'Young Philander woo'd me long,I was peevish, and forbade him;I would not hear his charming song;But now I wish, I wish I had him!'
'Young Philander woo'd me long,I was peevish, and forbade him;I would not hear his charming song;But now I wish, I wish I had him!'
Though this was a song at that time much in vogue, and Miss Betsy had casually heard it an hundred times; yet, in the humour she now was, it beat an alarm upon her heart. It reminded her how inconsiderate she had been, and shewed the folly of not knowing how to place a just value on any thing, till it was lost, in such strong colours before her eyes, as one could scarce think it possible an incident in itself so merely bagatelle could have produced.
Again she fell into very deep reveries; and, divesting herself of all passion, pride, and the prejudice her vanity had but too much inspired her with, she found, that though Mr. Trueworth had carried his resentment farther than became a man who loved to that degree he pretended to have done; yet she could no way justify herself to her brother Frank, Lady Trusty or any of those friends who had espoused his cause, for having given him the provocation.
To heighten the splenetick humour she was in, Mr. Goodman, who, having been taken up with his own affairs, had not mentioned Mr. Trueworth to her for some days, happened this morning, as they sat at breakfast, to ask her how the courtship of that gentleman went on, and whether there was like to be a wedding or not. Perceiving sheblushed, hung down her head, and made no answer, 'Nay, nay,' said he, 'I told you long ago I would not interfere in these matters; and have less reason now than ever to do so, as your eldest brother is in town, and who is doubtless capable of advising you for the best.' Miss Betsy was in a good deal of confusion; she knew not as yet whether it would be proper for her to acquaint Mr. Goodman with what had passed between Mr. Trueworth and herself, or to be silent on that head, till she should see what a little time might bring about. As she was thinking in what manner she should reply, Mr. Goodman's lawyer, luckily for her relief, came in, and put an end to a discourse which, in the present situation of her mind, she was very unfit to bear a part in.
But, as if this was to be a day of continued admonitions to Miss Betsy, she was no sooner dressed, and ready to quit her chamber, than she heard Miss Mabel's voice upon the stairs. As that young lady was not accustomed to make her any morning visits, she was a little surprized; she ran, however, to meet her, saying, 'This is a favour I did not expect, and therefore have the more cause to thank you.'—'I do not know,' replied the other, as she entered the room, 'whether you will think I deserve thanks or no, when you hear the business that brought me; for I assure you I am come only to chide you.'—'I think,' said Miss Betsy, with a sigh, 'that all the world takes the liberty of doing so with me! but, pray, my dear,' continued she, 'how am I so unhappy as to deserve it from you?'
'Why, you must know,' replied Miss Mabel, 'that I have taken upon me to be the champion of distressed love; you have broken a fine gentleman's heart, and I am come to tell you, that you must either make it whole again, as it was before he saw you, or repair the damage he has sustained by giving him your own.'—'I plead Not Guilty,' said Miss Betsy, in a tone more sprightly than before: 'but, pray, who has gained so great an influence over you, as to send you on so doughty an errand?'—'No, my dear, you are quite mistaken in the matter,' replied the other; 'I assure you I am not sent—I am only led by my own generosity, and the sight of poor Mr. Trueworth's despair.'—'Trueworth!' cried Miss Betsy hastily; 'What do you mean?'—'I mean,' replied the other, 'to engage you, if the little rhetorick I am mistress of can prevail on you to consider, that while we use a man of sense and honour ill, we do ourselves a real injury. The love our beauty has inspired, may, for a time, secure our power; but it will grow weaker by degrees, and every little coquette-air wegive ourselves, lessen the value of our charms. I know there is at present some very great brulée between you and Mr. Trueworth: he is a match every way deserving of you; he has the approbation of all your friends; and, I have heard you acknowledge, you are not insensible of his merit. To what end, then, do you study to perplex and give unnecessary pains to a heart, which you, according to all appearances, will one day take a pride in rendering happy?'
'This is an extreme fine harangue, indeed!' replied Miss Betsy; 'but I would fain know for what reason it is directed to me. If Mr. Trueworth imagines I have used him ill, I think it no proof of his understanding, to make a proclamation of it; but, for Heaven's sake! how came you to be the confidante of his complaints?'
'Indeed, I have not that honour,' said Miss Mabel: 'finding myself a little ill this morning, I thought the air would do me good; so went into the Park, taking only a little girl with me, who lives next door, because I would not go quite alone. Being in the deshabille you see, I crossed the grass, and was passing towards the back of the Bird Cage Walk, where who should I see among the trees but Mr. Trueworth, if I may call the object that then presented itself to me by that name; for, indeed, Miss Betsy, the poor gentleman seems no more than the shadow of himself. He saw me at a distance, and I believe would have avoided me; but, perceiving my eyes were upon him, cleared his countenance as well as he was able, and accosted me with the usual salutations of the morning. "It is somewhat surprizing, Madam," said he, with an air of as much gallantry as he could assume, "to find a lady so justly entitled to the admiration of the world, as Miss Mabel is, shun the gay company of the Mall, and chuse an unfrequented walk, like this!"—"I might retort the same exclamation of surprize," replied I, "at so unexpectedly meeting with Mr. Trueworth here."
