"What cannot I bear? What have I not borne? Tell me the truth."
The words were stout, but she trembled all over in uttering them.
"Well, it is as I said, only worse. Dame, he has got a wife and child in another county; and no doubt been deceiving her, as he has us."
"A wife!" gasped Mrs. Gaunt, and one white hand clutched her bosom, and the other the mantel-piece.
"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 signboard. 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 back 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.