"I, like the child, whose folly prov'd it's loss,Refus'd the gold, and did accept the dross."
"I, like the child, whose folly prov'd it's loss,Refus'd the gold, and did accept the dross."
This naturally leading her into some reflections on the merits of Mr. Trueworth, she could not help wondering by what infatuation she had been governed when rejecting him, or, what was tantamount to rejecting him, treating him in such a manner as might make him despair of being accepted.—'What, though my heart was insensible of love,' said she, 'my reason, nay, my very pride, might have influenced me to embrace a proposal which would have rendered me the envy of my own sex, and excited the esteem and veneration of the other.' Thinking still more deeply, 'O God!' cried she with vehemence, 'to what a height of happiness might I have been raised! and into what an abyss of wretchedness am I now plunged!—Irretrievably undone—married without loving or being beloved—lostin my bloom of years to every joy that can make life a blessing!'
Nothing so much sharpens the edge of affliction as a consciousness of having brought it upon ourselves, to remember that all we could wish for, all that could make us truly happy, was once in our power to be possessed of; and wantonly shunning the good that Heaven and fortune offered, we headlong run into the ills we mourn, rendering them doubly grievous.
This being the case with our heroine, how ought all the fair and young to guard against a vanity so fatal to a lady, who, but for that one foible, had been the happiest, as she was in all other respects the most deserving, of her sex! But to return.
A just sensibility of the errors of her past conduct, joined with some other emotions, which the reader may easily guess at, though she as yet knew not the meaning of herself, gave her but little repose that night; and, pretty early the next morning, she received no inconsiderable addition to her perplexities.
The time in which Mr. Munden had promised to give his answer to the lawyer was now near expired; yet he was as irresolute as ever: loath he was to have the affair between him and his wife made publick, and equally loath to comply with her demands. Before he did either, it therefore came into his head to try what effect menaces would produce; and accordingly wrote to her in these terms.
'To Mrs. Munden.Madam,Though your late behaviour has proved the little affection you have for me, I still retain too much for you to be able to part with you. No! be assured, I never will forego the right that marriage gives me over you—will never yield to live a widower while I am a husband; and, if you return not within four and twenty hours, shall take such measures as the law directs, to force you back to my embraces. By this time to-morrow you may expect to have such company at your levee as you will not be well pleased with, and from whose authority not all your friends can screen you: but, as I am unwilling to expose you, I once more court you to spare yourself this disgrace, and me the pain of inflicting it. I give you this day to consider on what you have to do. The future peace of us both depends on your result; for your own reason ought to inform you, that being brought to me by compulsion will deserve other sort of treatment than such as youmight hope to find on returning of your own accord to your much-affronted husband,G. Munden.'
'To Mrs. Munden.
Madam,
Though your late behaviour has proved the little affection you have for me, I still retain too much for you to be able to part with you. No! be assured, I never will forego the right that marriage gives me over you—will never yield to live a widower while I am a husband; and, if you return not within four and twenty hours, shall take such measures as the law directs, to force you back to my embraces. By this time to-morrow you may expect to have such company at your levee as you will not be well pleased with, and from whose authority not all your friends can screen you: but, as I am unwilling to expose you, I once more court you to spare yourself this disgrace, and me the pain of inflicting it. I give you this day to consider on what you have to do. The future peace of us both depends on your result; for your own reason ought to inform you, that being brought to me by compulsion will deserve other sort of treatment than such as youmight hope to find on returning of your own accord to your much-affronted husband,
G. Munden.'
This letter very much alarmed both the sister and the brother: the former trembled at the thoughts of seeing herself in the hands of the officers of justice; and the latter could not but be uneasy that a disturbance of this kind should happen in his house. They were just going to send for Mr. Markland, to consult him on what was to be done, when that gentleman, whom chance had brought that way, luckily came in. He found Mr. Thoughtless in great discomposure, and Mrs. Munden almost drowned in tears. On being informed of the occasion, 'I see no reason,' said he gravely, 'for all this: I cannot think that Mr. Munden will put in execution what he threatens; at last, not till after I have spoke to him again. I rather think he writes in this manner only to terrify you, Madam, into a submission to his will. However,' continued he, after a pretty long pause, 'to be secure from all danger of an affront this way, I think it would be highly proper you should retire to some place where he may not know to find you, till I have once more tried how far he may be prevailed upon to do you justice.'
This advice being highly approved of, 'My wife's sister,' resumed he, 'has a very pleasant and commodious house on the bank of the river on the Surrey side—she takes lodgers sometimes; but at present is without: so that, if you resolve to be concealed, you cannot find a more convenient retreat; especially as, it's being so near London, nothing of moment can happen here but what you may be apprized of in little more than an hour.'