'After this, as you know, my dear,' continued she, 'I have lately, on your account, had the pleasure pretty often of Mr. Trueworth's company; I took the liberty to ask him where he had buried himself, that I had not seen him for so many days: to which he answered, not without a confusion, which I saw he attempted, though in vain, to conceal from me—"Yes, Madam, I have indeed been buried from all pleasure, have been swallowed up in affairs little less tormenting than those of the grave: but," added he, "they are now over, and I am preparing to return to my country seat, where I hope to re-enjoy that tranquillity which, since my leaving it, has been pretty much disturbed."
'Nothing could equal my astonishment at hearing him speak in this manner: "To your country-seat!" cried I; "not to continue there for any long time?"—"I know not as yet, Madam," replied he; and then, after a pause, "perhaps for ever!" added he. "Bless me," said I, "this is strange, indeed! Miss Betsy did not tell me a word of it; and I saw her but last night."—"She might not then know it, Madam," answered he: "but, if she had, I am not vain enough to imagine, she would think a trifle, such as my departure, worth the pains of mentioning."
'I then,' pursued Miss Mabel, 'endeavoured to rally him out of this humour. After having told him I had a better opinion of your understanding and generosity, than to be capable of believing you thought so lightly of his friendship and affection, I added, that this was only some little pique between you, some jealous whim: but he replied to all I said on this subject with a very grave air, pretended business, and took his leave somewhat abruptly for a man of that politeness I had till now always observed in him.'
'He carries it off with a high hand, indeed,' cried Miss Betsy: 'but it is no matter; I shall give myself no trouble whether he stays in town, or whether he goes into the country, or whether I ever see him more. What! does the man think to triumph over me?'
'I do not believe that is the case with Mr. Trueworth,' said the discreet Miss Mabel; 'but I know it is the way of many men to recriminate in this manner: and pray, when they do, who can we blame for it but ourselves, in giving them the occasion? For my part, I should think it an affront to myself to encourage the addresses of a person I did not look upon worthy of being treated with respect.'
She urged many arguments to convince Miss Betsy of the vanity and ill consequences of trifling with an honourable and sincere passion; which, though no more than what that young lady had already made use of to herself, and was fully persuaded in the truth of, she was not very well pleased to hear from the mouth of another.
Though these two ladies perfectly agreed in their sentiments of virtue and reputation, yet their dispositions and behaviour in the affairs of love were as widely different as any two persons possibly could be: and this it was, which, during the course of their acquaintance, gave frequent interruptions to that harmony between them, which the mutual esteem they had for each other's good qualities, would otherwise have rendered perpetual.
There is an unaccountable pride in human nature, which often gets the better of our justice, and makes us espouse what we know within ourselves is wrong, rather than appear to be set right by any reason, except our own.
Miss Betsy had too much of this unhappy propensity in her composition: a very little reflection enabled her to see clearly enough the mistakes she sometimes fell into; but she could not bear they should be seen by others. Miss Mabel was not only in effect the most valuable of all the ladies she conversed with, but was also the most esteemed and loved by her; yet was she less happy and delighted in her company, than in that of several others, for whom her good sense would not suffer her to have the least real regard. The truth is, that though she was very well convinced of her errors, in relation to those men who professed themselves her admirers, yet she loved those errors in herself, thought they were pretty, and became her; and therefore, as she could not as yet resolve to alter her mode of behaviour, was never quite easy in the presence of any one who acted with a prudence she would not be at the pains to imitate.
There were two young ladies, who had an apartment at the palace of St. James's, (their father having an office there) who exactly suited with her in the most volatile of her moments: they had wit, spirit, and were gay almost to wildness, without the least mixture of libertinism or indecency. How perfectly innocent they were, is not the business of this history to discuss; but they preserved as good a reputation as their neighbours, and were well respected in all publick places.
There it was Miss Betsy chiefly found an asylum from those perplexing thoughts which, in spite of her pride, and the indifference she had for mankind, would sometimes intrude upon her mind on Mr. Trueworth's account; here she was certain of meeting a great variety of company; here was all the news and scandal the town could furnish; here was musick, dancing, feasting, flattery: in fine, here was every thing that was an enemy to care and contemplation.
Among the number of those who filled the circle of those two court belles, there was a gentleman named Munden: he appeared extremely charmed with Miss Betsy at first sight; and after having informed himself of the particulars of her family and fortune, took an opportunity, as he was conducting her home one night, to entreat she would allow him to pay his respects to her where she lived. This was a favour Miss Betsy was never very scrupulous of granting; and consented the now more readily, as she thought the report of a new lover would gall Mr. Trueworth, who, she heard by some, who had very lately seen him, was not yet gone out of town.
