Miss Betsy having her heart and head full of the obligation she had to Mr. Trueworth, and on the first discovery of her senses, thinking he was still near her, cried out, 'Oh, Mr. Trueworth! how shall I thank the goodness you have shewn me!—I have no words to do it; it is from my brothers you must receive those demonstrations of gratitude, which are not in my power to give.'
The brothers looked sometimes on her, and sometimes on each other, with a good deal of surprize all the time she was speaking; till, perceiving she had done, 'To whom are you talking, sister?' said Mr. Francis; 'here is nobody but my brother and myself.'
'Bless me!' cried she, looking round the room, 'how wild my head is!—I knew not where I was—I thought myself still in the house of that wicked woman who betrayed me, and saw my generous deliverer chastising the monster that attempted my destruction.'
'Who was that monster?' demanded the elder Mr. Thoughtless, hastily. 'A villain without a name,' said she; 'for that of Sir Frederick Fineer was but assumed, to hide a common cheat—a robber!'—'And who, say you,' rejoined Mr. Francis, 'was your deliverer?'—'Who, but that best of men!' answered she, 'Mr. Trueworth!—O, brothers! if you have any regard for me, or for the honour of our family, you can never too much revere or love the honour and the virtue of that worthy man.'
'You see, Frank, how greatly you have been to blame,' said the elder Mr. Thoughtless; 'and how much more you might have been, if I had not dissuaded you from following that gentleman; who, I nowperceive, was the saviour, not the invader, of our sister's innocence.'—'I blush,' said Mr. Francis, 'at the remembrance of my rashness—I ought, indeed, to have known Trueworth better.'
There passed no more between them on this subject; but on finding Miss Betsy grew more composed, and able to continue a conversation, they obliged her to repeat the particulars of what had happened to her; which she accordingly did with the greatest veracity imaginable, omitting nothing of moment in the shocking narrative.
The calling to mind a circumstance so detestable to her natural delicacy, threw her, however, into such agonies, which made them think it their province, rather to console her under the affliction she had sustained, than to chide her for the inadvertency which had brought it on her.
They stayed supper with her, which, to save her the trouble of ordering, Mr. Thoughtless went to an adjacent tavern, and gave directions for it himself—made her drink several glasses of wine, and both of them did every thing in their power, to chear and restore her spirits to their former tone: after which they retired, and left her to enjoy what repose the present anxieties of her mind would permit her to take.
Though the condition Miss Betsy was in, made these gentlemen treat her with the above-mentioned tenderness, yet both of them were highly incensed against her, for so unadvisedly encouraging the pretensions of a man, whose character she knew nothing of but from the mouth of a little mantua-maker—her consenting to sup with him at the house of that woman, and afterwards running with her into his very bed-chamber, were actions, which to them seemed to have no excuse.
Mr. Francis, as of the two having the most tender affection for her, had the most deep concern in whatever related to her. 'If she were either a fool,' said he, stamping with extreme vexation, 'or of a vicious inclination, her conduct would leave no room for wonder! But for a girl, who wants neither wit nor virtue, to expose herself in this manner, has something in it inconsistent!—unnatural!—monstrous!
'I doubt not,' cried he again, 'if the truth could be known, but it was some such ridiculous adventure as this that lost her the affection of Mr. Trueworth, though her pride and his honour joined to conceal it.'
The elder Mr. Thoughtless was entirely of his brother's opinion in all these points; and both of them were more confirmed than ever,that marriage was the only sure guard for the reputation of a young woman of their sister's temper. Mr. Munden had been there the day before; and, as he told Miss Betsy he would do, declared himself to them; so it was resolved between them, that if, on proper enquiry, his circumstances should be found such as he said they were, to clap up the wedding with all imaginable expedition.
But no business, how important or perplexing soever it be, can render gratitude and good manners forgotten or neglected by persons of understanding and politeness. These gentlemen thought a visit to Mr. Trueworth neither could or ought to be dispensed with, in order to make him those acknowledgements the service he had done their sister demanded from them.
Accordingly, the next morning, Mr. Thoughtless, accompanied by his brother, went in his own coach, which he made be got ready, as well in respect to himself as to the person he was going to visit.
They found Mr. Trueworth at home; who, doubtless, was not without some expectation of their coming. On their sending up their names, he received them at the top of the stair-case with so graceful an affability and sweetness in his air, as convinced the elder Mr. Thoughtless, that the high character his brother Frank had given of that gentleman, was far from exceeding the bounds of truth.
It is certain, indeed, that Mr. Trueworth, since the eclaircissement of the Denham affair, had felt the severest remorse within himself, for having given credit to that wicked aspersion cast upon Miss Betsy; and the reflection, that fortune had now put it in his power to atone for the wrong he had been guilty of to that lady, by the late service he had done her, gave a secret satisfaction to his mind, that diffused itself through all his air, and gave a double sprightliness to those eyes which, by the report of all who ever saw him, stood in need of no addition to their lustre.
The elder Mr. Thoughtless, having made his compliments on the occasion which had brought him thither, the younger advanced, though with a look somewhat more downcast than ordinary—'I know not, Sir,' said he, 'whether any testimonies of the gratitude I owe you will be acceptable, after the folly into which a mistaken rage transported me last night.'—'Dear Frank!' cried Mr. Trueworth, smiling, and giving him his hand; in token of a perfect reconciliation, 'none of these formal speeches—we know each other; you are by nature warm, and the little philosophy I am master of, makes me think whatever is born with us pleads it's own excuse! besides, to seeme with your sister in the condition she then was, entirely justifies your mistake.'—'Dear Trueworth!' replied the other, embracing him, 'you are born every way to overcome!'
Mr. Thoughtless returning to some expressions of his sense of the obligation he had conferred upon their whole family—'Sir, I have done no more,' said Mr. Trueworth, 'than what every man of honour would think himself bound to do for any woman in the like distress, much more for a lady so deserving as Miss Betsy Thoughtless. I happened, almost miraculously, to be in the same house with her when she stood in need of assistance; and I shall always place the day in which my good stars conducted me to the rescue of her innocence, among the most fortunate ones of my whole life.'
In the course of their conversation, the brothers satisfied Mr. Trueworth's curiosity, by acquainting him with the means by which their sister had been seduced into the danger he had so happily delivered her from; and Mr. Trueworth, in his turn, informed them of the accident that had so seasonably brought him to her relief: which latter, as the reader is yet ignorant of, it is proper should be related.
'Having sent,' said he, 'for my steward to come to town, on account of some leases I am to sign, the poor man had the misfortune to break his leg as he was stepping out of the stagecoach, and was carried directly to Mrs. Modely's; where, it seems, he has formerly lodged. This casualty obliged me to go to him. As a maid-servant was shewing me to his room, (which is up two pair of stairs) I heard the rustling of silks behind me; and casting my eyes over the banister, I saw Miss Betsy, and a woman with her, who I since found was Mrs. Modely, pass hastily into a room on the first floor.
'A curiosity,' continued he, 'which I cannot very well account for, induced me to ask the nurse who attends my steward, what lodgers there were below. To which she replied, that they said he was a baronet, but that she believed nothing of it; for the two fellows who passed for his servants were always with him, and, she believed, ate at the same table, for they never dined in the kitchen. "Besides," said she, "I have never seen two or three shabby, ill-looked men, that have more the appearance of pick-pockets, than companions for a gentleman, come after him; and, indeed, I believe he is no better than a rogue himself."
