he went straight to the stable, and saddled black dick.
but, in the very act, his nature revolted. what, turn his back on her the moment he had got hold of her money, to take to the other. he could not do it.
he went back to her room, and came so suddenly that he caught her crying. he asked her what was the matter.
"nothing," said she, with a sigh: "only a woman's foolish misgivings. i was afraid perhaps you would not come back. forgive me."
"no fear of that," said he. "however, i have taken a resolve not to go to-day. if i go tomorrow, i shall be just in time; and dick wants a good day's rest."
mrs. gaunt said nothing; but her expressive face was triumphant.
griffith and she took a walk together; and he, who used to be the more genial of the two, was dull, and she full of animation.
this whole day she laid herself out to bewitch her husband, and put him in high spirits.
it was uphill work; but, when such a woman sets herself in earnest to delight a man, she reads our sex a lesson in the art, that shows us we are all babies at it.
however, it was at supper she finally conquered.
here the lights, her beauty set off with art, her deepening eyes, her satin skin, her happy excitement, her wit and tenderness, and joyous sprightliness, enveloped griffith in an atmosphere of delight, and drove everything out of his head but herself: and with this, if the truth must be told, the sparkling wines co-operated.
griffith plied the bottle a little too freely. but mrs. gaunt, on this one occasion, had not the heart to check him. the more he toasted her, the more uxorious he became, and she could not deny herself even this joy; but, besides, she had less of the prudent wife in her just then, than of the weak indulgent mother. anything rather than check his love: she was greedy of it.
at last, however, she said to him, "sweetheart, i shall go to bed: for, i see, if i stay longer, i shall lead thee into a debauch. be good now: drink no more when i am gone. else i'll say thou lovest thy bottle more than thy wife."
he promised faithfully. but, when she was gone, modified his pledge by drinking just one bumper to her health: which bumper let in another: and, when at last he retired to rest, he was in that state of mental confusion wherein the limbs appear to have a memory independent of the mind.
in this condition do some men's hands wind up their watches, the mind taking no appreciable part in the ceremony.
by some such act of what physicians call "organic memory," griffith's feet carried him to the chamber he had slept in a thousand times, and not into the one mrs. ryder had taken him to the night before.
the next morning he came down rather late for him, and found himself treated with a great access of respect by the servants.
his position was no longer doubtful; he was the master of the house.
mrs. gaunt followed in due course, and sat at breakfast with him, looking young and blooming as hebe, and her eye never off him long.
she had lived temperately, and had not yet passed the age when happiness can restore a woman's beauty and brightness in a single day.
as for him, he was like a man in a heavenly dream: he floated in the past and the present: the recent and the future seemed obscure and distant, and comparatively in a mist.
but that same afternoon, after a most affectionate farewell, and many promises to return as soon as ever he had discharged his obligations, griffith gaunt started for the "packhorse," to carry to mercy leicester, alias vint, the money catherine gaunt had saved by self-denial and economy.
and he went south a worse man than he came.
when he left mercy leicester, he was a bigamist in law, but not at heart. kate was dead to him: he had given her up for ever: and was constant and true to his new wife.
but now he was false to mercy, yet not true to kate; and, curiously enough, it was a day or two passed with his lawful wife that had demoralized him. his unlawful wife had hitherto done nothing but improve his character.
but a great fault once committed is often the first link in a chain of acts, that look like crimes, but are, strictly speaking, consequences.
this man, blinded at first by his own foible, and, after that, the sport of circumstances, was single-hearted by nature; and his conscience was not hardened. he desired earnestly to free himself and both his wives from the cruel situation; but, to do this, one of them he saw must be abandoned entirely; and his heart bled for her.
a villain or a fool would have relished the situation; many men would have dallied with it; but, to do this erring man justice, he writhed and sorrowed under it, and sincerely desired to end it.
and this was why he prized kate's money so. it enabled him to render a great service to her he had injured worse than he had the other, to her he saw he must abandon.