Mr. Munden, to testify the impatience of his love, waited on her the very next day, as soon as he thought dinner would be over, at Mr. Goodman's: he had the satisfaction of finding her alone; but, fearing she might not long be so, suffered but a very few minutes to escape before he acquainted her with the errand on which he came: the terms in which he declared himself her admirer, were as pathetick as could be made use of for the purpose; but though this was no more than Miss Betsy had expected, and would have been strangely mortified if disappointed by his entertaining her on any other score, yet she affected, at first, to treat it with surprize, and then, on his renewing his protestations, to answer all he said with a sort of raillery, in order to put him to the more expence of oaths and asseverations.
It is certain, that whoever pretended to make his addresses to Miss Betsy, stood in need of being previously provided with a good stock of repartees, to silence the sarcasms of the witty fair, as well as fine speeches to engage her to more seriousness. Mr. Munden often found himself at hisne plus ultra, but was not the least disconcerted at it; he was a courtier; he was accustomed to attend at the levees of the great; and knew very well, that persons in power seldom failed to exercise it over those who had any dependance on them: and looking on the case of a lover with his mistress, as the same with one who is soliciting for a pension or employment, had armed himself with patience, to submit to every thing his tyrant should inflict, in the hopethat it would one day be his turn to impose those laws, according to the poet's words—
'The humbled lover, when he lowest lies,But kneels to conquer, and but falls to rise.'
'The humbled lover, when he lowest lies,But kneels to conquer, and but falls to rise.'
Miss Betsy was indeed a tyrant, but a very gentle one; she always mingled some sweet with the sharpness of her expressions: if in one breath she menaced despair, in the next she encouraged hope; and her very repulses were sometimes so equivocal, as that they might be taken for invitations. She played with her lovers, as she did with her monkey; but expected more obedience from them: they must look gay or grave, according as she did so; their humour, and even their very motions, must be regulated by her influence, as the waters by the moon. In fine, an exterior homage was the chief thing to be required; for, as to the heart, her own being yet untouched, she gave herself but little trouble how that of her lovers stood affected.
Mr. Munden, with less love perhaps than any man who had addressed her, knew better how to suit himself to her humour: he could act over all the delicacies of the most tender passion, without being truly sensible of any of them; and though he wished, in reality, nothing so much as attaining the affections of Miss Betsy, yet wishing it without those timid inquietudes, those jealous doubts, those perplexing anxieties, which suspense inflicts on a more stolid mind, he was the more capable of behaving towards her in the way she liked.
He was continually inviting her to some party of pleasure or other; he gallanted her to all publick shews, he treated her with the most exquisite dainties of the season, and presented her with many curious toys. Being to go with these ladies, at whose appointment he first commenced his acquaintance with her, and some other company, to a masquerade, he waited on her some hours before the time; and taking out of his pocket a ruby, cut in the shape of a heart, and illustrated with small brilliants round about, 'I beg, Madam,' said he, 'you will do me the honour of wearing this to-night, either on your sleeve or breast, or some other conspicuous place. There will be a great deal of company, and some, perhaps, in the same habit as yourself: this will direct my search, prevent my being deceived by appearances, which otherwise I might be, and prophanely pay my worship to some other, instead of the real goddess of my soul.'
This was the method he took to ingratiate himself into the favourof his mistress; and it had the effect, if not to make her love him, at least to make her charmed with this new conquest, much more than she had been with several of her former ones, though ever so much deserving her esteem.
In the midst of these gay scenes, however, Mr. Trueworth came frequently into her head. To find he was in town, made her flatter herself that he lingered here on her account; and that, in spite of all his resolution, he had not courage to leave the same air she breathed in: she fancied, that if she could meet him, or any accident throw him in her way, she should be able to rekindle all his former flames, and render him as much her slave as ever. With this view she never went abroad without casting her eyes about, in search of him; nay, she sometimes even condescended to pass by the house where he was lodged, in hopes of seeing him either going in or out, or from some one or other of the windows: but chance did not befriend her inclinations this way, nor put it in her power again to triumph over a heart, the sincerity of which she had but too ill treated, when devoted to her.
In the mean time, Mr. Goodman, in spite of the perplexities his own affairs involved him in, could not help feeling a great concern for those of Miss Betsy; he knew that Mr. Trueworth had desisted his visits to her; that she had got a new lover, who he could not find had consulted the permission of any one but herself to make his addresses to her; the late hours she kept, seldom coming home till some hours after the whole family, except the servant who sat up for her, were in bed, gave him also much matter of uneasiness; and he thought it his duty to talk seriously to her on all these points.
He began with asking her how it happened, that he had not seen Mr. Trueworth for so long a time: to which she replied, with the utmost indifference, that she took some things ill from that gentleman, and that, perhaps, he might have some subject of complaint against her; 'Therefore,' said she, 'as our humours did not very well agree, it was best to break off conversation.'
