trouble, unlocked her heart; and for the first time in her life she was led to talk about herself.
She opened her heart to him. She told him she was not the woman to pine for any man. Her youth, her health, and love of occupation, would carry her through. What she mourned was the loss of esteem, and the blot upon her child. At that she drew the baby with inexpressible tenderness, and yet with a half-defiant air, closer to her bosom.
Sir George assured her she would lose the esteem of none but fools. "As for me," said he, "I always respected you, but now I revere you. You are a martyr and an angel."
"George," said Mercy, gravely, "be you my friend, not my enemy."
"Why, madam," said he, "sure you can't think me such a wretch."
"I mean, our flatterers are our enemies."
Sir George took the hint, given, as it was, very gravely and decidedly; and henceforth showed her his respect by his acts; he paid her as much attention as if she had been a princess. He handed her out, and handed her in; and coaxed her to eat here, and to drink there; and at the inn where the passengers slept for the night, he showed his long purse, and secured her superior comforts. Console her he could not; but he broke the sense of utter desolation and loneliness with which she started from Carlisle. She told him so in the inn, and descanted on the goodness of God, who had sent her a friend in that bitter hour.
"You have been very kind to me, George," said she. "Now Heaven bless you for it, and give you many happy days, and well spent."
This, from one who never said a word she did not mean, sank deep into Sir George's heart, and he went to sleep thinking of her, and asking himself was there nothing he could do for her.
Next morning Sir George handed Mercy and her babe into the coach; and the villain tried an experiment to see what value she set on him. He did not get in, so Mercy thought she had seen the last of him.
"Farewell, good, kind George," said she. "Alas! there's naught but meeting and parting in this weary world."
The tears stood in her sweet eyes, and she thanked him, not with words only, but with the soft pressure of her womanly hand.
He slipped up behind the coach, and was ashamed of himself, and his heart warmed to her more and more.
As soon as the coach stopped, my lord opened the door for Mercy to alight. Her eyes were very red; he saw that. She started, and beamed with surprise and pleasure.
"Why, I thought I had lost you for good," said she. "Whither are you going? to Lancaster?"
"Not quite so far. I am going to the 'Packhorse.'"
Mercy opened her eyes, and blushed high. Sir George saw, and, to divert her suspicions, told her merrily to beware of making objections. "I am only a sort of servant in the matter. 'T was Mrs. Gaunt ordered me."
"I might have guessed it," said Mercy. "Bless her; she knew I should be lonely."
"She was not easy till she had got rid of me, I assure you," said Sir George. "So let us make the best on 't, for she is a lady that likes to have her own way."
"She is a noble creature. George, I shall never regret anything I have done for her. And she will not be ungrateful. O, the sting of ingratitude! I have felt that. Have you?"
"No," said Sir George; "I have escaped that, by never doing any good actions."
"I doubt you are telling me a lie," said Mercy Vint.
She now looked upon Sir George as Mrs. Gaunt's representative, and prattled freely to him. Only now and then her trouble came over her, and then she took a quiet cry without ceremony.
As for Sir George, he sat and studied, and wondered at her.
