Ho 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 contemptously in them 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 'twas hers; and so be it. On Friday I shall be 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."
This 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.