He then questioned her concerning Mr. Munden. 'I hope,' said he, 'you have taken care to inform yourself as to his character and circumstances.'—'No, truly, Sir,' answered she, with the same careless air as before; 'as I never intend to be the better or the worse for either, I give myself no pain about what he is.' Mr. Goodman shook his head; and was going to reason with her on the illconsequences of such a behaviour, when some company coming in, broke off, for a time, all farther discourse between them.
Mr. Goodman, who had been a little vexed at being interrupted in the remonstrances he thought so highly necessary should be made to Miss Betsy, took an opportunity of renewing them the next morning, in the strongest expressions he was master of.
Miss Betsy, with all her wit, had little to say for herself in answer to the serious harangue made to her by Mr. Goodman on her present fashion of behaviour; her heart avowed the justice of his reproofs, but her humour, too tenacious of what pleased itself, and too impatient of control, would not suffer her to obey the dictates either of his or her own reason. She knew very well the tender regard he had for her, on the account of her deceased father, and that all he spoke was calculated for her good; but then it was a good she was not at present ambitious of attaining, and thought it the privilege of youth to do whatever it listed, provided the rules of virtue were unfringed; so that all he could get from her was—that her amusements were innocent—that she meant no harm in any thing she did—that it was dull for her to sit at home alone; and, when in company, could not quit it abruptly on any consideration of hours.
Mr. Goodman found, that to bring her to a more just sense of what was really her advantage, would be a task impossible for him to accomplish; he began heartily to wish she was under the care of some person who had more leisure to argue with her on points so essential to her happiness: he told her, that he indeed had feared his house would be too melancholy a recess for her since the revolution that had lately happened in his family, and therefore wished some moreproper place could be found for her. 'And for such a one,' said he, 'I shall make it my business to enquire; and there seems not only a necessity for my doing so, but that you should also choose another guardian; for as soon as the present unlucky business I am engaged in shall be over, it is my resolution to break up housekeeping, leave my business to my nephew, Ned Goodman, whom I expect by the first ship that arrives from the East Indies; and, having once seen him settled, retire, and spend the remainder of my days in the country.'
The melancholy accents with which Mr. Goodman spoke these words, touched Miss Betsy very much; she expressed, in terms the most affectionate, the deep concern it gave her that he had any cause to withdraw from a way of life to which he had so long been accustomed: but added, that if it must be so, she knew no person so proper, in whose hands the little fortune she was mistress of should be entrusted, as those of her brother Thoughtless, if he would vouchsafe to take that trouble upon him.
'There is no doubt to be made of that, I believe,' replied Mr. Goodman; 'and I shall speak to him about it the first time I see him.' They had some farther talk on Miss Betsy's affairs; and that young lady found he had very largely improved the portion bequeathed her by her father; for which, in the first emotions of her gratitude, she was beginning to pour forth such acknowledgements as he thought it too much to hear, and interrupted her, saying he had done no more than his duty obliged him to do, and could not have answered to himself the omission of any part of it.
It is so natural for people to love money, even before they know what to do with it, that it is not to be wondered at that Miss Betsy, now arrived at an age capable of relishing all the delicacies of life, should be transported at finding so considerable, and withal so unexpected, an augmentation of her fortune, which was no less than one third of what her father had left her.
The innate pleasure of her mind, on this occasion, diffused itself through all her form, and gave a double lustre to her eyes and air; so that she went with charms new pointed to a ball that night; for which the obsequious Mr. Munden had presented her with a ticket: but though she had all the respect in the world for Mr. Goodman, and indeed a kind of filial love for him, yet she had it not in her power to pay that regard to his admonitions she ought to have done. She came not home till between one and two o'clock in the morning; but wasextremely surprized to find, that when she did so, the knocker was taken off the door; a thing which, in complaisance to her, had never before been done till she came in, how late soever she staid abroad: she was, nevertheless, much more surprized, as well as troubled, when, at the first rap her chairman gave, a footman, who waited in the hall for her return, immediately opened the door, and told her, with all the marks of sorrow in his countenance, that his master had been suddenly taken ill, and that his physician, as well as Mrs. Barns, the housekeeper, had given strict orders there should be no noise made in the house, the former having said his life depended on his being kept perfectly quiet.
It is not to be doubted, but that, on this information, she went with as little noise as possible up to her chamber; where Nanny, as she was putting her to bed, confirmed to her what the footman had said; and added, that she had heard the doctor tell Mrs. Barns, as he was going out, that he was very apprehensive his patient's disorder would not be easily remedied.
Distempers of the body, which arise from those of the mind, are, indeed, much more difficult to be cured than those which proceed from mere natural causes. Mr. Goodman's resentment for the ill usage he had sustained from a woman he had so tenderly loved, awhile kept up his spirits, and hindered him from feeling the cruel sting, which preyed upon his vitals, and insensibly slackened the strings of life: but the first hurry being over, and the lawyer having told him that every thing was drawn up, and his cause would be brought before the Commons in a few days, he sunk beneath the apprehensions; the thoughts of appearing before the doctors of the civil law, to several of whom he was known, to prove his own dishonour—the talk of the town—the whispers—the grimaces—the ridicule, which he was sensible this affair would occasion when exposed—the pity of some—and the contempt he must expect from others—all these things, though little regarded by him while at a distance, now they came more near at hand, and just ready to fall upon him, gave him such a shock, as all the courage he had assumed was not sufficient to enable him to resist.
