"Madam," said Sir George, dejectedly, "Heaven knows you are in no
condition to fathom a mystery that hath puzzled wiser heads than yours
or mine; and I am little able to lay the tale before you fairly; for
your grief, it moves me deeply, and I could curse myself for putting the
matter to you so bluntly and so uncouthly. Permit me to retire a while
and compose my own spirits for the task I have undertaken too rashly."
"Nay, George Neville," said Mercy, "stay you there. Only give me a
moment to draw my breath."
She struggled hard for a little composure, and, after a shower of tears,
she hung her head over the chair like a crushed thing, but made him a
sign of attention.
Sir George told the story as fairly as he could; only of course his bias
was in favor of Mrs. Gaunt; but as Mercy's bias was against her, this
brought the thing nearly square.
When he came to the finding of the body, Mercy was seized with a deadly
faintness; and though she did not become insensible, yet she was in no
condition to judge, or even to comprehend.
Sir George was moved with pity, and would have called for help; but she
shook her head. So then he sprinkled water on her face, and slapped her
hand; and a beautifully moulded hand it was.
When she got a little better she sobbed faintly, and sobbing thanked
him, and begged him to go on.
"My mind is stronger than my heart," she said. "I'll hear it all, though
it kill me where I sit."
Sir George went on, and, to avoid repetition, I must ask the reader to
understand that he left out nothing whatever which has been hitherto
related in these pages; and, in fact, told her one or two little things
that I have omitted.
When he had done, she sat quite still a minute or two, pale as a statue.
Then she turned to Neville, and said, solemnly, "You wish to know the
truth in this dark matter: for dark it is in very sooth."
Neville was much impressed by her manner, and answered, respectfully,
Yes, he desired to know,--by all means.
"Then take my hand," said Mercy, "and kneel down with me."
Sir George looked surprised, but obeyed, and kneeled down beside her,
with his hand in hers.
There was a long pause, and then took place a transformation.
The dove-like eyes were lifted to heaven and gleamed like opals with an
inward and celestial light; the comely face shone with a higher beauty,
and the rich voice rose in ardent supplication.
"Thou God, to whom all hearts be known, and no secrets hid from thine
eye, look down now on thy servant in sore trouble, that putteth her
trust in thee. Give wisdom to the simple this day, and understanding to
the lowly. Thou that didst reveal to babes and sucklings the great
things that were hidden from the wise, O show us the truth in this dark
matter: enlighten us by thy spirit, for His dear sake who suffered more
sorrows than I suffer now. Amen. Amen."
Then she looked at Neville; and he said "Amen," with all his heart, and
the tears in his eyes.
He had never heard real live prayer before. Here the little hand gripped
his hard, as she wrestled; and the heart seemed to rise out of the bosom
and fly to Heaven on the sublime and thrilling voice.
They rose, and she sat down; but it seemed as if her eyes once raised to
Heaven in prayer could not come down again: they remained fixed and
angelic, and her lips still moved in supplication.
Sir George Neville, though a loose liver, was no scoffer. He was smitten
with reverence for this inspired countenance, and retired, bowing low
and obsequiously.
He took a long walk, and thought it all over. One thing was clear, and
consoling. He felt sure he had done wisely to disobey Mrs. Gaunt's
instructions, and make a friend of Mercy, instead of trying to set his
wits against hers. Ere he returned to the "Packhorse" he had determined
to take another step in the right direction. He did not like to agitate
her with another interview, so soon. But he wrote her a little letter.
"MADAM,--When I came here, I did not know you; and therefore I
feared to trust you too far. But, now I do know you for the
best woman in England, I take the open way with you.
"Know that Mrs. Gaunt said the man would be here with you; and
she charged me with a few written lines to him. She would be
angry if she knew that I had shown them to any other. Yet I
take on me to show them to you; for I believe you are wiser
than any of us, if the truth were known. I do therefore entreat
you to read these lines, and tell me whether you think the hand
that wrote them can have shed the blood of him to whom they are
writ.
"I am, madam, with profound respect,
"Your grateful and very humble servant,
"GEORGE NEVILLE."
He very soon received a line in reply, written in a clear and beautiful
handwriting.
