At the fair the wrestling was ended, and the tongues going over it all
again, and throwing the victors; the greasy pole, with leg of mutton
attached by ribbons, was being hoisted, and the swings flying, and
the lads and lasses footing it to the fife and tabor, and the people
chattering in groups; when the clatter of a horse's feet was heard,
and a horseman burst in and rode recklessly through the market-place;
indeed, if his noble horse had been as rash as he was, some would
have been trampled under foot. The rider's face was ghastly: such as
were not exactly in his path, had time to see it, and wonder how this
terrible countenance came into that merry place. Thus, as he passed,
shouts of dismay arose, and a space opened before him, and then closed
behind him with a great murmur that followed at his heels.
Tom Leicester was listening, spell-bound, on the outskirts of the
throng, to the songs and humorous tirades of a pedlar selling his
wares; and was saying to himself, "I too will be a pedlar." Hearing the
row, he turned round, and saw his master just coming down with that
stricken face.
Tom could not decipher his own name in print or manuscript; and these
are the fellows that beat us all at reading countenances: he saw in
a moment that some great calamity had fallen on Griffith's head; and
nature stirred in him. He darted to his master's side, and seized the
bridle. "What is up?" he cried.
But Griffith did not answer, nor notice; his ears were almost deaf,
and his eyes, great and staring, were fixed right ahead; and to all
appearance, he did not see the people: he seemed to be making for the
horizon.
"Master! for the love of Heaven, speak to me," cried Leicester. "What
have they done to you? Whither be you going, with the face of a ghost?"
"Away, from the hangman," shrieked Griffith, still staring at the
horizon. "Stay me not; my hands itch for their throats; my heart
thirsts for their blood; but I'll not hang for a priest and a wanton."
Then he suddenly turned on Leicester, "Let thou go, or----," and he
lifted up his heavy riding whip.
Then Leicester let go the rein, and the whip descended on the horse's
flank; he went clattering furiously over the stones, and drove the
thinner groups apart like chaff, and his galloping feet were soon heard
fainter and fainter till they died away in the distance. Leicester
stood gaping.
Griffith's horse, a black hunter of singular power and beauty, carried
his wretched master well that day; he went on till sunset, trotting,
cantering, and walking, without intermission; the whip ceased to touch
him, the rein never checked him. He found he was the master, and he
went his own way. He took his broken rider back into the county where
he had been foaled. But a few miles from his native place they came
to the "Packhorse," a pretty little roadside inn, with farm-yard and
buildings at the back. He had often baited here in his infancy; and
now, stiff and stumbling with fatigue, the good horse could not pass
the familiar place; he walked gravely into the stable-yard, and there
fairly came to an end; craned out his drooping head, crooked his limbs,
and seemed of wood. And no wonder. He was ninety-three miles from his
last corn.
Paul Carrick, a young farrier, who frequented the "Packhorse," happened
just then to be lounging at the kitchen door, and saw him come in. He
turned directly, and shouted into the house, "Ho! Master Vint, come
hither. Here's Black Dick come home, and brought you a worshipful
customer."
The landlord bustled out of the kitchen, crying, "They are welcome
both." Then he came lowly louting to Griffith, cap in hand, and held
the horse, poor immoveable brute; and his wife curtsied perseveringly
at the door.
Griffith dismounted, and stood there looking like one in a dream.
"Please you come in, sir," said the landlady, smiling professionally
He followed her mechanically.
"Would your worship be private? We keep a parlour for gentles."
"Ay, let me be alone," he groaned.
Mercy Vint, the daughter, happened to be on the stairs and heard him:
the voice startled her, and she turned round directly to look at the
speaker; but she only saw his back going into the room, and then he
flung himself like a sack into the arm-chair.
The landlady invited him to order supper: he declined. She pressed him.
He flung a piece of money on the table, and told her savagely to score
his supper, and leave him in peace.
She flounced out with a red face, and complained to her husband in the
kitchen.
Harry Vint rung the crown piece on the table before he committed
himself to a reply. It rang like a bell. "Churl or not, his coin is
good," said Harry Vint, philosophically. "I'll eat his supper, dame,
for that matter."
"Father," whispered Mercy, "I do think the gentleman is in trouble."
"And that is no business of mine, neither," said Harry Vint.
Presently the guest they were discussing called loudly for a quart of
burnt wine.
When it was ready, Mercy offered to take it in to him. She was curious.
The landlord looked up rather surprised; for his daughter attended to
the farm, but fought shy of the inn and its business.
"Take it, lass, and welcome for me," said Mrs. Vint, pettishly.
Mercy took the wine in, and found Griffith with his head buried in his
hands.
She stood a while with the tray, not knowing what to do.
Then, as he did not move, she said, softly, "The wine, sir, an if it
please you."
Griffith lifted his head, and turned two eyes clouded with suffering
upon her; he saw a buxom, blooming, young woman, with remarkably
dove-like eyes that dwelt with timid, kindly curiosity upon him. He
looked at her in a half distracted way, and then put his hand to the
mug. "Here's perdition to all false women!" said he, and tossed half
the wine down at a single draught.
