She took up a book on the powers of the human mind; but, her attention ſtrayed from cold arguments on the nature of what ſhe felt, while ſhe was feeling, and ſhe ſnapt the chain of the theory to read Dryden's Guiſcard and Sigiſmunda.
Maria, in the courſe of the enſuing day, returned ſome of the books, with the hope of getting others—and more marginal notes. Thus ſhut out from human intercourſe, and compelled to view nothing but the priſon of vexed ſpirits, to meet a wretch in the ſame ſituation, was more ſurely to find a friend, than to imagine a countryman one, in a ſtrange land, where the human voice conveys no information to the eager ear.
"Did you ever ſee the unfortunate being to whom theſe books belong?" aſked Maria, when Jemima brought her ſupper. "Yes. He ſometimes walks out, between five and ſix, before the family is ſtirring, in the morning, with two keepers; but even then his hands are confined."
"What! is he ſo unruly?" enquired Maria, with an accent of diſappointment.
"No, not that I perceive," replied Jemima; "but he has an untamed look, a vehemence of eye, that excites apprehenſion. Were his hands free, he looks as if he could ſoon manage both his guards: yet he appears tranquil."
"If he be ſo ſtrong, he muſt be young," obſerved Maria.
"Three or four and thirty, I ſuppoſe; but there is no judging of a perſon in his ſituation."
"Are you ſure that he is mad?" interrupted Maria with eagerneſs. Jemima quitted the room, without replying.
"No, no, he certainly is not!" exclaimed Maria, anſwering herſelf; "the man who could write thoſe obſervations was not diſordered in his intellects."
She ſat muſing, gazing at the moon, and watching its motion as it ſeemed to glide under the clouds. Then, preparing for bed, ſhe thought, "Of what uſe could I be to him, or he to me, if it be true that he is unjuſtly confined?—Could he aid me to eſcape, who is himſelf more cloſely watched?—Still I ſhould like to ſee him." She went to bed, dreamed of her child, yet woke exactly at half after five o'clock, and ſtarting up, only wrapped a gown around her, and ran to the window. The morning was chill, it was the latter end of September; yet ſhe did not retire to warm herſelf and think in bed, till the ſound of the ſervants, moving about the houſe, convinced her that the unknown would not walk in the garden that morning. She was aſhamed at feeling diſappointed; and began to reflect, as an excuſe to herſelf, on the little objects which attract attention when there is nothing to divert the mind; and how difficult it was for women to avoid growing romantic, who have no active duties or purſuits.
