At breakfaſt, Jemima enquired whether ſhe underſtood French? for, unleſs ſhe did, the ſtranger's ſtock of books was exhauſted. Maria replied in the affirmative; but forbore to aſk any more queſtions reſpecting the perſon to whom they belonged. And Jemima gave her a new ſubject for contemplation, by deſcribing the perſon of a lovely maniac, juſt brought into an adjoining chamber. She was ſinging the pathetic ballad of old Rob with the moſt heart-melting falls and pauſes. Jemima had half-opened the door, when ſhe diſtinguiſhed her voice, and Maria ſtood cloſe to it, ſcarcely daring to reſpire, leſt a modulation ſhould eſcape her, ſo exquiſitely ſweet, ſo paſſionately wild. She began with ſympathy to pourtray to herſelf another victim, when the lovely warbler flew, as it were, from the ſpray, and a torrent of unconnected exclamations and queſtions burſt from her, interrupted by fits of laughter, ſo horrid, that Maria ſhut the door, and, turning her eyes up to heaven, exclaimed—"Gracious God!"
Several minutes elapſed before Maria could enquire reſpecting the rumour of the houſe (for this poor wretch was obviouſly not confined without a cauſe); and then Jemima could only tell her, that it was ſaid, "ſhe had been married, againſt her inclination, to a rich old man, extremely jealous (no wonder, for ſhe was a charming creature); and that, in conſequence of his treatment, or ſomething which hung on her mind, ſhe had, during her firſt lying-in, loſt her ſenſes."
What a ſubject of meditation—even to the very confines of madneſs.
"Woman, fragile flower! why were you ſuffered to adorn a world expoſed to the inroad of ſuch ſtormy elements?" thought Maria, while the poor maniac's ſtrain was ſtill breathing on her ear, and ſinking into her very ſoul.
Towards the evening, Jemima brought her Rouſſeau's Heloïſe; and ſhe ſat reading with eyes and heart, till the return of her guard to extinguiſh the light. One inſtance of her kindneſs was, the permitting Maria to have one, till her own hour of retiring to reſt. She had read this work long ſince; but now it ſeemed to open a new world to her—the only one worth inhabiting. Sleep was not to be wooed; yet, far from being fatigued by the reſtleſs rotation of thought, ſhe roſe and opened her window, juſt as the thin watery clouds of twilight made the long ſilent ſhadows viſible. The air ſwept acroſs her face with a voluptuous freſhneſs that thrilled to her heart, awakening indefinable emotions; and the ſound of a waving branch, or the twittering of a ſtartled bird, alone broke the ſtillneſs of repoſing nature. Abſorbed by the ſublime ſenſibility which renders the conſciouſneſs of exiſtence felicity, Maria was happy, till an autumnal ſcent, wafted by the breeze of morn from the fallen leaves of the adjacent wood, made her recollect that the ſeaſon had changed ſince her confinement; yet life afforded no variety to ſolace an afflicted heart. She returned diſpirited to her couch, and thought of her child till the broad glare of day again invited her to the window. She looked not for the unknown, ſtill how great was her vexation at perceiving the back of a man, certainly he, with his two attendants, as he turned into a ſide-path which led to the houſe! A confuſed recollection of having ſeen ſomebody who reſembled him, immediately occurred, to puzzle and torment her with endleſs conjectures. Five minutes ſooner, and ſhe ſhould have ſeen his face, and been out of ſuſpenſe—was ever any thing ſo unlucky! His ſteady, bold ſtep, and the whole air of his perſon, burſting as it were from a cloud, pleaſed her, and gave an outline to the imagination to ſketch the individual form ſhe wiſhed to recognize.
Feeling the diſappointment more ſeverely than ſhe was willing to believe, ſhe flew to Rouſſeau, as her only refuge from the idea of him, who might prove a friend, could ſhe but find a way to intereſt him in her fate; ſtill the perſonification of Saint Preux, or of an ideal lover far ſuperior, was after this imperfect model, of which merely a glance had been caught, even to the minutiæ of the coat and hat of the ſtranger. But if ſhe lent St. Preux, or the demi-god of her fancy, his form, ſhe richly repaid him by the donation of all St. Preux's ſentiments and feelings, culled to gratify her own, to which he ſeemed to have an undoubted right, when ſhe read on the margin of an impaſſioned letter, written in the well-known hand—"Rouſſeau alone, the true Prometheus of ſentiment, poſſeſſed the fire of genius neceſſary to pourtray the paſſion, the truth of which goes ſo directly to the heart."
Maria was again true to the hour, yet had finiſhed Rouſſeau, and begun to tranſcribe ſome ſelected paſſages; unable to quit either the author or the window, before ſhe had a glimpſe of the countenance ſhe daily longed to ſee; and, when ſeen, it conveyed no diſtinct idea to her mind where ſhe had ſeen it before. He muſt have been a tranſient acquaintance; but to diſcover an acquaintance was fortunate, could ſhe contrive to attract his attention, and excite his ſympathy.
Every glance afforded colouring for the picture ſhe was delineating on her heart; and once, when the window was half open, the ſound of his voice reached her. Conviction flaſhed on her; ſhe had certainly, in a moment of diſtreſs, heard the ſame accents. They were manly, and characteriſtic of a noble mind; nay, even ſweet—or ſweet they ſeemed to her attentive ear.
She ſtarted back, trembling, alarmed at the emotion a ſtrange coincidence of circumſtances inſpired, and wondering why ſhe thought ſo much of a ſtranger, obliged as ſhe had been by his timely interference; [for ſhe recollected, by degrees, all the circumſtances of their former meeting.] She found however that ſhe could think of nothing elſe; or, if ſhe thought of her daughter, it was to wiſh that ſhe had a father whom her mother could reſpect and love.