'Though I was extremely sorry,' pursued Mr. Trueworth, 'to find Miss Betsy should be the guest of such a person, yet I could notforbear laughing at the description this woman gave of him; which, however, proved to be a very just one. I had not been there above half an hour before I heard the shrieks of a woman, and fancied it the voice of Miss Betsy, though I had never heard it made use of in that manner. I went, however, to the top of the stair-case; where, hearing the cries redoubled, I drew my sword, and ran down. The door of the chamber was locked; but, setting my foot against it, I easily bursted it open, and, believe, entered but just in time to save the lady from violation.
'On seeing the face,' added he, 'of this pretended baronet, I immediately knew him to be a fellow who waited on a gentleman I was intimate with at Paris. What his real name is I either never heard or have forgot; for his master never called him by any other than that of Quaint, on account of the romantick and affected manner in which he always spoke. The rascal has a little smattering of Latin; and, I believe, has dipped into a good many of the ancient authors. He seemed, indeed, to have more of the fop than the knave in him; but he soon discovered himself to be no less the one than the other; for he ran away from his master, and robbed him of things to a considerable value. He was pursued and taken; but the gentleman permitted him to make his escape, without delivering him into the hands of justice.'
After this mutual recapitulation, the two brothers began to consider what was to be done for the chastisement of the villain, as the prosecuting him by law would expose their sister's folly, and prove the most mortal stab that could be given to her reputation. The one was for cutting off his ears; the other for pinning him against the very wall of the chamber where he had offered the insult. To which Mr. Trueworth replied, 'I must confess his crime deserves much more than your keenest resentments can inflict; but these are punishments which are only the prerogative of law; to which, as you rightly judge, it would be improper to have recourse. I am afraid, therefore, you must content yourselves with barely caning him; that is,' continued he, 'if he is yet in the way for it; but I shrewdly suspect he has before now made off, as well as his confederates, the parson and the surgeon: however, I think it would be right to go to the house of this Modely, and see what is to be done.'
To this they both readily agreed; and they all went together: but, as they were going—'O what eternal plagues,' said Mr. Francis, 'has the vanity of this girl brought upon all her friends!'—'You will still bemaking too hasty reflections,' cried Mr. Trueworth; 'I hope to see Miss Betsy one day as much out-shine the greatest part of her sex in prudence, as she has always done in beauty.'
By this time they were at Mrs. Modely's door; but the maid, whom she had tutored for the purpose, told them that Sir Frederick Fineer was gone—that he would not pay her mistress for the lodgings, because she had suffered him to be interrupted in them—and that she was sick in bed with the fright of what had happened, and could not be spoke to.
On this Mr. Trueworth ran up to his steward's chamber, not doubting but he should there be certainly informed whether the mock baronet was gone or not; the two Mr. Thoughtlesses waited in the parlour till his return, which was immediately, with intelligence, that the wretch had left the house soon after himself had conducted Miss Betsy thence.
They had now no longer any business here; but the elder Mr. Thoughtless could not take leave of Mr. Trueworth without intreating the favour of seeing him at his house: to which he replied, that he believed he should not stay long in town, and while he did so, had business that very much engrossed his time, but at his return should rejoice in an opportunity of cultivating a friendship with him. With this, and some other compliments, they separated; the two brothers went home, and Mr. Trueworth went where his inclinations led him.
On Mr. Trueworth's going to Sir Bazil's, he found the two ladies with all the appearance of the most poignant grief in their faces: Mrs. Wellair's eyes were full of tears; but those of her lovely sister seemed to flow from an exhaustless spring.
This was a strange phœnomenon to Mr. Trueworth; it struck a sudden damp on the gaiety of his spirits; and he had but just recovered his surprize enough to ask the meaning, when Mrs. Wellair prevented him, by saying, 'O, Mr. Trueworth, we have a melancholy account to give you—poor Mrs. Blanchfield is no more!'
'Dead!' cried he. 'Dead!' repeated Miss Harriot; 'but the manner of it will affect you most.'—'A much less motive,' replied he, 'if capable of giving pain to you, must certainly affect me: but I beseech you, Madam,' continued he, 'keep me not in suspense.'
'You may remember,' said Miss Harriot, sighing, 'that some time ago we told you that Mrs. Blanchfield had taken leave of us, and was gone down to Windsor. It seems she had not been long there before she was seized with a disorder, which the physicians term a fever on the spirits; whatever it was, she lingered in it for about three weeks, and died yesterday: some days before she sent for a lawyer, and disposed of her effects by will; she also wrote a letter to me, which last she put into the hands of a maid, who has lived with her almost from her infancy, binding her by the most solemn vow to deliver to me as soon as possible after she was dead, and not till then, on any motive whatsoever.
'The good creature,' pursued Miss Harriot, 'hurried up to townthis morning, to perform her lady's last injunctions: this is the letter I received from her,' continued she, taking it out of her pocket, and presenting it to him; 'read it, and join with us in lamenting the fatal effects of a passion people take so much pains to inspire.'
The impatience Mr. Trueworth was in for the full explanation of a mystery, which, perhaps, he had some guess into the truth of, hindered him from making any answer to what Miss Harriot had said upon the occasion; he hastily opened the letter, and found in it these lines.
'To Miss Harriot Loveit.Dear, happy friend!As my faithful Lucy, at the same time she delivers this into your hands, brings you also the intelligence of my death, the secret it discovers cannot raise in you any jealous apprehensions: I have been your rival, my dear Harriot; but when I found you were mine, wished you not to lose what I would have given the world, had I been the mistress of it, to have gained. The first moment I saw the too agreeable Mr. Trueworth, something within told me, he was my fate—that according as I appeared in his eyes, I must either be happy, or no more: it has proved the latter; death has seized upon my heart, but cannot drive my passion thence. Whether I shall carry it beyond the grave I shall know before this reaches you; but at present I think it is so incorporated with my immortal part, as not to be separated by the dissolution of my frame.I will not pretend to have had so much command over myself, as to refrain taking any step for the forwarding my desires: before I was convinced of his attachment to you, I caused a letter to be wrote to him, making him an offer of the heart and fortune of a person, unnamed indeed, but mentioned as one not altogether unworthy of his acceptance. This he answered as requested, and ingenuously confessed, that the whole affections of his soul were already devoted to another. I had then no more to do with hope, nor had any thing to attempt but the concealing my despair: this made me quit London, and all that was valuable to me in it. I flattered myself, alas! that time and absence would restore my reason; but, as I said before, my doom was fixed—irrevocably fixed! and I soon found, by a thousand symptoms of an inward decay, that to be sensible of that angelick man's perfections, and to live without him, are things incompatible in nature: even now, while I am writing, I feel the icy harbingers ofdeath creep through my veins, benumbing as they pass. Soon, very soon, shall I be reduced to a cold lump of senseless clay; indeed, I have now no wish for life, nor business to transact below. I have settled my worldly affairs, and disposed of the effects that Heaven has blessed me with, to those I think most worthy of them. My last will is in the hands of Mr. Markland the lawyer; I hope he is an honest man; but lest he should prove otherwise, let Mr. Trueworth know I have made him master of half that fortune, which once I should have rejoiced to lay wholly at his feet: all my jewels I intreat you to accept; they can add nothing to your beauty, but may serve to ornament your wedding-garments; Lucy has them in her possession, and will deliver them to you.And now, my dear Miss Harriot, I have one favour to beg of you; and that is, that you exert all the influence your merits claim over the heart of Mr. Trueworth, to engage him to accompany you in seeing me laid in the earth. I know your gentle, generous nature, too well, to doubt you will deny me this request; and the very idea that you will ask, and he will grant, gives, methinks, a new vigour to my enfeebled spirits. O if some departed souls are permitted, as some say they are, to look down on what passes beneath the moon, how will mine triumph—how exult to see my poor remains thus honoured! thus attended! I can no more but this—may you make happy the best of men, and may he make you the happiest of women! Farewel—enternally farewel—be assured, that I as lived, so I die, with the greatest sincerity, dear Miss Harriot, yours, &c.J. Blanchfield.P.S. Be so good to give my last adieus to Mrs. Wellair; she will find I have not forgot her, nor my little godson, in my bequests.'