He was seized at once with a violent fit of an apoplexy at a coffee-house, where a surgeon being immediately sent for, he was let blood, as is common in such cases. This operation soon recovered him, so far as speech and motion; but reason had not power to re-assume her seat in his distracted brain for many hours—he was brought home ina chair—the surgeon attended him—saw him put into bed, and sat by him a considerable time: but, finding him rather worse than better, told Mrs. Barns, he durst not proceed any farther, and that they must have recourse to a physician; which was accordingly done.
This gentleman, who was esteemed the most skilful of his profession, hearing Mr. Goodman frequently cry out, 'My heart! my heart!' laid his hand upon his bosom; and found, by the extraordinary pulsations there, that he had symptoms of an inward convulsion, wrote a prescription, and ordered he should be kept extremely quiet.
Towards morning, he grew more composed; and, by degrees, recovered the use of his understanding as perfectly as ever: but his limbs were so much weakened by that severe attack the fit had made upon him, that he could not sit up in his bed without support. The physician, however, had great hopes of him; said his imbecillity proceeded only from a fever of the nerves, which he doubted not but to abate, and that he would be well in a few days. How uncertain, how little to be depended upon, is art, in some cases! Mr. Goodman felt that within himself which gave the lye to all appearances; and, fully convinced that the hand of death had seized upon his heart, would not defer a moment putting all his affairs in such a posture as should leave no room for contention among the parties concerned, after his decease: he began with sending for Mr. Thoughtless; and consigned over to him the whole fortunes of Mr. Francis and Miss Betsy, the latter being obliged, as not being yet of age, to chuse him for her guardian in form. Having thus acquitted himself, in the most honourable manner, of the trust reposed in him for the children of his friend, he considered what was best to be done in relation to those of his own blood. By his death, the intended process against Lady Mellasin would be prevented, and consequently the third part of his effects would devolve on her, as being the widow of a citizen: he, therefore, having consulted with his lawyer if such a thing were practicable, made a deed of gift to his nephew, Mr. Edward Goodman, of all his money in the Bank, stocks, and other publick funds. After this, he made his will; and the lawyer, perceiving he had left but few legacies, asked him how the residue of what he was possessed of should be disposed: to which he replied, 'greatly as I have been wronged by Lady Mellasin, I would not have her starve; I have been calculating in my mind to what her dividend may amount, and believe it will be sufficient to enable her to live in that retired manner which best becomes her age and character.'
Mr. Goodman, thus having settled all his affairs in this world, began to make such preparations for another as are necessary for the best of men. In the mean time, as the least noise was disturbing to him, it was judged proper that Miss Betsy, who could not live without company, should remove. No boarding-place to her mind being yet found, and having done with all hopes of living with her brother, (as she was by this time informed of the true reasons he had for her not doing so) took lodgings in Jermyn Street; and finding the interest of her fortune, through the good management of her guardian, would allow it, hired a maid and foot-boy to wait upon her.
The adieu she received from Mr. Goodman was the most tender and affectionate that could be; she was very much moved with it, and sincerely lamented the loss she should sustain of so honest and worthy a friend: but her natural sprightliness would not suffer any melancholy reflections to dwell long upon her mind; and the hurry she was in of sending messages to all her acquaintance, with an account of the change of her situation, very much contributed to dissipate them. This important business was scarce over, and she well settled in her new habitation, when one of Mr. Goodman's footmen brought her a letter from her brother Frank, which had been just left for her by the post. It contained these lines.
'To Miss Betsy Thoughtless.My dear sister,I have been snatched from the brink of the grave, by the skill of one of the best physicians in the world, and the tender, and, I may say, maternal care of our most dear, and truly valuable friend, the excellent Lady Trusty. The first use I make of my recovered health, is to give an account of it to those whom, I flatter myself, will be obliged by the intelligence. I thank you for the many kind wishes you have sent me during the course of my illness, but hoped to have seen, before now, another name subscribed to your letters than that you received from your birth; and cannot help saying, I am a little surprized, that in the two last you favoured me with, you have been entirely silent on a subject you know I have always had very much at heart. I have also very lately received a letter from Mr. Trueworth, wherein he tells me, he is going to his country-seat—expresses the most kind concern for me, but mentions not the least syllable of you, or of his passion. I fear, my dear sister, there is some misunderstanding between you, which would very much trouble me, for yoursake especially: but I shall defer what I have to say to you till I have the pleasure of seeing you. I am not yet judged fit to sit my horse for so long a journey; and the places in the stagecoach are all taken for to-morrow, but have secured one in Thursday's coach, and expect to be with you on Saturday. I accompany this to you with another one to my brother, and another to Mr. Goodman; so have no occasion to trouble you with my compliments to either. Farewel! I think I need not tell you that I am, with an unfeigned regard, my dear sister, your very affectionate brother, and humble servant,F. Thoughtless.P.S. Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty are both from home at this time, or I am certain their good wishes, if no more, would have joined mine, that you may never cease to enjoy whatever it becomes you to desire! My dear Betsy, adieu!'
