He dismounted at the door, and asked if he could have a bed.
Mrs. Vint said yes; and supper into the bargain, if he liked.
He ordered a substantial supper directly.
Mrs. Vint saw at once it was a good customer, and showed him into the
parlor.
He sat down by the fire. But the moment she retired, he got up and made
a circuit of the house, looking quietly into every window, to see if he
could catch a glance of Griffith Gaunt.
There were no signs of him; and Sir George returned to his parlor
heavy-hearted. One hope, the greatest of all, had been defeated
directly. Still, it was just possible that Griffith might be away on
temporary business.
In this faint hope Sir George strolled about till his supper was ready
for him.
When he had eaten his supper, he rang the bell, and, taking advantage of
a common custom, insisted on the landlord, Thomas Leicester, taking a
glass with him.
"Thomas Leicester!" said the girl. "He is not at home. But I'll send
Master Vint."
Old Vint came in, and readily accepted an invitation to drink his
guest's health.
Sir George found him loquacious, and soon extracted from him that his
daughter Mercy was Leicester's wife, that Leicester was gone on a
journey, and that Mercy was in care for him. "Leastways," said he, "she
is very dull, and cries at times when her mother speaks of him; but she
is too close to say much."
All this puzzled Sir George Neville sorely.
But greater surprises were in store.
The next morning, after breakfast, the servant came and told him Dame
Leicester desired to see him.
He started at that, but put on nonchalance, and said he was at her
service.
He was ushered into another parlor, and there he found a grave, comely
young woman, seated working, with a child on the floor beside her. She
rose quietly; he bowed low and respectfully; she blushed faintly; but,
with every appearance of self-possession, courtesied to him; then eyed
him point-blank a single moment, and requested him to be seated.
"I hear, sir," said she, "you did ask my father many questions last
night. May I ask you one?"
Sir George colored, but bowed assent.
"From whom had you the black horse you ride?"
Now, if Sir George had not been a veracious man, he would have been
caught directly. But, although he saw at once the oversight he had
committed, he replied, "I had him of a lady in Cumberland, one Mistress
Gaunt."
Mercy Vint trembled. "No doubt," said she, softly. "Excuse my question:
you shall understand that the horse is well known here."
"Madam," said Sir George, "if you admire the horse, he is at your
service for twenty pounds, though indeed he is worth more."
"I thank you, sir," said Mercy; "I have no desire for the horse
whatever. And be pleased to excuse my curiosity: you must think me
impertinent."
"Nay, madam," said Sir George, "I consider nothing impertinent that hath
procured me the pleasure of an interview with you."
He then, as directed by Mrs. Gaunt, proceeded to flatter the mother and
the child, and exerted those powers of pleasing which had made him
irresistible in society.
Here, however, he found they went a very little way. Mercy did not even
smile. She cast out of her dove-like eyes a gentle, humble, reproachful
glance, as much as to say, "What! do I seem so vain a creature as to
believe all this?"
Sir George himself had tact and sensibility; and by and by became
discontented with the part he was playing, under those meek, honest
eyes.
There was a pause; and, as her sex have a wonderful art of reading the
face, Mercy looked at him steadily, and said, "_Yes_, sir, 'tis best to
be straightforward, especially with women-folk."
Before he could recover this little facer, she said, quietly, "What is
your name?"
"George Neville."
"Well, George Neville," said Mercy, very slowly and softly, "when you
have a mind to tell me what you came here for, and who sent you, you
will find me in this little room. I seldom leave it now. I beg you to
speak your errand to none but me." And she sighed deeply.
Sir George bowed low, and retired to collect his wits. He had come here
strongly prepossessed against Mercy. But, instead of a vulgar, shallow
woman, whom he was to surprise into confession, he encountered a
soft-eyed Puritan, all unpretending dignity, grace, propriety, and
sagacity.
"Flatter her!" said he, to himself. "I might as well flatter an iceberg.
Outwit her! I feel like a child beside her."
He strolled about in a brown study, not knowing what to do.
She had given him a fair opening. She had invited him to tell the truth.
But he was afraid to take her at her word; and yet what was the use to
persist in what his own eyes told him was the wrong course?
Whilst he hesitated, and debated within himself, a trifling incident
turned the scale.
A poor woman came begging, with her child, and was received rather
roughly by Harry Vint. "Pass on, good woman," said he, "we want no
tramps here."
Then a window was opened on the ground floor, and Mercy beckoned the
woman. Sir George flattened himself against the wall, and listened to
the two talking.
Mercy examined the woman gently, but shrewdly, and elicited a tale of
genuine distress. Sir George then saw her hand out to the woman some
warm flannel for herself, a piece of stuff for the child, a large piece
of bread, and a sixpence.
He also caught sight of Mercy's dove-like eyes as she bestowed her alms,
and they were lit with an inward lustre.
"She cannot be an ill woman," said Sir George. "I'll e'en go by my own
eyes and judgment. After all, Mrs. Gaunt has never seen her, and I
have."
He went and knocked at Mercy's door.
"Come in," said a mild voice.
Neville entered, and said, abruptly, and with great emotion, "Madam, I
see you can feel for the unhappy; so I take my own way now, and appeal
to your pity. I _have_ come to speak to you on the saddest business."
"You come from _him_," said Mercy, closing her lips tight; but her bosom
heaved. Her heart and her judgment grappled like wrestlers that moment.
"Nay, madam," said Sir George, "I come from _her_."
Mercy knew in a moment who "her" must be.
She looked scared, and drew back with manifest signs of repulsion.
The movement did not escape Sir George: it alarmed him. He remembered
what Mrs. Gaunt had said,--that this woman would be sure to hate Gaunt's
lawful wife. But it was too late to go back. He did the next best thing,
he rushed on.
He threw himself on his knees before Mercy Vint.
"O madam," he cried, piteously, "do not set your heart against the most
unhappy lady in England. If you did but know her, her nobleness, her
misery! Before you steel yourself against me, her friend, let me ask you
one question. Do you know where Mrs. Gaunt is at this moment?"