Soon after the ladies left her, she received a message from Henry, requesting, as she saw company, to be permitted to visit her: she consented, and he entered immediately, with an unassured pace. She ran eagerly up to him--saw the tear trembling in his eye, and his countenance softened by the tenderest compassion; the hand which pressed hers seemed that of a fellow-creature. She burst into tears; and, unable to restrain them, she hid her face with both her hands; these tears relieved her, (she had before had a difficulty in breathing,) and she sat down by him more composed than she had appeared since Ann's death; but her conversation was incoherent.
She called herself "a poor disconsolate creature!"--"Mine is a selfish
grief," she exclaimed--"Yet; Heaven is my witness, I do not wish her
back now she has reached those peaceful mansions, where the weary rest. Her pure spirit is happy; but what a wretch am I!"
Henry forgot his cautious reserve. "Would you allow me to call you
friend?" said he in a hesitating voice. "I feel, dear girl, the tendered
interest in whatever concerns thee." His eyes spoke the rest. They were
both silent a few moments; then Henry resumed the conversation. "I have
also been acquainted with grief! I mourn the loss of a woman who was not
worthy of my regard. Let me give thee some account of the man who now
solicits thy friendship; and who, from motives of the purest
benevolence, wishes to give comfort to thy wounded heart."
"I have myself," said he, mournfully, "shaken hands with happiness, and
am dead to the world; I wait patiently for my dissolution; but, for
thee, Mary, there may be many bright days in store."
"Impossible," replied she, in a peevish tone, as if he had insulted her
by the supposition; her feelings were so much in unison with his, that
she was in love with misery.
He smiled at her impatience, and went on. "My father died before I knew
him, and my mother was so attached to my eldest brother, that she took
very little pains to fit me for the profession to which I was destined: and, may I tell thee, I left my family, and, in many different stations, rambled about the world; saw mankind in every rank of life; and, in order to be independent, exerted those talents Nature has given me: these exertions improved my understanding; and the miseries I was witness to, gave a keener edge to my sensibility. My constitution is naturally weak; and, perhaps, two or three lingering disorders in my youth, first gave me a habit of reflecting, and enabled me to obtain some dominion over my passions. At least," added he, stifling a sigh, "over the violent ones, though I fear, refinement and reflection only renders the tender ones more tyrannic.
"I have told you already I have been in love, and disappointed--the
object is now no more; let her faults sleep with her! Yet this passion
has pervaded my whole soul, and mixed itself with all my affections and
pursuits.--I am not peacefully indifferent; yet it is only to my violin
I tell the sorrows I now confide with thee. The object I loved forfeited
my esteem; yet, true to the sentiment, my fancy has too frequently
delighted to form a creature that I could love, that could convey to my
soul sensations which the gross part of mankind have not any conception
of."
He stopped, as Mary seemed lost in thought; but as she was still in a
listening attitude, continued his little narrative. "I kept up an
irregular correspondence with my mother; my brother's extravagance and
ingratitude had almost broken her heart, and made her feel something
like a pang of remorse, on account of her behaviour to me. I hastened to
comfort her--and was a comfort to her.
"My declining health prevented my taking orders, as I had intended; but
I with warmth entered into literary pursuits; perhaps my heart, not
having an object, made me embrace the substitute with more eagerness. But, do not imagine I have always been a die-away swain. No: I have frequented the cheerful haunts of men, and wit!--enchanting wit! has made many moments fly free from care. I am too fond of the elegant arts; and woman--lovely woman! thou hast charmed me, though, perhaps, it would not be easy to find one to whom my reason would allow me to be constant.