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Page 28
Her thoughts flew rapidly to something. I could be happy listening to
him, soothing his cares.--Would he not smile upon me--call me his own
Mary? I am not his--said she with fierceness--I am a wretch! and she
heaved a sigh that almost broke her heart, while the big tears rolled
down her burning cheeks; but still her exercised mind, accustomed to
think, began to observe its operation, though the barrier of reason was
almost carried away, and all the faculties not restrained by her, were
running into confusion. Wherefore am I made thus? Vain are my
efforts--I cannot live without loving--and love leads to madness.--Yet
I will not weep; and her eyes were now fixed by despair, dry and
motionless; and then quickly whirled about with a look of distraction.
She looked for hope; but found none--all was troubled waters.--No where
could she find rest. I have already paced to and fro in the earth; it is
not my abiding place--may I not too go home! Ah! no. Is this complying
with my Henry's request, could a spirit thus disengaged expect to
associate with his? Tears of tenderness strayed down her relaxed
countenance, and her softened heart heaved more regularly. She felt the
rain, and turned to her solitary home.
Fatigued by the tumultuous emotions she had endured, when she entered
the house she ran to her own room, sunk on the bed; and exhausted
nature soon closed her eyes; but active fancy was still awake, and a
thousand fearful dreams interrupted her slumbers.
Feverish and languid, she opened her eyes, and saw the unwelcome sun
dart his rays through a window, the curtains of which she had forgotten
to draw. The dew hung on the adjacent trees, and added to the lustre;
the little robin began his song, and distant birds joined. She looked;
her countenance was still vacant--her sensibility was absorbed by one
object.
Did I ever admire the rising sun, she slightly thought, turning from the
Window, and shutting her eyes: she recalled to view the last night's
scene. His faltering voice, lingering step, and the look of tender woe,
were all graven on her heart; as were the words "Could these arms
shield thee from sorrow--afford thee an asylum from an unfeeling world."
The pressure to his bosom was not forgot. For a moment she was happy;
but in a long-drawn sigh every delightful sensation evaporated.
Soon--yes, very soon, will the grave again receive all I love! and the
remnant of my days--she could not proceed--Were there then days to come
after that?
CHAP. XXVIII.
Just as she was going to quit her room, to visit Henry, his mother
called on her.
"My son is worse to-day," said she, "I come to request you to spend not
only this day, but a week or two with me.--Why should I conceal any
thing from you? Last night my child made his mother his confident, and,
in the anguish of his heart, requested me to be thy friend--when I shall
be childless. I will not attempt to describe what I felt when he talked
thus to me. If I am to lose the support of my age, and be again a
widow--may I call her Child whom my Henry wishes me to adopt?"
This new instance of Henry's disinterested affection, Mary felt most
forcibly; and striving to restrain the complicated emotions, and sooth
the wretched mother, she almost fainted: when the unhappy parent forced
tears from her, by saying, "I deserve this blow; my partial fondness
made me neglect him, when most he wanted a mother's care; this neglect,
perhaps, first injured his constitution: righteous Heaven has made my
crime its own punishment; and now I am indeed a mother, I shall loss my
child--my only child!"
When they were a little more composed they hastened to the invalide; but
during the short ride, the mother related several instances of Henry's
goodness of heart. Mary's tears were not those of unmixed anguish; the
display of his virtues gave her extreme delight--yet human nature
prevailed; she trembled to think they would soon unfold themselves in a
more genial clime.
CHAP. XXIX.
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