When matters had gone that length, one idea seemed to occur pretty simultaneously to all the well-bred guests: and that idea was, Sauve qui peut.
Mrs. Gaunt took leave of them, one by one, and husband and wife were left alone.
Mrs. Gaunt by this time was alarmed at the violence of her own passions, and wished to avoid Griffith for that night at all events. So she cast one terribly stern look upon him, and was about to retire in grim silence. But he, indignant at the public affront she had put on him, and not aware of the true cause, unfortunately detained her. He said, sulkily, "What sort of a reception was that you gave me?"
This was too much. She turned on him furiously. "Too good for thee, thou heartless creature! Thomas Leicester is here, and I know thee for a villain."
"You know nothing," cried Griffith. "Would you believe that mischief-making knave? What has he told you?"
"Go back to her!" cried Mrs. Gaunt furiously. "Me you can deceive and pillage no more. So, this was your jealousy! False and forsworn yourself, you dared to suspect and insult me. Ah! and you think I am the woman to endure this? I'll have your life for it! I'll have your life."
Griffith endeavored to soften her; protested that, notwithstanding appearances, he had never loved but her.
"I'll soon be rid of you, and your love," said the raging woman. "The constables shall come for you to-morrow. You have seen how I can love, you shall know how I can hate."
She then, in her fury, poured out a torrent of reproaches and threats that made his blood run cold. He could not answer her: he had suspected her wrongfully, and been false to her himself. He had abused her generosity, and taken her money for Mercy Vint.
After one or two vain efforts to check the torrent, he sank into a chair, and hid his face in his hands.