"'Tis not to me you drink, sir," said Mercy, with gentle dignity. Then
she curtsied modestly and retired, discouraged, not offended.
The wretched Griffith took no notice--did not even see he had repulsed
a friendly visitor. The wine, taken on an empty stomach, soon stupified
him, and he staggered to bed.
He awoke at day-break; and, oh the agony of that waking.
He lay sighing a while, with his hot skin quivering on his bones, and
his heart like lead; then got up and flung his clothes on hastily, and
asked how far to the nearest sea-port.
Twenty miles.
He called for his horse. The poor brute was dead lame.
He cursed that good servant for going lame. He walked round and round
like a wild beast, chafing and fuming a while; then sank into a torpor
of dejection, and sat with his head bowed on the table all day.
He ate scarcely any food; but drank wine freely, remarking, however,
that it was false-hearted stuff; did him no good; and had no taste as
wine used to have. "But nothing is what it was," said he. "Even I was
happy once. But that seems years ago."
"Alas! poor gentleman; God comfort you," said Mercy Vint, and came with
the tears in her dove-like eyes, and said to her father, "To be sure
his worship hath been crossed in love; and what could she be thinking
of? Such a handsome, well-made gentleman!"
"Now that is a wench's first thought," said Harry Vint: "more likely
lost his money, gambling, or racing. But, indeed, I think 'tis his
head is disordered, not his heart. I wish the 'Packhorse' was quit of
him, maugre his laced coat. We want no kill-joys here."
That night he was heard groaning and talking, and did not come down at
all.
So at noon Mrs. Vint knocked at his door: a weak voice bade her enter;
she found him shivering, and he asked her for a fire.
She grumbled, out of hearing, but lighted a fire.
Presently his voice was heard hallooing: he wanted all the windows
open: he was so burning hot.
The landlady looked at him, and saw his face was flushed and swollen:
and he complained of pain in all his bones. She opened the windows,
and asked him would he have a doctor sent for: he shook his head
contemptuously.
However, towards evening he became delirious, and raved and tossed, and
rolled his head as if it was an intolerable weight he wanted to get
rid of.
The females of the family were for sending at once for a doctor; but
the prudent Harry demurred.
"Tell me, first, who is to pay the fee," said he. "I've seen a fine
coat with the pockets empty, before to-day."
The women set up their throats at him with one accord, each after her
kind.
"Out, fie!" said Mercy; "are we to do nought for charity?"
"Why, there's his horse, ye foolish man," said Mrs. Vint.
"Ay, ye are both wiser than me," said Harry Vint, ironically. And soon
after that he went out softly.
The next minute he was in the sick man's room, examining his pockets.
To his infinite surprise he found twenty gold pieces, a quantity of
silver, and some trinkets.
He spread them all out on the table and gloated on them with greedy
eyes. They looked so inviting, that he said to himself, they would
be safer in his custody than in that of a delirious person, who was
even now raving incoherently before him, and could not see what he was
doing. He therefore proceeded to transfer them to his own care.
On the way to his pocket, his shaking hand was arrested by another
hand, soft, but firm as iron. He shuddered and looked round in abject
terror; and there was his daughter's face, pale as his own, but full of
resolution. "Nay, father," said she; "I must take charge of these: and
well do you know why."
These simple words cowed Harry Vint, so that he instantly resigned the
money and jewels, and retired, muttering that "things were come to a
pretty pass,"--"a man was no longer master in his own house," etc. etc.
etc.
While he inveighed against the degeneracy of the age, the women paid
him no more attention than the age did, but just sent for the doctor.
He came, and bled the patient. This gave him a momentary relief; but
when in the natural progress of the disease, sweating and weakness came
on, the loss of the precious vital fluid was fatal, and the patient's
pulse became scarce perceptible. There he lay, with wet hair, and
gleaming eyes, and haggard face, at death's door.
An experienced old crone was got to nurse him, and she told Mrs. Vint
he would live maybe three days.
Paul Carrick used to come to the "Packhorse" after Mercy Vint, and,
finding her sad, asked her what was the matter.
"What should it be," said she, "but the poor gentleman a-dying
overhead; away from all his friends."
"Let me see him," said Paul.
Mercy took him softly into the room.
"Ay, he is booked," said the farrier. "Doctor has taken too much blood
out of the man's body. They kill a many that way."
"Alack, Paul! must he die? Can nought be done?" said Mercy, clasping
her hands.
"I don't say that, neither," said the farrier. "He is a well-made man:
he is young. I might save him, perhaps, if I had not so many beasts to
look to. I'll tell you what you do. Make him soup as strong as strong;
have him watched night and day, and let 'em put a spoonful of warm
wine into him every hour, and then of soup; egg flip is a good thing,
too; change his bed-linen, and keep the doctors from him: that is his
only chance: he is fairly dying of weakness. But I must be off; Farmer
Blake's cow is down for calving: I must give her an ounce of salts
before 'tis too late."
