By these kind of conflicts the day was lengthened; and when she went to bed, the night passed away in feverish slumbers; though they did not refresh her, she was spared the labour of thinking, of restraining her imagination; it sported uncontrouled; but took its colour from her waking train of thoughts.  One instant she was supporting her dying mother; then Ann was breathing her last, and Henry was comforting her.

The unwelcome light visited her languid eyes; yet, I must tell the truth, she thought she should see Henry, and this hope set her spirits in motion:  but they were quickly depressed by her maid, who came to tell her that she had heard of a vessel on board of which she could be accommodated, and that there was to be another female passenger on board, a vulgar one; but perhaps she would be more useful on that account—­Mary did not want a companion.

As she had given orders for her passage to be engaged in the first vessel that sailed, she could not now retract; and must prepare for the lonely voyage, as the Captain intended taking advantage of the first fair wind.  She had too much strength of mind to waver in her determination but to determine wrung her very heart, opened all her old wounds, and made them bleed afresh.  What was she to do? where go?  Could she set a seal to a hasty vow, and tell a deliberate lie; promise to love one man, when the image of another was ever present to her—­her soul revolted.  “I might gain the applause of the world by such mock heroism; but should I not forfeit my own? forfeit thine, my father!”

There is a solemnity in the shortest ejaculation, which, for a while, stills the tumult of passion.  Mary’s mind had been thrown off its poise; her devotion had been, perhaps, more fervent for some time past; but less regular.  She forgot that happiness was not to be found on earth, and built a terrestrial paradise liable to be destroyed by the first serious thought:  when, she reasoned she became inexpressibly sad, to render life bearable she gave way to fancy—­this was madness.

In a few days she must again go to sea; the weather was very tempestuous—­what of that, the tempest in her soul rendered every other trifling—­it was not the contending elements, but herself she feared!

CHAP.  XVII.

In order to gain strength to support the expected interview, she went out in a carriage.  The day was fine; but all nature was to her a universal blank; she could neither enjoy it, nor weep that she could not.  She passed by the ruins of an old monastery on a very high hill she got out to walk amongst the ruins; the wind blew violently, she did not avoid its fury, on the contrary, wildly bid it blow on, and seemed glad to contend with it, or rather walk against it.  Exhausted she returned to the carriage was soon at home, and in the old room.

Henry started at the sight of her altered appearance; the day before her complexion had been of the most pallid hue; but now her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes enlivened with a false vivacity, an unusual fire.  He was not well, his illness was apparent in his countenance, and he owned he had not closed his eyes all night; this roused her dormant tenderness, she forgot they were so soon to part-engrossed by the present happiness of seeing, of hearing him.