Then followed a little laugh, half satirical, half good-humoured from Felicitas, after which the machine said—‘I fain would know more of the sun’s late vagaries: but it would please me infinitely better to learn something of thyself. Dost thou never feel lonely?’
Here a suppressed titter went round the Court, but the machine heeded it not.
‘Often enough, Sire,’ it said in Mercia’s sweet tones, ‘the hours speed away at times very quickly when I am hard at work; but when it is time to rest then the feeling of solitude overwhelms me. I get appalled at the silence that surrounds me, and a melancholy seizes me so severely, that I rise unable to cope with my duties.’
‘Art thou then tired of this occupation? It is indeed too much for thee. Rest a while, sweet Mercia, and let the stars take care of themselves for a season.’
The voice of the machine grew quite pathetic here: evidently Felicitas was growing sympathetic.
‘Oh, that would spoil all my calculations,’ said the machine, very sweetly, ‘the work of years would be as nought were I to stay my hand now. No, I will wait until my treatise on the stars is complete; then I will take some little change for my health’s sake.’
‘Health and love, sweet Mercia, go hand in hand together,’ the machine sang out in melting tones, ‘let thine heart soften to its influence, and all will go well with thee. Thy melancholies will disappear; thy solitude lightened, for thou wilt have a new theory to analyse—a new and a better one. Yes, thou canst love, Mercia, I know it; for thine eyes were made for the conquest of man’s heart, rather than star-gazing. Cease to disregard the designs of Nature when she formed thee, and give thyself unto the pleasure of love.’
‘Sire,’ answered Mercia’s sweet voice, which now had a strange, startled tone—‘I know not what answer to give in this matter—I am yet unprepared—perplexed with this reasoning of thine.’
‘Hast thou not felt the want of companionship, dear Mercia? Here penned in this solitude only fit for a greybeard thou dost pine, yet knoweth not what it is ails thee. It is good to be loved, fair one, to realise how much thy womanhood means. Hast thou never felt its joys—its pains?’ asked the voice in a coaxing sort of tone.
‘But my bond, Sire, I cannot break my bond, signed by my own hand, to forswear love and marriage: no one but thyself can relieve me of this obligation,’ replied Mercia’s voice excitedly.