Mercy Vint scanned the patient closely, and saw that Paul Carrick was
right. She followed his instructions to the letter, with one exception.
Instead of trusting to the old woman, of whom she had no very good
opinion, she had the great arm-chair brought into the sick-room, and
watched the patient herself by night and day: a gentle hand cooled his
temples; a gentle hand brought concentrated nourishment to his lips;
and a mellow voice coaxed him to be good and swallow it. There are
voices it is not natural to resist; and Griffith learned by degrees to
obey this one, even when he was half unconscious.
At the end of three days this zealous young nurse thought she discerned
a slight improvement, and told her mother so. Then the old lady came
and examined the patient, and shook her head gravely. Her judgment,
like her daughter's, was influenced by her wishes.
The fact is, both landlord and landlady were now calculating upon
Griffith's decease. Harry had told her about the money and jewels, and
the pair had put their heads together, and settled that Griffith was a
gentleman highwayman, and his spoil would never be reclaimed after his
decease, but fall to those good Samaritans, who were now nursing him,
and intended to bury him respectably. The future being thus settled,
this worthy couple became a little impatient; for Griffith, like
Charles the Second, was "an unconscionable time dying."
We order dinner to hasten a lingering guest, and, with equal force
of logic, mine host of the "Packhorse" spoke to White, the village
carpenter, about a full-sized coffin: and his wife set the old crone to
make a linen shroud, unobtrusively, in the bakehouse.
On the third afternoon of her nursing, Mercy left her patient, and
called up the crone to tend him. She herself, worn out with fatigue,
threw herself on a bed in her mother's room, hard by, and soon fell
asleep.
She had slept about two hours when she was wakened by a strange noise
in the sick chamber. A man and a woman quarrelling.
She bounded off the bed, and was in the room directly.
Lo and behold, there were the nurse and the dying man abusing one
another like pick-pockets.
The cause of this little misunderstanding was not far to seek. The
old crone had brought up her work, videlicet, a winding-sheet all but
finished, and certain strips of glazed muslin about three inches deep.
She soon completed the winding-sheet, and hung it over two chairs in
the patient's sight; she then proceeded to double the slips in six,
and nick them; then she unrolled them, and they were frills, and well
adapted to make the coming corpse absurd, and divest it of any little
dignity the King of Terrors might bestow on it.
She was so intent upon her congenial task, that she did not observe
the sick man had awakened, and was viewing her and her work with an
intelligent but sinister eye.
"What is that you are making?" said he, grimly.
The voice was rather clear, and strong, and seemed so loud and strange
in that still chamber, that it startled the woman mightily. She uttered
a little shriek, and then was wrath. "Plague take the man!" said she;
"how you scared me. Keep quiet, do; and mind your own business," [The
business of going off the hooks.]
"I ask you what is that you are making," said Griffith, louder; and
raising himself on his arm.
"Baby's frills," replied the woman, coolly, recovering that contempt
for the understandings of the dying, which marks the veritable crone.
"Ye lie," said Griffith. "And there is a shroud. Who is that for?"
"Who should it be for, thou simple body? Keep quiet, do, till the
change comes. 'Twon't be long now; art too well to last till sun-down."
"So 'tis for me, is it?" screamed Griffith. "I'll disappoint ye yet.
Give me my clothes. I'll not lie here to be measured for my grave, ye
old witch."
"Here's manners!" cackled the indignant crone. "Ye foul-mouthed knave!
is this how you thank a decent woman for making a comfortable corpse of
ye, you that has no right to die in your shoes, let a be such dainties
as muslin neck-ruff, and shroud of good Dutch flax."
At this Griffith discharged a volley, in which "vulture," "hag,"
"blood-sucker," etc., blended with as many oaths: during which Mercy
came in.
She glided to him, with her dove's eyes full of concern, and laid her
hand gently on his shoulder: "You'll work yourself a mischief," said
she; "leave me to scold her. Why, my good Nelly, how could you be so
hare-brained? prithee take all that trumpery away this minute: none
here needeth it, nor shall not this many a year, please God."
"They want me dead," said Griffith to her, piteously, finding he had
got one friend: and sunk back on his pillow exhausted.
"So it seems," said Mercy, cunningly. "But I'd baulk them finely. I'd
up and order a beef-steak this minute."
"And shall," said Griffith, with feeble spite. "Leastways, do you order
it, and I'll eat it:-- d----n her!"
Sick men are like children; and women soon find that out, and manage
them accordingly. In ten minutes Mercy brought a good rump-steak
to the bedside, and said "Now for't. Marry come, up, with her
winding-sheets!"
Thus played upon, and encouraged, the great baby ate more than half the
steak; and soon after perspired gently, and fell asleep.
Paul Carrick found him breathing gently, with a slight tint of red in
his cheek; and told Mercy there was a change for the better. "We have
brought him to a true intermission," said he; "so throw in the bark at
once."
"What, drench his honour's worship!" said Mercy, innocently. "Nay, send
thou the medicine, and I'll find womanly ways to get it down him."
