CHAPTER III.
Near her
father's house lived a poor widow, who had been brought up in affluence, but
reduced to great distress by the extravagance of her husband; he had destroyed
his constitution while he spent his fortune; and dying, left his wife, and five
small children, to live on a very scanty pittance. The eldest daughter was for
some years educated by a distant relation, a Clergyman. While she was with him
a young gentleman, son to a man of property in the neighbourhood,
took particular notice of her. It is true, he never talked of love; but then
they played and sung in concert; drew landscapes together, and while she worked
he read to her, cultivated her taste, and stole
imperceptibly her heart. Just at this juncture, when smiling, unanalyzed hope
made every prospect bright, and gay expectation danced in her eyes, her
benefactor died. She returned to her mother—the companion of her youth forgot
her, they took no more sweet counsel together. This disappointment spread a
sadness over her countenance, and made it interesting. She grew fond of
solitude, and her character appeared similar to Mary's, though her natural
disposition was very different.
She was
several years older than Mary, yet her refinement, her taste, caught her eye,
and she eagerly sought her friendship: before her return she had assisted the
family, which was almost reduced to the last ebb; and now she had another motive
to actuate her.
As she had often occasion to send messages to Ann, her new friend, mistakes
were frequently made; Ann proposed that in future they should be written ones,
to obviate this difficulty, and render their intercourse more agreeable. Young
people are mostly fond of scribbling; Mary had had very little instruction; but
by copying her friend's letters, whose hand she admired, she soon became a
proficient; a little practice made her write with tolerable correctness, and
her genius gave force to it. In conversation, and in writing, when she felt,
she was pathetic, tender and persuasive; and she expressed contempt with such
energy, that few could stand the flash of her eyes.
As she grew
more intimate with Ann, her manners were softened, and she acquired a degree of
equality in her behaviour: yet still her spirits were
fluctuating, and her movements rapid. She felt less pain
on account of her mother's partiality to her brother, as she hoped now to
experience the pleasure of being beloved; but this hope led her into new
sorrows, and, as usual, paved the way for disappointment. Ann only felt
gratitude; her heart was entirely engrossed by one object, and friendship could
not serve as a substitute; memory officiously retraced past scenes, and
unavailing wishes made time loiter.
Mary was
often hurt by the involuntary indifference which these consequences produced.
When her friend was all the world to her, she found she was not as necessary to
her happiness; and her delicate mind could not bear to obtrude her affection,
or receive love as an alms, the offspring of pity. Very frequently has she ran
to her with delight, and not perceiving any thing of the
same kind in Ann's countenance, she has shrunk back; and, falling from one
extreme into the other, instead of a warm greeting that was just slipping from
her tongue, her expressions seemed to be dictated by the most chilling
insensibility.
She would
then imagine that she looked sickly or unhappy, and then all her tenderness
would return like a torrent, and bear away all reflection. In this manner was
her sensibility called forth, and exercised, by her mother's illness, her
friend's misfortunes, and her own unsettled mind.