* 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.