Next day came the doctor, and whispered softly to Mrs. Vint, "How are
we all upstairs?"
"Why couldn't you come afore?" replied Mrs Vint, crossly. "Here's
farrier Carrick stepped in, and curing him out of hand; the meddlesome
body."
"A farrier rob me of my patient!" cried the doctor, in high dudgeon.
"Nay, good sir, 'tis no fault of mine. This Paul is a sort of a kind of
a follower of our Mercy's: and she is mistress here, I trow."
"And what hath his farriership prescribed? Friar's balsam, belike."
"Nay, I know not; but you may soon learn, for he is above, physicking
the gentleman (a pretty gentleman!) and suiting to our Mercy--after a
manner."
The doctor declined to make one in so mixed a consultation.
"Give me my fee, dame," said he: "and as for this impertinent farrier,
the patient's blood be on his head; and I'd have him beware the law."
Mrs. Vint went to the stair-foot and screamed, "Mercy, the good doctor
wants his fee. Who is to pay it, I wonder?"
"I'll bring it him anon," said a gentle voice: and Mercy soon came
down and paid it with a willing air that half disarmed professional
fury.
"'Tis a good lass, dame," said the doctor, when she was gone; "and, by
the same token, I wish her better mated than to a scrub of a farrier."
Griffith, still weak, but freed of fever, woke one glorious afternoon,
and heard a bird-like voice humming a quaint old ditty, and saw a field
of golden wheat through an open window, and seated at that window the
mellow songstress, Mercy Vint, plying her needle, with lowered lashes
but beaming face, a picture of health and quiet womanly happiness.
Things were going to her mind in that sick-room.
He looked at her, and at the golden corn and summer haze beyond, and
the tide of life seemed to rush back upon him.
"My good lass," said he, "tell me, where am I? for I know not."
Mercy started, and left off singing, then rose and came slowly towards
him, with her work in her hand.
Innocent joy at this new symptom of convalescence flushed her comely
features, but she spoke low.
"Good sir, at the 'Packhorse,'" said she, smiling. "The 'Packhorse?'
and where is that?"
"Hard by Allerton village."
"And where is that? not in Cumberland?"
"Nay, in Lancashire, your worship. Why, whence come you that know not
the 'Packhorse,' nor yet Allerton township? Come you from Cumberland?"
"No matter whence I come. I'm going on board ship; like my father
before me."
"Alas, sir, you are not fit; you have been very ill; and partly
distraught."
She stopped: for Griffith turned his face to the wall with a deep
groan. It had all rushed over him in a moment.
Mercy stood still, and worked on, but the water gathered in her eyes at
that eloquent groan.
By-and-by Griffith turned round again, with a face of anguish, and
filmy eyes, and saw her in the same place standing, working, and
pitying.
"What, are you there still?" said he, roughly.
"Ay, sir; but I'll go, sooner than be troublesome. Can I fetch you
anything?"
"No. Ay, wine; bring me wine to drown it all."
She brought him a pint of wine.
"Pledge me," said he, with a miserable attempt at a smile.
She put the cup to her lips, and sipped a drop or two; but her dove's
eyes were looking up at him over the liquor all the time. Griffith soon
disposed of the rest; and asked for more.
"Nay," said she, "but I dare not: the doctor hath forbidden excess in
drinking."
"The doctor! what doctor?"
"Doctor Paul," said she, demurely. "He hath saved your life, sir, I do
think."
"Plague take him for that!"
"So say not I."
Here she left him with an excuse. "'Tis milking time, sir: and you
shall know that I am our dairymaid. I seldom trouble the inn."
Next day she was on the window-seat, working and beaming. The patient
called to her in peevish accents to put his head higher. She laid down
her work with a smile, and came and raised his head.
"There, now, that is too high," said he: "how awkward you are."
"I lack experience, sir, but not good will. There, now, is that a
little better?"
"Ay, a little. I'm sick of lying here: I want to get up. Dost hear what
I say? I--want--to get up."
"And so you shall. As soon as ever you are fit. To-morrow, perhaps.
To-day, you must e'en be patient. Patience is a rare medicine."
Tic, tic, tic! "What a noise they are making downstairs. Go, lass, and
bid them hold their peace."
Mercy shook her head. "Good lack-a-day! we might as well bid the river
give over running; but, to be sure, this comes of keeping a hostelry,
sir. When we had only the farm, we were quiet, and did no ill to no
one."
"Well, sing me, to drown their eternal buzzing: it worries me dead."
"Me sing! alack, sir, I'm no songster."
"That is false. You sing like a throstle. I dote on music; and, when I
was delirious, I heard one singing about my bed; I thought it was an
angel at that time; but 'twas only you, my young mistress: and now I
ask you, you say me nay. That is the way with you all. Plague take the
girl, and all her curst, unreasonable, hypocritical sex. I warrant me
you'd sing if I wanted to sleep; and dance the devil to a standstill."
Mercy, instead of flouncing out of the room, stood looking on him with
maternal eyes, and chuckling like a bird.
