ACTIVE as love was in the heart of Maria, the story she had just
heard made her thoughts take a wider range. The opening
buds of hope closed, as if they had put forth too early, and the
the happiest day of her life was overcast by the most melancholy
reflections. Thinking of Jemima's peculiar fate and her
own, she was led to consider the oppressed state of women,
and to lament that she had given birth to a daughter. Sleep
fled from her eyelids, while she dwelt on the wretchedness of
unprotected infancy, till sympathy with Jemima changed to
agony, when it seemed probable that her own
babe might
even now be in the very state she so forcibly described.
Maria thought, and thought again. Jemima's humanity had
rather been benumbed than killed, by the keen frost she had
to brave at her entrance into life; an appeal then to her feelings,
on this tender point, surely would not be fruitless; and
Maria began to anticipate the delight it would afford her to
gain intelligence of her child. This project was now the only
subject of reflection; and she watched impatiently for the
dawn of day, with that determinate purpose which generally
insures success.
At the usual hour, Jemima brought her breakfast, and a
tender note from Darnford. She ran her eye hastily over it,
and her heart calmly hoarded up the rapture a fresh assurance
of affection,
affection such as she wished to inspire, gave her,
without diverting her mind a moment from its design. While
Jemima waited to take away the breakfast, Maria alluded to
the reflections, that had haunted her during the night to the
exclusion of sleep. She spoke with energy of Jemima's unmerited
sufferings, and of the fate of a number of deserted
females, placed within the sweep of a whirlwind, from which
it was next to impossible to escape. Perceiving the effect her
conversation produced on the countenance of her guard, she
grasped the arm of Jemima with that irresistible warmth
which defies repulse, exclaiming — "With your heart, and such
dreadful experience, can you lend your aid to deprive my
babe of a mother's tenderness, a mother's care? In the name
of God, assist me to snatch her from destruction! Let me but
give her an education — let me but prepare her body and
mind to encounter the ills which await her sex, and I will
teach her to consider you as her second mother, and herself
as the prop of your age. Yes, Jemima, look at me — observe me
closely, and read my very soul; you merit a better fate;" she
held out her hand with a firm gesture of assurance; "and I will
procure it for you, as a testimony of my esteem, as well as of
my gratitude."
Jemima had not power to resist this persuasive torrent; and,
owning that the house in which she was confined, was situated
on the banks of the Thames, only a few miles from London,
and not on the sea-coast, as Darnford had supposed, she promised
to invent
some excuse for her absence, and go herself to
trace the situation, and enquire concerning the health, of this
abandoned daughter. Her manner implied an intention to do
something more, but she seemed unwilling to impart her
design; and Maria, glad to have obtained the main point,
thought it best to leave her to the workings of her own mind;
convinced that she had the power of interesting her still more
in favour of herself and child, by a simple recital of facts.
In the evening, Jemima informed the impatient mother,
that on the morrow she should hasten to town before the
family hour of rising, and received all the information necessary,
as a clue to her search. The "Good night!" Maria uttered
was peculiarly solemn and affectionate. Glad expectation
sparkled
in her eye; and, for the first time since her detention,
she pronounced the name of her child with pleasureable fondness;
and, with all the garrulity of a nurse, described her first
smile when she recognized her mother. Recollecting herself,
a still kinder "Adieu!" with a "God bless you!" — that seemed
to include a maternal benediction, dismissed Jemima.
The dreary solitude of the ensuing day, lengthened by impatiently
dwelling on the same idea, was intolerably wearisome.
She listened for the sound of a particular clock, which
some directions of the wind allowed her to hear distinctly. She
marked the shadow gaining on the wall; and, twilight thickening
into darkness, her breath seemed oppressed while she
anxiously
counted nine. — The last sound was a stroke of despair
on her heart; for she expected every moment, without
seeing Jemima, to have her light extinguished by the savage
female who supplied her place. She was even obliged to prepare
for bed, restless as she was, not to disoblige her new
attendant. She had been cautioned not to speak too freely to
her; but the caution was needless, her countenance would still
more emphatically have made her shrink back. Such was the
ferocity of manner, conspicuous in every word and gesture of
this hag, that Maria was afraid to enquire, why Jemima, who
had faithfully promised to see her before her door was shut for
the night, came not? — and, when the key turned in the lock,
to consign her to a night of suspence, she felt a degree of
anguish
which the circumstances scarcely justified.
Continually on the watch, the shutting of a door, or the
sound of a foot-step, made her start and tremble with apprehension,
something like what she felt, when, at her entrance,
dragged along the gallery, she began to doubt whether she
were not surrounded by demons?
Fatigued by an endless rotation of thought and wild alarms,
she looked like a spectre, when Jemima entered in the morning;
especially as her eyes darted out of her head, to read in
Jemima's countenance, almost as pallid, the intelligence she
dared not trust her tongue to demand. Jemima put down the
tea-things, and appeared very busy in arranging the table.
Maria took up a cup with trembling hand, then forcibly
recovering
her fortitude, and restraining the convulsive movement
which agitated the muscles of her mouth, she said, "Spare
yourself the pain of preparing me for your information, I
adjure you! — My child is dead!" Jemima solemnly answered,
"Yes;" with a look expressive of compassion and angry emotions.
"Leave me," added Maria, making a fresh effort to govern
her feelings, and hiding her face in her handkerchief, to
conceal her anguish — "It is enough — I know that my babe is
no more — I will hear the particulars when I am" —
calmer, she
could not utter; and Jemima, without importuning her by idle
attempts to console her, left the room.
Plunged in the deepest melancholy, she would not admit
Darnford's visits; and such is the force of early associations
even on strong minds, that, for a while, she indulged the
superstitious notion that she was justly punished by the death
of her child, for having for an instant ceased to regret her loss.
Two or three letters from Darnford, full of soothing, manly
tenderness, only added poignancy to these accusing emotions;
yet the passionate style in which he expressed, what he
termed the first and fondest wish of his heart, "that his affection
might make her some amends for the cruelty and injustice
she had endured," inspired a sentiment of gratitude to
heaven; and her eyes filled with delicious tears, when, at the
conclusion of his letter, wishing to supply the place of her
unworthy relations, whose want of principle he execrated, he
assured her, calling her his dearest girl, "that it should hence-forth be the business of his life to make her happy."
He begged, in a note sent the following morning, to be
permitted to see her, when his presence would be no intrusion
on her grief, and so earnestly intreated to be allowed,
according to promise, to beguile the tedious moments of absence,
by dwelling on the events of her past life, that she sent
him the memoirs which had been written for her daughter,
promising Jemima the perusal as soon as he returned them.