Never in his life had he met such a woman as this, who was as candid with him as if he had been a woman. She seemed to have a window in her bosom, through which he looked, and saw the pure and lovely soul within.
In the afternoon they reached a little town, whence a cart conveyed them to the "Packhorse."
Here Mercy Vint disappeared, and busied herself with Sir George's comforts.
He sat by himself in the parlor, and missed his gentle companion.
In the morning Mercy thought of course he would go.
But instead of that, he stayed, and followed her about, and began to court her downright.
But the warmer he got, the cooler she. And at last she said, mighty dryly, "This is a very dull place for the likes of you."
"'T is the sweetest place in England," said he; "at least to me; for it contains—the woman I love."
Mercy drew back, and colored rosy red. "I hope not," said she.
"I loved you the first day I saw you, and heard your voice. And now I love you ten times more. Let me dry thy tears forever, sweet Mercy. Be my wife."
"You are mad," said Mercy. "What, would you wed a woman in my condition? I am more your friend than to take you at your word. And what must you think I am made of, to go from one man to another, like that?"
"Take your time, sweetheart; only give me your hand."
"George," said Mercy, very gravely, "I am beholden to you; but my duty it lies another way. There is a young man in these parts" (Sir George groaned) "that was my follower for two years and better. I wronged him for one I never name now. I must marry that poor lad, and make him happy, or else live and die as I am."
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 debts."
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.
