"A wife!" gasped Mrs. Gaunt, and one white hand clutched her bosom, and the other the mantelpiece.
"Ay, Thomas Leicester, that is in the kitchen now, saw her, and saw his picture hanging aside hers on the wall. And he goes by the name of Thomas Leicester: that was what made Tom go into the inn, seeing his own name on the sign-board. Nay, Dame, never give way like that, lean on me; so. He is a villain, a false, jealous, double-faced villain."
Mrs. Gaunt's head fell on Ryder's shoulder, and she said no word; but only moaned and moaned, and her white teeth clicked convulsively together.
Ryder wept over her sad state: the tears were half impulse, half crocodile.
She applied hartshorn to the sufferer's nostrils, and tried to rouse her mind by exciting her anger. But all was in vain. There hung the betrayed wife, pale, crushed, and quivering under the cruel blow.
Ryder asked her if she should go down and excuse her to her guests.
She nodded a feeble assent.
Ryder then laid her down on the bed with her head low, and was just about to leave her on that errand, when hurried steps were heard outside the door, and one of the female servants knocked; and, not waiting to be invited, put her head in, and cried, "Oh, Dame, the Master is come home. He is in the kitchen."