dear Mr. Houseman, that is what makes me uneasy: at this rate they must look on one another as—as—rivals: and you know rivals are sometimes enemies."
"Oh I see now," said Houseman: "you apprehend a quarrel between the gentlemen. Of course there is no love lost between them; but they met in my office and saluted each other with perfect civility. I saw them with my own eyes."
"Indeed! I am glad to hear that; very glad. I hope it was only a coincidence then, their both making their wills."
"Nothing more you may depend: neither of them knows from me what the other has done; nor ever will."
"That is true," said Kate, and seemed considerably relieved.
To ease her mind entirely, Houseman went on to say that as to the report that high words had passed between the clients in question, at the Roebuck, he had no doubt it was exaggerated. "Besides," said he, "that was not about a lady; I'm told it was about a horse. Some bet belike."
Catherine uttered a faint cry. "About a horse!" said she. "Not about a grey horse?"
"Nay, that is more than I know."
"High words about a horse," said Catherine; "and they are making their wills. Oh! my mind misgave me from the first." And she turned pale. Presently she clasped her hands together—"Mr. Houseman!" she cried, "what shall I do? What, do you not see that both their lives are in danger? and that is why they make their wills. And how should both their lives be in danger, but from each other? Madmen! they have quarreled: they are going to fight; fight to the death: and I fear it is about me. Me who love neither of them, you know."
"In that case, let them fight," said her legal adviser, dispassionately. "Whichever fool gets killed, you will be none the poorer." And the dog wore a sober complacency.
Catherine turned her large eyes on him with horror and amazement, but said nothing.
As for the lawyer he was more struck with her sagacity than with anything. He somewhat overrated it; not being aware of the private reasons she had for suspecting that her two testators were enemies to the death.
"I almost think you are right," said he; "for I got a curious missive from Mr. Gaunt scarce an hour agone, and he says,—let me see what he says." "Nay, let me see," said Kate. On that he handed her Griffith's note. It ran thus—
"It is possible I may not be able to conduct the funeral. Should this be so, I appoint you to act for me. So then, good Mr. Houseman, let me count on you to be here at nine of the clock. For Heaven's sake fail me not.
"Your humble Servant,
"G. G."
This left no doubt in Kate's mind.
"Now, first of all," said she, "what answer made you to this?"
"What answer should I make? I pledged my word to be at Bolton at nine of the clock."
"Oh, blind!" sighed Kate. "And I must be out of the room. What shall I do? My dear friend, forgive me: I am a wretched girl. I am to blame; I ought to have dismissed them both, or else decided between them. But who would have thought it would go this length? I did not think Griffith was brave enough. Have pity on me, and help me. Stop this fearful fighting." And now the young creature clung to the man of business, and prayed and prayed him earnestly to avert bloodshed.
Mr. Houseman was staggered by this passionate appeal from one who so rarely lost her self-command. He soothed her as well as he could, and said he would do his best; but added, which was very true, that he thought her interference would be more effective than his own. "What care these young bloods for an old attorney? I should fare ill, came I between their rapiers. To be sure I might bind them over to keep the peace. But Mistress Kate, now be frank with me; then I can serve you better. You love one of these two; that is clear. Which is the man? that I may know what I am about."
For all her agitation Kate was on her guard in some things.
"Nay," she faltered, "I love neither, not to say love them: but I pity him so."
"Which?"
"Both."
"Ay, mistress; but which do you pity most?" asked the shrewd lawyer.
"Whichever shall come to harm for my sake," replied the simple girl.
"You could not go to them to-night, and bring them to reason?" asked she, piteously. She went to the window to see what sort of a night it was; she drew the heavy crimson curtains and opened the window. In rushed a bitter blast laden with flying snow. The window ledges too were clogged with snow, and all the ground was white.
Houseman shuddered, and drew nearer to the blazing logs. Kate closed the window with a groan. "It is not to be thought of," said she; "at your age; and not a road to be seen for snow. What shall I do?"
"Wait till to-morrow," said Mr. Houseman. (Procrastination was his daily work, being an attorney.) "To-morrow!" cried Catherine. "Perhaps even now they have met, and he lies a corpse."
"Who?"
"Whichever it is, I shall end my days in a convent praying for his soul." She wrung her hands while she said this, and still there was no catching her.
Little did the lawyer think to rouse such a storm with his good news. And now he made a feeble and vain attempt to soothe her; and ended by promising to start the first thing in the morning and get both her testators bound over to keep the peace, by noon. With this resolution he went to bed early.
She was glad to be alone at all events.
Now, mind you, there were plenty of vain and vulgar, yet respectable girls, in Cumberland, who would have been delighted to be fought about, even though bloodshed were to be the result. But this young lady was not vain, but proud; she was sensitive too, and troubled with a conscience. It reproached her bitterly: it told her she had permitted the addresses of two gentlemen, and so mischief had somehow arisen—out of her levity. Now her life had been uneventful, and innocent: this was the very first time she had been connected with anything like a crime; and her remorse was great: so was her grief; but her fears were greater still. The terrible look Griffith had cast at his rival flashed back on her; so did his sinister words. She felt that if he and Neville met, nothing less than Neville's death or his own would separate them. Suppose that even now one of them lay a corpse! cold and ghastly as the snow that now covered Nature's face.
The agitation of her mind was such, that her body could not be still: now she walked the room in violent distress, wringing her hands; now she kneeled and prayed fervently for both those lives she had endangered: often she flew to the window and looked eagerly out, writhing and rebelling against the network of female custom that entangled her, and would not let her fly out of her cage even to do a good action; to avert a catastrophe by her prayers, or her tears, or her good sense.
And all ended in her realizing that she was a woman, a poor impotent being born to lie quiet and let things go: at that she wept helplessly.
So wore away the first night of agony this young creature ever knew.
Towards morning, exhausted by her inward struggles, she fell asleep upon a sofa.
But her trouble followed her. She dreamed she was on a horse, hurried along with prodigious rapidity, in a darkened atmosphere, a sort of dry fog: she knew somehow she was being taken to see some awful, mysterious thing. By-and-by the haze cleared, and she came out upon pleasant open sunny fields that almost dazzled her. She passed gates, and hedges too, all clear, distinct, and individual. Presently a voice by her side said "This way!" and her horse seemed to turn of his own accord through a gap, and in one moment she came on a group of gentlemen. It was Griffith Gaunt, and two strangers. Then she spoke, and said,
"But, Mr. Neville?"
No answer was made her; but the group opened in solemn silence, and there lay George Neville on the snow, stark and stiff, with blood issuing from his temple, and trickling along the snow.
She saw distinctly all his well-known features; but they were pinched and sharpened now. And his dark olive skin