but this was feeble comfort after all. he rode along a miserable man; none the less wretched and remorseful, that, ere he got into lancashire, he saw his way clear. this was his resolve: to pay old vint's debts with kate's money; take the "packhorse," get it made over to mercy; give her the odd two hundred pounds and his jewels, and fly. he would never see her again: but would return home, and get the rest of the two thousand pounds from kate, and send it mercy by a friend, who should tell her he was dead, and had left word with his relations to send her all his substance.
at last the "packhorse" came in sight. he drew rein, and had half a mind to turn back; but, instead of that, he crawled on, and very sick and cold he felt.
many a man has marched to the scaffold with a less quaking heart than he to the "packhorse."
his dejection contrasted strangely with the warm reception he met from everybody there. and the house was full of women; and they seemed, somehow, all cock-a-hoop, and filled with admiration of him.
"where is she?" said he, faintly.
"hark to the poor soul!" said a gossip. "dame vint, where's thy daughter? gone out a-walking belike?"
at this the other women present chuckled and clucked.
"i'll bring you to her," said mrs. vint; "but prithee be quiet and reasonable; for to be sure she is none too strong."
there was some little preparation, and then griffith was ushered into mercy's room, and found her in bed, looking a little pale, but sweeter and comelier than ever. she had the bedclothes up to her chin.
"you look wan, my poor lass," said he; "what ails ye?"
"nought ails me now thou art come," said she, lovingly.
griffith put the bag on the table. "there," said he, "there's five hundred pounds in gold. i come not to thee empty-handed."
"nor i to thee," said mercy, with a heavenly smile. "see!"
and she drew down the bedclothes a little, and showed the face of a babe scarcely three days old: a little boy.
she turned in the bed, and tried to hold him up to his father, and said, "here's my treasure for thee!" and the effort, the flush on her cheek, and the deep light in her dove-like eyes, told plainly that the poor soul thought she had contributed to their domestic wealth something far richer than griffith had with his bag of gold.
the father littered an ejaculation, and came to her side, and, for a moment, nature overpowered everything else. he kissed the child; he kissed mercy again and again.
"now god he praised for both," said he, passionately; "but most for thee, the best wife, the truest friend—." he, thinking of her virtues, and the blow he had come to strike her, he broke down, and was almost choked with emotion; whereupon mrs. vint exerted female authority, and bundled him out of the room. "is that the way to carry on at such a time?" said she. "'twas enow to upset her altogether. oh, but you men have little sense in women's matters. i looked to you to give her courage, not to set her off into hysterics after a manner. nay, keep up her heart, or keep your distance, say i, that am her mother."
griffith took this hint, and ever after took pity on mercy's weak condition; and, suspending the fatal blow, did all he could to restore her to health and spirits.
of course, to do that, he must deceive her; and so his life became a lie.
for, hitherto, she had never looked forward much; but now her eyes were always diving into futurity: and she lay smiling and discussing the prospects of her boy; and griffith had to sit by her side, and see her gnaw the boy's hand, and kiss his feet, and anticipate his brilliant career. he had to look and listen with an aching heart, and assent with feigned warmth, and an inward chill of horror and remorse.
one drummond, a travelling artist, called; and mercy, who had often refused to sit to him, consented now; for, she said, when he grows up he shall know how his parents looked in their youth, the very year their darling was born. so griffith had to sit with her, and excellent likenesses the man produced; but a horrible one of the child. and griffith thought,—"poor soul; a little while and this picture will be all that shall be left to thee of me."
for all this time he was actually transacting the preliminaries of separation. he got a man of law to make all sure. the farm, the stock, the furniture and goodwill of the "packhorse," all these he got assigned to mercy leicester for her own use, in consideration of three hundred and fifty pounds, whereof three hundred were devoted to clearing the concern of its debts, the odd fifty was to sweeten the pill to harry vint.
when the deed came to be executed, mercy was surprised, and uttered a gentle remonstrance. "what have i to do with it?" said she. "'tis thy money, not mine."
"no matter," said griffith; "i choose to have it so."
