She took him to his room. There was no fire.
"That is where you are to sleep," said she, spitefully.
"It is better than I deserve," said he, humbly.
The absurd rule about not hitting a man when he is down has never obtained a place in the great female soul; so Ryder lashed him without mercy.
"Well, sir," said she, "methinks you have gained little by breaking faith with me. Y' had better have set up your inn with me, than gone and sinned against the law."
"Much better: would to Heaven I had!"
"What d' ye mean to do now? You know the saying. Between two stools—"
"Child," said Griffith, faintly, "methinks I shall trouble neither long. I am not so ill a man as I seem; but who will believe that? I shall not live long. And I shall leave an ill name behind me. She told me so just now. And oh! her eye was so cruel; I saw my death in it."
"Come, come," said Ryder, relenting a little; "you mustn't believe every word an angry woman says. There, take my advice; go to bed; and in the morning don't speak to her. Keep out of her way a day or two."
And with this piece of friendly advice she left him; and waited about till she thought he was in bed and asleep.
Then she brought Thomas Leicester up to her mistress.
But Griffith was not in bed; and he heard Leicester's heavy tread cross the landing. He waited and waited behind his door for more than half an hour, and then he heard the same heavy tread go away again.
By this time nearly all the inmates of the house were asleep.
About twenty-five minutes after Leicester left Mrs. Gaunt, Caroline Ryder stole quietly up stairs from the kitchen, and sat down to think it all over.
She then proceeded to undress; but had only taken off her gown, when she started and listened; for a cry of distress reached her from outside the house.
She darted to the window and threw it open.
Then she heard a cry more distinct, "Help! help!"
It was a clear starlight night, but no moon.
The mere shone before her, and the cries were on the bank.
Now came something more alarming still. A flash,—a pistol shot,—and an agonized voice cried loudly, "Murder! Help! Murder!"
That voice she knew directly. It was Griffith Gaunt's.
CHAPTER XXXV.
Ryder ran screaming, and alarmed the other servants.
All the windows that looked on the mere were flung open.
But no more sounds were heard. A terrible silence brooded now over those clear waters.
The female servants huddled together, and quaked; for who could doubt that a bloody deed had been done?
It was some time before they mustered the presence of mind to go and tell Mrs. Gaunt. At last they opened her door. She was not in her room.
Ryder ran to Griffith's. It was locked. She called to him. He made no reply.
They burst the door open. He was not there; and the window was open.
While their tongues were all going, in consternation, Mrs. Gaunt was suddenly among them, very pale.
They turned, and looked at her aghast.
"What means all this?" said she. "Did not I hear cries outside?"
"Ay," said Ryder. "Murder! and a pistol fired. O, my poor master!"
Mrs. Gaunt was white as death; but self-possessed. "Light torches this moment, and search the place," said she.
There was only one man in the house; and he declined to go out
