And Mercy, who heard him groan, was heart-broken. She accused herself of Griffith's death. "'Twas I who drove him from me," said she. "'Twas I who bade him go back to his lawful wife; and the wretch hated him. I sent him to his death." Her grief was wild, and deep; she could not hear Sir George's arguments.
But presently she said, sternly, "What does that woman say for herself?"
"Madam," said Sir George, dejectedly, "Heaven knows you are in no condition to fathom a mystery that hath puzzled wiser heads than yours or mine; and I am but little able to lay the tale before you fairly: for your grief it moves me deeply, and I could curse myself for putting the matter to you so bluntly and uncouthly. Permit me to retire a while, and compose my own spirits for the task I have undertaken too rashly."
"Nay, George Neville," said Mercy, "stay you there: only give me a moment to draw my breath."
She struggled hard for a little composure, and, after a shower of tears, she hung her head over the chair like a crushed thing, but made him a sign of attention.
Sir George told the story as fairly as he could; only of course his bias was in favor of Mrs. Gaunt; but as Mercy's bias was against her, this brought the thing nearly square.
When he came to the finding of the body, Mercy was seized with a deadly faintness; and, though she did not become insensible, yet she was in no condition to judge or even to comprehend.
Sir George was moved with pity, and would have called for help; but she shook her head. So then he sprinkled water on her face, and slapped her hand: and a beautifully moulded hand it was.
When she got a little better she sobbed faintly, and sobbing thanked him, and begged him to go on.
"My mind is stronger than my heart," she said. "I'll hear it all, though it kill me where I sit."