"your will is my law," said mercy.
"besides," said griffith, "the old folk will not feel so sore, nor be afraid of being turned out, if it is in thy name."
"and that is true," said mercy. "now who had thought of that, but my good man?" and she threw her arms lovingly round his neck, and gazed on him adoringly.
but his lion-like eyes avoided her dove-like eyes; and an involuntary shudder ran through him.
the habit of deceiving mercy led to a consequence he had not anticipated. it tightened the chain that held him. she opened his eyes more and more to her deep affection, and he began to fear she would die if he abandoned her.
and then her present situation was so touching. she had borne him a lovely boy: that must be abandoned too, if he left her; and somehow the birth of this child had embellished the mother; a delicious pink had taken the place of her rustic bloom; and her beauty was more refined and delicate. so pure, so loving, so fair, so maternal, to wound her heart now, it seemed like stabbing an angel.
one day succeeded to another, and still griffith had not the heart to carry out his resolve. he temporized; he wrote to kate that he was detained by the business; and he stayed on and on, strengthening his gratitude and his affection, and weakening his love for the absent, and his resolution; till, at last, he became so distracted and divided in heart, and so demoralized, that he began to give up the idea of abandoning mercy, and babbled to himself about fate and destiny, and decided that the most merciful course would be to deceive both women. mercy was patient. mercy was unsuspicious. she would content herself with occasional visits, if he could only feign some plausible tale to account for long absences.
before he got into this mess he was a singularly truthful person; but now a he was nothing to him. but, for that matter, many a man has been first made a liar by his connexion with two women; and by degrees has carried his mendacity into other things.
however, though now blessed with mendacity, he was cursed with a lack of invention; and sorely puzzled how to live at hernshaw, yet visit the "packhorse."
the best thing he could hit upon was to pretend to turn bagman; and so mercy would believe he was travelling all over england, when all the time he was quietly living at hernshaw.
and perhaps these long separations might prepare her heart for a final parting, and so let in his original plan a few years hence.
he prepared this manœuvre with some art: he told her, one day, he had been to lancaster, and there fallen in with a friend, who had as good as promised him the place of a commercial traveller for a mercantile house.
"a traveller!" said mercy. "heaven forbid! if you knew how i wearied for you when you went to cumberland."
"to cumberland! how know you i went thither?"
"oh, i but guessed that; but now i know it, by your face. but go where thou wilt, the house is dull directly. thou art our sunshine. isn't he, my poppet?"
"well, well; if it kept me too long from thee, i could give it up. but, child, we must think of young master. you could manage the inn, and your mother the farm, without me; and i should be earning money on my side. i want to make a gentleman of him."
"anything for him," said mercy, "anything in the world." but the tears stood in her eyes.
in furtherance of this deceit, griffith did one day actually ride to lancaster, and slept there. he wrote to kate, from that town, to say he was detained by a slight illness, but hoped to be home in a week: and the next day brought mercy home some ribbons, and told her he had seen the merchant, and his brother, and they had made him a very fair offer. "but i've a week to think of it," said he, "so there's no hurry."
mercy fixed her eyes on him in a very peculiar way, and made no reply. you must know that something very curious had happened whilst griffith was gone to lancaster.
a travelling pedlar, passing by, was struck with the name on the signboard. "halloo!" said he, "why here's a namesake of mine; i'll have a glass of his ale any way."
so he came into the public room, and called for a glass; taking care to open his pack and display his inviting wares. harry vint served him. "here's your health," said the pedlar. "you must drink with me, you must."
"and welcome," said the old man.
"well," said the pedlar, "i do travel five counties; but for all that you are the first namesake i have found. i am thomas leicester, too, as sure as you are a living sinner."
the old man laughed, and said, "then no namesake of mine are you; for they call me harry vint. thomas leicester, he that keeps this inn now, is my son-in-law: he is gone to lancaster this morning."
the pedlar said that was a pity, he should have liked to see his namesake, and drink a glass with him.
