The ladies
heard that her servant was to be married that day, and that she was to sail in
the vessel which was then clearing out at the Custom-house. Henry heard, but
did not make any remarks; and Mary called up all her fortitude to support her,
and enable her to hide from the females her internal struggles. She durst not
encounter Henry's glances when she found he had been informed of her intention;
and, trying to draw a veil over her wretched state of mind, she talked
incessantly, she knew not what; flashes of wit burst from her, and when she
began to laugh she could not stop herself.
Henry smiled at some of her sallies, and looked at her with such benignity
and compassion, that he recalled her scattered thoughts; and, the ladies going
to dress for dinner, they were left alone; and remained silent a few moments:
after the noisy conversation it appeared solemn. Henry began. "You are
going, Mary, and going by yourself; your mind is not in a state to be left to
its own operations—yet I cannot, dissuade you; if I attempted to do it, I
should ill deserve the title I wish to merit. I only think of your happiness;
could I obey the strongest impulse of my heart, I should accompany thee to
England; but such a step might endanger your future peace."
Mary, then,
with all the frankness which marked her character, explained her situation to
him and mentioned her fatal tie with such disgust that
he trembled for her. "I cannot see him; he is not the man formed for me to
love!" Her delicacy did not restrain her, for her dislike to her husband
had taken root in her mind long before she knew Henry. Did she not fix on
Lisbon rather than France on purpose to avoid him? and
if Ann had been in tolerable health she would have flown with her to some
remote corner to have escaped from him.
"I
intend," said Henry, "to follow you in the next packet; where shall I
hear of your health?" "Oh! let me hear of thine," replied Mary. "I am well, very well; but
thou art very ill—thy health is in the most precarious state." She then
mentioned her intention of going to Ann's relations. "I am her
representative, I have duties to fulfil for her:
during my voyage I have time enough for reflection;
though I think I have already determined."
"Be not
too hasty, my child," interrupted Henry; "far be it from me to
persuade thee to do violence to thy feelings—but consider that all thy future
life may probably take its colour from thy present
mode of conduct. Our affections as well as our sentiments are fluctuating; you
will not perhaps always either think or feel as you do at present: the object
you now shun may appear in a different light." He paused. "In
advising thee in this style, I have only thy good at heart, Mary."
She only
answered to expostulate. "My affections are involuntary—yet they can only
be fixed by reflection, and when they are they make quite a part of my soul,
are interwoven in it, animate my actions, and form my
taste: certain qualities are calculated to call forth my sympathies, and make
me all I am capable of being. The governing affection gives its stamp to the
rest—because I am capable of loving one, I have that kind of charity to all my
fellow-creatures which is not easily provoked. Milton has asserted, That earthly love is the scale by which to heavenly we may
ascend."
She went on
with eagerness. "My opinions on some subjects are not wavering; my pursuit
through life has ever been the same: in solitude were my sentiments formed;
they are indelible, and nothing can efface them but death—No, death itself
cannot efface them, or my soul must be created afresh, and not improved. Yet a little while am I parted from my Ann—I could not
exist without the hope of seeing her again—I could not bear to think that time
could wear away an affection that was founded on what is not liable to perish;
you might as well attempt to persuade me that my soul is matter, and that its
feelings arose from certain modifications of it."
"Dear
enthusiastic creature," whispered Henry, "how you steal into my
soul." She still continued. "The same turn of mind which leads me to
adore the Author of all Perfection—which leads me to conclude that he only can
fill my soul; forces me to admire the faint image-the shadows of his attributes
here below; and my imagination gives still bolder strokes to them. I knew I am
in some degree under the influence of a delusion—but
does not this strong delusion prove that I myself 'am of subtiler
essence than the trodden clod' these flights of the imagination point to
futurity; I cannot banish them. Every cause in nature produces an effect; and am I an exception to the general rule? have
I desires implanted in me only to make me miserable? will
they never be gratified? shall I never be happy? My
feelings do not accord with the notion of solitary happiness. In a state of
bliss, it will be the society of beings we can love, without the alloy that
earthly infirmities mix with our best affections, that
will constitute great part of our happiness.
"With
these notions can I conform to the maxims of worldly wisdom?
can I listen to the cold dictates of worldly prudence and bid my tumultuous
passions cease to vex me, be still, find content in grovelling
pursuits, and the admiration of the misjudging crowd, when it is only one I
wish to please—one who could be all the world to me. Argue not with me, I am
bound by human ties; but did my spirit ever promise to love, or could I
consider when forced to bind myself—to take a vow, that at the awful day of judgment I must give an account of. My conscience
does not smite me, and that Being who is greater than the internal monitor, may
approve of what the world condemns; sensible that in Him I live, could I brave
His presence, or hope in solitude to find peace, if I acted contrary to
conviction, that the world might approve of my
conduct—what could the world give to compensate for my own esteem? it is ever hostile and armed against the feeling heart!
"Riches
and honours await me, and the cold moralist might
desire me to sit down and enjoy them—I cannot conquer my feelings, and till I
do, what are these baubles to me? you may tell me I follow a fleeting good, an ignis fatuus; but
this chase, these struggles prepare me for eternity—when I no longer see
through a glass darkly I shall not reason about, but feel in what
happiness consists."
Henry had
not attempted to interrupt her; he saw she was determined, and that these
sentiments were not the effusion of the moment, but well digested ones, the
result of strong affections, a high sense of honour,
and respect for the source of all virtue and truth. He
was startled, if not entirely convinced by her arguments; indeed her voice, her
gestures were all persuasive.
Some one now
entered the room; he looked an answer to her long harangue; it was fortunate
for him, or he might have been led to say what in a cooler moment he had
determined to conceal; but were words necessary to reveal it? He wished not to
influence her conduct—vain precaution; she knew she was beloved; and could she
forget that such a man loved her, or rest satisfied with any inferior
gratification. When passion first enters the heart, it is only a return of
affection that is sought after, and every other remembrance and wish is blotted
out.