Soon after
the ladies left her, she received a message from Henry, requesting, as she saw
company, to be permitted to visit her: she consented, and he entered
immediately, with an unassured pace. She ran eagerly
up to him—saw the tear trembling in his eye, and his countenance softened by
the tenderest compassion; the hand which pressed hers
seemed that of a fellow-creature. She burst into tears; and, unable to restrain
them, she hid her face with both her hands; these tears relieved her, (she had
before had a difficulty in breathing,) and she sat down by him more composed than she had appeared since Ann's death; but her
conversation was incoherent.
She called
herself "a poor disconsolate creature!"—"Mine is a selfish
grief," she exclaimed—"Yet; Heaven is my witness, I do not wish her
back now she has reached those peaceful mansions, where the weary rest. Her
pure spirit is happy; but what a wretch am I!"
Henry forgot
his cautious reserve. "Would you allow me to call you friend?" said
he in a hesitating voice. "I feel, dear girl, the tendered interest in
whatever concerns thee." His eyes spoke the rest. They were both silent a
few moments; then Henry resumed the conversation. "I have also been acquainted
with grief! I mourn the loss of a woman who was not worthy of my regard. Let me
give thee some account of the man who now solicits thy
friendship; and who, from motives of the purest benevolence, wishes to give
comfort to thy wounded heart."
"I have
myself," said he, mournfully, "shaken hands with happiness, and am
dead to the world; I wait patiently for my dissolution; but, for thee, Mary,
there may be many bright days in store."
"Impossible,"
replied she, in a peevish tone, as if he had insulted her by the supposition;
her feelings were so much in unison with his, that she was in love with misery.
He smiled at
her impatience, and went on. "My father died before I knew him, and my
mother was so attached to my eldest brother, that she took very little pains to
fit me for the profession to which I was destined: and,
may I tell thee, I left my family, and, in many different stations, rambled
about the world; saw mankind in every rank of life; and, in order to be
independent, exerted those talents Nature has given me: these exertions
improved my understanding; and the miseries I was witness to, gave a keener
edge to my sensibility. My constitution is naturally weak; and, perhaps, two or
three lingering disorders in my youth, first gave me a habit of reflecting, and
enabled me to obtain some dominion over my passions. At least," added he,
stifling a sigh, "over the violent ones, though I fear, refinement and
reflection only renders the tender ones more tyrannic.
"I have
told you already I have been in love, and disappointed—the object
is now no more; let her faults sleep with her! Yet this passion has pervaded my
whole soul, and mixed itself with all my affections and pursuits.—I am not
peacefully indifferent; yet it is only to my violin I tell the sorrows I now
confide with thee. The object I loved forfeited my esteem; yet, true to the
sentiment, my fancy has too frequently delighted to form a creature that I
could love, that could convey to my soul sensations which the gross part of
mankind have not any conception of."
He stopped,
as Mary seemed lost in thought; but as she was still in a listening attitude,
continued his little narrative. "I kept up an irregular correspondence
with my mother; my brother's extravagance and ingratitude had almost broken her
heart, and made her feel something like a pang of
remorse, on account of her behaviour to me. I
hastened to comfort her—and was a comfort to her.
"My
declining health prevented my taking orders, as I had intended; but I with
warmth entered into literary pursuits; perhaps my heart, not having an object,
made me embrace the substitute with more eagerness. But, do not imagine I have
always been a die-away swain. No: I have frequented the cheerful haunts of men,
and wit!—enchanting wit! has made many moments fly free from care. I am too
fond of the elegant arts; and woman—lovely woman! thou hast charmed me, though,
perhaps, it would not be easy to find one to whom my reason would allow me to
be constant.
"I have now only to tell you, that my mother insisted on my spending
this winter in a warmer climate; and I fixed on Lisbon, as I had before visited
the Continent." He then looked Mary full in the face; and, with the most
insinuating accents, asked "if he might hope for her friendship? If she
would rely on him as if he was her father; and that the tenderest
father could not more anxiously interest himself in the fate of a darling
child, than he did in her's."
Such a crowd
of thoughts all at once rushed into Mary's mind, that she in vain attempted to
express the sentiments which were most predominant. Her heart longed to receive
a new guest; there was a void in it: accustomed to have some one to love, she
was alone, and comfortless, if not engrossed by a particular affection.
Henry saw her distress, and not to increase it, left the room. He had
exerted himself to turn her thoughts into a new channel, and had succeeded; she
thought of him till she began to chide herself for defrauding the dead, and,
determining to grieve for Ann, she dwelt on Henry's misfortunes and ill health;
and the interest he took in her fate was a balm to her sick mind. She did not
reason on the subject; but she felt he was attached to her: lost in this
delirium, she never asked herself what kind of an affection she had for him, or
what it tended to; nor did she know that love and friendship are very distinct;
she thought with rapture, that there was one person in the world who had an
affection for her, and that person she admired—had a friendship for.
He had
called her his dear girl; the words might have fallen from him by accident; but they did not fall to the ground. My child! His
child, what an association of ideas! If I had had a father, such a father!—She
could not dwell on the thoughts, the wishes which obtruded themselves. Her mind
was unhinged, and passion unperceived filled her whole soul. Lost, in waking
dreams, she considered and reconsidered Henry's account of himself; till she
actually thought she would tell Ann—a bitter recollection then roused her out
of her reverie; and aloud she begged forgiveness of her.
By these
kind of conflicts the day was lengthened; and when she went to bed, the night
passed away in feverish slumbers; though they did not refresh her, she was
spared the labour of thinking, of restraining her
imagination; it sported uncontrouled; but took its colour from her waking train of thoughts. One instant she was supporting her dying mother; then Ann was
breathing her last, and Henry was comforting her.
The
unwelcome light visited her languid eyes; yet, I must tell the truth, she
thought she should see Henry, and this hope set her spirits in motion: but they
were quickly depressed by her maid, who came to tell her that she had heard of
a vessel on board of which she could be accommodated, and that there was to be
another female passenger on board, a vulgar one; but perhaps she would be more
useful on that account—Mary did not want a companion.
As she had
given orders for her passage to be engaged in the first vessel that sailed, she
could not now retract; and must prepare for the lonely voyage, as the Captain
intended taking advantage of the first fair wind. She had too much strength of mind to waver in her determination but to
determine wrung her very heart, opened all her old wounds, and made them bleed
afresh. What was she to do? where go? Could she set a seal to a hasty vow, and
tell a deliberate lie; promise to love one man, when the image of another was
ever present to her—her soul revolted. "I might gain the applause of the
world by such mock heroism; but should I not forfeit my own? forfeit thine, my father!"
There is a
solemnity in the shortest ejaculation, which, for a while, stills the tumult of
passion. Mary's mind had been thrown off its poise; her devotion had been,
perhaps, more fervent for some time past; but less regular. She forgot that
happiness was not to be found on earth, and built a terrestrial paradise liable
to be destroyed by the first serious thought: when, she
reasoned she became inexpressibly sad, to render life bearable she gave way to
fancy—this was madness.
In a few
days she must again go to sea; the weather was very tempestuous—what of that,
the tempest in her soul rendered every other trifling—it was not the contending
elements, but herself she feared!