"come again to-morrow," said harry vint, ironically. "dame," he cried, "come hither. here's another thomas leicester for ye, wants to see our one."
mrs. vint turned her head, and inspected the pedlar from afar, as if he was some natural curiosity.
"where do you come from, young man?" said she.
"well, i came from kendal last; but i am cumberland born."
"why, that is where t'other comes from," suggested paul carrick, who was once more a frequenter of the house.
"like enow," said mrs. vint.
with that she dropped the matter as one of no consequence, and retired. but she went straight to mercy, in the parlor, and told her there was a man in the kitchen that called himself thomas leicester.
"well, mother?" said mercy, with high indifference, for she was trying new socks on king baby.
"he comes from cumberland."
"well, to be sure, names do run in counties."
"that is true; but, seems to me, he favors your man: much of a height, and—there, do just step into the kitchen a moment."
"la, mother," said mercy, "i don't desire to see any more thomas leicesters than my own: 'tis the man, not the name. isn't it, my lamb?"
mrs. vint went back to the kitchen discomfited; but, with quiet pertinacity, she brought thomas leicester into the parlor, pack and all.
"there, mercy," said she, "lay out a penny with thy husband's namesake."
mercy did not reply, for, at that moment, thomas leicester caught sight of griffith's portrait, and gave a sudden start, and a most extraordinary look besides.
both the women's eyes happened to be upon him, and they saw at once that he knew the original.
"you know my husband?" said mercy vint, after a while.
"not i," said leicester, looking askant at the picture.
"don't tell no lies," said mrs. vint. "you do know him well." and she pointed her assertion by looking at the portrait.
"oh, i know him, whose picture hangs there, of course," said leicester.
"well, and that is her husband."
"oh, that is her husband, is it?" and he was unaffectedly puzzled.
mercy turned pale. "yes, he is my husband," said she, "and this is our child. can you tell me anything about him? for he came a stranger to these parts. belike you are a kinsman of his?"
"so they say."
this reply puzzled both women.
"any way," said the pedlar, "you see we are marked alike." and he showed a long black mole on his forehead. mercy was now as curious as she had been indifferent. "tell me all about him," said she: "how comes it that he is a gentleman and thou a pedlar?"
"well, because my mother was a gipsy, and his a gentlewoman."
"what brought him to these parts?"
"trouble, they say."
"what trouble?"
"nay, i know not." this after a slight but visible hesitation.
"but you have heard say."
"well, i am always on the foot, and don't bide long enough in one place to learn all the gossip. but i do remember hearing he was gone to sea: and that was a lie, for he had settled here, and married you. i'fackins, he might have done worse. he has got a bonny buxom wife, and a rare fine boy, to be sure."
and now the pedlar was on his guard, and determined he would not be the one to break up the household he saw before him, and afflict the dove-eyed wife and mother. he was a good-natured fellow, and averse to make mischief with his own hands. besides, he took for granted griffith loved his new wife better than the old one; and above all, the punishment of bigamy was severe, and was it for him to get the squire indicted, and branded in the hand for a felon?
so the women could get nothing more out of him; he lied, evaded, shuffled, and feigned utter ignorance; pleading, adroitly enough, his vagrant life.
all this, however, aroused vague suspicions in mrs. vint's mind, and she went and whispered them to her favorite, paul carrick. "and, paul," said she, "call for what you like, and score it to me; only treat this pedlar till he leaks out summut: to be sure he'll tell a man more than he will us."
paul entered with zeal into this commission: treated the pedlar to a chop, and plied him well with the best ale.
all this failed to loose the pedlar's tongue at the time, but it muddled his judgment: on resuming his journey, he gave his entertainer a wink. carrick rose and followed him out.
"you seem a decent lad," said the pedlar, "and a good-hearted one. will do me a favor?"
carrick said he would, if it lay in his power.
"oh, it is easy enow," said the pedlar, "'tis just to give you thomas leicester, into his own hand, this here trifle as soon as ever he comes home." and he handed carrick a hard substance wrapped in paper. carrick promised.