'To Miss Harriot Loveit.
Dear, happy friend!
As my faithful Lucy, at the same time she delivers this into your hands, brings you also the intelligence of my death, the secret it discovers cannot raise in you any jealous apprehensions: I have been your rival, my dear Harriot; but when I found you were mine, wished you not to lose what I would have given the world, had I been the mistress of it, to have gained. The first moment I saw the too agreeable Mr. Trueworth, something within told me, he was my fate—that according as I appeared in his eyes, I must either be happy, or no more: it has proved the latter; death has seized upon my heart, but cannot drive my passion thence. Whether I shall carry it beyond the grave I shall know before this reaches you; but at present I think it is so incorporated with my immortal part, as not to be separated by the dissolution of my frame.
I will not pretend to have had so much command over myself, as to refrain taking any step for the forwarding my desires: before I was convinced of his attachment to you, I caused a letter to be wrote to him, making him an offer of the heart and fortune of a person, unnamed indeed, but mentioned as one not altogether unworthy of his acceptance. This he answered as requested, and ingenuously confessed, that the whole affections of his soul were already devoted to another. I had then no more to do with hope, nor had any thing to attempt but the concealing my despair: this made me quit London, and all that was valuable to me in it. I flattered myself, alas! that time and absence would restore my reason; but, as I said before, my doom was fixed—irrevocably fixed! and I soon found, by a thousand symptoms of an inward decay, that to be sensible of that angelick man's perfections, and to live without him, are things incompatible in nature: even now, while I am writing, I feel the icy harbingers ofdeath creep through my veins, benumbing as they pass. Soon, very soon, shall I be reduced to a cold lump of senseless clay; indeed, I have now no wish for life, nor business to transact below. I have settled my worldly affairs, and disposed of the effects that Heaven has blessed me with, to those I think most worthy of them. My last will is in the hands of Mr. Markland the lawyer; I hope he is an honest man; but lest he should prove otherwise, let Mr. Trueworth know I have made him master of half that fortune, which once I should have rejoiced to lay wholly at his feet: all my jewels I intreat you to accept; they can add nothing to your beauty, but may serve to ornament your wedding-garments; Lucy has them in her possession, and will deliver them to you.
And now, my dear Miss Harriot, I have one favour to beg of you; and that is, that you exert all the influence your merits claim over the heart of Mr. Trueworth, to engage him to accompany you in seeing me laid in the earth. I know your gentle, generous nature, too well, to doubt you will deny me this request; and the very idea that you will ask, and he will grant, gives, methinks, a new vigour to my enfeebled spirits. O if some departed souls are permitted, as some say they are, to look down on what passes beneath the moon, how will mine triumph—how exult to see my poor remains thus honoured! thus attended! I can no more but this—may you make happy the best of men, and may he make you the happiest of women! Farewel—enternally farewel—be assured, that I as lived, so I die, with the greatest sincerity, dear Miss Harriot, yours, &c.
J. Blanchfield.
P.S. Be so good to give my last adieus to Mrs. Wellair; she will find I have not forgot her, nor my little godson, in my bequests.'
How would the vain unthinking sop have exulted on such a proof of his imagined merit! how would the sordid avaricious man, in the pleasure of finding so unexpected an accession to his wealth, have forgot all compassion for the hand that gave it! Mr. Trueworth, on the contrary, blushed at having so much more ascribed to him than he would allow himself to think he deserved, and would gladly have been deprived of the best part of his fortune, rather than have received an addition to it by such fatal means.
The accident, however, was so astonishing to him, that he scarce believed it real; nor could what he read in the letter under her ownhand, nor all Mrs. Wellair and Miss Harriot alledged, persuade him to think, at least to acknowledge, that the lady's death was owing to a hopeless flame for him.
While they were speaking, Sir Bazil came in; he had been at home when his sister received the letter, and had heard what Lucy said of her mistress's indisposition, and was therefore no stranger to any part of the affair.
'Well, Trueworth,' said he to that gentleman, 'I have often endeavoured to emulate, and have even envied, the great talents you are master of; but am now reconciled to nature for not bestowing them on me, lest they might prove of the same ill consequences to some women, as yours have been to Mrs. Blanchfield.'
'Dear Sir Bazil,' replied Mr. Trueworth, 'do not attempt to force me into an imagination which would render me at once both vain and wretched. Chance might direct the partial inclination of this lady to have kinder thoughts of me, than I could either merit or return; but I should be loth to believe that they have produced the sad event we now lament.'
'I am of opinion, indeed,' said Sir Bazil, 'that there are many who deceive themselves, as well as the world, in this point. People are apt to mistake that for love, which is only the effect of pride, for a disappointment: but it would be unjust to suppose this was the case with Mrs. Blanchfield; the generous legacy she has bequeathed to you, and the tenderness with which she treats my sister, leaves no room to suspect her soul was tainted with any of those turbulent emotions, which disgrace the name of love, and yet are looked upon as the consequence of that passion; she knew no jealousy, harboured no revenge; the affection she had for you was simple and sincere; and, meeting no return, preyed only upon herself and by degrees consumed the springs of life.'
'I am glad, however,' said the elder sister of Sir Bazil, 'to find that Mr. Trueworth has nothing to reproach himself with on this unhappy score: some men, on receiving a letter of the nature he did, would, through mere curiosity of knowing on whose account it came, have sent an answer of encouragement; it must be owned, therefore, that the command he had over himself in this generosity to his unknown admirer, demanded all the recompense in her power to make.'
Mr. Trueworth, whose modesty had been sufficiently wounded in this conversation, hastily replied, 'Madam, what you by an excess of goodness are pleased to call generosity, was, in effect, no more than apiece of common honesty: the man capable of deceiving a woman who regards him, is no less a villain than he who defrauds his neighbour of the cash intrusted into his hands: the unfortunate Mrs. Blanchfield did me the honour to depend on my sincerity and secrecy: I did but my duty in observing both; and she, in so highly over-rating that act of duty, shewed indeed the magnanimity of her own mind, but adds no merit to mine.'
'I could almost wish it did not,' said Miss Harriot, sighing. 'Madam!' cried Mr. Trueworth, looking earnestly on her, as not able to comprehend what she meant by these words. 'Indeed,' resumed she, 'I could almost wish, that you were a little less deserving than you are, since the esteem you enforce is of so dangerous a kind.' She uttered this with so inexpressible a tenderness in her voice and eyes, that he could not restrain himself from kissing her hand in the most passionate manner, though in the presence of her brother and sister; crying, at the same time, 'I desire no more of the world's esteem, than just so much as may defend my lovely Harriot from all blame for receiving my addresses.'
They afterwards fell into some discourse concerning what was really deserving admiration, and what was so only in appearance; in which many mistakes in judging were detected, and the extreme weakness of giving implicitly into the opinions of others, exposed by examples suitable to the occasion.
But these are inquisitions which it is possible would not be very agreeable to the present age; and it would be madness to risk the displeasure of the multitude for the sake of gratifying a few: so the reader must excuse the repetition of what was said by this agreeable company on that subject.
