Читать книгу Posthumous Works of the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman - Mary Wollstonecraft - Страница 15

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Active as love was in the heart of Maria, the ſtory ſhe had juſt heard made her thoughts take a wider range. The opening buds of hope cloſed, as if they had put forth too early, and the the happieſt day of her life was overcaſt by the moſt melancholy reflections. Thinking of Jemima's peculiar fate and her own, ſhe was led to conſider the oppreſſed ſtate of women, and to lament that ſhe had given birth to a daughter. Sleep fled from her eyelids, while ſhe dwelt on the wretchedneſs of unprotected infancy, till ſympathy with Jemima changed to agony, when it ſeemed probable that her own babe might even now be in the very ſtate ſhe ſo forcibly deſcribed.

Maria thought, and thought again. Jemima's humanity had rather been benumbed than killed, by the keen froſt ſhe had to brave at her entrance into life; an appeal then to her feelings, on this tender point, ſurely would not be fruitleſs; and Maria began to anticipate the delight it would afford her to gain intelligence of her child. This project was now the only ſubject of reflection; and ſhe watched impatiently for the dawn of day, with that determinate purpoſe which generally inſures ſucceſs.

At the uſual hour, Jemima brought her breakfaſt, and a tender note from Darnford. She ran her eye haſtily over it, and her heart calmly hoarded up the rapture a freſh aſſurance of affection, affection ſuch as ſhe wiſhed to inſpire, gave her, without diverting her mind a moment from its deſign. While Jemima waited to take away the breakfaſt, Maria alluded to the reflections, that had haunted her during the night to the excluſion of ſleep. She ſpoke with energy of Jemima's unmerited ſufferings, and of the fate of a number of deſerted females, placed within the ſweep of a whirlwind, from which it was next to impoſſible to eſcape. Perceiving the effect her converſation produced on the countenance of her guard, ſhe graſped the arm of Jemima with that irreſiſtible warmth which defies repulſe, exclaiming—"With your heart, and ſuch dreadful experience, can you lend your aid to deprive my babe of a mother's tenderneſs, a mother's care? In the name of God, aſſiſt me to ſnatch her from deſtruction! Let me but give her an education—let me but prepare her body and mind to encounter the ills which await her ſex, and I will teach her to conſider you as her ſecond mother, and herſelf as the prop of your age. Yes, Jemima, look at me—obſerve me cloſely, and read my very ſoul; you merit a better fate;" ſhe held out her hand with a firm geſture of aſſurance; "and I will procure it for you, as a teſtimony of my eſteem, as well as of my gratitude."

Jemima had not power to reſiſt this perſuaſive torrent; and, owning that the houſe in which ſhe was confined, was ſituated on the banks of the Thames, only a few miles from London, and not on the ſea-coaſt, as Darnford had ſuppoſed, ſhe promiſed to invent ſome excuſe for her abſence, and go herſelf to trace the ſituation, and enquire concerning the health, of this abandoned daughter. Her manner implied an intention to do ſomething more, but ſhe ſeemed unwilling to impart her deſign; and Maria, glad to have obtained the main point, thought it beſt to leave her to the workings of her own mind; convinced that ſhe had the power of intereſting her ſtill more in favour of herſelf and child, by a ſimple recital of facts.

In the evening, Jemima informed the impatient mother, that on the morrow ſhe ſhould haſten to town before the family hour of riſing, and received all the information neceſſary, as a clue to her ſearch. The "Good night!" Maria uttered was peculiarly ſolemn and affectionate. Glad expectation ſparkled in her eye; and, for the firſt time ſince her detention, ſhe pronounced the name of her child with pleaſureable fondneſs; and, with all the garrulity of a nurſe, deſcribed her firſt ſmile when ſhe recognized her mother. Recollecting herſelf, a ſtill kinder "Adieu!" with a "God bleſs you!"—that ſeemed to include a maternal benediction, diſmiſſed Jemima.

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.