A few mornings after, as Mary was sitting ruminating, harassed by
perplexing thoughts, and fears, a letter was delivered to her: the
servant waited for an answer. Her heart palpitated; it was from Henry;
she held it some time in her hand, then tore it open; it was not a long
one; and only contained an account of a relapse, which prevented his
sailing in the first packet, as he had intended. Some tender enquiries
were added, concerning her health, and state of mind; but they were
expressed in rather a formal style: it vexed her, and the more so, as it
stopped the current of affection, which the account of his arrival and
illness had made flow to her heart--it ceased to beat for a moment--she
read the passage over again; but could not tell what she was hurt
by--only that it did not answer the expectations of her affection. She
wrote a laconic, incoherent note in return, allowing him to call on her
the next day--he had requested permission at the conclusion of his
letter.
Her mind was then painfully active; she could not read or walk; she
tried to fly from herself, to forget the long hours that were yet to run
before to-morrow could arrive: she knew not what time he would come;
certainly in the morning, she concluded; the morning then was anxiously
wished for; and every wish produced a sigh, that arose from expectation
on the stretch, damped by fear and vain regret.
To beguile the tedious time, Henry's favorite tunes were sung; the books
they read together turned over; and the short epistle read at least a
hundred times.--Any one who had seen her, would have supposed that she
was trying to decypher Chinese characters.
After a sleepless night, she hailed the tardy day, watched the rising
sun, and then listened for every footstep, and started if she heard the
street door opened. At last he came, and she who had been counting the
hours, and doubting whether the earth moved, would gladly have escaped
the approaching interview.
With an unequal, irresolute pace, she went to meet him; but when she
beheld his emaciated countenance, all the tenderness, which the
formality of his letter had damped, returned, and a mournful
presentiment stilled the internal conflict. She caught his hand, and
looking wistfully at him, exclaimed, "Indeed, you are not well!"
"I am very far from well; but it matters not," added he with a smile of
resignation; "my native air may work wonders, and besides, my mother is
a tender nurse, and I shall sometimes see thee."
Mary felt for the first time in her life, envy; she wished
involuntarily, that all the comfort he received should be from her. She
enquired about the symptoms of his disorder; and heard that he had been
very ill; she hastily drove away the fears, that former dear bought
experience suggested: and again and again did she repeat, that she was
sure he would soon recover. She would then look in his face, to see if
he assented, and ask more questions to the same purport. She tried to
avoid speaking of herself, and Henry left her, with, a promise of
visiting her the next day.
Her mind was now engrossed by one fear--yet she would not allow herself
to think that she feared an event she could not name. She still saw his
pale face; the sound of his voice still vibrated on her ears; she tried
to retain it; she listened, looked round, wept, and prayed.
Henry had enlightened the desolate scene: was this charm of life to fade
away, and, like the baseless fabric of a vision, leave not a wreck
behind? These thoughts disturbed her reason, she shook her head, as if
to drive them out of it; a weight, a heavy one, was on her heart; all
was not well there.
Out of this reverie she was soon woke to keener anguish, by the arrival
of a letter from her husband; it came to Lisbon after her departure:
Henry had forwarded it to her, but did not choose to deliver it
himself, for a very obvious reason; it might have produced a
conversation he wished for some time to avoid; and his precaution took
its rise almost equally from benevolence and love.
She could not muster up sufficient resolution to break the seal: her
fears were not prophetic, for the contents gave her comfort. He informed
her that he intended prolonging his tour, as he was now his own master,
and wished to remain some time on the continent, and in particular to
visit Italy without any restraint: but his reasons for it appeared
childish; it was not to cultivate his taste, or tread on classic ground,
where poets and philosophers caught their lore; but to join in the
masquerades, and such burlesque amusements.
These instances of folly relieved Mary, in some degree reconciled her
to herself added fuel to the devouring flame--and silenced something
like a pang, which reason and conscience made her feel, when she
reflected, that it is the office of Religion to reconcile us to the
seemingly hard dispensations of providence; and that no inclination,
however strong, should oblige us to desert the post assigned us, or
force us to forget that virtue should be an active principle; and that
the most desirable station, is the one that exercises our faculties,
refines our affections, and enables us to be useful.
One reflection continually wounded her repose; she feared not poverty;
her wants were few; but in giving up a fortune, she gave up the power of
comforting the miserable, and making the sad heart sing for joy.
Heaven had endowed her with uncommon humanity, to render her one of His
benevolent agents, a messenger of peace; and should she attend to her
own inclinations?
These suggestions, though they could not subdue a violent passion,
increased her misery. One moment she was a heroine, half determined to
bear whatever fate should inflict; the next, her mind would recoil--and
tenderness possessed her whole soul. Some instances of Henry's
affection, his worth and genius, were remembered: and the earth was only
a vale of tears, because he was not to sojourn with her.