Читать книгу: «The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 109, November, 1866», страница 13
She then requested Sir George to order his horses back to the inn, and the coachman was to hold himself in readiness to start when the whole town should be asleep.
Meantime, a courier was despatched to Hernshaw Castle, to prepare for Mrs. Gaunt's reception.
Mrs. Menteith made a bed up for Mercy Vint, and at midnight, when the coast was clear, came the parting.
It was a sad one.
Even Mercy, who had great self-command, could not then restrain her tears.
To apply the sweet and touching words of Scripture, "They sorrowed most of all for this, that they should see each other's face no more."
Sir George accompanied Mrs. Gaunt to Hernshaw.
She drew back into her corner of the carriage, and was very silent and distraite.
After one or two attempts at conversation, he judged it wisest, and even most polite, to respect her mood.
At last she burst out, "I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it."
"Why, what is amiss?" inquired Sir George.
"What is amiss? Why, 't is all amiss. 'T is so heartless, so ungrateful, to let that poor angel go home to Lancashire all alone, now she has served my turn. Sir George, do not think I undervalue your company: but if you would but take her home, instead of taking me! Poor thing, she is brave; but when the excitement of her good action is over, and she goes back the weary road all alone, what desolation it will be! My heart bleeds for her. I know I am an unconscionable woman, to ask such a thing; but then you are a true chevalier; you always were, and you saw her merit directly. O, do pray leave me to slip unnoticed into Hernshaw Castle, and do you accompany my benefactress to her humble home. Will you, dear Sir George? 'T would be such a load off my heart."
To this appeal, uttered with trembling lip and moist eyes, Sir George replied in character. He declined to desert Mrs. Gaunt, until he had seen her safe home; but, that done, he would ride back to Carlisle and escort Mercy home.
Mrs. Gaunt sighed, and said she was abusing his friendship, and should kill him with fatigue, and he was a good creature. "If anything could make me easy, this would," said she. "You know how to talk to a woman, and comfort her. I wish I was a man: I'd cure her of Griffith before we reached the 'Packhorse.' And, now I think of it, you are a very happy man to travel eighty miles with an angel, a dove-eyed angel."
"I am a happy man to have an opportunity of complying with your desires, madam," was the demure reply. "'T is not often you do me the honor to lay your orders on me."
After this, nothing of any moment passed until they reached Hernshaw Castle; and then, as they drove up to the door, and saw the hall blazing with lights, Mrs. Gaunt laid her hand softly on Sir George, and whispered, "You were right. I thank you for not leaving me."
The servants were all in the hall, to receive their mistress; and amongst them were those who had given honest but unfavorable testimony at the trial, being called by the crown. These had consulted together, and, after many pros and cons, had decided that they had better not follow their natural impulse, and hide from her face, since that might be a fresh offence. Accordingly, these witnesses, dressed in their best, stood with the others in the hall, and made their obeisances, quaking inwardly.
Mrs. Gaunt entered the hall leaning on Sir George's arm. She scarcely bestowed a look upon any of her servants, but made them one sweeping courtesy in return, and passed on; only Sir George felt her taper fingers just nip his arm.
She made him partake of some supper, and then this chevalier des dames rode home, snatched a few hours' sleep, put on the yeoman's suit in which he had first visited the "Packhorse," and, arriving at Carlisle, engaged the whole inside of the coach; for his orders were to console, and he did not see his way clear to do that with two or three strangers listening to every word.
CHAPTER XLIV
A great change was observable in Mrs. Gaunt after this fiery and chastening ordeal. In a short time she had been taught many lessons. She had learned that the law will not allow even a woman to say anything and everything with impunity. She had been in a court of justice, and seen how gravely, soberly, and fairly an accusation is sifted there; and, if false, annihilated; which, elsewhere, it never is. Member of a sex that could never have invented a court of justice, she had found something to revere and bless in that other sex to which her erring husband belonged. Finally, she had encountered in Mercy Vint a woman whom she recognized at once as her moral superior. The contact of that pure and well-governed spirit told wonderfully upon her. She began to watch her tongue and to bridle her high spirit. She became slower to give offence, and slower to take it. She took herself to task, and made some little excuses even for Griffith. She was resolved to retire from the world altogether; but, meantime, she bowed her head to the lessons of adversity. Her features, always lovely, but somewhat too haughty, were now softened and embellished beyond description by a mingled expression of grief, humility, and resignation.
She never mentioned her husband; but it is not to be supposed she never thought of him. She waited the course of events in dignified and patient silence.
