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Page 4
She was several years older than Mary, yet her refinement, her taste,
caught her eye, and she eagerly sought her friendship: before her return
she had assisted the family, which was almost reduced to the last ebb;
and now she had another motive to actuate her.
As she had often occasion to send messages to Ann, her new friend,
mistakes were frequently made; Ann proposed that in future they should
be written ones, to obviate this difficulty, and render their
intercourse more agreeable. Young people are mostly fond of scribbling;
Mary had had very little instruction; but by copying her friend's
letters, whose hand she admired, she soon became a proficient; a little
practice made her write with tolerable correctness, and her genius gave
force to it. In conversation, and in writing, when she felt, she was
pathetic, tender and persuasive; and she expressed contempt with such
energy, that few could stand the flash of her eyes.
As she grew more intimate with Ann, her manners were softened, and she
acquired a degree of equality in her behaviour: yet still her spirits
were fluctuating, and her movements rapid. She felt less pain on
account of her mother's partiality to her brother, as she hoped now to
experience the pleasure of being beloved; but this hope led her into new
sorrows, and, as usual, paved the way for disappointment. Ann only felt
gratitude; her heart was entirely engrossed by one object, and
friendship could not serve as a substitute; memory officiously retraced
past scenes, and unavailing wishes made time loiter.
Mary was often hurt by the involuntary indifference which these
consequences produced. When her friend was all the world to her, she
found she was not as necessary to her happiness; and her delicate mind
could not bear to obtrude her affection, or receive love as an alms, the
offspring of pity. Very frequently has she ran to her with delight, and
not perceiving any thing of the same kind in Ann's countenance, she has
shrunk back; and, falling from one extreme into the other, instead of a
warm greeting that was just slipping from her tongue, her expressions
seemed to be dictated by the most chilling insensibility.
She would then imagine that she looked sickly or unhappy, and then all
her tenderness would return like a torrent, and bear away all
reflection. In this manner was her sensibility called forth, and
exercised, by her mother's illness, her friend's misfortunes, and her
own unsettled mind.
CHAP. IV.
Near to her father's house was a range of mountains; some of them were,
literally speaking, cloud-capt, for on them clouds continually rested,
and gave grandeur to the prospect; and down many of their sides the
little bubbling cascades ran till they swelled a beautiful river.
Through the straggling trees and bushes the wind whistled, and on them
the birds sung, particularly the robins; they also found shelter in the
ivy of an old castle, a haunted one, as the story went; it was situated
on the brow of one of the mountains, and commanded a view of the sea.
This castle had been inhabited by some of her ancestors; and many tales
had the old house-keeper told her of the worthies who had resided there.
When her mother frowned, and her friend looked cool, she would steal to
this retirement, where human foot seldom trod--gaze on the sea, observe
the grey clouds, or listen to the wind which struggled to free itself
from the only thing that impeded its course. When more cheerful, she
admired the various dispositions of light and shade, the beautiful tints
the gleams of sunshine gave to the distant hills; then she rejoiced in
existence, and darted into futurity.
One way home was through the cavity of a rock covered with a thin layer
of earth, just sufficient to afford nourishment to a few stunted shrubs
and wild plants, which grew on its sides, and nodded over the summit. A
clear stream broke out of it, and ran amongst the pieces of rocks
fallen into it. Here twilight always reigned--it seemed the Temple of
Solitude; yet, paradoxical as the assertion may appear, when the foot
sounded on the rock, it terrified the intruder, and inspired a strange
feeling, as if the rightful sovereign was dislodged. In this retreat she
read Thomson's Seasons, Young's Night-Thoughts, and Paradise Lost.
At a little distance from it were the huts of a few poor fishermen, who
supported their numerous children by their precarious labour. In these
little huts she frequently rested, and denied herself every childish
gratification, in order to relieve the necessities of the inhabitants.
Her heart yearned for them, and would dance with joy when she had
relieved their wants, or afforded them pleasure.
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