While Miss Betsy had her brothers with her, and was treated by them with a tenderness beyond what she could have expected, just after the unlucky adventure she had fallen into, she felt not that remorse and vexation which it might be said her present situation demanded.
But when they were gone, and she was left entirely to those reflections, which their presence and good-humour had only retarded, how did they come with double force upon her! To think she had received the addresses, and entertained with a mistaken respect the lowest and most abject dreg of mankind—that she had exposed herself to the insults of that ruffian—that it had not been in her power to defend herself from his taking liberties with her the most shocking to her delicacy—and that she was on the very point of becoming the victim of his base designs upon her; made her feel over again, in idea, all the horrors of her real danger.
By turns, indeed, she blessed Heaven for her escape; but then the means to which she was indebted for that escape, was a fresh stab to her pride. 'I am preserved, 'tis true,' said she, 'from ruin and everlasting infamy: but then by whom am I preserved? by the very man who once adored, then slighted, and must now despise, me. If nothing but a miracle could save me, O why, good Heaven! was not that miracle performed by any instrument but him! What triumph to him! what lasting shame to me, has this unfortunate accident produced!
'Alas!' continued she, weeping, 'I wanted not this proof of his honour—his courage—his generosity—nor was there any need of my being reduced in the manner he found me, to make him think me undeserving of his affection.'
Never was a heart torn with a greater variety of anguish than that of this unfortunate young lady: as she was yet ignorant of what steps her brothers intended to take in this affair, and feared they might be such as would render what had happened to her publick to the world, she fell into reflections that almost turned her brain; she represented to herself all the sarcasms, all the comments, that she imagined, and probably would have been made on her behaviour—her danger, and her delivery—all these thoughts were insupportable to her—she resolved to hide herself for ever from the town, and pass her future life in obscurity: so direful to her were the apprehensions of becoming the object of derision, that, rather than endure it, she would suffer any thing.
In the present despondency of her humour, she would certainly have fled the town, and gone directly down to L——e, if she had not known that Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty were expected here in a very short time; and she was so young when she left that country, that she could not think of any family to whom it was proper for her to go, without some previous preparations.
All her pride—her gaiety—her vanity of attracting admiration—in fine, all that had composed her former character, seemed now to be lost and swallowed up in the sense of that bitter shame and contempt in which she imagined herself involved; and she wished for nothing but to be unseen, unregarded, and utterly forgotten, by all that had ever known her, being almost ready to cry out, with Dido—
'Nor art, nor nature's hand, can ease my grief,Nothing but death, the wretch's last relief;Then farewel, youth, and all the joys that dwellWith youth and life—and life itself, farewel!'
'Nor art, nor nature's hand, can ease my grief,Nothing but death, the wretch's last relief;Then farewel, youth, and all the joys that dwellWith youth and life—and life itself, farewel!'
The despair of that unhappy queen, so elegantly described by the poet, could not far transcend what poor Miss Betsy sustained during this whole cruel night: nor did the day afford her any more tranquillity—on the contrary, she hated the light—the sight even of her own servants was irksome to her—she ordered, that whoever came to visit her, except her brothers, should be denied admittance—complainedof a violent pain in her head—would not be prevailed upon to take the least refreshment; but kept herself upon the bed, indulging all the horrors of despair and grief.
In the afternoon Mr. Francis Thoughtless came—seemed a little surprized to find his brother was not there; and told Miss Betsy, that, having been called different ways, they had appointed to meet at her lodgings, in order to have some serious discourse with her concerning her future settlement: to which she replied, that her late fright hung so heavy on her spirits, that she was in little condition at present to resolve on any thing.
She spoke this with so dejected an air, that Mr. Francis, who truly loved her, in spite of all the resentment he had for the errors of her conduct, could not forbear saying a great many tender things to her; but nothing afforded her so much consolation as the account he gave her, that no prosecution would be commenced against the sham Sir Frederick Fineer. 'The villain', said he, 'is run away from his lodgings, but, questionless, might easily be found out, and brought to justice; but the misfortune is, that in cases of this nature, the offended must suffer as well as the offender: to punish him, must expose you. You see, therefore, to what your inadvertency has reduced you—injured to the most shocking degree, yet denied the satisfaction of revenge.'
Miss Betsy only answering with her tears—'I speak not this to upbraid you,' resumed he; 'and would be far from adding to the affliction you are in; on the contrary, I would have you be chearful, and rejoice more in the escape you have had, than bewail the danger you have passed through: but then, my dear sister, I would wish you also to put yourself into a condition which may defend you from attempts of this vile nature.'
He was going on with something farther, when the elder Mr. Thoughtless came in. 'I have been detained,' said that gentleman, 'longer than I expected; my friend is going to have his picture drawn; and, knowing I have been in Italy, would needs have my judgment upon the painter's skill.' 'I suppose, then,' said Mr. Francis, 'your eyes have been feasted with the resemblance of a great number of beauties, either real or fictitious.'—'No, faith,' replied the other; 'I believe none of the latter: the man seems to be too much an artist in his profession to stand in any need of having recourse to that stale strategem of inviting customers by exhibiting shadows, which have no substances but in his own brain; and, I must do him the justice to say,that I never saw life imitated to more perfection.'
'Then you saw some faces there you were acquainted with,' said the younger Mr. Thoughtless. 'Two or three,' answered the elder; 'but one, which more particularly struck me, as I had seen the original but twice—but once, indeed, to take any notice of: it was of your friend, the gentleman we waited on this morning.'
'What, Trueworth!' demanded Mr. Francis. 'The same,' resumed the other: 'never was there a more perfect likeness—he is drawn in miniature; I believe, by the size of the piece, intended to be worn at a lady's watch; but I looked on it through my magnifier, and thought I saw his very self before me.'
He said much more in praise of the excellence of this artist; as, indeed, he was very full of it, having a desire his favourite mistress's picture should be drawn, and was transported to have found a person who, he thought, could do it so much justice.
Though Miss Betsy sat all this time in a pensive posture, and seemed not to take any notice of this discourse, yet no part of it was lost upon her. 'You extol this painter so much, brother,' said she, 'that if I thought my picture worth drawing, I would sit to him myself. Pray,' continued she, 'where does he live, and what is his name?' Mr. Thoughtless having satisfied her curiosity in these points, no more was said on the occasion; and the brothers immediately entered into a conversation upon the business which had brought them thither.
The elder of them remonstrated to her, in the strongest terms he was able, the perpetual dangers to which, through the baseness of this world, and her own inadvertency, she was liable every day to be exposed. 'This last ugly incident,' said he, 'I hope may be hushed up; Mr. Trueworth, I dare say, is too generous to make any mention of it; and those concerned in it will be secret for their own sakes: but you may not always meet the same prosperous chance. It behoves us, therefore, who must share in your disgrace, as well as have a concern in your happiness, to insist on your putting yourself into a different mode of life: Mr. Munden makes very fair proposals; he has given me leave to examine the rent-roll of his estate, which accordingly I have ordered a lawyer to do. He will settle an hundred and fifty pounds per annum on you for pin-money, and jointure you in four hundred; and I think your fortune does not entitle you to a better offer.'
'Brother, I have had better,' replied Miss Betsy, with a sigh. 'But you rejected it!' cried Mr. Francis, with some warmth; 'and you are not to expect a second Trueworth to fall to your share.'—'Let us talkno more of what is past,' said the elder Mr. Thoughtless; 'but endeavour to persuade our sister to accept of that which at present is most for her advantage.'
