Sir George turned pale. "One word: do you love him?"
"I have a regard for him."
"Do you love him?"
"Hardly. But I wronged him, and I owe him amends. I shall pay my debt."
Sir George bowed, and retired sick at heart, and deeply mortified. Mercy looked after him and sighed.
Next day, as he walked disconsolate up and down, she came to him and gave him her hand. "You were a good friend to me that bitter day," said she. "Now let me be yours. Do not bide here: 'twill but vex you."
"I am going, madam," said Sir George, stiffly. "I but wait to see the man you prefer to me. If he is not too unworthy of you, I'll go; and trouble you no more. I have learned his name."
Mercy blushed: for she knew Paul Carrick would bear no comparison with George Neville.
The next day Sir George took leave to observe that this Paul Carrick did not seem to appreciate her preference so highly as he ought. "I understand he has never been here."
Mercy colored, but made no reply: and Sir George was sorry he had taunted her. He followed her about, and showed her great attention, but not a word of love.
There were fine trout streams in the neighborhood, and he busied himself fishing, and in the evening read aloud to Mercy, and waited to see Paul Carrick.
Paul never came; and, from a word Mercy let drop, he saw that she was mortified. Then, being no tyro in love, he told her he had business in Lancaster, and must leave her for a few days. But he would return, and by that time perhaps Paul Carrick would be visible.
Now his main object was to try the effect of correspondence.
Every day he sent her a long love-letter from Lancaster.
Paul Carrick, who, in absenting himself for a time, had acted upon his sister's advice rather than his own natural impulse, learned that Mercy received a letter every day. This was a thing unheard of in that parish.
So then Paul defied his sister's advice, and presented himself to Mercy; when the following dialogue took place:—
"Welcome home, Mercy."
"Thank you, Paul."
"Well, I'm single still, lass."
"So I hear."
"I'm come to say, let bygones be bygones."
"So be it," said Mercy, drily.
"You have tried a gentleman; now try a farrier."
"I have; and he did not stand the test."
"Anan."
"Why did you not come near mo for ten days?"
Paul blushed up to the eyes. "Well," said he, "I'll tell you the truth. 'Twas our Jess advised me to leave you quiet just at first."
"Ay, ay. I was to be humbled, and made to smart for my fault; and then I should be thankful to take you. My lad, if ever you should be really in love, take a friend's advice; listen to your own heart, and not to shallow advisers. You have mortified a poor sorrowful creature who was going to make a sacrifice for you, and you have lost her for ever."
"What d'ye mean?"
"I mean that ye are to think no more of Mercy Vint."
"Then it is true, ye jade; ye've gotten a fresh lover already."
"Say no more Than you know. If you were the only man on earth I would not wed you, Paul Carrick."
Paul Carrick retired home, and blew up his sister; and told her that she had "gotten him the sack again."
The next day Sir George came back from Lancaster, and Mercy lowered her lashes for once at sight of him.
"Well," said he, "has this Carrick shown a sense of your goodness?"
"He has come,—and gone."
She then, with her usual frankness, told him what had passed. "And," said she, with a smile, "you are partly to blame; for how could I help comparing your behavior to me with his? You came to my side when I was in trouble, and showed me respect when I expected scorn from all the world. A friend in need is a friend indeed."
"Reward me, reward me!" said Sir George, gaily; "you know the way."
"Nay, but I am too muchyourfriend," said Mercy.
"Be less my friend, then, and more my darling."
He pressed her, he urged her, he stuck to her, he pestered her.
She snubbed, and evaded, and parried, and liked him all the better for his pestering her.
At last, one day, she said, "If Mrs. Gaunt thinks it will be for your happiness, I will—in six months' time: but you shall not marry in haste to repent at leisure. And I must have time to learn two things—whether you can be constant to a simple woman like me, and whether I can love again as tenderly as you deserve to be loved."
All his endeavors to shake this determination were vain. Mercy Vint had a terrible deal of quiet resolution.
