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 footſtep, 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 henceforth 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.
CHAP. VII.
"Addreſſing theſe memoirs to you, my child, uncertain whether I ſhall ever have an opportunity of inſtructing you, many obſervations will probably flow from my heart, which only a mother—a mother ſchooled in miſery, could make.
"The tenderneſs of a father who knew the world, might be great; but could it equal that of a mother—of a mother, labouring under a portion of the miſery, which the conſtitution of ſociety ſeems to have entailed on all her kind? It is, my child, my deareſt daughter, only ſuch a mother, who will dare to break through all reſtraint to provide for your happineſs—who will voluntarily brave cenſure herſelf, to ward off ſorrow from your boſom. From my narrative, my dear girl, you may gather the inſtruction, the counſel, which is meant rather to exerciſe than influence your mind.—Death may ſnatch me from you, before you can weigh my advice, or enter into my reaſoning: I would then, with fond anxiety, lead you very early in life to form your grand principle of action, to ſave you from the vain regret of having, through irreſolution, let the ſpring-tide of exiſtence paſs away, unimproved, unenjoyed.—Gain experience—ah! gain it—while experience is worth having, and acquire ſufficient fortitude to purſue your own happineſs; it includes your utility, by a direct path. What is wiſdom too often, but the owl of the goddeſs, who ſits moping in a deſolated heart; around me ſhe ſhrieks, but I would invite all the gay warblers of ſpring to neſtle in your blooming boſom.—Had I not waſted years in deliberating, after I ceaſed to doubt, how I ought to have acted—I might now be uſeful and happy.—For my ſake, warned by my example, always appear what you are, and you will not paſs through exiſtence without enjoying its genuine bleſſings, love and reſpect.