Both these gentlemen, in their different turns, made use of every argument that could be brought on the occasion, to prevail on Miss Betsy to give them some assurance, that as now there was no better prospect for her, she would trifle no longer with the pretensions of Mr. Munden, but resolve to marry him, in case the condition of his affairs was proved, upon enquiry, to be such as he had represented to them.
She made, for a great while, very little reply to all this; her head was now, indeed, very full of something else; she sat in a kind of reverie, and had a perfect absence of mind during this latter part of their discourse: she heard, but heard without attention, and without considering the weight of any thing they urged; yet, at last, merely to get rid of their importunities and presence, that she might be alone to indulge her own meditations, she said as they said, and promised to do whatever they required of her.
Mr. Thoughtless having now, as he imagined, brought her to the bent he wished, took his leave: but Mr. Francis staid some time longer; nor had, perhaps, gone so soon, if Miss Betsy had not discovered a certain restlessness, which made him think she would be glad to be alone.
This was the first time she had ever desired his absence; but now, indeed, most heartily did so: she had got a caprice in her brain, which raised ideas there she was in pain till she had modelled, and brought to the perfection she wanted. What her brother had cursorily mentioned concerning the picture of Mr. Trueworth, had made a much deeper impression on her mind than all the serious discourse he had afterwards entertained her with; she longed to have in her possession so exact a resemblance of a man who had once loved her, and for whom she had always the most high esteem, though her pride would never suffer her to shew it to any one who professed himself her lover. 'This picture,' said she, 'by looking on it, will remind me of the obligation I have to him; I might forget it else; and I would not be ungrateful: though it is not in my nature to love, I may, nay, I ought, after what he has done for me, to have a friendship for him.'
She then began to consider whether there was a possibility of becoming the mistress of what she so much desired—she had never given her mind to plotting—she had never been at the pains of anycontrivances but how to ornament her dress, or place the patches of her face with the most graceful art; and was extremely at a loss what strategem to form for the getting this picture into her hands: at first, she thought of going to the painter, and bribing him to take a copy of it for her own use. 'But then,' said she, 'a copy taken from a copy goes still farther from the original; besides, he may betray me, or he may not have time to do it; and I would leave nothing to chance. No! I must have the very picture that my brother saw, that I may be sure is like, for I know he is a judge.
'Suppose,' cried she again, 'I go under the pretence of sitting for my picture, and look over all his pieces—I fancy I may find an opportunity of slipping Trueworth's into my pocket—I could send the value of it the next day, so the man would be no sufferer by it.'
This project seemed feasible to her for a time; but she afterwards rejected it, on account she could not be sure of committing the theft so artfully as not to be detected in the fact: several other little strategems succeeded this in her inventive brain; all which, on second thoughts, she found either impossible to be executed, or could promise no certainty in their effects.
Sleep was no less a stranger to her eyes this night than it had been the preceding one; yet of how different a nature were the agitations that kept her waking: in the first, the shock of the insult she had sustained, and the shame of her receiving her protection from him by whom, of all men living, she was at least willing to be obliged, took up all her thoughts—in the second, she was equally engrossed by the impatience of having something to preserve him eternally in her mind.
After long revolving within herself, she at last hit upon the means of accomplishing her desires—the risque she ran, indeed, was somewhat bold; but as it succeeded without suspicion, she had only to guard against accidents that might occasion a future discovery of what she had done.
Early the next morning she sent to Blunt's—hired a handsome chaise and pair, with a coachman and two servants, in a livery different from that she gave her own man; then dressed herself in a riding-habit and hunting-cap, which had been made for her on her going down to Oxford, and she had never been seen in by Mr. Trueworth; so that she thought she might be pretty confident, that when he should come to examine who had taken away his picture, the description could never enable him to guess at the right person.
With this equipage she went to the house where the painter lived: on enquiring for him by name, he came immediately to know her commands.—'You have the picture here of Mr. Trueworth,' said she; 'pray, is it ready?'—'Yes, Madam,' answered he, 'I am just going to carry it home.'—'I am glad, then, Sir,' resumed Miss Betsy, 'that I am come time enough to save you that trouble: Mr. Trueworth went to Hampstead last night; and being to follow him this morning, he desired I would bring it with me, and pay you the money.'—'O, Madam, as to the money,' said he, 'I shall see Mr. Trueworth again!' and then called to the man to bring down his picture.—'Indeed I shall not take it without paying you,' said she; 'but, in the hurry, I forgot to ask him the sum—pray, how much is it?'—'My constant price, Madam,' replied he, 'is ten guineas, and the gentleman never offered to beat me down.'
By this time the man had brought the picture down in a little box, which the painter opening, as he presented it to her, cried, 'Is it not a prodigious likeness, Madam?'—'Yes, really, Sir,' said she, 'in my opinion there is no fault to be found.'—She then put the picture into her pocket, counted ten guineas to him out of her purse, and told him, with a smile, that she believed he would very shortly have more business from the same quarter—then bid the coachman drive on.
The coachman having previous orders what to do, was no sooner out of sight of the painter's house, then he turned down the first street, and carried Miss Betsy home: she discharged her retinue, undressed herself with all the speed she could; and whoever had now seen her, would never have suspected she had been abroad.
This young lady was not of a temper to grieve long for any thing: how deep soever she was affected, the impression wore off on the first new turn that offered itself. All her remorse, all her vexation, for the base design laid against her at Mrs. Modely's, were dissipated the moment she took it into her head to get possession of this picture; and the success of her enterprize elated her beyond expression.
It cannot be supposed; that it was altogether owing to the regard she had for Mr. Trueworth, though in effect much more than she herself was yet sensible of, that she took all these pains; it looks as if there was also some little mixture of female malice in the case. Her brother had said that the picture seemed to be intended to be worn at a lady's watch—she doubted not but it was so; and the thoughts ofdisappointing her rival's expectations contributed greatly to the satisfaction she felt at what she had done.
Miss Betsy was not deceived in her conjecture in relation to the picture being designed as an offering to some lady: Mr. Trueworth had not, indeed, sat for it to please himself, but to oblige Miss Harriot, who had given some hints that such a present would not be unwelcome to her.
It is a common thing with painters to keep the pieces in their own hands as long as they can, after they are finished, especially if they are of persons endued by nature with any perfections which may do honour to their art: this gentleman was like others of his profession; he found it to his credit to shew frequently Mr. Trueworth's picture to as many as came to look over his paintings, and had detained it for several days beyond the time in which he had promised to send it, on pretence that there were still some little touches wanting on the drapery.
Mr. Trueworth growing a little impatient at the delay, as Miss Harriot had asked two or three times, in a gay manner, when she should see his resemblance, went himself in order to fetch it away: the painter was surprized at the sight of him, and much more so when he demanded the picture. He told him, however, the whole truth without hesitation, that he delivered it to a lady not above an hour before he came, who paid him the money for it, and said that she had called for it on his request.
Nothing had ever happened that seemed more strange to him; he made a particular enquiry concerning the face, age, complexion, shape, stature, and even dress of the lady, who had put this trickupon him: and it was well for Miss Betsy, that she had taken all the precautions she did, or she had infallibly been discovered; a thing which, perhaps, would have given her a more lasting confusion, than even her late unlucky adventure with the mock baronet.
