Two days
passed away without any particular conversation; Henry, trying to be
indifferent, or to appear so, was more assiduous than ever. The conflict was
too violent for his present state of health; the spirit was willing, but the
body suffered; he lost his appetite, and looked wretchedly; his spirits were
calmly low—the world seemed to fade away—what was that world to him that Mary
did not inhabit; she lived not for him.
He was
mistaken; his affection was her only support; without this dear prop she had
sunk into the grave of her lost—long-loved friend;—his attention snatched her from despair. Inscrutable are the ways of
Heaven!
The third
day Mary was desired to prepare herself; for if the wind continued in the same
point, they should set sail the next evening. She tried to prepare her mind,
and her efforts were not useless she appeared less agitated than could have
been expected, and talked of her voyage with composure. On great occasions she
was generally calm and collected, her resolution would brace her unstrung
nerves; but after the victory she had no triumph; she would sink into a state
of moping melancholy, and feel ten-fold misery when the heroic enthusiasm was
over.
The morning
of the day fixed on for her departure she was alone with Henry only a few
moments, and an awkward kind of formality made them slip away without
their having said much to each other. Henry was afraid to discover his passion,
or give any other name to his regard but friendship; yet his anxious solicitude
for her welfare was ever breaking out-while she as artlessly expressed again
and again, her fears with respect to his declining health.
"We
shall soon meet," said he, with a faint smile; Mary smiled too; she caught
the sickly beam; it was still fainter by being reflected, and not knowing what
she wished to do, started up and left the room. When she was alone she
regretted she had left him so precipitately. "The few precious moments I
have thus thrown away may never return," she thought-the reflection led to
misery.
She waited
for, nay, almost wished for the summons to depart. She could not
avoid spending the intermediate time with the ladies and Henry; and the trivial
conversations she was obliged to bear a part in harassed her more than can be
well conceived.
The summons
came, and the whole party attended her to the vessel. For a while the
remembrance of Ann banished her regret at parting with Henry, though his pale
figure pressed on her sight; it may seem a paradox, but he was more present to
her when she sailed; her tears then were all his own.
"My
poor Ann!" thought Mary, "along this road we came, and near this spot
you called me your guardian angel—and now I leave thee here! ah!
no, I do not—thy spirit is not confined to its mouldering tenement! Tell me, thou soul of her I love, tell
me, ah! whither art thou fled?" Ann occupied her until they reached the ship.
The anchor
was weighed. Nothing can be more irksome than waiting to say farewel. As the day was serene, they accompanied her a
little way, and then got into the boat; Henry was the last; he pressed her
hand, it had not any life in it; she leaned over the side of the ship without
looking at the boat, till it was so far distant, that she could not see the
countenances of those that were in it: a mist spread itself over her sight—she
longed to exchange one look—tried to recollect the last;—the universe contained
no being but Henry!—The grief of parting with him had swept all others clean
away. Her eyes followed the keel of the boat, and when she could no longer
perceive its traces: she looked round on the wide waste of waters, thought of
the precious moments which had been stolen from the
waste of murdered time.
She then
descended into the cabin, regardless of the surrounding beauties of nature, and
throwing herself on her bed in the little hole which was called the
state-room—she wished to forget her existence. On this bed she remained two
days, listening to the dashing waves, unable to close her eyes. A small taper
made the darkness visible; and the third night, by its glimmering light, she
wrote the following fragment.
"Poor
solitary wretch that I am; here alone do I listen to the whistling winds and
dashing waves;—on no human support can I rest—when not lost to hope I found
pleasure in the society of those rough beings; but now they appear not like my
fellow creatures; no social ties draw me to them. How
long, how dreary has this day been; yet I scarcely wish it over—for what will
to-morrow bring—to-morrow, and to-morrow will only be marked with unvaried
characters of wretchedness.—Yet surely, I am not alone!"
Her
moistened eyes were lifted up to heaven; a crowd of thoughts darted into her
mind, and pressing her hand against her forehead, as if to bear the
intellectual weight, she tried, but tried in vain, to arrange them.
"Father of Mercies, compose this troubled spirit: do I indeed wish it to
be composed—to forget my Henry?" the my,
the pen was directly drawn across in an agony.