The ladies heard that her servant was to be married that day, and that
she was to sail in the vessel which was then clearing out at the
Custom-house. Henry heard, but did not make any remarks; and Mary called
up all her fortitude to support her, and enable her to hide from the
females her internal struggles. She durst not encounter Henry's glances
when she found he had been informed of her intention; and, trying to
draw a veil over her wretched state of mind, she talked incessantly, she
knew not what; flashes of wit burst from her, and when she began to
laugh she could not stop herself.
Henry smiled at some of her sallies, and looked at her with such
benignity and compassion, that he recalled her scattered thoughts; and,
the ladies going to dress for dinner, they were left alone; and remained
silent a few moments: after the noisy conversation it appeared solemn.
Henry began. "You are going, Mary, and going by yourself; your mind is
not in a state to be left to its own operations--yet I cannot, dissuade
you; if I attempted to do it, I should ill deserve the title I wish to
merit. I only think of your happiness; could I obey the strongest
impulse of my heart, I should accompany thee to England; but such a step
might endanger your future peace."
Mary, then, with all the frankness which marked her character, explained
her situation to him and mentioned her fatal tie with such disgust that
he trembled for her. "I cannot see him; he is not the man formed for me
to love!" Her delicacy did not restrain her, for her dislike to her
husband had taken root in her mind long before she knew Henry. Did she
not fix on Lisbon rather than France on purpose to avoid him? and if Ann
had been in tolerable health she would have flown with her to some
remote corner to have escaped from him.
"I intend," said Henry, "to follow you in the next packet; where shall I
hear of your health?" "Oh! let me hear of thine," replied Mary. "I am
well, very well; but thou art very ill--thy health is in the most
precarious state." She then mentioned her intention of going to Ann's
relations. "I am her representative, I have duties to fulfil for her:
during my voyage I have time enough for reflection; though I think I
have already determined."
"Be not too hasty, my child," interrupted Henry; "far be it from me to
persuade thee to do violence to thy feelings--but consider that all thy
future life may probably take its colour from thy present mode of
conduct. Our affections as well as our sentiments are fluctuating; you
will not perhaps always either think or feel as you do at present: the
object you now shun may appear in a different light." He paused. "In
advising thee in this style, I have only thy good at heart, Mary."
She only answered to expostulate. "My affections are involuntary--yet
they can only be fixed by reflection, and when they are they make quite
a part of my soul, are interwoven in it, animate my actions, and form
my taste: certain qualities are calculated to call forth my sympathies,
and make me all I am capable of being. The governing affection gives its
stamp to the rest--because I am capable of loving one, I have that kind
of charity to all my fellow-creatures which is not easily provoked.
Milton has asserted, That earthly love is the scale by which to heavenly
we may ascend."
She went on with eagerness. "My opinions on some subjects are not
wavering; my pursuit through life has ever been the same: in solitude
were my sentiments formed; they are indelible, and nothing can efface
them but death--No, death itself cannot efface them, or my soul must be
created afresh, and not improved. Yet a little while am I parted from
my Ann--I could not exist without the hope of seeing her again--I could
not bear to think that time could wear away an affection that was
founded on what is not liable to perish; you might as well attempt to
persuade me that my soul is matter, and that its feelings arose from
certain modifications of it."
"Dear enthusiastic creature," whispered Henry, "how you steal into my
soul." She still continued. "The same turn of mind which leads me to
adore the Author of all Perfection--which leads me to conclude that he
only can fill my soul; forces me to admire the faint image-the shadows
of his attributes here below; and my imagination gives still bolder
strokes to them. I knew I am in some degree under the influence of a
delusion--but does not this strong delusion prove that I myself 'am _of
subtiler essence than the trodden clod_' these flights of the
imagination point to futurity; I cannot banish them. Every cause in
nature produces an effect; and am I an exception to the general rule?
have I desires implanted in me only to make me miserable? will they
never be gratified? shall I never be happy? My feelings do not accord
with the notion of solitary happiness. In a state of bliss, it will be
the society of beings we can love, without the alloy that earthly
infirmities mix with our best affections, that will constitute great
part of our happiness.
"With these notions can I conform to the maxims of worldly wisdom? can
I listen to the cold dictates of worldly prudence and bid my tumultuous
passions cease to vex me, be still, find content in grovelling pursuits,
and the admiration of the misjudging crowd, when it is only one I wish
to please--one who could be all the world to me. Argue not with me, I am
bound by human ties; but did my spirit ever promise to love, or could I
consider when forced to bind myself--to take a vow, that at the awful
day of judgment I must give an account of. My conscience does not smite
me, and that Being who is greater than the internal monitor, may approve
of what the world condemns; sensible that in Him I live, could I brave
His presence, or hope in solitude to find peace, if I acted contrary to
conviction, that the world might approve of my conduct--what could the
world give to compensate for my own esteem? it is ever hostile and armed
against the feeling heart!
"Riches and honours await me, and the cold moralist might desire me to
sit down and enjoy them--I cannot conquer my feelings, and till I do,
what are these baubles to me? you may tell me I follow a fleeting good,
an _ignis fatuus_; but this chase, these struggles prepare me for
eternity--when I no longer see through a glass darkly I shall not reason
about, but _feel_ in what happiness consists."
Henry had not attempted to interrupt her; he saw she was determined, and
that these sentiments were not the effusion of the moment, but well
digested ones, the result of strong affections, a high sense of honour,
and respect for the source of all virtue and truth. He was startled, if
not entirely convinced by her arguments; indeed her voice, her gestures
were all persuasive.
Some one now entered the room; he looked an answer to her long harangue;
it was fortunate for him, or he might have been led to say what in a
cooler moment he had determined to conceal; but were words necessary to
reveal it? He wished not to influence her conduct--vain precaution; she
knew she was beloved; and could she forget that such a man loved her, or
rest satisfied with any inferior gratification. When passion first
enters the heart, it is only a return of affection that is sought after,
and every other remembrance and wish is blotted out.