A few months
after Mary was turned of seventeen, her brother was attacked by a violent
fever, and died before his father could reach the school.
She was now
an heiress, and her mother began to think her of consequence, and did not call
her the child. Proper masters were sent for; she was taught to dance,
and an extraordinary master procured to perfect her in that most necessary of
all accomplishments.
A part of
the estate she was to inherit had been litigated, and the heir of the person
who still carried on a Chancery suit, was only two years younger than our
heroine. The fathers, spite of the dispute, frequently
met, and, in order to settle it amicably, they one day, over a bottle,
determined to quash it by a marriage, and, by uniting the two estates, to
preclude all farther enquiries into the merits of their different claims.
While this
important matter was settling, Mary was otherwise employed. Ann's mother's
resources were failing; and the ghastly phantom, poverty, made hasty strides to
catch them in his clutches. Ann had not fortitude enough to brave such
accumulated misery; besides, the canker-worm was lodged in her heart, and
preyed on her health. She denied herself every little comfort; things that
would be no sacrifice when a person is well, are absolutely necessary to
alleviate bodily pain, and support the animal functions.
There were many elegant amusements, that she had acquired a relish for,
which might have taken her mind off from its most destructive bent; but these
her indigence would not allow her to enjoy: forced then, by way of relaxation,
to play the tunes her lover admired, and handle the pencil he taught her to
hold, no wonder his image floated on her imagination, and that taste
invigorated love.
Poverty, and
all its inelegant attendants, were in her mother's
abode; and she, though a good sort of a woman, was not calculated to banish, by
her trivial, uninteresting chat, the delirium in which her daughter was lost.
This
ill-fated love had given a bewitching softness to her manners, a delicacy so
truly feminine, that a man of any feeling could not behold her without wishing
to chase her sorrows away. She was timid and irresolute,
and rather fond of dissipation; grief only had power to make her reflect.
In every
thing it was not the great, but the beautiful, or the pretty,
that caught her attention. And in composition, the polish of style, and
harmony of numbers, interested her much more than the flights of genius, or
abstracted speculations.
She often
wondered at the books Mary chose, who, though she had a lively imagination,
would frequently study authors whose works were addressed to the understanding.
This liking taught her to arrange her thoughts, and argue with herself, even
when under the influence of the most violent passions.
Ann's
misfortunes and ill health were strong ties to bind Mary to her; she wished so
continually to have a home to receive her in, that it drove every other desire out of her mind; and,
dwelling on the tender schemes which compassion and friendship dictated, she
longed most ardently to put them in practice.
Fondly as
she loved her friend, she did not forget her mother, whose decline was so
imperceptible, that they were not aware of her approaching dissolution. The
physician, however, observing the most alarming symptoms; her husband was
apprised of her immediate danger; and then first mentioned to her his designs
with respect to his daughter.
She approved
of them; Mary was sent for; she was not at home; she had rambled to visit Ann,
and found her in an hysteric fit. The landlord of her little farm had sent his
agent for the rent, which had long been due to him; and he threatened to seize
the stock that still remained, and turn them out, if they
did not very shortly discharge the arrears.
As this man
made a private fortune by harassing the tenants of the person to whom he was
deputy, little was to be expected from his forbearance.
All this was
told to Mary—and the mother added, she had many other
creditors who would, in all probability, take the alarm, and snatch from them
all that had been saved out of the wreck. "I could bear all," she
cried; "but what will become of my children? Of this child," pointing
to the fainting Ann, "whose constitution is already undermined by care and
grief—where will she go?"—Mary's heart ceased to beat while she asked the
question—She attempted to speak; but the inarticulate sounds died away. Before
she had recovered herself, her father called himself to
enquire for her; and desired her instantly to accompany him home.
Engrossed by
the scene of misery she had been witness to, she walked silently by his side,
when he roused her out of her reverie by telling her that in all likelihood her
mother had not many hours to live; and before she could return him any answer,
informed her that they had both determined to marry her to Charles, his
friend's son; he added, the ceremony was to be performed directly, that her
mother might be witness of it; for such a desire she had expressed with
childish eagerness.
Overwhelmed
by this intelligence, Mary rolled her eyes about, then, with a vacant stare,
fixed them on her father's face; but they were no longer a sense; they conveyed
no ideas to the brain. As she drew near the house, her wonted presence presence of mind returned: after
this suspension of thought, a thousand darted into her mind,—her dying
mother,—her friend's miserable situation,—and an extreme horror at taking—at
being forced to take, such a hasty step; but she did not feel the disgust, the
reluctance, which arises from a prior attachment.
She loved
Ann better than any one in the world—to snatch her from the very jaws of destruction—she
would have encountered a lion. To have this friend constantly with her; to make
her mind easy with respect to her family, would it not be superlative bliss?
Full of
these thoughts she entered her mother's chamber, but they then fled at the sight
of a dying parent. She went to her, took her hand; it feebly pressed her's. "My child," said the languid mother: the
words reached her heart; she had seldom heard them
pronounced with accents denoting affection; "My child, I have not always
treated you with kindness—God forgive me! do you?"—Mary's tears strayed in
a disregarded stream; on her bosom the big drops fell, but did not relieve the
fluttering tenant. "I forgive you!" said she, in a tone of
astonishment.
The
clergyman came in to read the service for the sick, and afterwards the marriage
ceremony was performed. Mary stood like a statue of Despair, and pronounced the
awful vow without thinking of it; and then ran to support her mother, who
expired the same night in her arms.
Her husband
set off for the continent the same day, with a tutor, to finish his studies at
one of the foreign universities.
Ann was sent for to console her, not on account of the departure of her new
relation, a boy she seldom took any notice of, but to reconcile her to her
fate; besides, it was necessary she should have a female companion, and there
was not any maiden aunt in the family, or cousin of the same class.