"That is right, sir: tax us all to your heart's content. O, but I'm a
joyful woman to hear you; for 'tis a sure sign of mending when the sick
take to rating of their nurses."
"In sooth, I am too cross-grained," said Griffith, relenting.
"Not a whit, sir, for my taste. I've been in care for you: and now you
are a little cross, that maketh me easy."
"Thou art a good soul. Wilt sing me a stave after all?"
"La, you now; how you come back to that. Ay, and with a good heart:
for, to be sure, 'tis a sin to gainsay a sick man. But indeed I am the
homeliest singer. Methinks 'tis time I went down and bade them cook
your worship's supper."
"Nay, I'll not eat nor sup, till I hear thee sing."
"Your will is my law, sir," said Mercy, drily, and retired to the
window-seat; that was the first obvious preliminary. Then she fiddled
with her apron, and hem'd, and waited in hopes a reprieve might come;
but a peevish, relentless voice demanded the song at intervals.
So then she turned her head carefully away from her hearer, lowered her
eyes, and, looking the picture of guilt and shame all the time, sang an
ancient ditty. The poltroon's voice was rich, mellow, clear, and sweet
as honey; and she sang the notes for the sake of the words, not the
words for the sake of the notes, as all but Nature's singers do.
The air was grave as well as sweet; for Mercy was of an old Puritan
stock, and even her songs were not giddy-paced, but solid, quaint, and
tender; all the more did they reach the soul.
In vain was the blushing cheek averted, and the honeyed lips: the
ravishing tones set the birds chirping outside, yet filled the room
within, and the glasses rang in harmony upon the shelf as the sweet
singer poured out from her heart (so it seemed) the speaking song that
begins thus----
In vain you tell your parting lover
You wish fair winds may waft him over,
Alas, what winds can happy prove
That bear me far from her I love?
Alas, what dangers on the main
Can equal those that I sustain
From slighted love and cold disdain.
Griffith beat time with his hand awhile, and his own face softened and
beautified as the melody curled about his heart. But soon it was too
much for him; he knew the song; had sung it to Kate Peyton in their
days of courtship. A thousand memories gushed in upon his soul and
overpowered him. He burst out sobbing violently, and wept as if his
heart must break.
"Alas! what have I done?" said Mercy: and the tears ran swiftly from
her eyes at the sight. Then, with native delicacy, she hurried from the
room.
What Griffith went through that night, in silence, was never known
but to himself. But the next morning he was a changed man. He was all
dogged resolution: put on his clothes unaided, though he could hardly
stand to do it; and borrowed the landlord's staff, and crawled out a
smart distance into the sun. "It was kill or cure," said he. "I am to
live, it seems. Well, then, the past is dead. My life begins again
to-day."
Hen-like Mercy soon learned this sally of her refractory duckling, and
was uneasy. So, for an excuse to watch him, she brought him out his
money and jewels, and told him she had thought it safest to take charge
of them.
He thanked her cavalierly, and offered her a diamond ring.
She blushed scarlet, and declined it; and even turned a meekly
reproachful glance on at him with her dove's eyes.
He had a suit of russet made, and put away his fine coat, and forbade
any one to call him "Your worship." "I am a farmer, like yourselves,"
said he; "and my name is----Thomas Leicester."
A brain fever either kills the unhappy lover, or else benumbs the very
anguish that caused it.
And so it was with Griffith. His love got benumbed, and the sense of
his wrongs vivid. He nursed a bitter hatred of his wife; only, as he
could not punish her without going near her, and no punishment short
of death seemed enough for her, he set to work to obliterate her from
his very memory, if possible. He tried employment: he pottered about
the little farm, advising and helping, and that so zealously that the
landlord retired altogether from that department, and Griffith, instead
of he, became Mercy's ally, agricultural and bucolical. She was a
shepherdess to the core, and hated the poor "Packhorse."
For all that it was her fate to add to its attractions: for Griffith
bought a viol da gambo, and taught her sweet songs, which he
accompanied with such skill and, sometimes, with his voice, that good
company often looked in on the chance of a good song sweetly sung and
played.
The sick in body, or mind, are egotistical. Griffith was no exception:
bent on curing his own deep wound, he never troubled his head about the
wound he might inflict.
He was grateful to his sweet nurse, and told her so. And his gratitude
charmed her all the more that it had been rather long in coming.
He found this dove-like creature a wonderful soother: he applied her
more and more to his sore heart.
As for Mercy, she had been too good and kind to her patient not to take
a tender interest in his convalescence. Our hearts warm more to those
we have been kind to, than to those who have been kind to us: and the
female reader can easily imagine what delicious feelings stole into
that womanly heart, when she saw her pale nursling pick up health and
strength under her wing, and become the finest, handsomest man in the
parish.
Pity and admiration; where these meet, love is not far behind.
And then this man, who had been cross and rough while he was weak,
became gentler, kinder, and more deferential to her, the stronger he
got.
