“I have enquired concerning these strangers, and find that the one who has the most dignity in her manners, is really a woman of fortune.”  “Lord, mamma, how ill she dresses:”  mamma went on; “She is a romantic creature, you must not copy her, miss; yet she is an heiress of the large fortune in ——­shire, of which you may remember to have heard the Countess speak the night you had on the dancing-dress that was so much admired; but she is married.”

She then told them the whole story as she heard it from her maid, who picked it out of Mary’s servant.  “She is a foolish creature, and this friend that she pays as much attention to as if she was a lady of quality, is a beggar.”  “Well, how strange!” cried the girls.

“She is, however, a charming creature,” said her nephew.  Henry sighed, and strode across the room once or twice; then took up his violin, and played the air which first struck Mary; he had often heard her praise it.

The music was uncommonly melodious, “And came stealing on the senses like the sweet south.”  The well-known sounds reached Mary as she sat by her friend—­she listened without knowing that she did—­and shed tears almost without being conscious of it.  Ann soon fell asleep, as she had taken an opiate.  Mary, then brooding over her fears, began to imagine she had deceived herself—­Ann was still very ill; hope had beguiled many heavy hours; yet she was displeased with herself for admitting this welcome guest.—­And she worked up her mind to such a degree of anxiety, that she determined, once more, to seek medical aid.

No sooner did she determine, than she ran down with a discomposed look, to enquire of the ladies who she should send for.  When she entered the room she could not articulate her fears—­it appeared like pronouncing Ann’s sentence of death; her faultering tongue dropped some broken words, and she remained silent.  The ladies wondered that a person of her sense should be so little mistress of herself; and began to administer some common-place comfort, as, that it was our duty to submit to the will of Heaven, and the like trite consolations, which Mary did not answer; but waving her hand, with an air of impatience, she exclaimed, “I cannot live without her!—­I have no other friend; if I lose her, what a desart will the world be to me.”  “No other friend,” re-echoed they, “have you not a husband?”

Mary shrunk back, and was alternately pale and red.  A delicate sense of propriety prevented her replying; and recalled her bewildered reason.—­Assuming, in consequence of her recollection, a more composed manner, she made the intended enquiry, and left the room.  Henry’s eyes followed her while the females very freely animadverted on her strange behaviour.

CHAP.  XII.

The physician was sent for; his prescription afforded Ann a little temporary relief; and they again joined the circle.  Unfortunately, the weather happened to be constantly wet for more than a week, and confined them to the house.  Ann then found the ladies not so agreeable; when they sat whole hours together, the thread-bare topics were exhausted; and, but for cards or music, the long evenings would have been yawned away in listless indolence.