bed.

He awoke at daybreak: and O the agony of that waking !

He lay sighing awhile, 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 seaport

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 awhile ; 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 't is 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 naught 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 may be 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 naught 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’t is 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 sickroom, 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 bake-house.

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 pickpockets.

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 wroth. “ 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. ’T won’t be long now ; art too well to last till sundown.”

“So ’t is 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,” “bloodsucker,” 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 ye 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 balk 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 honor’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 up stairs ? ”

“ Why could n’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, ’t is 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, 1 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.

“ ’T is 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. “ 'T is milking time, sir ; and you shall know that I am our dairymaid. I seldom trouble the inn.”

Next day she was on the windowseat, 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. Today you must e’en be patient. Patience is a rare medicine.”

Tic, tic, tic! “What a noise they are making down stairs. Go, lass, and bid them hold their peace.”

Mercy shook her head. “ Good lacka-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 ’t was 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 d—d, 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 ’t is 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, ’t is a sin to gainsay a sick man. But indeed I am the homeliest singer. Methinks ’t is 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, dryly, and retired to the windowseat ; that was the first obvious preliminary. Then she fiddled with her apron, and hemmed, 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 giddypaced, 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: —

Griffith beat time with his hand awhile, and his 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 from her eyes at the sight. Then, with native delicacy, she hurried from the room.

What Griffith Gaunt 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 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, 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 itShe told Paul Carrick if he had any thought of Mercy he had better 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 new-comer,” 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.”

“ O 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 naught?”

“ Wooing ? You never said so much to me in all these years as you have today.”

“ O, 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 : :t is 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 Carrick 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-humor 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 down 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 wring 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 ’t is 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.”

“O, 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 ; ’t is 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 he, 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 kindhearted 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 neighbors ; 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 innkeeper’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 naught but good.”

Griffith gave the woman his hand, and his breast labored 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 favorite. 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. ’T was 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 Mercy ; 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, and, 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, courtesied 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, “ ’t is a sorrowful thing to be alone in the world again, and naught to do. If I had but a farm, and a sweet little inn like this to go to, perchance my heart would not be quite so heavy as ’t is 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. ’T is 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’t is 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 bass-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 his trouble comes on’t. He might have wed our Mercy a year agone for the asking. Shillyshally belongs to us that be women. ’T is despicable 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 letter in a feigned hand, and took it himself to the nearest posttown.

The letter came to hand, and will appear in that sequence of events on which I am now about to enter.

CHAPTER XXVII.

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 forever 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 uttered 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 been 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 she 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 courtesied 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. “ O 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 ; ’t was 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 down stairs ; 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 stern, — 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 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 back,” 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 could n’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 ’t is, 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 ’t is 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 vanity 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 gypsy blood, and he said he would travel to-morrow, if he could but scrape together money enough to fill a pedler’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.

Tom’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 in 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. O, 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.

He 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 contemptuously in their 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 ’t was hers ; and so be it. On Friday I shall lie 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.”

Tins 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 fellowservants 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 come outThere 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 gray 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 handkerchief 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.