“Why writes she so to me?”
The next mail bore Harry the following letter from his own Mary:
My Dearest Harry,—I have no excuse to offer for my protracted
silence, other than I have been so very much engaged. But I know
your kind heart will readily forgive my remissness when you hear
all I have to say to you; therefore I must hasten to tell you,
first premising that you must not be jealous. Both father and
Uncle Pluribusi say that is a most detestable passion—and you
know I so dislike any thing that is ugly and disagreeable.
But to my confession. There is a friend of mine at present
sojourning here—a kind of relative; and a splendid fellow he
is, dear Harry. In both form and face he is eminently handsome;
then he is so merry—and polite to the highest degree of
refinement. His discourse is a perpetual series of neat
repartee, elegant compliment, bright thoughts, and happy
expression. He has a beaming smile, and a pleasant word for
every one; but he anticipates my thoughts, knows the meaning of
every glance, and ministers to my every wish before it is
formed. Is he not a very paragon? I know you will like him so
much, when you become as well acquainted with him as I am. I
often tell him he is second in my heart’s best affections. This
seems to please him greatly; and he expresses his delight by
snatching a kiss. Now, Harry, don’t be shocked! remember, he is
a very old and dear friend. Although his very soul seems to be
the seat of joyousness, I verily believe he possesses a
tolerably large portion of sentiment; and you must not be
surprised if you hear I have made a conquest of his heart. I
assure you my manner toward him has been free from any thing
like coquetry, but I do enjoy his society. The perpetual summer
of his mind imparts a corresponding glow and animation to his
manner, a lively and genial warmth to all his actions; and his
very look seems to say, “Come, let us laugh at a world that only
laughs at us.” Would you believe it, Harry? with him for my
partner, I often find myself whirling round at some gay party,
in the delicious delirium of the waltz. I know you will be
charmed to hear this; for you have so often expressed a wish
that I should become perfect in that delightful accomplishment.
My friend is somewhat in my confidence, and knows that I am
engaged to somebody; but this knowledge has not in the least
changed his attention to me. He says matrimony is at best but a
“divine comedy.” I suppose I have thought of it too seriously. I
have promised to ride with him this afternoon, and—hark! I hear
the horses at the door now; dear me! he is always so early, he
will never give me time to write a letter even to you.
What delight there is in a wild gallop. I am an expert
equestrian now, and often execute some daring exploits. In your
absence these delightful excursions form the chief pleasure of
my life; and to me there is more melody in our horses’ hoofs, as
they “tramp, tramp along the land,” than I could thump out of my
piano this morning. Forgive the brevity of this; I am sure you
will, for this is the second time I have been interrupted by
“the horses are waiting, Mary.”
You see how my time is occupied; I have scarcely an hour that I
can call my own.
Having every faith in your constancy and truth, I bid you
farewell.
Your ever faithful,
Mary.
An indescribable emotion racked the whirling brain of our hero, as, word
by word, this epistle seemed tearing the very fibres of his heart. How
like an endless night came down the shadows of despair, as throwing it
down he murmured, “Lost—lost to me forever, I fear!”