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 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.