"He will never come back at all."
"He will never come into that fortune."
"'T is no use advertising for a man that is past reading."
These, and the like equivocal sayings, were followed by a vague buzz, which was traceable to no individual author, but seemed to rise on all sides, like a dark mist, and envelop that unhappy house.
And that dark mist of Rumor soon condensed itself into a palpable and terrible whisper,—"Griffith Gaunt hath met with foul play."
No one of the servants told Mrs. Gaunt this horrid rumor.
But the women used to look at her, and after her, with strange eyes.
She noticed this, and felt, somehow, that her people were falling away from her. It added one drop to her bitter cup. She began to droop into a sort of calm, despondent lethargy.
Then came fresh trouble to rouse her.