Pity, and the forlorn seriousness of adversity, have both been
considered as dispositions favourable to love, while satirical writers
have attributed the propensity to the relaxing effect of idleness; what
chance then had Maria of escaping, when pity, sorrow, and solitude all
conspired to soften her mind, and nourish romantic wishes, and, from a
natural progress, romantic expectations?
Maria was six-and-twenty. But, such was the native soundness of her
constitution, that time had only given to her countenance the character
of her mind. Revolving thought, and exercised affections had banished
some of the playful graces of innocence, producing insensibly that
irregularity of features which the struggles of the understanding to
trace or govern the strong emotions of the heart, are wont to imprint
on the yielding mass. Grief and care had mellowed, without obscuring,
the bright tints of youth, and the thoughtfulness which resided on her
brow did not take from the feminine softness of her features; nay, such
was the sensibility which often mantled over it, that she frequently
appeared, like a large proportion of her sex, only born to feel; and
the activity of her well-proportioned, and even almost voluptuous
figure, inspired the idea of strength of mind, rather than of body.
There was a simplicity sometimes indeed in her manner, which bordered
on infantine ingenuousness, that led people of common discernment to
underrate her talents, and smile at the flights of her imagination. But
those who could not comprehend the delicacy of her sentiments, were
attached by her unfailing sympathy, so that she was very generally
beloved by characters of very different descriptions; still, she was
too much under the influence of an ardent imagination to adhere to
common rules.
There are mistakes of conduct which at five-and-twenty prove the
strength of the mind, that, ten or fifteen years after, would
demonstrate its weakness, its incapacity to acquire a sane judgment.
The youths who are satisfied with the ordinary pleasures of life, and
do not sigh after ideal phantoms of love and friendship, will never
arrive at great maturity of understanding; but if these reveries are
cherished, as is too frequently the case with women, when experience
ought to have taught them in what human happiness consists, they become
as useless as they are wretched. Besides, their pains and pleasures are
so dependent on outward circumstances, on the objects of their
affections, that they seldom act from the impulse of a nerved mind,
able to choose its own pursuit.
Having had to struggle incessantly with the vices of mankind, Maria’s
imagination found repose in pourtraying the possible virtues the world
might contain. Pygmalion formed an ivory maid, and longed for an
informing soul. She, on the contrary, combined all the qualities of a
hero’s mind, and fate presented a statue in which she might enshrine
them.
We mean not to trace the progress of this passion, or recount how often
Darnford and Maria were obliged to part in the midst of an interesting
conversation. Jemima ever watched on the tip-toe of fear, and
frequently separated them on a false alarm, when they would have given
worlds to remain a little longer together.
A magic lamp now seemed to be suspended in Maria’s prison, and fairy
landscapes flitted round the gloomy walls, late so blank. Rushing from
the depth of despair, on the seraph wing of hope, she found herself
happy.—She was beloved, and every emotion was rapturous.
To Darnford she had not shown a decided affection; the fear of
outrunning his, a sure proof of love, made her often assume a coldness
and indifference foreign from her character; and, even when giving way
to the playful emotions of a heart just loosened from the frozen bond
of grief, there was a delicacy in her manner of expressing her
sensibility, which made him doubt whether it was the effect of love.
One evening, when Jemima left them, to listen to the sound of a distant
footstep, which seemed cautiously to approach, he seized Maria’s
hand—it was not withdrawn. They conversed with earnestness of their
situation; and, during the conversation, he once or twice gently drew
her towards him. He felt the fragrance of her breath, and longed, yet
feared, to touch the lips from which it issued; spirits of purity
seemed to guard them, while all the enchanting graces of love sported
on her cheeks, and languished in her eyes.
Jemima entering, he reflected on his diffidence with poignant regret,
and, she once more taking alarm, he ventured, as Maria stood near his
chair, to approach her lips with a declaration of love. She drew back
with solemnity, he hung down his head abashed; but lifting his eyes
timidly, they met her’s; she had determined, during that instant, and
suffered their rays to mingle. He took, with more ardour, reassured, a
half-consenting, half-reluctant kiss, reluctant only from modesty; and
there was a sacredness in her dignified manner of reclining her glowing
face on his shoulder, that powerfully impressed him. Desire was lost in
more ineffable emotions, and to protect her from insult and sorrow—to
make her happy, seemed not only the first wish of his heart, but the
most noble duty of his life. Such angelic confidence demanded the
fidelity of honour; but could he, feeling her in every pulsation, could
he ever change, could he be a villain? The emotion with which she, for
a moment, allowed herself to be pressed to his bosom, the tear of
rapturous sympathy, mingled with a soft melancholy sentiment of
recollected disappointment, said—more of truth and faithfulness, than
the tongue could have given utterance to in hours! They were silent—yet
discoursed, how eloquently? till, after a moment’s reflection, Maria
drew her chair by the side of his, and, with a composed sweetness of
voice, and supernatural benignity of countenance, said, “I must open my
whole heart to you; you must be told who I am, why I am here, and why,
telling you I am a wife, I blush not to”—the blush spoke the rest.
Jemima was again at her elbow, and the restraint of her presence did
not prevent an animated conversation, in which love, sly urchin, was
ever at bo-peep.
So much of heaven did they enjoy, that paradise bloomed around them; or
they, by a powerful spell, had been transported into Armida’s garden.
Love, the grand enchanter, “lapt them in Elysium,” and every sense was
harmonized to joy and social extacy. So animated, indeed, were their
accents of tenderness, in discussing what, in other circumstances,
would have been commonplace subjects, that Jemima felt, with surprise,
a tear of pleasure trickling down her rugged cheeks. She wiped it away,
half ashamed; and when Maria kindly enquired the cause, with all the
eager solicitude of a happy being wishing to impart to all nature its
overflowing felicity, Jemima owned that it was the first tear that
social enjoyment had ever drawn from her. She seemed indeed to breathe
more freely; the cloud of suspicion cleared away from her brow; she
felt herself, for once in her life, treated like a fellow-creature.
Imagination! who can paint thy power; or reflect the evanescent tints
of hope fostered by thee? A despondent gloom had long obscured Maria’s
horizon—now the sun broke forth, the rainbow appeared, and every
prospect was fair. Horror still reigned in the darkened cells,
suspicion lurked in the passages, and whispered along the walls. The
yells of men possessed, sometimes, made them pause, and wonder that
they felt so happy, in a tomb of living death. They even chid
themselves for such apparent insensibility; still the world contained
not three happier beings. And Jemima, after again patrolling the
passage, was so softened by the air of confidence which breathed around
her, that she voluntarily began an account of herself.