Henry came
the next day, and once or twice in the course of the following week; but still
Mary kept up some little formality, a certain consciousness restrained her; and
Henry did not enter on the subject which he found she wished to avoid. In the
course of conversation, however, she mentioned to him, that she earnestly
desired to obtain a place in one of the public offices for Ann's brother, as
the family were again in a declining way.
Henry
attended, made a few enquiries, and dropped the subject; but the following
week, she heard him enter with unusual haste; it was to inform her, that he had made interest with a person of some consequence,
whom he had once obliged in a very disagreeable exigency, in a foreign country;
and that he had procured a place for her friend, which would infallibly lead to
something better, if he behaved with propriety. Mary could not speak to thank
him; emotions of gratitude and love suffused her face; her blood eloquently
spoke. She delighted to receive benefits through the medium of her fellow
creatures; but to receive them from Henry was exquisite pleasure.
As the
summer advanced, Henry grew worse; the closeness of the air, in the metropolis,
affected his breath; and his mother insisted on his fixing on some place in the
country, where she would accompany him. He could not think of going far off,
but chose a little village on the banks of the Thames,
near Mary's dwelling: he then introduced her to his mother.
They
frequently went down the river in a boat; Henry would take his violin, and Mary
would sometimes sing, or read, to them. She pleased his mother; she inchanted him. It was an advantage to Mary that friendship
first possessed her heart; it opened it to all the softer sentiments of
humanity:—and when this first affection was torn away, a similar one sprung up,
with a still tenderer sentiment added to it.
The last
evening they were on the water, the clouds grew suddenly black, and broke in
violent showers, which interrupted the solemn stillness that had prevailed
previous to it. The thunder roared; and the oars plying quickly, in order to
reach the shore, occasioned a not unpleasing sound. Mary
drew still nearer Henry; she wished to have sought with him a watry grave; to have escaped the horror of surviving
him.—She spoke not, but Henry saw the workings of her mind—he felt them; threw
his arm round her waist—and they enjoyed the luxury of wretchedness.—As they
touched the shore, Mary perceived that Henry was wet; with eager anxiety she
cried, What shall I do!—this day will kill thee, and I shall not die with thee!
This
accident put a stop to their pleasurable excursions; it had injured him, and
brought on the spitting of blood he was subject to—perhaps it was not the cold that he caught, that occasioned it. In vain did
Mary try to shut her eyes; her fate pursued her! Henry every day grew worse
and worse.