"Mercy Vint sends you her duty; and she will speak to you at
nine of the clock to-morrow morning. Pray for light."
At the appointed time, Sir George found her working with her needle. His
letter lay on a table before her.
She rose and courtesied to him, and called the servant to take away the
child for a while. She went with her to the door and kissed the bairn
several times at parting, as if he was going away for good. "I'm loath
to let him go," said she to Neville; "but it weakens a mother's mind to
have her babe in the room,--takes her attention off each moment. Pray
you be seated. Well, sir, I have read these lines of Mistress Gaunt, and
wept over them. Methinks I had not done so, were they cunningly devised.
Also I lay all night, and thought."
"That is just what she does."
"No doubt, sir; and the upshot is, I don't _feel_ as if he was dead.
Thank God."
"That is something," said Neville. But he could not help thinking it was
very little; especially to produce in a court of justice.
"And now," said she, thoughtfully, "you say that the real Thomas
Leicester was seen thereabouts as well as my Thomas Leicester. Then
answer me one little question. What had the real Thomas Leicester on his
feet that night?"
"Nay, I know not," was the half-careless reply.
"Bethink you. 'Tis a question that must have been often put in your
hearing."
"Begging your pardon, it was never put at all; nor do I see--"
"What, not at the inquest?"
"No."
"That is very strange. What, so many wise heads have bent over this
riddle, and not one to ask how was yon pedler shod!"
"Madam," said Sir George, "our minds were fixed upon the fate of Gaunt.
Many did ask how was the pedler armed, but none how was he shod."
"Hath he been seen since?"
"Not he; and that hath an ugly look; for the constables are out after
him with hue and cry; but he is not to be found."
"Then," said Mercy, "I must e'en answer my own question. I do know how
that pedler was shod. WITH HOBNAILED SHOES."
Sir George bounded from his chair. One great ray of daylight broke in
upon him.
"Ay," said Mercy, "she was right. Women do see clearer in some things
than men. The pair went from my house to hers. He you call Griffith
Gaunt had on a new pair of boots; and by the same token 't was I did pay
for them, and there is the receipt in that cupboard: he you call Thomas
Leicester went hence in hobnailed shoes. I think the body they found was
the body of Thomas Leicester, the pedler. May God have mercy on his poor
unprepared soul."
Sir George uttered a joyful exclamation. But the next moment he had a
doubt. "Ay, but," said he, "you forget the mole! 'T was on that they
built."
"I forget naught," said Mercy, calmly. "The pedler had a black mole over
his left temple. He showed it me in this very room. You have found the
body of Thomas Leicester, and Griffith Gaunt is hiding from the law that
he hath broken. He is afeared of her and her friends, if he shows his
face in Cumberland; he is afeared of my folk, if he be seen in
Lancashire. Ah, Thomas, as if I would let them harm thee."
Sir George Neville walked to and fro in grand excitement. "O blessed day
that I came hither! Madam, you are an angel. You will save an innocent,
broken-hearted lady from death and dishonor. Your good heart and rare
wit have read in a moment the dark riddle that hath puzzled a county."
"George," said Mercy, gravely, "you have gotten the wrong end of the
stick. The wise in their own conceit are blinded. In Cumberland, where
all this befell, they went not to God for light, as you and I did,
George."
In saying this, she gave him her hand to celebrate their success.
He kissed it devoutly, and owned afterward that it was the proudest
moment of his life, when that sweet Puritan gave him her neat hand so
cordially, with a pressure so gentle yet frank.
And now came the question how they were to make a Cumberland jury see
this matter as they saw it.
He asked her would she come to the trial as a witness?
At that she drew back with manifest repugnance.
"My shame would be public. I must tell who I am; and what. A ruined
woman."
"Say rather an injured saint. You have nothing to be ashamed of. All
good men would feel for you."
Mercy shook her head. "Ay, but the women. Shame is shame with us. Right
or wrong goes for little. Nay, I hope to do better for you than that. I
must find _him_, and send him to deliver her. 'Tis his only chance of
happiness."
She then asked him if he would draw up an advertisement of quite a
different kind from those he had described to her.