She was, however, among all the ladies of his acquaintance, almost the only one who never came into his head on this occasion: sometimes he thought of one, sometimes he thought of another; but on recollecting all the particulars of their behaviour towards him, could find no reason to ascribe what had been done to any of them. Miss Flora was the only person he could imagine capable of such a thing; he found it highly probable, that her love and invention had furnished her with the means of committing this innocent fraud; and though he was heartily vexed that he must be at the trouble of sitting for another picture, yet he could not be angry with the woman who had occasioned it: on the contrary, he thought there was something so tender, and so delicate withal, in this proof of her passion, that it very much enhanced the pity and good-will he before had for her.
But while his generous heart was entertaining these too favourable and kind sentiments of her, she was employing her whole wicked wit to make him appear the basest of mankind, and also to render him the most unhappy.
She had found out every thing she wanted to know concerning Mr. Trueworth's courtship to Miss Harriot; and flattered herself, that a lady bred in the country, and unacquainted with the artifices frequently practised in town, to blacken the fairest characters, would easily be frightened into a belief of any thing she attempted to inspire her with.
In the vile hope, therefore, of accomplishing so detestable a project, she contrived a letter in the following terms.
'To Miss Harriot Loveit.Madam,Where innocence is about to suffer merely through it's incapacity of suspecting that ill in another it cannot be guilty of itself, common honesty forbids a stander-by to be silent. You are on the brink of a precipice which, if you fall into, it is not in the power of human art to save you. Death only can remove you from misery, remorse, distraction, and woes without a name! Trueworth, that sly deceiver of your sex, and most abandoned of his own, can only bring you apolluted heart and prostituted vows! He made the most honourable professions of love to a young lady of family and character—gained her affections—I hope no more: but, whatever was between them, he basely quitted her, to mourn her ill-placed love and ruined fame. Yet this, Madam, is but his least of crimes: he has since practised his betraying arts on another, superior to the former in every female virtue and accomplishments—second to none in beauty, and of a reputation spotless as the sun, till an unhappy passion for that worst of men obscured it's brightness, at least in the eyes of the censorious. He is, however, bound to her by the most solemn engagements that words can form, under his own hand-writing; which, if she does not in due time produce against him, it will be owing only to her too great modesty. These two, Madam, are the most conspicuous victims of his perfidy. Pray Heaven you may not close the sad triumvirate, and that I may never see such beauty and such goodness stand among the foremost in the rank of those many wretches he has made!In short, Madam, he has deceived your friends, and betrayed you into a mistaken opinion of his honour and sincerity. If he marries you, you cannot but be miserable, he being the right of another: if he does not marry you, your reputation suffers. Happy is it for you, if the loss of reputation is all you will have to regret! He already boasts of having received favours from you; which, whoever looks in your face, will find it very difficult to think you capable of granting: but yet, who knows what strange effects too great a share of tenderness in the composition may not have produced!Fly, then, Madam, from this destructive town, and the worst monster in it, Trueworth! Retire in time to those peaceful shades from whence you came; and save what yet remains of you worthy your attention to preserve!Whatever reports to your prejudice the vanity of your injurious deceiver may have made him give out among his loose companions, I still hope your virtue has hitherto protected you, and that this warning will not come too late to keep you from ever verifying them.Be assured, Madam, that in giving this account, I am instigated by no other motive than merely my love of virtue, and detestation of all who would endeavour to corrupt it; and that I am, with perfect sincerity, Madam, your well-wisher, and humble servant,Unknown.'
'To Miss Harriot Loveit.
Madam,
Where innocence is about to suffer merely through it's incapacity of suspecting that ill in another it cannot be guilty of itself, common honesty forbids a stander-by to be silent. You are on the brink of a precipice which, if you fall into, it is not in the power of human art to save you. Death only can remove you from misery, remorse, distraction, and woes without a name! Trueworth, that sly deceiver of your sex, and most abandoned of his own, can only bring you apolluted heart and prostituted vows! He made the most honourable professions of love to a young lady of family and character—gained her affections—I hope no more: but, whatever was between them, he basely quitted her, to mourn her ill-placed love and ruined fame. Yet this, Madam, is but his least of crimes: he has since practised his betraying arts on another, superior to the former in every female virtue and accomplishments—second to none in beauty, and of a reputation spotless as the sun, till an unhappy passion for that worst of men obscured it's brightness, at least in the eyes of the censorious. He is, however, bound to her by the most solemn engagements that words can form, under his own hand-writing; which, if she does not in due time produce against him, it will be owing only to her too great modesty. These two, Madam, are the most conspicuous victims of his perfidy. Pray Heaven you may not close the sad triumvirate, and that I may never see such beauty and such goodness stand among the foremost in the rank of those many wretches he has made!
In short, Madam, he has deceived your friends, and betrayed you into a mistaken opinion of his honour and sincerity. If he marries you, you cannot but be miserable, he being the right of another: if he does not marry you, your reputation suffers. Happy is it for you, if the loss of reputation is all you will have to regret! He already boasts of having received favours from you; which, whoever looks in your face, will find it very difficult to think you capable of granting: but yet, who knows what strange effects too great a share of tenderness in the composition may not have produced!
Fly, then, Madam, from this destructive town, and the worst monster in it, Trueworth! Retire in time to those peaceful shades from whence you came; and save what yet remains of you worthy your attention to preserve!
Whatever reports to your prejudice the vanity of your injurious deceiver may have made him give out among his loose companions, I still hope your virtue has hitherto protected you, and that this warning will not come too late to keep you from ever verifying them.
Be assured, Madam, that in giving this account, I am instigated by no other motive than merely my love of virtue, and detestation of all who would endeavour to corrupt it; and that I am, with perfect sincerity, Madam, your well-wisher, and humble servant,
Unknown.'
Miss Flora, on considering what she had wrote, began to think shehad expressed herself in somewhat too warm a manner; but she let it pass on this account: 'By the virulence', said she, 'with which I have spoken of Trueworth, his adored Miss Harriot will certainly imagine it comes from one of those unhappy creatures I have represented in it; and, if so, it will gain the more credit with her. If she supposes that rage and despair have dictated some groundless accusations against her love, she, nevertheless, will believe others to be fact, and that at least he has been false to one.'
She, therefore, went to the person who was always her secretary in affairs of this nature; and, having got it copied, was going to the post-house, in order to send it away; for she never trusted any person but herself with these dispatches.
She was within three or four yards of the post-house, when she saw Mr. Trueworth at some distance, on the other side of the street. Her heart fluttered at this unexpected sight of him—she had no power to refrain from speaking to him—she staid not to put her letter in, but flew directly across the way, and met him just as he was turning the corner of another street.
'Oh, Mr. Trueworth!' cried she, as they drew near each other, 'I have prayed that I might live once more to see you; and Heaven has granted my petition!'
'I hope, Madam,' said he, 'that Heaven will always be equally propitious to your desires in things of greater moment.'—'There can scarce be any of greater moment,' answered she; 'for, at present, I have a request to make you of the utmost importance to me, though no more than I am certain you would readily grant to any one you had the least acquaintance with. But,' continued she, 'this is no proper place for us to discourse in. Upon the terms we now are, it can be no breach of faith to the mistress of your vows to step with me, for three minutes, where we may not be exposed to the view of every passenger.'
Mr. Trueworth had not been very well pleased with the rencounter, and would gladly have dispensed with complying with her invitation; but thought, after what she had said, he could not refuse, without being guilty of a rudeness unbecoming of himself as well as cruel to her: yet he did comply in such a manner as might make her see his inclination had little part in his consent. He told her he was in very great haste, but would snatch as much time as she mentioned from the business he was upon. Nothing more was said; and they went together into the nearest tavern; where, being seated, and winebrought in, 'Now, Madam,' said he, with a cold civility, 'please to favour me with your commands.'
