Henry came the next day, and once or twice in the course of the following week; but still Mary kept up some little formality, a certain consciousness restrained her; and Henry did not enter on the subject which he found she wished to avoid.  In the course of conversation, however, she mentioned to him, that she earnestly desired to obtain a place in one of the public offices for Ann’s brother, as the family were again in a declining way.

Henry attended, made a few enquiries, and dropped the subject; but the following week, she heard him enter with unusual haste; it was to inform her, that he had made interest with a person of some consequence, whom he had once obliged in a very disagreeable exigency, in a foreign country; and that he had procured a place for her friend, which would infallibly lead to something better, if he behaved with propriety.  Mary could not speak to thank him; emotions of gratitude and love suffused her face; her blood eloquently spoke.  She delighted to receive benefits through the medium of her fellow creatures; but to receive them from Henry was exquisite pleasure.

As the summer advanced, Henry grew worse; the closeness of the air, in the metropolis, affected his breath; and his mother insisted on his fixing on some place in the country, where she would accompany him.  He could not think of going far off, but chose a little village on the banks of the Thames, near Mary’s dwelling:  he then introduced her to his mother.

They frequently went down the river in a boat; Henry would take his violin, and Mary would sometimes sing, or read, to them.  She pleased his mother; she inchanted him.  It was an advantage to Mary that friendship first possessed her heart; it opened it to all the softer sentiments of humanity:—­and when this first affection was torn away, a similar one sprung up, with a still tenderer sentiment added to it.

The last evening they were on the water, the clouds grew suddenly black, and broke in violent showers, which interrupted the solemn stillness that had prevailed previous to it.  The thunder roared; and the oars plying quickly, in order to reach the shore, occasioned a not unpleasing sound.  Mary drew still nearer Henry; she wished to have sought with him a watry grave; to have escaped the horror of surviving him.—­She spoke not, but Henry saw the workings of her mind—­he felt them; threw his arm round her waist—­and they enjoyed the luxury of wretchedness.—­As they touched the shore, Mary perceived that Henry was wet; with eager anxiety she cried, What shall I do!—­this day will kill thee, and I shall not die with thee!

This accident put a stop to their pleasurable excursions; it had injured him, and brought on the spitting of blood he was subject to—­perhaps it was not the cold that he caught, that occasioned it.  In vain did Mary try to shut her eyes; her fate pursued her!  Henry every day grew worse and worse.

CHAP.  XXVII.