Mrs. Vint saw they were both fond of each other's company, and
disapproved it. She told Paul Garrick if he had any thought of Mercy he
had bettor give over shilly-shallying, for there was another man after
her. Paul made light of it at first. "She has known me too long to take
up her head with a newcomer," said he. "To be sure I never asked her to
name the day; but she knows my mind well enough, and I know hers."
"Then you know more than I do," said the mother, ironically.
He thought over this conversation, and very wisely determined not to
run unnecessary risks: he came up one afternoon, and hunted about for
Mercy, till he found her milking a cow in the adjoining paddock.
"Well, lass," said he, "I've good news for thee. My old dad says we may
have his house to live in. So now you and I can yoke next month if ye
will." "Me turn the honest man out of his house!" said Mercy, mighty
innocently.
"Who asks you? He nobbut bargains for the chimney corner: and you are
not the girl to begrudge the old man that."
"Oh no, Paul. But what would father do if I were to leave his house?
Methinks the farm would go to rack and ruin; he is so wrapped up in his
nasty public."
"Why, he has got a helper, by all accounts: and if you talk like that,
you will never wed at all."
"Never is a big word. But I'm too young to marry yet. Jenny, thou jade,
stand still."
The attack and defence proceeded upon these terms for some time; and
the defendant had one base advantage; and used it. Her forehead was
wedged tight against Jenny's ribs, and Paul could not see her face.
This, and the feminine evasiveness of her replies, irritated him at
last.
"Take thy head out o' the coow," said he, roughly, "and answer
straight. Is all our wooing to go for nought?"
"Wooing? You never said so much to me in all these years, as you have
to-day."
"Oh, ye knew my mind well enough. There's a many ways of showing the
heart."
"Speaking out is the best, I trow."
"Why, what do I come here for twice a week, this two years past, if not
for thee?"
"Ay, for me, and father's ale."
"And thou canst look at me, and tell me that? Ye false hard-hearted
hussy. But, nay, thou wast never so: 'tis this Thomas Leicester hath
bewitched thee, and set thee against thy true lover."
"Mr. Leicester pays no suit to me," said Mercy, blushing: "he is a
right civil-spoken gentleman, and you know you saved his life."
"The more fool I. I wish I had known he was going to rob me of my
lass's heart, I'd have seen him die a hundred times ere I'd have
interfered. But they say if you save a man's life he'll make you rue
it. Mercy, my lass, you are well respected in the parish; take a
thought now: better be a farrier's wife than a gentleman's mistress."
Mercy did take her head "out of the cow" at this, and, for once, her
cheek burned with anger; but the unwonted sentiment died before it
could find words, and she said, quietly, "I need not be either, against
my will."
Young Carrick made many such appeals to Mercy Vint; but he could never
bring her to confess to him that he and she had ever been more than
friends, or were now anything less than friends. Still he forced her to
own to herself, that, if she had never seen Thomas Leicester, her quiet
affection and respect for Garrick would probably have carried her to
the altar with him.
His remonstrances, sometimes angry, sometimes tearful, awoke her pity,
which was the grand sentiment of her heart, and disturbed her peace.
Moreover, she studied the two men in her quiet, thoughtful way, and
saw that Carrick loved her with all his honest, though hitherto tepid
heart; but Griffith had depths, and could love with more passion than
ever he had shown for her. "He is not the man to have a fever by reason
of me," said the poor girl, to herself. But I am afraid even this
attracted her to Griffith; it nettled a woman's soft ambition; which
is, to be as well loved as ever woman was.
And so things went on, and, as generally happens, the man who was
losing ground went the very way to lose more. He spoke ill of Griffith
behind his back: called him a highwayman, a gentleman, an ungrateful,
undermining traitor. But Griffith never mentioned Carrick; and so
when he and Mercy were together, her old follower was pleasingly
obliterated, and affectionate good humour reigned. Thus Griffith, alias
Thomas, became her sunbeam, and Paul her cloud.
But he who had disturbed the peace of others, his own turn came.
One day he found Mercy crying: he sat clown beside her, and said,
kindly, "Why, sweetheart, what is amiss?"
"No great matter," said she; and turned her head away, but did not
check her tears, for it was new and pleasant to be consoled by Thomas
Leicester.
"Nay, but tell me, child."
"Well, then, Jessie Carrick has been at me; that is all."
"The vixen! what did she say?"
"Nay, I'm not pleased enow with it to repeat it. She did cast something
in my teeth."
Griffith pressed her to be more explicit: she declined, with so many
blushes, that his curiosity was awakened, and he told Mrs. Vint, with
some heat, that Jess Carrick had been making Mercy cry.
"Like enow," said Mrs. Vint, coolly. "She'll eat her victuals all one
for that, please God."
"Else I'll ring the cock-nosed jade's neck, next time she comes here,"
replied Griffith; "but, dame, I want to know what she can have to say
to Mercy to make her cry."
Mrs. Vint looked him steadily in the face for some time, and then and
there decided to come to an explanation. "Ten to one 'tis about her
brother," said she; "you know this Paul is our Mercy's sweetheart."
At these simple words Griffith winced, and his countenance changed
remarkably. Mrs. Vint observed it, and was all the more resolved to
have it out with him.