As for Griffith Gaunt, he was in the hands of two lawyers, Atkins and Houseman. He waited on the first, and made a friend of him. "I am at your service," said he; "but not if I am to be indicted for bigamy, and burned in the hand."
"These fears are idle," said Atkins. "Mercy Vint declared in open court she will not proceed against you."
"Ay, but there's my wife."
"She will keep quiet; I have Houseman's word for it."
"Ay, but there's the Attorney-General."
"O, he will not move, unless he is driven. We must use a little influence. Mr. Houseman is of my mind, and he has the ear of the county."
To be brief, it was represented in high quarters that to indict Mr. Gaunt would only open Mrs. Gaunt's wounds afresh, and do no good; and so Houseman found means to muzzle the Attorney-General.
Just three weeks after the trial, Griffith Gaunt, Esq. reappeared publicly. The place of his reappearance was Coggleswade. He came and set about finishing his new mansion with feverish rapidity. He engaged an army of carpenters and painters, and spent thousands of pounds on the decorating and furnishing of the mansion, and laying out the grounds.
This was duly reported to Mrs. Gaunt, who said—not a word.
But at last one day came a letter to Mrs. Gaunt, in Griffith's well-known handwriting.
With all her acquired self-possession, her hand trembled as she broke open the seal.
It contained but these words:—
"Madam,—I do not ask you to forgive me. For, if you had done what I have, I could never forgive you. But for the sake of Rose, and to stop their tongues, I do hope you will do me the honor to live under this my roof. I dare not face Hernshaw Castle. Your own apartments here are now ready for you. The place is large. Upon my honor I will not trouble you; but show myself always, as now,
"Your penitent and very humbleservant,"Griffith Gaunt."
The messenger was to wait for her reply.
This letter disturbed Mrs. Gaunt's sorrowful tranquillity at once. She was much agitated, and so undecided that she sent the messenger away, and told him to call next day.
Then she sent off to Father Francis to beg his advice.
But her courier returned, late at night, to say Father Francis was away from home.
Then she took Rose, and said to her, "My darling, papa wants us to go to his new house, and leave dear old Hernshaw; I know not what to say about that. What do you say?"
"Tell him to come to us," said Rose, dictatorially. "Only," (lowering her little voice very suddenly,) "if he is naughty and won't, why then we had better go to him; for he amuses me."
"As you please," said Mrs. Gaunt; and sent her husband this reply:—
"Sir,—Rose and I are agreed to defer to your judgment and obey your wishes. Be pleased to let me know what day you will require us; and I must trouble you to send a carriage.
"I am, sir,"Your faithful wife and humble servant,"Catharine Gaunt."
At the appointed day, a carriage and four came wheeling up to the door. The vehicle was gorgeously emblazoned, and the servants in rich liveries; all which finery glittering in the sun, and the glossy coats of the horses, did mightily please Mistress Rose. She stood on the stone steps, and clapped her hands with delight. Her mother just sighed, and said, "Ay, 'tis in pomp and show we must seek our happiness now."
She leaned back in the carriage, and closed her eyes, yet not so close but now and then a tear would steal out, as she thought of the past.
They drove up under an avenue to a noble mansion, and landed at the foot of some marble steps, low and narrow, but of vast breadth.
As they mounted these, a hall door, through which the carriage could have passed, was flung open, and discovered the servants all drawn up to do honor to their mistress.
She entered the hall, leading Rose by the hand; the servants bowed and courtesied down to the ground.
She received this homage with dignified courtesy, and her eye stole round to see if the master of the house was coming to receive her.
The library door was opened hastily, and out came to meet her—Father Francis.
"Welcome, madam, a thousand times welcome to your new home," said he, in a stentorian voice, with a double infusion of geniality. "I claim the honor of showing you your part of the house, though 'tis all yours for that matter." And he led the way.
Now this cheerful stentorian voice was just a little shaky for once, and his eyes were moist.
Mrs. Gaunt noticed, but said nothing before the people. She smiled graciously, and accompanied him.
He took her to her apartments. They consisted of a salle-à-manger, three delightful bedrooms, a boudoir, and a magnificent drawing-room, fifty feet long, with two fireplaces, and a bay-window thirty feet wide, filled with the choicest flowers.
An exclamation of delight escaped Mrs. Gaunt. Then she said, "One would think I was a queen." Then she sighed, "Ah," said she, "'tis a fine thing to be rich." Then, despondently, "Tell him I think it very beautiful."
"Nay, madam, I hope you will tell him so yourself."
Mrs. Gaunt made no reply to that. She added: "And it was kind of him to have you here the first day: I do not feel so lonely as I should without you."