He retired to Cumberland, and in a long letter, asked Mrs. Gaunt's advice. She replied characteristically. She began very soberly to say that she should be the last to advise a marriage between persons of different conditions in life. "But then," said she, "this Mercy is altogether an exception. If a flower grows on a dunghill, 'tis still a flower, and not a part of the dunghill. She has the essence of gentility, and indeed hermannersare better bred than most of our ladies. There is too much affectation abroad, and that is your true vulgarity. Tack 'my lady' on to 'Mercy Vint,' and that dignified and quiet simplicity of hers will carry her with credit through every court in Europe. Then think of her virtues—(here the writer began to lose her temper)—where can you hope to find such another? she is a moral genius, and acts well, no matter under what temptation, as surely as Claude and Raphael paint well. Why, sir, what do you seek in a wife? Wealth? title? family? But you possess them already; you want something in addition that will make you happy. Well, take that angelic goodness into your house, and you will find, by your own absolute happiness, how ill your neighbors have wived. For my part I see but one objection: the child. Well, if you are man enough to take the mother, I am woman enough to take the babe. In one word, he who has the sense to fall in love with such an angel, and has not the sense to marry it, if he can, is a fool."
"Postscript—My poor friend, to what end think you I sent you down in the coach with her?"
Sir George, thus advised, acted as he would have done had the advice been just the opposite.
He sent Mercy a love-letter by every post, and he often received one in return; only his were passionate, and hers gentle and affectionate.
But one day came a letter that was a mere cry of distress.
"George; my child is dying. What shall I do?"
He mounted his horse, and rode to her.
He came too late. The little boy had died suddenly of croup, and was to be buried next morning.
The poor mother received him upstairs, and her grief was terrible. She clung sobbing to him, and could not be comforted. Yet she felt his coming. But a mother's anguish overpowered all.
Crushed by this fearful blow, her strength gave way for a time, and she clung to George Neville, and told him she had nothing left but him, and one day implored him not to die and leave her.
Sir George said all he could think of to comfort her; and at the end of a fortnight persuaded her to leave the "Packhorse" and England, as his wife.
She had little power to resist now; and indeed little inclination.
They were married by special license, and spent a twelvemonth abroad.
At the end of that time they returned to Neville's Court, and Mercy took her place there with the same dignified simplicity that had adorned her in a humbler station.
Sir George had given her no lessons; but she had observed closely, for his sake; and being already well educated, and very quick and docile, she seldom made him blush except with pride.
They were the happiest pair in Cumberland. Her merciful nature now found a larger field for its exercise, and, backed by her husband's purse, she became the Lady Bountiful of the parish and the county.
The day after she reached Neville's Court came an exquisite letter to her from Mrs. Gaunt. She sent an affectionate reply.
But the Gaunts and the Nevilles did not meet in society.
Sir George Neville and Mrs. Gaunt, being both singularly brave and haughty people, rather despised this arrangement.
But it seems that, one day, when they were all four in the Town Hall, folk whispered and looked; and both Griffith Gaunt and Lady Neville surprised these glances, and determined, by one impulse, it should never happen again. Hence it was quite understood that the Nevilles and the Gaunts were not to be asked to the same party or ball.
The wives, however, corresponded, and Lady Neville easily induced Mrs. Gaunt to co-operate with her in her benevolent acts, especially in saving young women, who had been betrayed, from sinking deeper.
Living a good many miles apart, Lady Neville could send her stray sheep to service near Mrs. Gaunt; andvice versa; and so, merciful, but discriminating, they saved many a poor girl who had been weak, not wicked.
So then, though they could not eat nor dance together in earthly mansions, they could do good together; and, methinks, in the eternal world, where years of social intercourse will prove less than cobwebs, these their joint acts of mercy will be links of a bright, strong chain, to bind their souls in everlasting amity.
It was a remarkable circumstance, that the one child of Lady Neville's unhappy marriage died, but her nine children by Sir George all grew to goodly men and women. That branch of the Nevilles became remarkable for high principle and good sense; and this they owe to Mercy Vint, and to Sir George's courage in marrying her. This Mercy was granddaughter to one of Cromwell's ironsides, and brought her rare personal merit into their house, and also the best blood of the old Puritans, than which there is no blood in Europe more rich in male courage, female chastity, and all the virtues.