"Her sweetheart!" said Griffith. "Why, I have seen them together a
dozen of times, and not a word of courtship."
"Oh, the young men don't make many speeches in these parts. They show
their hearts by act." "By act? why, I met them coming home from milking
t' other evening. Mercy was carrying the pail, brimful; and that oaf
sauntered by her side, with his hands in his pockets; was that the act
of a lover?"
"I heard of it, sir," said Mrs. Vint, quietly; "and as how you took the
pail from her, willy nilly, and carried it home. Mercy was vexed about
it: she told me you panted at the door, and she was a deal fitter to
carry the pail than you, that is just off a sick bed, like. But lawk,
sir, ye can't go by the likes of that: the bachelors here they'd see
their sweethearts carry the roof into next parish on their backs, like
a snail, and never put out a hand; 'tis not the custom hereaway: but,
as I was saying, Paul and our Mercy kept company, after a manner: he
never had the wit to flatter her as should be, nor the stomach to bid
her name, the day, and he'd buy the ring; but he talked to her about
his sick beasts more than he did to any other girl in the parish, and
she'd have ended by going to church with him; only you came and put a
coolness atween 'em."
"I! How?"
"Well, sir, our Mercy is a kind-hearted lass, though I say it, and you
were sick, and she did nurse you; and that was a beginning. And, to be
sure, you are a fine personable man, and capital company; and you are
always about the girl; and, bethink you, sir, she is flesh and blood
like her neighbours; and they say, once a body has tasted venison
steak, it spoils their stomach for oat porridge. Now that is Mercy's
case, I'm thinking; not that she ever said as much to me; she is too
reserved. But bless your heart, I'm forced to go about with eyes in my
head, and watch 'em all a bit, me that keeps an inn."
Griffith groaned. "I'm a villain!" said he.
"Nay, nay," said Mrs. Vint. "'Gentlefolks must be amused, cost what it
may; but, hoping no offence, sir, the girl was a good friend to you in
time of sickness; and so was this Paul, for that matter."
"She was," cried Griffith; "God bless her. How can I ever repay her?"
"Well, sir," said Mrs. Vint, "if that comes from your heart, you
might take our Mercy apart, and tell her you like her very well, but
not enough to marry a farmer's daughter--don't say an inn-keeper's
daughter, or you'll be sure to offend her; she is bitter against the
'Packhorse.' Says you, 'This Paul is an honest lad, turn your heart
back to him.' And, with that, mount your black horse and ride away, and
God speed you, sir; we shall often talk of you at the 'Packhorse,' and
nought but good."
Griffith gave the woman his hand, and his breast laboured visibly.
Jealousy was ingrained in the man. Mrs. Vint had pricked his
conscience, but she had wounded his foible.
He was not in love with Mercy, but he esteemed her and liked her and
saw her value, and, above all, could not bear another man should have
her.
Now this gave the matter a new turn. Mrs. Vint had overcome her dislike
to him long ago: still he was not her favourite. But his giving her
his hand with a gentle pressure, and his manifest agitation, rather
won her: and, as uneducated women are your true weathercocks, she went
about directly. "To be sure," said she, "our Mercy is too good for the
likes of him; she is not like Harry and me: she has been well brought
up by her Aunt Prudence, as was governess in a nobleman's house. She
can read and write, and cast accounts; good at her sampler, and can
churn and make cheeses, and play of the viol, and lead the psalm in
church, and dance a minuet, she can, with any lady in the land. As to
her nursing in time of sickness, that I leave to you, sir.
"She is an angel," cried Griffith, "and my benefactress: no man living
is good enough for her." And he went away, visibly discomposed.
Mrs. Vint repeated this conversation to Mercy, and told her Thomas
Leicester was certainly in love with her. "Shouldst have seen his face,
girl, when I told him Paul and you were sweethearts. 'Twas as if I had
run a knife in his heart."
Mercy murmured a few words of doubt; but she kissed her mother
eloquently, and went about rosy and beaming, all that afternoon.
As for Griffith, his gratitude and his jealousy were now at war, and
caused him a severe mental struggle.
Carrick, too, was spurred by jealousy, and came every day to the house,
and besieged Blercy; and Griffith, who saw them together, and did not
hear Mercy's replies, was excited, irritated, alarmed.
Mrs. Vint saw his agitation, and determined to bring matters to a
climax. She was always giving him a side thrust; and, at last, she
told him plainly that he was not behaving like a man. "If the girl is
not good enough for you, why make a fool of her, and set her against a
good husband?" And when he replied she was good enough for any man in
England, "Then," said she, "why not show your respect for her as Paul
Carrick does? He likes her well enough to go to church with her."
With the horns of this dilemma she so gored Kate Peyton's husband that,
at last, she and Paul Carrick, between them, drove him out of his
conscience.
So he watched his opportunity and got Mercy alone: he took her hand and
told her he loved her, and that she was his only comfort in the world,
and he found he could not live without her.
At this she blushed and trembled a little, and leaned her brow upon
his shoulder, and was a happy creature for a few moments.