She took Griffith at his word, and lived with Rose in her own apartments.
For some time Griffith used to slip away whenever he saw her coming.
One day she caught him at it, and beckoned him.
He came to her.
"You need not run away from me," said she: "I did not come into your house to quarrel with you. Let us be friends,"—and she gave him her hand sweetly enough, but O so coldly!
"I hope for nothing more," said Griffith. "If you ever have a wish, give me the pleasure of gratifying it,—that is all."
"I wish to retire to a convent," said she, quietly.
"And desert your daughter?"
"I would leave her behind, to remind you of days gone by."
By degrees they saw a little more of one another; they even dined together now and then. But it brought them no nearer. There was no anger, with its loving reaction. They were friendly enough, but an icy barrier stood between them.
One person set himself quietly to sap this barrier. Father Francis was often at the Castle, and played the peacemaker very adroitly.
The line he took might be called the innocent Jesuitical. He saw that it would be useless to exhort these two persons to ignore the terrible things that had happened, and to make it up as if it was only a squabble. What he did was to repeat to the husband every gracious word the wife let fall, and vice versâ, and to suppress all either said that might tend to estrange them.
In short, he acted the part of Mr. Harmony in the play, and acted it to perfection.
Gutta cavat lapidem.
Though no perceptible effect followed his efforts, yet there is no doubt that he got rid of some of the bitterness. But the coldness remained.
One day he was sent for all in a hurry by Griffith.
He found him looking gloomy and agitated.
The cause came out directly. Griffith had observed, at last, what all the females in the house had seen two months ago, that Mrs. Gaunt was in the family way.
He now communicated this to Father Francis, with a voice of agony, and looks to match.
"All the better, my son," said the genial priest: "'twill be another tie between you. I hope it will be a fine boy to inherit your estates." Then, observing a certain hideous expression distorting Griffith's face, he fixed his eyes full on him, and said, sternly, "Are you not cured yet of that madness of yours?"
"No, no, no," said Griffith, deprecatingly; "but why did she not tell me?"
"You had better ask her."
"Not I. She will remind me I am nothing to her now. And, though 'tis so, yet I would not hear it from her lips."
In spite of this wise resolution, the torture he was in drove him to remonstrate with her on her silence.
She blushed high, and excused herself as follows:—
"I should have told you as soon as I knew it myself. But you were not with me. I was all by myself—in Carlisle jail."
This reply, uttered with hypocritical meekness, went through Griffith like a knife. He turned white, and gasped for breath, but said nothing. He left her, with a deep groan, and never ventured to mention the matter again.
All he did in that direction was to redouble his attentions and solicitude for her health.
The relation between these two was now more anomalous than ever.
Even Father Francis, who had seen strange things in families, used to watch Mrs. Gaunt rise from the table and walk heavily to the door, and her husband dart to it and open it obsequiously, and receive only a very formal reverence in return,—and wonder how all this was to end.
However, under this icy surface, a change was gradually going on; and one afternoon, to his great surprise, Mrs. Gaunt's maid came to ask Griffith if he would come to Mrs. Gaunt's apartment.
He found her seated in her bay-window, among her flowers. She seemed another woman all of a sudden, and smiled on him her exquisite smile of days gone by.
"Come, sit beside me," said she, "in this beautiful window that you have given me."
"Sit beside you, Kate?" said Griffith. "Nay, let me kneel at your knees: that is my place."
"As you will," said she, softly; and continued, in the same tone: "Now listen to me. You and I are two fools. We have been very happy together in days gone by; and we should both of us like to try again; but we neither of us know how to begin. You are afraid to tell me you love me, and I am ashamed to own to you or anybody else that I love you, in spite of it all;—I do, though."
"You love me! a wretch like me, Kate? 'T is impossible. I cannot be so happy."
"Child," said Mrs. Gaunt, "love is not reason; love is not common sense. 'T is a passion; like your jealousy, poor fool. I love you, as a mother loves her child, all the more for all you have made me suffer. I might not say as much, if I thought we should be long together. But something tells me I shall die this time: I never felt so before. Bury me at Hernshaw. After all, I spent more happy years there than most wives ever know. I see you are very sorry for what you have done. How could I die and leave thee in doubt of my forgiveness, and my love? Kiss me, poor jealous fool; for I do forgive thee, and love thee with all my sorrowful heart." And even with the words she bowed herself and sank quietly into his arms, and he kissed her and cried bitterly over her: bitterly. But she was comparatively calm. For she said to herself, "The end is at hand."
Griffith, instead of pooh-poohing his wife's forebodings, set himself to baffle them.