'Alas!' replied she, 'it belongs not to me to command, and my request you have already granted.'—'What, without knowing it!' cried he. 'Yes,' resumed she; 'I thought an intimacy, such as ours had been, ought not to have been broke off, without a kind farewel. I blame you not for marrying; yet, sure, I deserve not to be quite forsaken—utterly thrown off: you might at least have flattered me with the hope that, in spite of your matrimonial engagement, you would still retain some sparks of affection for your poor Flora.'—'Be assured,' said he, 'I shall always think on you with tenderness.'—'And can you then resolve never to see me more?' rejoined she passionately. 'I hoped,' replied he, 'that you had acquiesced in the reasons I gave you for that resolution.'—'I hoped so, too,' said she; 'and made use of my utmost efforts for that purpose: but it is in vain; I found I could not live without you; and only wished an opportunity to take one last embrace before I leave the world and you for ever.' In speaking these words, she threw herself upon his neck, and burst into a flood of tears.
How impossible was it for a heart such as Mr. Trueworth's to be unmoved at a spectacle like this! Her love, her grief, and her despair, shot through his very soul. Scarce could he refrain mingling his tears with hers. 'My dear Flora,' cried he, 'compose yourself—by Heaven I cannot bear to see you thus!' He kissed her cheek while he was speaking, seated her in a chair, and held her hand in his with the extremest tenderness.
This wicked creature was not so overcome with the emotions of her love and grief, as not to see the pity she had raised in him; and, flattering herself that there was in it some mixture of a passion she more wished to inspire, fell a second time upon his bosom, crying, 'Oh, Trueworth! Trueworth! here let me die; for death hath nothing in it so terrible as the being separated from you!'
Mr. Trueworth was a man of strict honour, great resolution, and passionately devoted to the most deserving of her sex: yet he was still a man—was of an amorous complexion; and thus tempted, who can answer, but in this unguarded moment he might have been guilty of a wrong to his dear Harriot, for which he would afterwards have hated himself, if an accident of more service to him than his own virtue, in so critical a juncture, had not prevented him.
He returned the embrace she gave, and joined his lips to hers witha warmth which she had not for a long time experienced from him: a sudden rush of transport came at once upon her with such force, that it overwhelmed her spirits, and she fell into a kind of fainting between his arms. He was frightened at the change he observed in her; and hastily cutting the lacings of her stays, to give her air, the letter above-mentioned dropped from her breast upon the ground. He took it up, and was going to throw it upon the table; but in that action seeing the name of Miss Harriot on the superscription, was struck with an astonishment not easy to be conceived. He no longer thought of the condition Miss Flora was in; but, tearing open the letter, he began to examine the contents.
Miss Flora in that instant recovering her senses, and the remembrance of what had been concealed in her bosom, flew to him, endeavouring to snatch the paper from his hands; but he had already seen too much not to be determined to see the rest. 'Stand off!' cried he, in a voice half choaked with fury; 'I am not yet fully acquainted with the whole of the favours you have bestowed upon me in this paper!' Confounded as she was, cunning did not quite forsake her. 'I am ignorant of what it contains,' said she; 'I found it in the street!—It is not mine!—I wrote it not!'
With such like vain pretences would she have pleaded innocence; yet all the time endeavoured, with her whole strength, to force the proof of her guilt from him; insomuch that, though he was very tall, he was obliged with one hand to keep her off, and with the other to hold the paper at arms length, while he was reading it; and could not forbear frequently interrupting himself, to cast a look of contempt and rage on the malicious authoress. 'Vile hypocrite!' cried he: and then again, as he got farther into the base invective, 'Thou fiend in female form!'
She now finding all was over, and seized with a sudden fit of frenzy, or something like it, ran to his sword, which he had pulled off and laid in the window, and was about to plunge it in her breast. He easily wrested it from her; and, putting it by his side, 'O thou serpent!—thou viper!' cried he. 'If thou wert a man, thou shouldest not need to be thy own executioner!' The tide of her passion then turning another way, she threw herself at his feet, clung round his legs, and, in a voice rather screaming than speaking, uttered these words—'O pardon me!—pity me! Whatever I have done, my love of you occasioned it!'—'Curse on such poisonous love!' rejoined he. 'Hell, and its worst effects, are in the name, when mentioned by a mouthlike thine!' Then finding it a little difficult to disentangle himself from the hold she had taken of him, 'Thou shame and scandal to that sex to which alone thou owest thy safety!' cried he furiously, 'quit me this instant, lest I forget thou art a woman!—lest I spurn thee from me, and use thee as the worst of reptiles!'
On hearing these dreadful words, all her strength forsook her; the sinews of her hand relaxed, and lost their grasp. She fell a second time into a fainting-fit; but of a nature as different from what the former had been as were the emotions that occasioned it. Mr. Trueworth was now too much and too justly irritated to be capable of relenting: he left her in this condition, and only bid the people at the bar, as he went out of the house, send somebody up to her assistance.
The humour he was at present in rendering him altogether unfit for company, he went directly to his lodgings; where examining the letter with more attention than he could do before, he presently imagined he was not altogether unacquainted with the hand-writing. He very well knew it was not that of Miss Flora, yet positive that he had somewhere seen it before: that which he had received concerning Miss Betsy and the child at Denham came fresh into his head; he found them, indeed, the same on comparing; and, as the reader may suppose, this discovery added not a little to the resentment he was before inflamed with against the base inventress of these double falsehoods.
Miss Betsy was all this time enjoying the little fraud she had been guilty of: the idea how Mr. Trueworth would be surprized at finding his picture had been taken away, and the various conjectures that would naturally rise in his mind upon so odd an accident, gave her more real pleasure than others feel on the accomplishment of the most material event.
She was, indeed, of a humour the most perfectly happy for herself that could be: chearful, gay—not apt to create imaginary ills, as too many do, and become wretched for misfortunes which have no existence but in their own fretful dispositions. On any real cause, either for grief or anger, that happened to her, nobody, it is certain, felt them with a more poignant sensibility; but then she was affected with them but for a short time. The turbulent passion could obtain no residence in her mind; and, on the first approaches of their opposite emotions, entirely vanished, as if they had never been. The arrows of affliction, of what kind soever they were, but slightly glanced upon her heart, nor pierced it, much less were able to make any lasting impression there.
She now visited as usual—saw as much company as ever; and hearing no mention made, wherever she went, of her adventure with the mock baronet, concluded the whole thing was, and would remain, an eternal secret, and therefore easily forgot it; or, if it came into her head, remembered it only on account of her deliverer.
She was now on exceeding good terms with her brothers, who were full of spirits themselves. The elder Mr. Thoughtless, wholoved play but too well, had lately had some lucky casts; and Mr. Francis had accomplished his affairs—his commission was signed, and every thing contributed to render the whole family perfectly easy in themselves, and obliging to each other.
In the midst of this contentment of mind, Mr. Edward Goodman came to town from Deal. The two Mr. Thoughtlesses, on account of the many obligations they had to his uncle, and the good character they had heard of himself, received him with abundance of respect and affection.
This young Indian had a great deal of the honest simplicity of his uncle, both in his countenance and behaviour, and wanted not politeness and good manners sufficient to render his conversation very agreeable.
He was sent from Bengal at about four years of age, and received the first rudiments of his education at one of the best schools in England; where he continued till he had attained to his nineteenth, and then returned to his native country, and was now about twenty-four.
Mr. Thoughtless had now got so much the better of his mistress as to prevail on her to content herself with keeping in her own apartment whenever he had any company by whom it was improper for her to be seen.