"ay, ay, lad," said the pedlar, "but see you play fair, and give it him unbeknown. now don't you be so simple as show it to any of the women-folk. dy'e understand?"
"all right," said carrick, knowingly. and so the boon companions for a day shook hands and parted.
and carrick took the little parcel straight to mrs. vint, and told her every word the pedlar had said.
and mrs. vint took the little parcel straight to mercy, and told her what carrick said the pedlar had said.
and the pedlar went off flushed with beer and self-complacency; for he thought he had drawn the line precisely; had faithfully discharged his promise to his lady and benefactress, but not so as to make mischief in another household.
such was the power of ale—in the last century.
mercy undid the paper and found the bullet, on which was engraved
"i love kate."
as she read these words a knife seemed to enter her heart; the pang was so keen.
but she soon took herself to task. "thou naughty woman," said she. "what! jealous of the dead?"
she wrapped the bullet up; put it carefully away; had a good cry; and was herself again.
but all this set her watching griffith, and reading his face. she had subtle, vague, misgivings; and forbade her mother to mention the pedlar's visit to griffith yet awhile. woman-like, she preferred to worm out the truth.
on the evening of his return from lancaster, as he was smoking his pipe, she quietly tested him. she fixed her eyes on him, and said, "one was here to-day that knows thee, and brought thee this." she then handed him the bullet, and watched his face.
griffith undid the paper carelessly enough; but, at sight of the bullet, uttered a loud cry, and his eyes seemed ready to start out of his head.
he turned as pale as ashes, and stammered piteously, "what? what? what d'ye mean? in heaven's name, what is this? how? who?"
mercy was surprised, but also much concerned at his distress, and tried to soothe him. she also asked him, piteously, whether she had done wrong to give it him. "god knows," said she, "'tis no business of mine to go and remind thee of her thou hast loved better mayhap than thou lovest me. but to keep it from thee, and she in her grave, oh i had not the heart!"
but griffith's agitation increased instead of diminishing; and, even while she was trying to soothe him, he rushed wildly out of the room, and into the open air.
mercy went, in perplexity and distress, and told her mother.
mrs. vint, not being blinded by affection, thought the whole thing had a very ugly look, and said as much. she gave it as her opinion that this kate was alive, and had sent the token herself, to make mischief between man and wife.
"that shall she never," said mercy, stoutly; but now her suspicions were thoroughly excited, and her happiness disturbed.
the next day griffith found her in tears: he asked her what was the matter. she would not tell him.
"you have your secrets," said she: "and so now i have mine."
griffith became very uneasy.
for now mercy was often in tears, and mrs. vint looked daggers at him.
all this was mysterious, and unintelligible, and, to a guilty man, very alarming.
at last he implored mercy to speak out. he wanted to know the worst.
then mercy did speak out. "you have deceived me," said she. "kate is alive. this very morning, between sleeping and waking, you whispered her name; ay, false man, whispered it like a lover. you told me she was dead. but she is alive; and has sent you a reminder, and the bare sight of it hath turned your heart her way again. what shall i do? why did you marry me, if you could not forget her? i did not want you to desert any woman for me. the desire of my heart was always for your happiness. but oh, thomas, deceit and falsehood will not bring you happiness, no more than they will me. what shall i do? what shall i do?"
her tears flowed freely, and griffith sat down, and groaned with horror and remorse, beside her.
he had not the courage to tell her the horrible truth, that kate was his wife, and she was not.
"do not thou afflict thyself," he muttered. "of course, with you putting that bullet in my hand so sudden, it set my fancy a wandering back to other days."
"ah!" said mercy, "if it be no worse than that, there's little harm. but why did thy namesake start so at sight of thy picture?"
"my namesake!" cried griffith, all aghast.
"ay, he that brought thee that love-token; thomas leicester. nay, for very shame, feign not ignorance of him; why, he hath thy very mole on his temple, and knew thy picture in a moment. he is thy half-brother, is he not?"
"i am a ruined man," cried griffith; and sank into a chair without power of motion.