He used his wealth freely, and, besides the county doctor, had two very eminent practitioners from London, one of whom was a gray-headed man, the other singularly young for the fame he had obtained. But then he was a genuine enthusiast in his art.
CHAPTER XLV
Griffith, white as a ghost, and unable to shake off the forebodings Catharine had communicated to him, walked incessantly up and down the room; and, at his earnest request, one or other of the four doctors in attendance was constantly coming to him with information.
The case proceeded favorably, and, to Griffith's surprise and joy, a healthy boy was born about two o'clock in the morning. The mother was reported rather feverish, but nothing to cause alarm.
Griffith threw himself on two chairs and fell fast asleep.
Towards morning he found himself shaken, and there was Ashley, the young doctor, standing beside him with a very grave face. Griffith started up, and cried, "What is wrong, in God's name?"
"I am sorry to say there has been a sudden hemorrhage, and the patient is much exhausted."
"She is dying, she is dying!" cried Griffith, in anguish.
"Not dying. But she will infallibly sink, unless some unusual circumstance occur to sustain vitality."
Griffith laid hold of him. "O sir, take my whole fortune, but save her! save her! save her!"
"Mr. Gaunt," said the young doctor, "be calm, or you will make matters worse. There is one chance to save her; but my professional brethren are prejudiced against it. However, they have consented, at my earnest request, to refer my proposal to you. She is sinking for want of blood; if you consent to my opening a vein and transfusing healthy blood from a living subject into hers, I will undertake the operation. You had better come and see her; you will be more able to judge."
"Let me lean on you," said Griffith. And the strong wrestler went tottering up the stairs. There they showed him poor Kate, white as the bed-clothes, breathing hard, and with a pulse that hardly moved.
Griffith looked at her horror-struck.
"Death has got hold of my darling," he screamed. "Snatch her away! for God's sake, snatch her from him!"
The young doctor whipped off his coat, and bared his arm.
"There," he cried, "Mr. Gaunt consents. Now, Corrie, be quick with the lancet, and hold this tube as I tell you; warm it first in that water."
Here came an interruption. Griffith Gaunt griped the young doctor's arm, and, with an agonized and ugly expression of countenance, cried out, "What, your blood! What right have you to lose blood for her?"
"The right of a man who loves his art better than his blood," cried Ashley, with enthusiasm.
Griffith tore off his coat and waistcoat, and bared his arm to the elbow. "Take every drop I have. No man's blood shall enter her veins but mine." And the creature seemed to swell to double his size, as, with flushed cheek and sparkling eyes, he held out a bare arm corded like a blacksmith's, and white as a duchess's.
The young doctor eyed the magnificent limb a moment with rapture; then fixed his apparatus and performed an operation which then, as now, was impossible in theory; only he did it. He sent some of Griffith Gaunt's bright red blood smoking hot into Kate Gaunt's veins.
This done, he watched his patient closely, and administered stimulants from time to time.
She hung between life and death for hours. But at noon next day she spoke, and, seeing Griffith sitting beside her, pale with anxiety and loss of blood, she said: "My dear, do not thou fret. I died last night. I knew I should. But they gave me another life; and now I shall live to a hundred."
They showed her the little boy; and, at sight of him, the whole woman made up her mind to live.
And live she did. And, what is very remarkable, her convalescence was more rapid than on any former occasion.
It was from a talkative nurse she first learned that Griffith had given his blood for her. She said nothing at the time, but lay, with an angelic, happy smile, thinking of it.
The first time she saw him after that, she laid her hand on his arm, and, looking Heaven itself into his eyes, she said, "My life is very dear to me now. 'T is a present from thee."
She only wanted a good excuse for loving him as frankly as before, and now he had given her one. She used to throw it in his teeth in the prettiest way. Whenever she confessed a fault, she was sure to turn slyly round and say, "But what could one expect of me? I have his blood in my veins."
But once she told Father Francis, quite seriously, that she had never been quite the same woman since she lived by Griffith's blood; she was turned jealous; and moreover it had given him a fascinating power over her, and she could tell blindfold when he was in the room. Which last fact, indeed, she once proved by actual experiment. But all this I leave to such as study the occult sciences in this profound age of ours.
Starting with this advantage, Time, the great curer, gradually healed a wound that looked incurable.
Mrs. Gaunt became a better wife than she had ever been before. She studied her husband, and found he was not hard to please. She made his home bright and genial; and so he never went abroad for the sunshine he could have at home.
