They but disgrace themselves, and not poor Charles.
Alice. Mary?
Mary. Yes; take my secret; take it quickly,
Or it will burst my heart.
Alice. Nay, but be calm.
Mary. You shall know all—surely you'll pity, Alice,
And perhaps, pardon me. Three years ago
When Charles's mother first came here to live;
From England, was it not—the village then
Had scarce begun to hate her, for as yet
She had not lavish'd charities abroad,
To purchase up ingratitude and envy.
Being her nearest neighbour, (my dear mother
Was then alive,) there rose at once between us
That intercourse which neighbourhood compels
At times, e'en with the most reserved. The lady,
I know not why, unless out of her goodness.
Graced me with her regard, and when my mother
Died, she took the desolate child to her bosom.
Alice. 'T was kindly done.
Mary. O she was goodness all,
Her words, so sweet and soothing; as she spoke,
Alice, methought I saw my sainted mother
Lean o'er the bright edge of a silvery cloud
And smile upon her happy orphan girl,—
And there was Charles, so busy still around me,
Exhausting all his boyish gallantries.
With brotherly affection.—
Alice. Charles, still Charles?
Mary. Can I forget it!—
Alice. Nay, go on.
Mary. The winter
Soon pass'd away, and then the spring came on
With all its flowers, and still the earliest blossom
Was cull'd for me. O, we were then so happy—
I always lov'd the spring. Young nature then
Came to me like a play-mate. Ere the snows
Had left the hills, I've often wander'd forth,
And, all impatient for the verdure, clear'd
A patch of infant green; or even turn'd
With mighty effort, some recumbent stone.
To find the fresh grass under it.
Alice. This is childish.
Mary. I was a child, then,—would I were e'en now,
As then I was—my life, I fear, will prove
A wintry waste with no green spot to cheer it;
Alice. More visionary still.
Mary. Well, to my story:—
My father took me home, I think it was
About the time you came into the village,
Fell superstition now had spread around.
Reports—I scarce know what they meant—arose
Concerning Isabella; and my father
Made gloomier by my mother's death, and yielding
His strong mind to the doctrine of the times,
Grew daily still more stern, until at length,
At peril of his curse, he bade me never
To hold communion with that family.
Alice. And you obeyed?
Mary. All that I could, I did.
But the tales they tell—the horrid stories—
Her very virtues they distort to crimes.
And for poor Charles, his manliness and spirit.
The gayety of youth and innocence,
In him are vices. Could I help defending,
Knowing them as I did:—all others hating.
Could I help loving!—
Alice. Loving, Mary?
Mary. Ay; most deeply, strongly loving
Charles and his mother.
Alice. But sure you have not seen this Charles?
Mary. Not often.—
Nay, frown not, friend, for how could I avoid it.
When chance insisted on an interview?
Alice. Have ye met lately?
Mary. Yes.
Alice. What pass'd between you?