So far, fluently enough; but then he began to falter and stammer, and
say that for certain reasons, he could not marry at all. But if she
could be content with anything short of that, he would retire with her
into a distant country, and there, where nobody could contradict him,
would call her his wife, and treat her as his wife, and pay his debt of
gratitude to her by a life of devotion.
As he spoke, her brow retired an inch or two from his shoulder; but she
heard him quietly out, and then drew back and confronted him, pale, but
to all appearance, calm.
"Call things by their right names," said she. "What you offer me this
day, in my father's house, is, to be your mistress. Then--God forgive
you, Thomas Leicester."
With this oblique and feminine reply, and one look of unfathomable
reproach from her soft eyes, she turned her back on him; but
remembering her manners, curtsied at the door; and so retired; and
unpretending Virtue lent her such true dignity, that he was struck
dumb, and made no attempt to detain her.
I think her dignified composure did not last long when she was alone;
at least, the next time he saw her, her eyes were red; his heart smote
him, and he began to make excuses and beg her forgiveness. But she
interrupted him. "Don't speak to me no more, if you please, sir," said
she, civilly, but coldly.
Mercy, though so quiet and inoffensive, had depth and strength of
character. She never told her mother what Thomas Leicester had
proposed to her. Her honest pride kept her silent, for one thing. She
would not have it known she had been insulted. And, besides that,
she loved Thomas Leicester still, and could not expose or hurt him.
Once there was an Israelite without guile; though you and I never
saw him; and once there was a Saxon without bile; and her name was
Mercy Vint. In this heart of gold the affections were stronger than
the passions. She was deeply wounded, and showed it in a patient way
to him who had wounded her, but to none other. Her conduct to him in
public and private was truly singular, and would alone have stamped
her a remarkable character. She declined all communication with him in
private, and avoided him steadily and adroitly; but in public she spoke
to him, sang with him, when she was asked, and treated him much the
same as before. He could see a subtle difference, but nobody else could.
This generosity, coupled with all she had done for him before,
penetrated his heart and filled him with admiration and remorse. He
yielded to Mrs. Vint's suggestions; and told her she was right; he
would tear himself away, and never see the dear "Packhorse" again,
"But, oh, dame," said he, "'tis a sorrowful thing to be alone in the
world again, and nought to do. If I had but a farm, and a sweet little
inn like this, perchance my heart would not be quite so heavy as 'tis
this day at thoughts of parting from thee and thine."
"Well, sir," said Mrs. Vint, "if that is all, there is the 'Vine' to
let at this moment. 'Tis a better place of business than this; and some
meadows go with it, and land to be had in the parish."
"I'll ride and see it," said Griffith, eagerly: then, dejectedly, "but,
alas, I have no heart to keep an inn without somebody to help me, and
say a kind word now and then. Ah, Mercy Vint, thou hast spoiled me for
living alone."
This vacillation exhausted Mrs. Vint's patience. "What are ye sighing
about, ye foolish man?" said she, contemptuously; "you have got it all
your own way: if 'tis a wife ye want, ask Mercy, and don't take a nay:
if ye would have a housekeeper, you need not want one long. I'll be
bound there's plenty of young women where you came from as would be
glad to keep the 'Vine' under you. And, if you come to that, our Mercy
is a treasure on the farm, but she is no help in the inn, no more than
a wax figure: she never brought us a shilling, till you came and made
her sing to your base viol. Nay, what you want is a smart handsome
girl, with a quick eye and a ready tongue, and one as can look a man in
the face, and not given to love nor liquor. Don't you know never such a
one?"
"Not I. Humph, to be sure there is Caroline Ryder. She is handsome, and
hath a good wit. She is a lady's maid."
"That's your woman, if she'll come. And to be sure she will; for to be
mistress of an inn, that's a lady's maid's Paradise."
"She would have come a few months ago, and gladly: I'll write to her."
"Better talk to her, and persuade her."
"I'll do that too; but I must write to her first."
"So do then; but whatever you do, don't shilly-shally no longer. If
wrestling was shilly-shallying, methinks you'd bear the bell, you or
else Paul Carrick. Why, all this trouble comes on't. He might have wed
our Mercy a year agone for the asking. Shilly-shally belongs to us that
be women. 'Tis despisable in a man."
Thus driven on all sides, Griffith rode and inspected the "Vine" (it
was only seven miles off): and after the usual chaffering, came to
terms with the proprietor.
He fixed the day for his departure, and told Mrs. Vint he must ride
into Cumberland first to get some money, and also to see about a
housekeeper.
He made no secret of all this; and, indeed, was not without hopes Mercy
would relent, or perhaps be jealous of this housekeeper. But the only
visible effect was to make her look pale and sad: she avoided him in
private as before.
Harry Vint was loud in his regrets, and Carrick openly exultant.
Griffith wrote to Caroline Ryder, and addressed the latter in a feigned
hand, and took it himself to the nearest post town.
The letter came to hand, and will appear in that sequence of events on
which I am now about to enter.