Maria; Or, The Wrongs of Woman
the wrath of heaven on this tiger, who tore my only comfort from me.
“How long I slept I know not; certainly many hours, for I woke at the
close of day, in a strange confusion of thought. I was probably roused
to recollection by some one thundering at a huge, unwieldy gate.
Attempting to ask where I was, my voice died away, and I tried to raise
it in vain, as I have done in a dream. I looked for my babe with
affright; feared that it had fallen out of my lap, while I had so
strangely forgotten her; and, such was the vague intoxication, I can
give it no other name, in which I was plunged, I could not recollect
when or where I last saw you; but I sighed, as if my heart wanted room
to clear my head.
“The gates opened heavily, and the sullen sound of many locks and bolts
drawn back, grated on my very soul, before I was appalled by the
creeking of the dismal hinges, as they closed after me. The gloomy pile
was before me, half in ruins; some of the aged trees of the avenue were
cut down, and left to rot where they fell; and as we approached some
mouldering steps, a monstrous dog darted forwards to the length of his
chain, and barked and growled infernally.
“The door was opened slowly, and a murderous visage peeped out, with a
lantern. ‘Hush!’ he uttered, in a threatning tone, and the affrighted
animal stole back to his kennel. The door of the chaise flew back, the
stranger put down the lantern, and clasped his dreadful arms around me.
It was certainly the effect of the soporific draught, for, instead of
exerting my strength, I sunk without motion, though not without sense,
on his shoulder, my limbs refusing to obey my will. I was carried up
the steps into a close-shut hall. A candle flaring in the socket,
scarcely dispersed the darkness, though it displayed to me the
ferocious countenance of the wretch who held me.
“He mounted a wide staircase. Large figures painted on the walls seemed
to start on me, and glaring eyes to meet me at every turn. Entering a
long gallery, a dismal shriek made me spring out of my conductor’s
arms, with I know not what mysterious emotion of terror; but I fell on
the floor, unable to sustain myself.
“A strange-looking female started out of one of the recesses, and
observed me with more curiosity than interest; till, sternly bid
retire, she flitted back like a shadow. Other faces, strongly marked,
or distorted, peeped through the half-opened doors, and I heard some
incoherent sounds. I had no distinct idea where I could be—I looked on
all sides, and almost doubted whether I was alive or dead.
“Thrown on a bed, I immediately sunk into insensibility again; and next
day, gradually recovering the use of reason, I began, starting
affrighted from the conviction, to discover where I was confined—I
insisted on seeing the master of the mansion—I saw him—and perceived
that I was buried alive.—
“Such, my child, are the events of thy mother’s life to this dreadful
moment—Should she ever escape from the fangs of her enemies, she will
add the secrets of her prison-house—and—”
Some lines were here crossed out, and the memoirs broke off abruptly
with the names of Jemima and Darnford.
APPENDIX
ADVERTISEMENT[11]
The performance, with a fragment of which the reader has now been
presented, was designed to consist of three parts. The preceding sheets
were considered as constituting one of those parts. Those persons who
in the perusal of the chapters, already written and in some degree
finished by the author, have felt their hearts awakened, and their
curiosity excited as to the sequel of the story, will, of course,
gladly accept even of the broken paragraphs and half-finished
sentences, which have been found committed to paper, as materials for
the remainder. The fastidious and cold-hearted critic may perhaps feel
himself repelled by the incoherent form in which they are presented.
But an inquisitive temper willingly accepts the most imperfect and
mutilated information, where better is not to be had: and readers, who
in any degree resemble the author in her quick apprehension of
sentiment, and of the pleasures and pains of imagination, will, I
believe, find gratification, in contemplating sketches, which were
designed in a short time to have received the finishing touches of her
genius; but which must now for ever remain a mark to record the
triumphs of mortality, over schemes of usefulness, and projects of
public interest.
[11] Presumed to have been written by Godwin [Publisher’s note].
CHAPTER 15
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 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 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 suffused
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 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 deception; 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.[12]
[12] Two and a half lines of dashes follow here in the original
[Publisher’s note].
CHAPTER 16
One morning confusion seemed to reign in the house, and Jemima came in
terror, to inform Maria, “that her master had left it, with a
determination, she was assured (and too many circumstances corroborated
the opinion, to leave a doubt of its truth) of never returning. I am
prepared then,” said Jemima, “to accompany you in your flight.”
Maria started up, her eyes darting towards the door, as if afraid that
some one should fasten it on her for ever.
Jemima continued, “I have perhaps no right now to expect the
performance of your promise; but on you it depends to reconcile me with
the human race.”
“But Darnford!”—exclaimed Maria, mournfully—sitting down again, and
crossing her arms—“I have no child to go to, and liberty has lost its
sweets.”
“I am much mistaken, if Darnford is not the cause of my master’s
flight—his keepers assure me, that they have promised to confine him
two days longer, and then he will be free—you cannot see him; but they
will give a letter to him the moment he is free.—In that inform him
where he may find you in London; fix on some hotel. Give me your
clothes; I will send them out of the house with mine, and we will slip
out at the garden-gate. Write your letter while I make these
arrangements, but lose no time!”
In an agitation of spirit, not to be calmed, Maria began to write to
Darnford. She called him by the sacred name of “husband,” and bade him
“hasten to her, to share her fortune, or she would return to him.”—An
hotel in the Adelphi was the place of rendezvous.
The letter was sealed and given in charge; and with light footsteps,
yet terrified at the sound of them, she descended, scarcely breathing,
and with an indistinct fear that she should never get out at the garden
gate. Jemima went first.
A being, with a visage that would have suited one possessed by a devil,
crossed the path, and seized Maria by the arm. Maria had no fear but of
being detained—“Who are you? what are you?” for the form was scarcely
human. “If you are made of flesh and blood,” his ghastly eyes glared on
her, “do not stop me!”
“Woman,” interrupted a sepulchral voice, “what have I to do with
thee?”—Still he grasped her hand, muttering a curse.
“No, no; you have nothing to do with me,” she exclaimed, “this is a
moment of life and death!”—
With supernatural force she broke from him, and, throwing her arms
round Jemima, cried, “Save me!” The being, from whose grasp she had
loosed herself, took up a stone as they opened the door, and with a
kind of hellish sport threw it after them. They were out of his reach.
When Maria arrived in town, she drove to the hotel already fixed on.
But she could not sit still—her child was ever before her; and all that
had passed during her confinement, appeared to be a dream. She went to