The bill was paid; the black horse saddled and brought round to the
door. Mr. and Mrs. Vint stood bareheaded to honour the parting guest;
and the latter offered him the stirrup cup.
Griffith looked round for Mercy; she was nowhere to be seen.
Then he said, piteously, to Mrs. Vint, "What, not even bid me good-bye?"
Mrs. Vint replied, in a very low voice, that there was no disrespect
intended. "The truth is, sir, she could not trust herself to see you
go; but she bade me give you a message. Says she, 'Mother, tell him I
pray God to bless him, go where he will.'"
Something rose in Griffith's throat. "Oh, dame!" said he, "if she only
knew the truth, she would think better of me than she does. God bless
her!"
And he rode sorrowfully away, alone in the world once more.
At the first turn in the road, he wheeled his horse, and took a last
lingering look.
There was nothing vulgar, nor inn-like, in the "Packhorse." It stood
fifty yards from the road on a little rural green, and was picturesque
itself. The front was entirely clad with large-leaved ivy. Shutters
there were none: the windows, with their diamond panes, were lustrous
squares, set like great eyes in the green ivy. It looked a pretty,
peaceful retreat, and in it Griffith had found peace, and a dove-like
friend.
He sighed, and rode away from the sight; not raging and convulsed, as
when he rode from Hernshaw Castle, but somewhat sick at heart and very
heavy.
He paced so slowly that it took him a quarter of an hour to reach the
"Woodman," a wayside inn not two miles distant. As he went by, a farmer
hailed him from the porch, and insisted on drinking with him; for he
was very popular in the neighbourhood. Whilst they were thus employed,
who should come out but Paul Carrick, booted and spurred; and flushed
in the face, and rather the worse for liquor imbibed on the spot.
"So you are going, are ye?" said he. "A good job too." Then, turning to
the other, "Master Gutteridge, never you save a man's life if you can
anywise help it. I saved this one's: and what does he do but turn round
and poison my sweetheart against me."
"How can you say so?" remonstrated Griffith. "I never belied you. Your
name scarce ever passed my lips."
"Don't tell me," said Carrick. "However, she has come to her senses,
and given your worship the sack. Ride you into Cumberland, and I to
the 'Packhorse,' and take my own again."
With this he unhooked his nag from the wall, and clattered off to the
"Packhorse."
Griffith sat a moment stupified, and then his face was convulsed by his
ruling passion. He wheeled his horse, gave him the spur, and galloped
after Carrick.
He soon came up with him, and yelled in his ear, "I'll teach you to
spit your wormwood in my cup of sorrow."
Carrick shook his fist defiantly, and spurred his horse in turn.
It was an exciting race, and a novel one; but soon decided. The great
black hunter went ahead, and still improved his advantage. Carrick,
purple with rage, was full a quarter of a mile behind, when Griffith
dashed furiously into the stable of the "Packhorse," and, leaving
Black Dick panting and covered with foam, ran in search of Mercy.
The girl told him she was in the dairy: he looked in at the window, and
there she was with her mother. With instinctive sense and fortitude she
had fled to work. She was trying to churn; but it would not do: she had
laid her shapely arm all across the churn, and her head on it, and was
crying. Mrs. Vint was praising Carrick, and offering homely consolation.
"Ah, mother," sighed Mercy, "I could have made him happy. He does not
know that; and he has turned his back on content. What will become of
him now?"
Griffith heard no more: he went round to the front door, and rushed in.
"Take your own way, Dame," said he, in great agitation. "Put up the
banns when you like. Sweetheart, wilt wed with me? I'll make thee the
best husband I can."
Mercy screamed faintly, and lifted up her hands; then she blushed and
trembled to her very finger ends; but it ended in smiles of joy and her
brow upon his shoulder. In which attitude, with Mrs. Vint patting him
approvingly on the back, they were surprised by Paul Carrick. He came
to the door, and there stood aghast.
The young man stared ruefully at the picture, and then said, very
drily, "I'm too late, methinks."
"That you be, Paul," said Mrs. Vint, cheerfully. "She is meat for your
master."
"Don't--you--never--come to me--to save your life--no more," blubbered
Paul, breaking down all of a sudden.
He then retired, little heeded, and came no more to the "Packhorse" for
several days.