"Because you will be an ungrateful wretch else. What, leave others to carry your kinsman and your benefactor to his grave; while you turn your back on him—and inherit his estate?—For shame, sir! for shame!"
Griffith expostulated humbly. "How hardly you judge me. What are Bolton Hall and Park to me now? They were to have been yours, you know. And yours they shall be. I came between and robbed you. To be sure the old man knew my mind: he said to himself, 'Griffith or Kate, what matters it who has the land? they will live together on it. But all that is changed now; you will never share it with me; and so I do feel I have no right to the place. Kate, my own Kate, I have heard them sneer at you for being poor, and it made my heart ache. I'll stop that anyway. Go you in my place to the funeral: he that is dead will forgive me; his spirit knows now what I endure: and I'll send you a writing, all sealed and signed, shall make Bolton Hall and Park yours: and, when you are happy with some one you can love, as well as I love you, think sometimes of poor jealous Griffith, that loved you dear and grudged you nothing; but," grinding his teeth and turning white, "I can't live in Cumberland, and see you in another man's arms."
Then Catherine trembled, and could not speak awhile: but at last she faltered out, "You will make me hate you."
"God forbid!" said simple Griffith.
"Well then don't thwart me, and provoke me so, but just turn your horse's head and go quietly home to Bolton Hall, and do your duty to the dead and the living. You can't go this way for me and my horse:" then, seeing him waver, this virago faltered out, "and I have been so tried to-day first by one, then by another, surely you might have some pity on me. Oh! oh! oh! oh!"
"Nay, nay," cried Griffith, all in a flutter: "I'll go without more words: as I am a gentleman I will sleep at Bolton this night, and will do my duty to the dead and the living. Don't you cry, sweetest: I give in. I find I have no will but yours."
The next moment they were cantering side by side, and never drew rein till they reached the cross roads.
"Now tell me one thing," stammered Griffith, with a most ghastly attempt at cheerful indifference. "How—do you—happen to be—on George Neville's horse?"
Kate had been expecting this question for some time: yet she colored high when it did come. However, she had her answer pat. The horse was in the stable-yard, and fresh: her own was tired. "What was I to do, Griffith? And now," added she, hastily, "the sun will soon set, and the roads are bad: be careful. I wish I could ask you to sleep at our house: but—there are reasons—" she hesitated; she could not well tell him George Neville was to dine and sleep there.
Griffith assured here there was no danger; his mare knew every foot of the way.