'To Miss Betsy Thoughtless.
My dear sister,
I have been snatched from the brink of the grave, by the skill of one of the best physicians in the world, and the tender, and, I may say, maternal care of our most dear, and truly valuable friend, the excellent Lady Trusty. The first use I make of my recovered health, is to give an account of it to those whom, I flatter myself, will be obliged by the intelligence. I thank you for the many kind wishes you have sent me during the course of my illness, but hoped to have seen, before now, another name subscribed to your letters than that you received from your birth; and cannot help saying, I am a little surprized, that in the two last you favoured me with, you have been entirely silent on a subject you know I have always had very much at heart. I have also very lately received a letter from Mr. Trueworth, wherein he tells me, he is going to his country-seat—expresses the most kind concern for me, but mentions not the least syllable of you, or of his passion. I fear, my dear sister, there is some misunderstanding between you, which would very much trouble me, for yoursake especially: but I shall defer what I have to say to you till I have the pleasure of seeing you. I am not yet judged fit to sit my horse for so long a journey; and the places in the stagecoach are all taken for to-morrow, but have secured one in Thursday's coach, and expect to be with you on Saturday. I accompany this to you with another one to my brother, and another to Mr. Goodman; so have no occasion to trouble you with my compliments to either. Farewel! I think I need not tell you that I am, with an unfeigned regard, my dear sister, your very affectionate brother, and humble servant,
F. Thoughtless.
P.S. Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty are both from home at this time, or I am certain their good wishes, if no more, would have joined mine, that you may never cease to enjoy whatever it becomes you to desire! My dear Betsy, adieu!'
The joy which this letter would have afforded Miss Betsy had been compleat, if not somewhat abated by the apprehensions of what her brother would have to say to her when he should find she was indeed entirely broke off with Mr. Trueworth: but as the reader may probably desire to know in what manner he passed his time after that event, and the motives which induced him to stay in London, it is now highly proper to say something of both.
It is certain that Mr. Trueworth, at the time of his writing his last letter to Miss Betsy, was fully determined to go into the country; and was already beginning to make such preparations as he found necessary for his journey, when an accident of a very singular nature put a sudden stop to them, and to his intentions.
He was one day just dressed, and going out, in order to dine with some company, (for he now chose to be as little alone as possible) when one of his servants delivered a letter to him, which he said was brought by a porter, who waited below for an answer. As the superscription was in a woman's hand, and he was not accustomed to receive any billets from that sex, he broke it open with a kind of greedy curiosity, and found in it these lines.
'To Charles Trueworth, Esq.Sir,I am a woman of fortune, family, and an unblemished character; very young, and, most people allow, not disagreeable: you have done me the greatest injury in the world without knowing it; but I take you to be more a man of honour than not to be willing to make what reparation is in your power. If the good opinion I have of you does not deceive me, you will readily accept this challenge, and not fail to meet me about eleven o'clock in the morning, at General Tatten's bench, opposite Rosamond's Pond in St. James's Park; there to hear such interrogatories as I shall think fit to make you; and on yoursincere answer to which depends the whole future peace, if not the life of her, who at present can only subscribe herself, in the greatest confusion, Sir, your unfortunate and impatient,Incognita.'
'To Charles Trueworth, Esq.
Sir,
I am a woman of fortune, family, and an unblemished character; very young, and, most people allow, not disagreeable: you have done me the greatest injury in the world without knowing it; but I take you to be more a man of honour than not to be willing to make what reparation is in your power. If the good opinion I have of you does not deceive me, you will readily accept this challenge, and not fail to meet me about eleven o'clock in the morning, at General Tatten's bench, opposite Rosamond's Pond in St. James's Park; there to hear such interrogatories as I shall think fit to make you; and on yoursincere answer to which depends the whole future peace, if not the life of her, who at present can only subscribe herself, in the greatest confusion, Sir, your unfortunate and impatient,
Incognita.'
Mr. Trueworth was a good deal surprized; but had no occasion to consult long with himself in what manner it would become a man of his years to behave in such an adventure, and therefore sat down and immediately wrote an answer in these terms.
'To the fair Incognita.Madam,Though a challenge from an unknown antagonist might be rejected without any danger of incurring the imputation of cowardice, and, besides, as the combat to which I am invited is to be that of words, in which your sex are generally allowed to excel, I have not any sort of chance of overcoming; yet, to shew that I dare encounter a fine woman at any weapon, and shall not repine at being foiled, will not fail to give you the triumph you desire; and to that end will wait on you exactly at the time and place mentioned in yours: till when, you may rest satisfied that I am, with the greatest impatience, the obliging Incognita's most devoted servant,C. Trueworth.'
