Francis, with a voice of agony, and looks to match.
"All the better, my son," said the genial priest: "'twill be another tie between you. I hope it will be a fine boy to inherit your estates." Then, observing a certain hideous expression distorting Griffith's face, he fixed his eyes full on him, and said, sternly, "Are you not cured yet of that madness of yours?"
"No, no, no," said Griffith, deprecatingly; "but why did she not tell me?"
"You had better ask her."
"Not I. She will remind me I am nothing to her now. And, though 'tis so, yet I would not hear it from her lips."
In spite of this wise resolution, the torture he was in drove him to remonstrate with her on her silence.
She blushed high, and excused herself as follows:—
"I should have told you as soon as I knew it myself. But you were not with me. I was all by myself—in Carlisle jail."
This reply, uttered with hypocritical meekness, went through Griffith like a knife. He turned white, and gasped for breath, but said nothing. He left her, with a deep groan, and never ventured to mention the matter again.
All he did in that direction was to redouble his attentions and solicitude for her health.
The relation between these two was now more anomalous than ever.
Even Father Francis, who had seen strange things in families, used to watch Mrs. Gaunt rise from the table and walk heavily to the door, and her husband dart to it and open it obsequiously, and receive only a very formal reverence in return,—and wonder how all this was to end.
However, under this icy surface, a change was gradually going on; and one afternoon, to his great surprise, Mrs. Gaunt's maid came to ask Griffith if he would come to Mrs. Gaunt's apartment.
He found her seated in her bay-window, among her flowers. She seemed another woman all of a sudden, and smiled on him her exquisite smile of days gone by.
"Come, sit beside me," said she, "in this beautiful window that you have given me."
"Sit beside you, Kate?" said Griffith. "Nay, let me kneel at your knees: that is my place."
"As you will," said she, softly; and continued, in the same tone: "Now listen to me. You and I are two fools. We have been very happy together in days gone by; and we should both of us like to try again; but we neither of us know how to begin. You are afraid to tell me you love me, and I am ashamed to own to you or anybody else that I love you, in spite of it all;—I do, though."
"You love me! a wretch like me, Kate? 'T is impossible. I cannot be so happy."
"Child," said Mrs. Gaunt, "love is not reason; love is not common sense. 'T is a passion; like your jealousy, poor fool. I love you, as a mother loves her child, all the more for all you have made me suffer. I might not say as much, if I thought we should be long together. But something tells me I shall die this time: I never felt so before. Bury me at Hernshaw. After all, I spent more happy years there than most wives ever know. I see you are very sorry for what you have done. How could I die and leave thee in doubt of my forgiveness, and my love? Kiss me, poor jealous fool; for I do forgive thee, and love thee with all my sorrowful heart." And even with the words she bowed herself and sank quietly into his arms, and he kissed her and cried bitterly over her: bitterly. But she was comparatively calm. For she said to herself, "The end is at hand."
Griffith, instead of pooh-poohing his wife's forebodings, set himself to baffle them.
He used his wealth freely, and, besides the county doctor, had two very
