9

pillow, wept and sobbed with unchecked emotion.
Her conscience whispered she was wrong--very wrong. In vain did she try to silence its reproaches--in vain did she try to persuade herself of the innocence of her attachment to Charles. Or, when conscience continued its accusations, she would palliate her weakness by replying to her monito, that affections were involuntary--that feelings could not be commanded, though actions might, and that while these were conformed to the dictates of duty, she had nothing to reproach herself with. But conscience was not satisfied with this sophistry, and Mary was miserable. Why did she not seek that divine assistance, which at an earlier period she had sought? Why not go to that source of consolation which in other troubles had proved so efficacious? Alas! her present sorrows were such as she dared not carry to the throne of grace--rather, were it possible, she would conceal them from the all-searching eye. By degrees she had left off all communion with God; devotion had no longer any attraction for her soul; self-examination she avoided. To probe her own heart was too painful--she sought in the reveries of imagination to lose the upbraiding thoughts which marred all her present enjoyment. Her only relief from uneasiness and dissatisfaction was in the society of Charles. But even that was transient; for only while she listened to his beguiling words was her mind divested from its perplexities. And now she must leave him--leave him, to be alone with her husband. She scarcely knew wherefore, but fear mingled with her reluctance at the idea. But go she must, and she must endeavour to do it with as good a grace as possible.
The weather was favourable, and Mr. and Mrs. Murray commenced their journey. Yes, the weather was favourable: the air was mild, the sun shone bright, and the aspect of the country was beautifully varied by the rich and glowing tints of autumn. Nature looked as though she were dressed for a festival-but she appeared so only to those who looked upon her through the medium of festive, at least happy minds. It is not in the power of external objects to awaken the sentiment of beauty or loveliness, or grandeur, by simply impressing the organ of sight. The child, the idiot, the ignorant and uncultivated, may possess a more keen and distinct vision, than the poet or philosopher, but how different the impression made by the same objects on these individuals. Yet, not more so than is produced by scenes, viewed through differing states of feeling by the same person. It is the soul which imparts beauty and loveliness to nature; clothes her in smiles or in frowns, in gladness or gloom. The soul of Mary was sad--the heart of Mr. Murray was chilled; and bright and glowing as were the earth and sky, to these travellers they appeared neither lovely or cheerful; the restraint they felt could not be shaken off, and they journeyed on in coldness and silence, or with now and then a brief observation on some passing object.
"Oh, who would believe," thought Mary, "that I am the same being who travelled this some road, ten years ago, a young and happy bride. With what rapture did my heart swell; it seemed as though my bosom were too small to hold it, as if it must burst its narrow prison, so surcharged was it with the fulness of joy and love; and methinks it must have burst, had not these feelings found vent in words, in tears and tender transport." And once stealing a glance at her husband--"Are you he, who awoke these transports. Oh! that it might be so still--that our hearts could again mingle every thought and every feeling--that every glance of the eye were again a messenger of love, and not a spy. Oh! why cannot it be so? How completely happy I then was--what a change the few last months has wrought. Would that our affections depended on our will; then should mine flow with the same warmth that they once did--then should I be again happy; now I must be miserable. Oh! could my feelings obey, how quickly would I enforce obedience--but the affections cannot be commanded."
"Mary you are mistaken; you wilfully deceive yourself--had you kept your heart with all diligence, the enemy that is now destroying your peace could never have found an entrance. This first neglect was your first error. But still, after access was gained, this enemy could not have thrown your feelings into such a state of rebellion, had you not entertained your disguised foe as a friend--a pleasing, a dear friend. Soon, every sentiment of thought rallied round the standard--rebels, all, to your holiest duties and affections. Now they are indeed strong--but, Mary, they are not invincible. Rely not on your own strenght; that indeed would be too feeble; but implore the assistance of Divind Power, and be assured, if asked [iR] humility and sincerity, it will not be denied. Go, unhappy woman go."
Thus whispered her guardian angel--for is not conscience a guardian angle?
"I cannot go," replied her fond and feeble heart. "Rather say you will not--for this is the truth. Oh, the deceitfulness of the heart! deceiving us not only as to the nature of our feelings, but even the nature of our wishes, persuading us we desire to do right, at the very time when we cling most fondly to what is wrong."
Distressed and anxious as was the state of Mr. Murray's mind, it was, compared with that of his wife, at peace. He suffered not from the warfare of contending passions--from the conflicts between love and duty--from the reproaches of an offended conscience; his sorrow was unmingled with bitterness, or self-condemnation--it was a tender sorrow, that saddened but did nor irritate his feelings.
"My poor Mary," thought he, as he looked tenderly at her, "I should have known better--I should not have thus exposed thee; through my imprudence this evil has fallen on us; and shall I not then by gentleness and kindness endeavour to repair it. Could I but talk freely to her, tell her all I feel, wish, design; but her cold reserve shuts my lips--I have not resolution to say, "Charles must leave us"--yet it must be so. But whither will he go? That however is of less moment than the peace, the virtue, the welfare of my wife and children. My duty is clear--a sacrifice must be made--not however of these precious objects; these it is my duty to save at all hazards. And will her peace be restored?