'To the fair Incognita.
Madam,
Though a challenge from an unknown antagonist might be rejected without any danger of incurring the imputation of cowardice, and, besides, as the combat to which I am invited is to be that of words, in which your sex are generally allowed to excel, I have not any sort of chance of overcoming; yet, to shew that I dare encounter a fine woman at any weapon, and shall not repine at being foiled, will not fail to give you the triumph you desire; and to that end will wait on you exactly at the time and place mentioned in yours: till when, you may rest satisfied that I am, with the greatest impatience, the obliging Incognita's most devoted servant,
C. Trueworth.'
Though Mr. Trueworth had not only heard of, but also experienced, when on his travels abroad, some adventures of a parallel nature with this; yet, as it never had entered his head that the English ladies took this method of introducing themselves to the acquaintance of those they were pleased to favour, the challenge of the Incognita—who she was—where she had seen him—what particular action of his had merited her good graces—and a thousand other conjectures, all tending to the same object, very much engrossed his mind. Indeed, he was glad to encourage any thoughts which served to drive those of Miss Betsy thence; whose idea, in spite of all his endeavours, and her supposed unworthiness, would sometimes intervene, and poison the sweets of his most jovial moments among his friends.
His curiosity (for it cannot be said was as yet instigated by a warmer passion) rendered him, however, very careful not to suffer the hour mentioned in the lady's letter to escape: but though he was at the place somewhat before the time, she was the first, and alreadywaited his approach. As he turned by the corner of the pond, he began to reflect, that as she had given him no signal whereby she might be known, he might possibly mistake for his Incognita some other, whom chance might have directed to the bench; and was somewhat at a loss how to accost her in such a manner, as that the compliment might not make him be looked upon as rude or made, by a person who had no reason to expect it from him.
But the fair lady, who, it is likely, was also sensible she had been a little wanting in this part of the assignation, soon eased him of the suspense he was in, by rising from her seat, as he drew near, and saluting him with these words, 'How perfectly obliging,' said she, 'is this punctuality! It almost flatters me I shall have no reason to repent the step I have taken.'—'A person who is injured,' replied Mr. Trueworth, 'has doubtless a right to complain; and if I have, though ever so unwarily, been guilty of any wrong, cannot be too hasty, nor too zealous, in the reparation: be pleased, therefore, Madam, to let me know the nature of my offence, and be assured that the wishes of my whole heart shall be to expiate it.'
In concluding these words, one of her gloves being off, he took hold of her hand, and kissed it with either a real or a seeming warmth. 'Take care what you say,' cried she, 'lest I exact more from you than is in your power to perform: but let us sit down,' pursued she, suffering him still to keep her hand in his, 'and begin to fulfil the promise you have made, by satisfying me in some points I have to ask, with the same sincerity as you would answer Heaven.'—'Be assured I will,' said he, putting her hand a second time to his mouth; 'and this shall be the book on which I will swear to every article.'
'First, then,' demanded she, 'are you married, or contracted?'—'Neither, by all that's dear!' said he. 'Have you no attachment,' resumed she, 'to any particular lady, that should hinder your engaging with another?'-'Not any, upon my honour!' answered he.
I should before now have acquainted my reader, that the lady was not only masqued, but also close muffled in her hood; that Mr. Trueworth could discover no part even of the side of her face, which, growing weary of this examination, he took an opportunity to complain of. 'Why this unkind reserve, my charming incognita?' said he: 'I have heard of penitents who, while confessing crimes they were ashamed of, kept their faces hid; but I believe there never was a confessor who concealed himself—permit me to see to whom I am laying open my heart, and I shall do it with pleasure.'—'That cannotbe,' answered she, 'even for the very reason you have alledged: I have something to confess to you, would sink me into the earth with shame, did you behold the mouth that utters it. In a word, I love you! and after having told you so, can you expect I will reveal myself?'—'Else how can I return the bounty as I ought,' cried he, 'or you be assured you have not lavished your favours on an insensible or ungrateful heart?'
'Time may do much,' said she; 'a longer and more free conversation with you may perhaps embolden me to make a full discovery of my face to you, as I have already done of my heart.' Mr. Trueworth then told her, that the place they were in would allow but very few freedoms; and added, that if he were really so happy as she flattered him he was, she must permit him to wait on her, where he might have an opportunity of testifying the sense he had of so unhoped, and as yet so unmerited, a blessing.
'Alas!' cried she, 'I am quite a novice in assignations of this sort—have so entire a dependance on your honour, that I dare meet you any where, provided you give me your solemn promise not to take any measures for knowing who I am, nor make any attempts to oblige me to unmask, till I have assumed courage enough to become visible of my own free will.'
Mr. Trueworth readily enough gave her the promise she exacted from him, not at all doubting but he should be easily able to find means to engage her consent for the satisfaction of his curiosity in these points. 'Well, then,' said she, 'it belongs to you to name a place proper for these secret interviews.'
