There was nothing now to retard their journey; and Mary chose Lisbon
rather than France, on account of its being further removed from the
only person she wished not to see.
They set off accordingly for Falmouth, in their way to that city. The
journey was of use to Ann, and Mary's spirits were raised by her
recovered looks--She had been in despair--now she gave way to hope, and
was intoxicated with it. On ship-board Ann always remained in the cabin;
the sight of the water terrified her: on the contrary, Mary, after she
was gone to bed, or when she fell asleep in the day, went on deck,
conversed with the sailors, and surveyed the boundless expanse before
her with delight. One instant she would regard the ocean, the next the
beings who braved its fury. Their insensibility and want of fear, she
could not name courage; their thoughtless mirth was quite of an animal
kind, and their feelings as impetuous and uncertain as the element they
plowed.
They had only been a week at sea when they hailed the rock of Lisbon,
and the next morning anchored at the castle. After the customary visits,
they were permitted to go on shore, about three miles from the city; and
while one of the crew, who understood the language, went to procure them
one of the ugly carriages peculiar to the country, they waited in the
Irish convent, which is situated close to the Tagus.
Some of the people offered to conduct them into the church, where there
was a fine organ playing; Mary followed them, but Ann preferred staying
with a nun she had entered into conversation with.
One of the nuns, who had a sweet voice, was singing; Mary was struck
with awe; her heart joined in the devotion; and tears of gratitude and
tenderness flowed from her eyes. My Father, I thank thee! burst from
her--words were inadequate to express her feelings. Silently, she
surveyed the lofty dome; heard unaccustomed sounds; and saw faces,
strange ones, that she could not yet greet with fraternal love.
In an unknown land, she considered that the Being she adored inhabited
eternity, was ever present in unnumbered worlds. When she had not any
one she loved near her, she was particularly sensible of the presence
of her Almighty Friend.
The arrival of the carriage put a stop to her speculations; it was to
conduct them to an hotel, fitted up for the reception of invalids.
Unfortunately, before they could reach it there was a violent shower of
rain; and as the wind was very high, it beat against the leather
curtains, which they drew along the front of the vehicle, to shelter
themselves from it; but it availed not, some of the rain forced its way,
and Ann felt the effects of it, for she caught cold, spite of Mary's
precautions.
As is the custom, the rest of the invalids, or lodgers, sent to enquire
after their health; and as soon as Ann left her chamber, in which her
complaints seldom confined her the whole day, they came in person to pay
their compliments. Three fashionable females, and two gentlemen; the
one a brother of the eldest of the young ladies, and the other an
invalid, who came, like themselves, for the benefit of the air. They
entered into conversation immediately.
People who meet in a strange country, and are all together in a house,
soon get acquainted, without the formalities which attend visiting in
separate houses, where they are surrounded by domestic friends. Ann was
particularly delighted at meeting with agreeable society; a little
hectic fever generally made her low-spirited in the morning, and lively
in the evening, when she wished for company. Mary, who only thought of
her, determined to cultivate their acquaintance, as she knew, that if
her mind could be diverted, her body might gain strength.
They were all musical, and proposed having little concerts. One of the
gentlemen played on the violin, and the other on the german-flute. The
instruments were brought in, with all the eagerness that attends putting
a new scheme in execution.
Mary had not said much, for she was diffident; she seldom joined in
general conversations; though her quickness of penetration enabled her
soon to enter into the characters of those she conversed with; and her
sensibility made her desirous of pleasing every human creature. Besides,
if her mind was not occupied by any particular sorrow, or study, she
caught reflected pleasure, and was glad to see others happy, though
their mirth did not interest her.
This day she was continually thinking of Ann's recovery, and encouraging
the cheerful hopes, which though they dissipated the spirits that had
been condensed by melancholy, yet made her wish to be silent. The music,
more than the conversation, disturbed her reflections; but not at first.
The gentleman who played on the german-flute, was a handsome, well-bred,
sensible man; and his observations, if not original, were pertinent.
The other, who had not said much, began to touch the violin, and played
a little Scotch ballad; he brought such a thrilling sound out of the
instrument, that Mary started, and looking at him with more attention
than she had done before, and saw, in a face rather ugly, strong lines
of genius. His manners were awkward, that kind of awkwardness which is
often found in literary men: he seemed a thinker, and delivered his
opinions in elegant expressions, and musical tones of voice.
When the concert was over, they all retired to their apartments. Mary
always slept with Ann, as she was subject to terrifying dreams; and
frequently in the night was obliged to be supported, to avoid
suffocation. They chatted about their new acquaintance in their own
apartment, and, with respect to the gentlemen, differed in opinion.