Darnford returned the memoirs to Maria, with a moſt affectionate letter, in which he reaſoned on "the abſurdity of the laws reſpecting matrimony, which, till divorces could be more eaſily obtained, was," he declared, "the moſt inſufferable bondage. Ties of this nature could not bind minds governed by ſuperior principles; and ſuch beings were privileged to act above the dictates of laws they had no voice in framing, if they had ſufficient ſtrength of mind to endure the natural conſequence. In her caſe, to talk of duty, was a farce, excepting what was due to herſelf. Delicacy, as well as reaſon, forbade her ever to think of returning[124] to her huſband: was ſhe then to reſtrain her charming ſenſibility through mere prejudice? Theſe arguments were not abſolutely impartial, for he diſdained to conceal, that, when he appealed to her reaſon, he felt that he had ſome intereſt in her heart.—The conviction was not more tranſporting, than ſacred—a thouſand times a day, he aſked himſelf how he had merited ſuch happineſs?—and as often he determined to purify the heart ſhe deigned to inhabit—He intreated to be again admitted to her preſence."
He was; and the tear which gliſtened in his eye, when he reſpectfully preſſed her to his boſom, rendered him peculiarly dear to the unfortunate mother. Grief had ſtilled the tranſports of love, only to render their mutual tenderneſs more touching. In former[125] interviews, Darnford had contrived, by a hundred little pretexts, to ſit near her, to take her hand, or to meet her eyes—now it was all ſoothing affection, and eſteem ſeemed to have rivalled love. He adverted to her narrative, and ſpoke with warmth of the oppreſſion ſhe had endured.—His eyes, glowing with a lambent flame, told her how much he wiſhed to reſtore her to liberty and love; but he kiſſed her hand, as if it had been that of a ſaint; and ſpoke of the loſs of her child, as if it had been his own.—What could have been more flattering to Maria?—Every inſtance of ſelf-denial was regiſtered in her heart, and ſhe loved him, for loving her too well to give way to the tranſports of paſſion.
They met again and again; and Darnford declared, while paſſion ſuf[126]fuſed his cheeks, that he never before knew what it was to love.—
One morning Jemima informed Maria, that her maſter intended to wait on her, and ſpeak to her without witneſſes. He came, and brought a letter with him, pretending that he was ignorant of its contents, though he inſiſted on having it returned to him. It was from the attorney already mentioned, who informed her of the death of her child, and hinted, "that ſhe could not now have a legitimate heir, and that, would ſhe make over the half of her fortune during life, ſhe ſhould be conveyed to Dover, and permitted to purſue her plan of travelling."
Maria anſwered with warmth, "That ſhe had no terms to make with the murderer of her babe, nor would[127] ſhe purchaſe liberty at the price of her own reſpect."
She began to expoſtulate with her jailor; but he ſternly bade her "Be ſilent—he had not gone ſo far, not to go further."
Darnford came in the evening. Jemima was obliged to be abſent, and ſhe, as uſual, locked the door on them, to prevent interruption or diſcovery.—The lovers were, at firſt, embarraſſed; but fell inſenſibly into confidential diſcourſe. Darnford repreſented, "that they might ſoon be parted," and wiſhed her "to put it out of the power of fate to ſeparate them."
As her huſband ſhe now received him, and he ſolemnly pledged himſelf as her protector—and eternal friend.—
There was one peculiarity in Maria's mind: ſhe was more anxious not to deceive, than to guard againſt de[128]ception; and had rather truſt without ſufficient reaſon, than be for ever the prey of doubt. Beſides, what are we, when the mind has, from reflection, a certain kind of elevation, which exalts the contemplation above the little concerns of prudence! We ſee what we wiſh, and make a world of our own—and, though reality may ſometimes open a door to miſery, yet the moments of happineſs procured by the imagination, may, without a paradox, be reckoned among the ſolid comforts of life. Maria now, imagining that ſhe had found a being of celeſtial mould—was happy,—nor was ſhe deceived.—He was then plaſtic in her impaſſioned hand—and reflected all the ſentiments which animated and warmed her. — — — —
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