Mary | Page 4

In general he
treated her with indifference; but when her illness at all interfered with
his pleasures, he expostulated in the most cruel manner, and visibly
harassed the invalid. Mary would then assiduously try to turn his
attention to something else; and when sent out of the room, would
watch at the door, until the storm was over, for unless it was, she could
not rest. Other causes also contributed to disturb her repose: her
mother's luke-warm manner of performing her religious duties, filled
her with anguish; and when she observed her father's vices, the
unbidden tears would flow. She was miserable when beggars were
driven from the gate without being relieved; if she could do it
unperceived, she would give them her own breakfast, and feel gratified,
when, in consequence of it, she was pinched by hunger.
She had once, or twice, told her little secrets to her mother; they were
laughed at, and she determined never to do it again. In this manner was
she left to reflect on her own feelings; and so strengthened were they by
being meditated on, that her character early became singular and
permanent. Her understanding was strong and clear, when not clouded
by her feelings; but she was too much the creature of impulse, and the
slave of compassion.

CHAP. III.

Near her father's house lived a poor widow, who had been brought up
in affluence, but reduced to great distress by the extravagance of her
husband; he had destroyed his constitution while he spent his fortune;
and dying, left his wife, and five small children, to live on a very scanty
pittance. The eldest daughter was for some years educated by a distant
relation, a Clergyman. While she was with him a young gentleman, son
to a man of property in the neighbourhood, took particular notice of her.
It is true, he never talked of love; but then they played and sung in
concert; drew landscapes together, and while she worked he read to her,
cultivated her taste, and stole imperceptibly her heart. Just at this
juncture, when smiling, unanalyzed hope made every prospect bright,
and gay expectation danced in her eyes, her benefactor died. She
returned to her mother--the companion of her youth forgot her, they
took no more sweet counsel together. This disappointment spread a
sadness over her countenance, and made it interesting. She grew fond
of solitude, and her character appeared similar to Mary's, though her
natural disposition was very different.
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