He made a handsome entertainment for Mr. Goodman soon after his arrival; to which the lawyer who had the care of his affairs, with his wife, a well-bred, discreet woman, were also invited. Miss Betsy, at the request of her brother, presided at the head of the table.
Dinner was ordered to be ready about three, and the invitation accordingly made; but the lawyer not coming, his wife, perceiving they waited for him, was a little perplexed; but she was soon eased of it, by his coming in less than a quarter of an hour after the time he was expected.
This gentleman was the very person who made Mrs. Blanchfield's will; and, to apologize for his stay, he related to them the cause that had detained him; which was, that a demur being made to the payment of some part of the money bequeathed by that lady to Mr. Trueworth, he had been obliged to go with him, in order to rectify the mistake which had occasioned it. In giving this account, he imagined not that any person present had the least concern in it, or even was acquainted with either of the parties he mentioned.
Miss Betsy said nothing, but had her own reflections on what hehad been saying: she, however, had the satisfaction of hearing her two brothers ask those questions she longed to put to him herself. By the answers he made, she doubted not but the deceased had been courted by Mr. Trueworth—had loved him, and was to have been married to him, by her having made him so considerably a legacy.
The rest of their conversation that whole day was chiefly on matters concerning the late Mr. Goodman, the baseness of Lady Mellasin, and the measures that were taken to detect the fraud she had been guilty of; all which was very dry and insipid to Miss Betsy at this time, as, indeed, it would have been had it turned on any other subject. She was not, therefore, very sorry when the company broke up, that she might be at home, and at full liberty to indulge meditations which promised her more satisfaction than any thing she could hear abroad.
She had set it down in her mind, from what the lawyer had said, as a sure fact, that Mr. Trueworth, since his desisting his courtship to her, had loved another; and also, that her rival in his affection was now no more. 'He need not,' said she to herself, 'be at the trouble of sitting a second time for his picture in compliment to her; nor can what I have done be a subject of disquiet to either of them.'
She then would take his picture out of the cabinet, where she had concealed it, and examine it attentively. 'Good God!' cried she, 'how uncertain is the heart of man! How little dependence ought we to place on all the professions of love they make us! Just so he looked, with all this tenderness in his eyes, when his false tongue protested he never could think of marrying any woman but myself.' But these uneasy, and, indeed, unjust reflections, lasted not above a minute. 'Mrs. Blanchfield,' said she, 'had a large fortune; it was that, perhaps, he was in love with, and finding no hope of gaining me, he might be tempted, by his ambition, to make his addresses to her; but whatever were his thoughts on her account, she is now dead; and who knows what may happen? That he once loved me is certain; if he should return to his first vows, the obligation I have received from him would not permit me to treat him with the same indifference I have done. I am not in love with any man,' continued she; 'but if ever I marry, he certainly, exclusive of what he has done for me, deserves, in every respect, to have the preference; and I should, with less regret, submit to the yoke of wedlock with him than any other I have seen.'
Thus she went on, forming ideal prospects all that night, and partof the ensuing day; when the elder Mr. Thoughtless came in, and gave her the most unwelcome interruption she could receive.
He told her that he had just received an account, to his entire satisfaction, in every thing relating to Mr. Munden; and that no reasonable objection could be made, either as to the family, the estate, or the character of that gentleman. 'Therefore,' said he, 'as you have thought fit to encourage his pretensions, and he has continued them a sufficient length of time to defend you from the censure of a too quick consent, you cannot, I think, in honour, but reward his passion without delay.'
Miss Betsy was, at present, in a disposition very unfit to comply with her brother's advice; but, after all that had been urged by him, and by Mr. Francis, she could not assume courage wholly to refuse.
She hesitated—she began a sentence without ending it—and when she did, her answers were not all of a piece with that ready wit which she had always testified on other occasions.
Mr. Thoughtless, perceiving she was rather studious to evade giving any determinate answer, than willing to give such a one as he desired she should, began to expostulate with her on the capriciousness of her humour and behaviour; he conjured her to reflect on her late adventure with the impostor, Sir Frederick Fineer; and how ill it became her to countenance the addresses of a wretch like him, and, at the same time, trifle with a man of fortune and reputation.
She suffered him to go on in this manner for a considerable time, without giving him the least interruption; but by degrees recovering her spirits, 'I shall take care, Sir,' said she, 'never to fall into the like adventure again; neither do I intend to trifle with Mr. Munden: but marriage is a thing of too serious a nature to hurry into, without first having made trial of the constancy of the man who would be a husband, and also of being well assured of one's own heart.'
Mr. Thoughtless then told her, with some warmth, that he found she was relapsing into a humour and way of thinking which could not in the end but bring ruin on herself and disgrace to all her family; and added, that for his part he should meddle no more in her affairs. The tender soul of Miss Betsy was deeply affected at these words: she loved her brothers, and could not bear their displeasure; the thought of having any disagreement with them was dreadful to her; yet the putting a constraint on her inclinations to oblige them was no less so. In this dilemma, whether she complied, or whether she refused, she found herself equally unhappy.
One moment she was opening her mouth to yield a ready assent to all that was requested of her on the score of Mr. Munden; the next to confess, that she neither liked nor loved that gentleman, and knew not whether she should ever be able to resolve on a marriage with him; but her sincerity forbade the one, and her fears of offending gave a check to the other; and both together kept her entirely silent.
'You ought, methinks, however,' resumed Mr. Thoughtless, 'to have spared Mr. Munden the trouble of laying open his circumstances, and me that of examining into them.'—'I should undoubtedly have done so, Sir,' answered she, 'if I had been entirely averse to the proposals of Mr. Munden; therefore, both you and he are too hasty in judging. You know, brother, that Sir Ralph and my dear Lady Trusty will be in town in a very few days; and I am willing to have the approbation of as many of my friends as possible, in a thing of so much consequence to my future peace.'
Mr. Thoughtless was now somewhat better satisfied than he had been; and after recommending to her a constancy of mind and resolution, took his leave of her.
This conversation having a little dissipated those gay imaginations she was before possessed of, she began to consider seriously what she meant by all this, and what it availed her to give both her lover and brothers so much matter of complaint against her: she reflected that she had now gone so far with that gentleman, that neither honour towards him, nor regard to her own reputation, would well suffer her to go back. 'Since it is so, then,' said she to herself, 'to what end do I take all this trouble to invent excuses for delaying what must one day necessarily be?
'Yet, wherefore must it be?' continued she; 'I have made no promise; and if a better offer should happen, I see no reason that obliges me to reject it: for example, if Mr. Trueworth or such a one as Mr. Trueworth, (if his equal is to be found in nature) neither my brothers, nor the world, I fancy, would condemn me for quitting Mr. Munden.
'Why, then,' cried she, 'need I make all this haste to put myself out of the way of fortune? I am young enough; have lost no part of what has attracted me so many admirers; and, while my heart and hand are free, have, at least, a chance of being more happy than Mr. Munden can make me.'
In a word, being fully persuaded in her mind that the lady, who had supplanted her in Mr. Trueworth's affections, was dead, sheimagined there was a probability he might renew his addresses to herself; she wished, at least, to make the experiment; and, to that end, resolved to give no promise to Mr. Munden: yet would she not allow herself to think she loved the other, but only that she would give him the preference, as he was a match of more advantage.
Nothing is more certain, nor, I believe, more obvious to the reader, than that this young lady, almost from the time of Mr. Trueworth's quitting her, had entertained a growing inclination for him, which the late service he had rendered had very much increased: but this her pride would not suffer her to own, even to herself, as the comick poet truly says—