"god help me, what is all this?" cried mercy. "oh, thomas, thomas, i could forgive thee ought but deceit: for both our sakes speak out, and tell me the worst; no harm shall come near thee while i live."
"how can i tell thee? i am an unfortunate man. the world will call me a villain; yet i am not a villain at heart. but who will believe me? i have broken the law. thee i could trust, but not thy folk; they never loved me. mercy, for pity's sake, when was that thomas leicester here?"
"four days ago."
"which way went he?"
"i hear he told paul he was going to cumberland."
"if he gets there before me, i shall rot in gaol."
"now heaven forbid! oh, thomas, then mount and ride after him."
"i will, and this very moment."
he saddled black dick, and loaded his pistols for the journey; but, ere he went, a pale face looked out into the yard, and a finger beckoned. it was mercy. she bade him follow her. she took him to her room, where their child was sleeping; and then she closed, and even locked the door.
"no soul can hear us," said she; "now, look me in the face, and tell me god's truth. who and what are you?"
griffith shuddered at this exordium; he made no reply.
mercy went to a box, and took out an old shirt of his; the one he wore when he first came to the "packhorse." she brought it to him and showed him "g. g." embroidered on it with a woman's hair. (ryder's.)
"here are your initials," said she, "now leave useless falsehoods; be a man, and tell me your real name."
"my name is griffith gaunt."
mercy, sick at heart, turned her head away; but she had the resolution to urge him on. "go on," said she, in an agonized whisper: "if you believe in god, and a judgment to come, deceive me no more. the truth! i say: the truth!"
"so be it," said griffith, desperately: "when i have told thee what a villain i am. i can die at thy feet, and then thou wilt forgive me."
"who is kate?" was all she replied.
"kate is—my wife."
"i thought her false; who could think any other; appearances were so strong against her: others thought so beside me. i raised my hand to kill her; but she never winced. i trampled on him i believed her paramour: i fled, and soon i lay a dying in this house for her sake. i told thee she was dead. alas! i thought her dead to me. i went back to our house (it is her house) sore against the grain, to get money for thee and thine. then she cleared herself, bright as the sun, and pure as snow. she was all in black for me; she had put by money, against i should come to my senses and need it. i told her i owed a debt in lancashire, a debt of gratitude as well as money: and so i did. how have i repaid it? the poor soul forced five hundred pounds on me. i had much ado to keep her from bringing it hither with her own hands; oh, villain! villain! then i thought to leave thee, and send thee word i was dead; and heap money on thee. money! but how could i? thou wast my benefactress, my more than wife. all the riches of the world can make no return to thee. what, what shall i do? shall i fly with thee and thy child across the seas? shall i go back to her? no, the best thing i can do is to take this good pistol, and let the life out of my dishonorable carcass, and free two honest women from me by one resolute act."
in his despair he cocked the pistol; and, at a word from mercy, this tale had ended.
but the poor woman, pale and trembling, tottered across the room, and took it out of his hand. "i would not harm thy body, nor thy soul," she gasped. "let me draw my breath, and think."
she rocked herself to and fro in silence.
griffith stood trembling like a criminal before his judge.
it was long ere she could speak, for anguish. yet when she did speak, it was with a sort of deadly calm.
"go tell the truth to her, as you have done to me: and, if she can forgive you, all the better for you. i can never forgive you, nor yet can harm you. my child, my child! thy father is our ruin. oh begone, man, or the sight of you will kill us both."
"at that he fell at her knees; kissed, and wept over her cold hand, and, in his pity and despair, offered to cross the seas with her and her child, and so repair the wrong he had done her.
"tempt me not," she sobbed. "go: leave me. none here shall ever know thy crime, but she whose heart thou hast broken, and ruined her good name."
he took her in his arms, in spite of her resistance, and kissed her passionately; but, for the first time, she shuddered at his embrace, and that gave him the power to leave her.
he rushed from her, all but distracted, and rode away to cumberland; but not to tell the truth to kate, if he could possibly help it.
