So then Paul defied his sister's advice, and presented himself to Mercy; when the following dialogue took place.
"Welcome home, Mercy."
"Thank you, Paul."
"Well, I'm single still, lass."
"So I hear."
"I'm come to say let bygones be bygones."
"So be it," said Mercy, dryly.
"You have tried a gentleman; now try a farrier."
"I have; and he did not stand the test."
"Anan."
"Why did you not come near me for ten days?"
Paul blushed up to the eyes. "Well," said he, "I'll tell you the truth. 'T was our Jess advised me to leave you quiet just at first."
"Ay, ay. I was to be humbled, and made to smart for my fault; and then I should be thankful to take you. My lad, if ever you should be really in love, take a friend's advice; listen to your own heart, and not to shallow advisers. You have mortified a poor sorrowful creature, who was going to make a sacrifice for you; and you have lost her forever."
"What d'ye mean?"
"I mean that you are to think no more of Mercy Vint."
"Then it is true, ye jade; ye've gotten a fresh lover already."
"Say no more than you know. If you were the only man on earth, I would not wed you, Paul Carrick."
Paul Carrick retired home, and blew up his sister, and told her that she had "gotten him the sack again."
The next day Sir George came back from Lancaster, and Mercy lowered her lashes for once at sight of him.
"Well," said he, "has this Carrick shown a sense of your goodness?"
"He has come,—and gone."
She then, with her usual frankness, told him what had passed. "And," said she, with a smile, "you are partly to blame; for how could I help comparing your behavior to me with his? You came to my side when I was in trouble, and showed me respect when I expected scorn from all the world. A friend in need is a friend indeed."
"Reward me, reward me," said Sir George, gayly; "you know the way."
"Nay, but I am too much your friend," said Mercy.
"Be less my friend then, and more my darling."
He pressed her, he urged her, he stuck to her, he pestered her.
She snubbed, and evaded, and parried, and liked him all the better for his pestering her.
At last, one day, she said: "If Mrs. Gaunt thinks it will be for your happiness, I will—in six months' time; but you shall not marry in haste to repent at leisure. And I must have time to learn two things,—whether you can be constant to a simple woman like me, and whether I can love again, as tenderly as you deserve to be loved."
All his endeavors to shake this determination were vain. Mercy Vint had a terrible deal of quiet resolution.
He retired to Cumberland, and, in a long letter, asked Mrs. Gaunt's advice.
She replied characteristically. She began very soberly to say that she should be the last to advise a marriage between persons of different conditions in life. "But then," said she, "this Mercy is altogether an exception. If a flower grows on a dunghill, 't is still a flower, and not a part of the dunghill. She has the essence of gentility, and indeed her manners are better bred than most of our ladies. There is too much affectation abroad, and that is your true vulgarity. Tack 'my lady' on to 'Mercy Vint,' and that dignified and quiet simplicity of hers will carry her with credit through every court in Europe. Then think of her virtues,"—(here the writer began to lose her temper,)—"where can you hope to find such another? She is a moral genius, and acts well, no matter under what temptation, as surely as Claude and Raphael paint well. Why, sir, what do you seek in a wife? Wealth? title?