And he studied her. He added a chapel to the house, and easily persuaded Francis to become the chaplain. Thus they had a peacemaker, and a friend, in the house, and a man severe in morals, but candid in religion, and an inexhaustible companion to them and their children.
And so, after that terrible storm, this pair pursued the even tenor of a peaceful united life, till the olive-branches rising around them, and the happy years gliding on, almost obliterated that one dark passage, and made it seem a mere fantastical, incredible dream.
Mercy Vint and her child went home in the coach. It was empty at starting, and, as Mrs. Gaunt had foretold, a great sense of desolation fell upon her.
She leaned back, and the patient tears coursed steadily down her comely cheeks.
At the first stage a passenger got down from the outside, and entered the coach.
"What, George Neville!" said Mercy.
"The same," said he.
She expressed her surprise that he should be going her way.
"'T is strange," said he, "but to me most agreeable."
"And to me too, for that matter," said she.
Sir George observed her eyes were red, and, to divert her mind and keep up her spirits, launched into a flow of small talk.
In the midst of it, Mercy leaned back in the coach, and began to cry bitterly. So much for that mode of consolation.
Upon this he faced the situation, and begged her not to grieve. He praised the good action she had done, and told her how everybody admired her for it, especially himself.
At that she gave him her hand in silence, and turned away her pretty head. He carried her hand respectfully to his lips; and his manly heart began to yearn over this suffering virtue,—so grave, so dignified, so meek. He was no longer a young man; he began to talk to her like a friend. This tone, and the soft, sympathetic voice in which a gentleman speaks to a woman in 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.
Never in his life had he met such a woman as this, who was as candid with him as if he had been a woman. She seemed to have a window in her bosom, through which he looked, and saw the pure and lovely soul within.
In the afternoon they reached a little town, whence a cart conveyed them to the "Packhorse."
Here Mercy Vint disappeared, and busied herself with Sir George's comforts.
He sat by himself in the parlor, and missed his gentle companion.
In the morning Mercy thought of course he would go.
But instead of that, he stayed, and followed her about, and began to court her downright.
But the warmer he got, the cooler she. And at last she said, mighty dryly, "This is a very dull place for the likes of you."
"'T is the sweetest place in England," said he; "at least to me; for it contains—the woman I love."
Mercy drew back, and colored rosy red. "I hope not," said she.
"I loved you the first day I saw you, and heard your voice. And now I love you ten times more. Let me dry thy tears forever, sweet Mercy. Be my wife."
"You are mad," said Mercy. "What, would you wed a woman in my condition? I am more your friend than to take you at your word. And what must you think I am made of, to go from one man to another, like that?"
"Take your time, sweetheart; only give me your hand."
"George," said Mercy, very gravely, "I am beholden to you; but my duty it lies another way. There is a young man in these parts" (Sir George groaned) "that was my follower for two years and better. I wronged him for one I never name now. I must marry that poor lad, and make him happy, or else live and die as I am."
Sir George turned pale. "One word: do you love him?"
"I have a regard for him."
"Do you love him?"
"Hardly. But I wronged him, and I owe him amends. I shall pay my debts."
Sir George bowed, and retired sick at heart, and deeply mortified. Mercy looked after him and sighed.
Next day, as he walked disconsolate up and down, she came to him and gave him her hand. "You were a good friend to me that bitter day," said she. "Now let me be yours. Do not bide here: 'twill but vex you."
"I am going, madam," said Sir George, stiffly. "I but wait to see the man you prefer to me. If he is not too unworthy of you, I'll go, and trouble you no more. I have learned his name."
Mercy blushed; for she knew Paul Carrick would bear no comparison with George Neville.
The next day Sir George took leave to observe that this Paul Carrick did not seem to appreciate her preference so highly as he ought. "I understand he has never been here."
Mercy colored, but made no reply; and Sir George was sorry he had taunted her. He followed her about, and showed her great attention, but not a word of love.
There were fine trout streams in the neighborhood, and he busied himself fishing, and in the evening read aloud to Mercy, and waited to see Paul Carrick.
Paul never came; and from a word Mercy let drop, he saw that she was mortified. Then, being no tyro in love, he told her he had business in Lancaster, and must leave her for a few days. But he would return, and by that time perhaps Paul Carrick would be visible.
Now his main object was to try the effect of correspondence.
Every day he sent her a long love-letter from Lancaster.
Paul Carrick, who, in absenting himself for a time, had acted upon his sister's advice, rather than his own natural impulse, learned that Mercy received a letter every day. This was a thing unheard of in that parish.
So then Paul defied his sister's advice, and presented himself to Mercy; when the following dialogue took place.
"Welcome home, Mercy."