Mrs. Munden testifying as much satisfaction at this proposal as a person in her circumstances could be capable of feeling, Mr. Markland told her that he was ready to conduct her immediately to the place he mentioned; and her brother adding that he would accompany them, and see his sister safe to her new abode, they all set out together on their little voyage; Mrs. Munden having first given directions to her servants where they should follow her with such things as she thought would be wanted during her stay there.
On their arrival, they found Mr. Markland had spoken very modestly of the place he recommended: the house was pleasant almost beyond description, and rendered much more so by the obliging behaviour of its owner.
They all dined together that day; and, on parting, it was agreedthat Mrs. Munden should send her man every morning to town, in order to bring her intelligence of whatever accidents had happened in relation to her affairs on the preceding day.
As much as this lady had been rejoiced at the kind reception she had met with from her brother under her misfortunes, she was now equally pleased at being removed for a time from him, not only because she thought herself secure from any insults that might be offered by her husband, but also because this private recess seemed a certain defence against the sight of Mr. Trueworth—a thing she knew not well how to have avoided in town, without breaking off her acquaintance with Lady Loveit.
After the gentlemen were gone, the sister-in-law of Mr. Markland led her fair guest into the garden, which before she had only a cursory view of. She shewed her, among many other things, several curious exotick plants, which, she told her, she had procured from the nurseries of some persons of condition to whom she had the honour to be known: but Mrs. Munden being no great connoisseur that way, did not take much notice of what she said concerning them; till, coming to the lower end, she perceived a little wicker-gate. 'To where does this lead?' cried she. 'I will shew you presently, Madam,' replied the other; and, pulling it open, they both entered into a grass-walk, hemmed in on each side with trees, which seemed as old as the creation. They had not gone many paces, before an arbour, erected between two of these venerable monuments of antiquity, and overspread with jessamines and honeysuckles, attracted Mrs. Munden's eyes. 'Oh, how delightful is this!' said she. 'It would have been much more so, Madam, if it had been placed on the other side of the walk,' said the gentlewoman; 'and, if I live till next spring, will have the position of it altered. You will presently see my reasons for it,' continued she, 'if you please to turn your eyes a little to the right.' Mrs. Munden doing as she was desired, had the prospect of a very beautiful garden, decorated with plots of flowers, statues, and trees cut in a most elegant manner. 'Does all this belong to you?' demanded she, somewhat surprized. 'No, Madam,' answered the other; 'but they are part of the same estate, and, at present, rented by a gentleman of condition, who lives at the next door. The walk we are in is also common to us both, each having a gate to enter it at pleasure; though, indeed, they little frequent it, having much finer of their own.' With such like chat they beguiled the time, till the evening dew reminded them it was best to quit the open air.
Mrs. Munden passed this night in more tranquillity than she had done many preceding ones: she awoke, however, much sooner than was her custom; and, finding herself less disposed to return to the embraces of sleep than to partake that felicity she heard a thousand chearful birds tuning their little throats in praise of, she rose, and went down into the garden: the contemplative humour she was in, led her to the arbour she had been so much charmed with the night before; she threw herself upon the mossy seat, where scenting the fragrancy of the sweets around her, made more delicious by the freshness of the morning's gale, 'How delightful, how heavenly!' said she to herself, 'is this solitude! how truly preferable to all the noisy, giddy pleasures, of the tumultuous town! yet how have I despised and ridiculed the soft sincerity of a country life!' Then recollecting some discourse she formerly had with Mr. Trueworth on that subject, 'I wonder,' cried she, 'what Mr. Trueworth would say if he knew the change that a little time has wrought in me! he would certainly find me now more deserving of his friendship than ever he could think me of his love: but he is ignorant, insensible, of my real sentiments; and if Sir Bazil and Lady Loveit should tell him with what abruptness I fled their house at the news of his approach, I must appear in his eyes the most vain, stupid, thankless, creature I once was. But, such is my unhappy situation, that I dare not even wish he should discover what passes in my heart: the just sensibility of his amiable qualities, and of the services he has done me, which would once have been meritorious in me to have avowed, would now be highly criminal.'
With these reflections she took out Mr. Trueworth's picture, which she always carried about her; and, looking on it with the greatest tenderness, 'Though I no more must see himself,' said she, 'I may, at least, be allowed to pay the tribute of my gratitude to this dumb representative of the man to whom I have been so much obliged.' At this instant, a thousand proofs of love given her by the original of the copy in her hand, occurring all at once to her remembrance, tears filled her eyes, and her breast swelled with involuntary sighs.
In this painfully pleasing amusement did she continue for some time; and had, doubtless, done so much longer, if a sudden rustling among the leaves behind her, had not made her turn her head to see what had occasioned it: but where are the words that can express the surprize, the wild confusion, she was in, when the first glance of her eyes presented her with the sight of the real object, whose image she had been thus tenderly contemplating! She shrieked—the picturedropped from her hand—the use of her faculties forsook her—she sunk from the seat where she was sitting, and had certainly fainted quite away but for the immediate assistance of the person who had caused the extraordinary emotions.
