on the glorious silks of Lyons Mrs. Gaunt put on; thick as broadcloth, 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 master to lie to-night?"
Mrs. Gaunt was not pleased at this question being put to her. She would have preferred to leave that to Griffith. And, as she was a singular mixture of frankness and finesse, I believe 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?"
"O 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."
Good, faithful, single-hearted Ryder!
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 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
