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.