"No, no; you have nothing to do with me," ſhe exclaimed, "this is a moment of life and death!"—
With ſupernatural force ſhe broke from him, and, throwing her arms round Jemima, cried, "Save me!" The being, from whoſe graſp ſhe had looſed herſelf, took up a ſtone as they opened the door, and with a kind of helliſh ſport threw it after them. They were out of his reach.
When Maria arrived in town, ſhe drove to the hotel already fixed on. But ſhe could not ſit ſtill—her child was ever before her; and all that had paſſed during her confinement, appeared to be a dream. She went to the houſe in the ſuburbs, where, as ſhe now diſcovered, her babe had been ſent. The moment ſhe entered, her heart grew ſick; but ſhe wondered not that it had proved its grave. She made the neceſſary enquiries, and the church-yard was pointed out, in which it reſted under a turf. A little frock which the nurſe's child wore (Maria had made it herſelf) caught her eye. The nurſe was glad to ſell it for half-a-guinea, and Maria haſtened away with the relic, and, re-entering the hackney-coach which waited for her, gazed on it, till ſhe reached her hotel.
She then waited on the attorney who had made her uncle's will, and explained to him her ſituation. He readily advanced her ſome of the money which ſtill remained in his hands, and promiſed to take the whole of the caſe into conſideration. Maria only wiſhed to be permitted to remain in quiet—She found that ſeveral bills, apparently with her ſignature, had been preſented to her agent, nor was ſhe for a moment at a loſs to gueſs by whom they had been forged; yet, equally averſe to threaten or intreat, ſhe requeſted her friend [the ſolicitor] to call on Mr. Venables. He was not to be found at home; but at length his agent, the attorney, offered a conditional promiſe to Maria, to leave her in peace, as long as ſhe behaved with propriety, if ſhe would give up the notes. Maria inconſiderately conſented—Darnford was arrived, and ſhe wiſhed to be only alive to love; ſhe wiſhed to forget the anguiſh ſhe felt whenever ſhe thought of her child.
They took a ready furniſhed lodging together, for ſhe was above diſguiſe; Jemima inſiſting on being conſidered as her houſe-keeper, and to receive the cuſtomary ſtipend. On no other terms would ſhe remain with her friend.
Darnford was indefatigable in tracing the myſterious circumſtances of his confinement. The cauſe was ſimply, that a relation, a very diſtant one, to whom he was heir, had died inteſtate, leaving a conſiderable fortune. On the news of Darnford's arrival [in England, a perſon, intruſted with the management of the property, and who had the writings in his poſſeſſion, determining, by one bold ſtroke, to ſtrip Darnford of the ſucceſſion,] had planned his confinement; and [as ſoon as he had taken the meaſures he judged moſt conducive to his object, this ruffian, together with his inſtrument,] the keeper of the private mad-houſe, left the kingdom. Darnford, who ſtill purſued his enquiries, at laſt diſcovered that they had fixed their place of refuge at Paris.
Maria and he determined therefore, with the faithful Jemima, to viſit that metropolis, and accordingly were preparing for the journey, when they were informed that Mr. Venables had commenced an action againſt Darnford for ſeduction and adultery. The indignation Maria felt cannot be explained; ſhe repented of the forbearance ſhe had exerciſed in giving up the notes. Darnford could not put off his journey, without riſking the loſs of his property: Maria therefore furniſhed him with money for his expedition; and determined to remain in London till the termination of this affair.
She viſited ſome ladies with whom ſhe had formerly been intimate, but was refuſed admittance; and at the opera, or Ranelagh, they could not recollect her. Among theſe ladies there were ſome, not her moſt intimate acquaintance, who were generally ſuppoſed to avail themſelves of the cloke of marriage, to conceal a mode of conduct, that would for ever have damned their fame, had they been innocent, ſeduced girls. Theſe particularly ſtood aloof.—Had ſhe remained with her huſband, practiſing inſincerity, and neglecting her child to manage an intrigue, ſhe would ſtill have been viſited and reſpected. If, inſtead of openly living with her lover, ſhe could have condeſcended to call into play a thouſand arts, which, degrading her own mind, might have allowed the people who were not deceived, to pretend to be ſo, ſhe would have been careſſed and treated like an honourable woman. "And Brutus[138-A] is an honourable man!" ſaid Mark-Antony with equal ſincerity.
With Darnford ſhe did not taſte uninterrupted felicity; there was a volatility in his manner which often diſtreſſed her; but love gladdened the ſcene; beſides, he was the moſt tender, ſympathizing creature in the world. A fondneſs for the ſex often gives an appearance of humanity to the behaviour of men, who have ſmall pretenſions to the reality; and they ſeem to love others, when they are only purſuing their own gratification. Darnford appeared ever willing to avail himſelf of her taſte and acquirements, while ſhe endeavoured to profit by his deciſion of character, and to eradicate ſome of the romantic notions, which had taken root in her mind, while in adverſity ſhe had brooded over viſions of unattainable bliſs.
The real affections of life, when they are allowed to burſt forth, are buds pregnant with joy and all the ſweet emotions of the ſoul; yet they branch out with wild eaſe, unlike the artificial forms of felicity, ſketched by an imagination painful alive. The ſubſtantial happineſs, which enlarges and civilizes the mind, may be compared to the pleaſure experienced in roving through nature at large, inhaling the ſweet gale natural to the clime; while the reveries of a feveriſh imagination continually ſport themſelves in gardens full of aromatic ſhrubs, which cloy while they delight, and weaken the ſenſe of pleaſure they gratify. The heaven of fancy, below or beyond the ſtars, in this life, or in thoſe ever-ſmiling regions ſurrounded by the unmarked ocean of futurity, have an inſipid uniformity which palls. Poets have imagined ſcenes of bliſs; but, fencing out ſorrow, all the extatic emotions of the ſoul, and even its grandeur, ſeem to be equally excluded. We doſe over the unruffled lake, and long to ſcale the rocks which fence the happy valley of contentment, though ſerpents hiſs in the pathleſs deſert, and danger lurks in the unexplored wiles. Maria found herſelf more indulgent as ſhe was happier, and diſcovered virtues, in characters ſhe had before diſregarded, while chaſing the phantoms of elegance and excellence, which ſported in the meteors that exhale in the marſhes of miſfortune. The heart is often ſhut by romance againſt ſocial pleaſure; and, foſtering a ſickly ſenſibility, grows callous to the ſoft touches of humanity.