On this, after a little pause, he answered, that since she judged it inconvenient for him to wait upon her at home, or any other place where she was known, he would be about the close of day at a certain coffee-house, which he named to her—'Where,' continued he, 'I will attend your commands; and on your condescending to stop at the door in a hackney-coach, will immediately come down and conduct you to a house secure from all danger of a discovery.' She hesitated not a moment to comply with his proposal; yet, in the same breath she did so, affected to be under some fears, which before she had not made the least shew of—said, she hoped he would not abuse the confidence she reposed in him—that he would take no advantage of the weakness she had shewn—that though she loved him with the most tender passion, and could not have lived without revealing it to him, yet her inclinations were innocent, and pure as those of a vestalvirgin—and a great deal more stuff of the like sort; which, though Mr. Trueworth could scarce refrain from smiling at, yet he answered; with all the seriousness imaginable—'I should be unworthy, Madam, of the affection you honour me with, were I capable of acting towards you in a manner unbecoming of you, or of myself; and you may depend I shall endeavour to regulate my desires, so as to render them agreeable to yours.'
After some farther discourse of the like nature, she rose up and took her leave, insisting at parting, that he should not attempt to follow her, or take any method to find out which way she went; which injunction he punctually obeyed, not stirring from the bench till she was quite out of sight.
This adventure prodigiously amused him; never, in his whole life, had he met with any thing he knew so little how to judge of. She had nothing of the air of a woman of the town; and, besides, he knew it was not the interest of those who made a trade of their favours, to dispense them in the manner she seemed to intend; nor could he think her a person of the condition and character her letter intimated. He could not conceive, that any of those he was acquainted with, would run such lengths for the gratification of their passion, especially for a man who had not taken the least pains to inspire it. Sometimes he imagined it was a trick put upon him, in order to make trial how far his vanity would extend in boasting of it; it even came into his head, that Miss Betsy herself might get somebody to personate the amorous incognita, for no other purpose than to divert herself, and disappoint his high-raised expectation: but this last conjecture dwelt not long upon him; he had heard she now entertained another lover, which whom she was very much taken up, and, consequently, would not give herself so much trouble about one who had entirely quitted her. In fine, he knew not what to think: as he could not tell how to believe he had made such an impression upon any woman, without knowing it, as the incognita pretended; he was apt to imagine he should neither see nor hear any more of her. This uncertainty, however, employed his mind the whole day; and he was no less impatient for the proof, than he would have been, if actually in love with this invisible mistress.
The wished-for hour at last arrived; and he waited not long before he was eased of one part of his suspense, by being told a lady in a hackney-coach enquired for him: he was extremely pleased to find, at last, he had not been imposed upon by a trick of any of hisfrolicksome companions, and immediately flew to the coach-side; where, seeing it was indeed his incognita, he jumped directly in, with a transport which doubtless was very agreeable to her.
Though he had often heard some gentlemen speak of houses, where two persons of different sexes might at any time be received, and have the privilege of entertaining each other with all the freedom and privacy they could desire; yet, as he had never been accustomed to intrigues of this nature, and thought he should have no occasion to make use of such places, he had not given himself the trouble of asking where they might be found; therefore he had now no other recourse than either a tavern or a bagnio, the latter of which he looked upon, for more reasons than one, as the most commodious of the two; so ordered the coachman to drive to one in Silver Street: he excused himself, at the same time, to the lady, for not having been able to provide a better asylum for her reception; but she appeared perfectly content—told him she had put herself under his care—relied upon his honour and discretion, and left all to his direction.
Being come into the bagnio, they were shewn into a handsome large room, with a bed-chamber in it. Mr. Trueworth had his eye on every thing in an instant; and finding all was right, ordered a supper to be prepared, and then told the waiter he would dispense with his attendance till it was ready. As soon as he found himself alone with his incognita, 'Now, my angel,' said he, embracing her, 'I have an opportunity to thank you for the affection you have flattered me with the hopes of; but, at the same time, must complain of the little proofs you give me of it: the greatest stranger to your heart would be allowed the privilege of a salute; yet I am denied the privilege of touching those dear lips which have denounced my happiness.'—'Do not reproach me,' answered she, 'with denying what is not yet in my power to grant: I cannot let you see my face; and you have promised not to force me.'—'I have,' replied he, 'but that promise binds me not from indulging my impatient wishes with things you have not stipulated: your neck, your breasts, are free, and those I will be revenged upon.' With these words he took some liberties with her, which may better be conceived than described!—she but faintly resisted; and, perhaps, would have permitted him to take greater, thus masked; but the discovery of her face was what he chiefly wanted: 'You might, at least,' cried he, 'oblige me with a touch of those lovely lips I am forbid to gaze upon; here is a dark recess,' continued he, pointing to the inner-room, 'will save your blushes.'He then raised her from the chair; and, drawing her gently towards the door, sung in a very harmonious voice, this stanza—