CHAP.  XXV.

A few mornings after, as Mary was sitting ruminating, harassed by perplexing thoughts, and fears, a letter was delivered to her:  the servant waited for an answer.  Her heart palpitated; it was from Henry; she held it some time in her hand, then tore it open; it was not a long one; and only contained an account of a relapse, which prevented his sailing in the first packet, as he had intended.  Some tender enquiries were added, concerning her health, and state of mind; but they were expressed in rather a formal style:  it vexed her, and the more so, as it stopped the current of affection, which the account of his arrival and illness had made flow to her heart—­it ceased to beat for a moment—­she read the passage over again; but could not tell what she was hurt by—­only that it did not answer the expectations of her affection.  She wrote a laconic, incoherent note in return, allowing him to call on her the next day—­he had requested permission at the conclusion of his letter.

Her mind was then painfully active; she could not read or walk; she tried to fly from herself, to forget the long hours that were yet to run before to-morrow could arrive:  she knew not what time he would come; certainly in the morning, she concluded; the morning then was anxiously wished for; and every wish produced a sigh, that arose from expectation on the stretch, damped by fear and vain regret.

To beguile the tedious time, Henry’s favorite tunes were sung; the books they read together turned over; and the short epistle read at least a hundred times.—­Any one who had seen her, would have supposed that she was trying to decypher Chinese characters.

After a sleepless night, she hailed the tardy day, watched the rising sun, and then listened for every footstep, and started if she heard the street door opened.  At last he came, and she who had been counting the hours, and doubting whether the earth moved, would gladly have escaped the approaching interview.

With an unequal, irresolute pace, she went to meet him; but when she beheld his emaciated countenance, all the tenderness, which the formality of his letter had damped, returned, and a mournful presentiment stilled the internal conflict.  She caught his hand, and looking wistfully at him, exclaimed, “Indeed, you are not well!”

“I am very far from well; but it matters not,” added he with a smile of resignation; “my native air may work wonders, and besides, my mother is a tender nurse, and I shall sometimes see thee.”

Mary felt for the first time in her life, envy; she wished involuntarily, that all the comfort he received should be from her.  She enquired about the symptoms of his disorder; and heard that he had been very ill; she hastily drove away the fears, that former dear bought experience suggested:  and again and again did she repeat, that she was sure he would soon recover.  She would then look in his face, to see if he assented, and ask more questions to the same purport.  She tried to avoid speaking of herself, and Henry left her, with, a promise of visiting her the next day.