On the death of Emma's father, she found herself, with a widowed mother,
deprived, at one stroke, of nearly all the comforts, and the means of
procuring them, which she had enjoyed during her father's lifetime. A
small jointure of thirty pounds a-year was all that remained to her
mother, for her father had died insolvent.
This thirty pounds a-year Emma thought might support her mother, if she
could support herself. Determined to burden no one for her subsistence,
and believing that humble servitude was, in the eyes of Heaven and of
men, more honourable than a mean and degrading dependence on the bounty
of friends for a precarious supply of our temporary wants.
Her mother strenuously opposed Emma's resolution of going to service.
She would subject herself to any privations, rather than her young and
lovely daughter would be reduced to this severe necessity--she would
work for hire--she would beg--she would borrow--she should almost steal,
rather than Emma should be compelled to labour. Her mother's entreaties,
however, so far from having the desired effect of preventing her going
to service, only confirmed Emma in her previous resolution. Should she
be a burden to her mother--to that mother who expressed so tender a
solicitation for her welfare--who was rapidly descending the downhill of
life--who had all her days been accustomed to the elegances of taste?
No, no; rather than take anything from her, she would add a little to
her comforts; and a portion of her yearly wage should be set apart as a
present to her mother.
The affectionate mother, who had never before parted a single day with
her daughter, saw her set out to her place of service (a gentleman's
family among the lakes, where her father had been upon terms of
intimacy) with an aching heart. She felt as if she was parting with her
for the last time; and required all the resolution she was mistress of
to tear herself from her dear Emma. "Go," she said, "and take a mother's
fondest, warmest blessing; and if you should find yourself unable to
accomplish your resolution, or feel any inconvenience, return and share
what Heaven has left us, with an affectionate mother. It is not much,
Heaven knows; but I could doubly enjoy it, were it less, if I had you to
share it." Emma assured her mother, that if any unforeseen difficulty
occurred, she would instantly repair to her natal home; and cheered her
with a promise of constantly writing. This pacified, but did not console
her mother. She knew too well the independent spirit of her daughter to
hope for her return, except on some awful emergency.
Time rolled on, and repeated letters, both from Emma and her mistress,
assured the mother that all was well, and that Emma was healthy and
happy. At length Emma sent the joyful intelligence that she would come
over on Whitsun Sunday morning, and spend the week with her.
Emma arose, with buoyant spirits, packed up a small bundle of
necessaries in a handkerchief, put her wages in her bosom, and set out
to see and cheer her affectionate parent. The morning was extremely
fine, and she amused herself with the bright and varied prospect, till
the road, descending a steep hill, led her into a richly romantic
valley. A copse of wood overhung the road, a huge rock formed the fence
on that side next the wood, and seemed like a natural wall. Over the
rock fell, in three or four unequal cascades, the stream of a brook
which might be heard tumbling through the wood to a considerable
distance. Close to the place where the water left the wood, one part of
the rock shot up to an immense height, bearing no very distant
resemblance to the ruins of an old castle. From a fissure in the rock
grew the stump of an old oak, whose branches had apparently been lopped
by the wind, except one, which, bending down almost to the stream, had
escaped its ravages by its humble situation. On a large stone, in this
romantic spot, Emma sat down to rest herself awhile, and slake her
thirst at the stream.
Though Emma's heart did not entertain a thought but of the joy her
mother would feel on receiving the first-fruits of her first wages,
every bosom was not warmed by so generous an impulse. Sam the cow-lad at
Emma's master's had ascertained that she had that day received her
wages, and was gone to her mother's; and he instantly formed the
resolution to rob the generous girl of the hard earned pittance. By a
nearer route, over the hills, he sought to meet her in this solitary
spot, where there was little possibility of being surprised in the
action. While Emma was thus meditating on the happiness which she would
soon feel in her mother's arms, Sam came up and commanded her to deliver
up her money; she entreated him to leave her a little for a present to
her mother, but the human fiend (and human fiends are the worst fiends),
refused to leave her a farthing. He had secured the booty, and Emma was
preparing to pursue her journey, when the horrid thought entered his
head, that unless he added murder to his robbery, he would be liable to
punishment for his crime. There was not a moment for deliberation; and
the lovely, the young, the innocent Emma fell a corpse at the wretch's
feet. Fear added wings to the speed of the villain, and he fled, as if
from the face of heaven.
The day passed on with the same calm serenity as if nothing had
happened. Noon came to the widow's cottage but no Emma arrived. As the
evening drew on the mother's unhappiness increased; and she set out to
meet her daughter, for whose fate she felt most keenly, without being
able to assign any cause. As the sun was sinking, amid a rich profusion
of evening tints, which threw a dazzling lustre over all the scene, the
widow reached the vale where her murdered daughter slept her last long
sleep. But the pencil alone can finish the picture--words are of no
utility.
It would be superfluous to say that I would have the last picture
sketched at the moment when the mother first discovers that it is the
lifeless body of her daughter that lies stained with its own gore, that
she is bending over. Cold must be that heart that would not feel the
full force of such a piece. Poor would the richest landscape you ever
drew appear, when compared with this.
It is strange that those who profess to have hearts so open to the
beauties of nature, should reject the loveliest object in it. Adam,
though placed in the midst of Paradise, was not content till Eve was
added to its other beauties; nor would I ever draw a picture without
such an enlivening object. Beside, in most of our fine sublime scenes
about the lakes, we lose the principal zest of the piece by having
nothing beautiful to contrast with the rugged. The more wild and
terrible the scene I had to paint, the greater care would I take to
introduce some lovely female form to mark the contrast; then
"Each would give each a double charm,
Like pearls upon an Ethiop's arm."