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 to 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."