Her fancy, indeed, strong as it was, had formed no visionary appearance—it was the very identical Mr. Trueworth whom chance had brought to make the discovery of a secret which, of all things in the world, he had the least suspicion of.
He was intimately acquainted with the person to whom the house adjoining to that where Mrs. Munden lodged belonged; and, hearing where he was, on his return from Oxfordshire, had come the evening before, intending to pass a day or two with him in this agreeable recess.
As he was never a friend to much sleeping, he rose that morning, and went down into the garden before the greatest part of the family had quitted their beds: he saw Mrs. Munden while at too great a distance to know who she was; yet did her air and motion, as she walked, strike him with something which made him willing to see what sort of face belonged to so genteel a form. Drawing more near, his curiosity was gratified with a sight he little expected: he was just about to accost her with the salutation of the morning, when she went into the arbour, and seated herself in the manner already described. The extreme pensiveness of her mind had hindered her from perceiving that any one was near; but the little covert under which she was placed being open on both sides, he had a full view of every thing she did. Though she was in the most negligent night-dress that could be, she seemed as lovely to him as ever; all his first flames rekindled in his heart, while gazing on her with this uninterrupted freedom: he longed to speak to her, but durst not, lest, by doing so, he should be deprived of the pleasure he now enjoyed; till, observing she had something in her hand which she seemed to look upon with great attention, and sometimes betrayed agitations he had never seen in her before, he was impatient to discover, if possible, the motive; he therefore advanced as gently as he could towards the back of the arbour; which having no wood-work, and the leafy canopy only supported by ozier boughs placed at a good distance from each other, he had a full opportunity of beholding all that the reader has been told. But what was his amazement to find it was his own picture!—that very picture, which had been taken from the painter's, was the object of her meditations! He heard her sighs—he saw her lovelyhand frequently put up to wipe away the tears that fell from her eyes while looking on it; he also saw her, more than once, (though, doubtless, in those moments, not knowing what she did) press the lifeless image to her bosom with the utmost tenderness: scarce could he give credit to the testimony of his senses, near as he was to her; he even strained his sight to be more sure; and, forgetting all the precautions he had taken, thrust himself as far as he was able between the branches of which the arbour was composed.
On perceiving the effect this last action had produced, the gate, though not above twenty paces off, seemed too slow a passage to fly to her relief; and, setting his foot upon a pedestal of a statue, quick as thought, or the flash of elemental fire, sprang over the myrtle-hedge that parted the garden from the walk. 'Ah, Madam!' cried he, catching her in his arms to hinder her from falling, 'what has the unhappy Trueworth done to render his presence so alarming! How have I deserved to appear thus dreadful in your eyes!'
That admirable presence of mind which Mrs. Munden had shewn on many occasions, did not on this entirely leave her: the time he was speaking those few words sufficed to enable her to recollect her scattered spirits; and, withdrawing herself from the hold he had taken of her, and removing a little farther on the bench, as if to give him room to sit, 'Sir,' said she, with a voice pretty well composed, 'the obligations I have to you demand other sort of sentiments than those you seem to accuse me of; but I thought myself alone, and was not guarded against the surprize of meeting you in this place.'—'I ought, indeed,' replied he, 'to have been more cautious in my approach, especially as I found you deep in contemplation; which, perhaps, I have been my own enemy by interrupting.'
Till he spoke in this manner, she was not quite assured how far he had been witness of her behaviour; but what he now said confirming her of what she had but feared before, threw her into a second confusion little inferior to the former. He saw it—but saw it without that pity he would have felt had it proceeded from any other motive; and, eager to bring her to a more full eclaircissement, 'If you really think, Madam,' said he, 'that you have any obligations to me, you may requite them all by answering sincerely to one question. Tell me, I beseech you,' continued he, taking up the picture, which she had neither thought nor opportunity to remove from the place where it had fallen; 'resolve me how this little picture came into your possession?' What was now the condition of Mrs. Munden! Shecould neither find any pretence to evade the truth, nor fit words to confess it; till Mr. Trueworth repeating his request, and vowing he would never leave her till she granted it, 'What need have I to answer?' said she, blushing. 'You know it what manner it was taken from the painter's; and the sight of it in my hand is sufficient to inform you of the whole.'
'Charming declaration!—transporting, ravishing, to thought!' cried he, kissing her hand. 'O had I known it sooner, engaged as I then was to one who well deserved my love; could I have guessed Miss Betsy Thoughtless was the contriver of that tender fraud; I know not what revolution might have happened in my heart! the empire you had there was never totally extirpated; and kindness might have regained what cruelty had lost!'—'Do not deceive yourself, Sir,' said she, interrupting him with all the courage she could assume; 'nor mistake that for love which was only the effect of mere gratitude.' These words were accompanied with a look which once would have struck him with the most submissive awe; but he was now too well acquainted with the sentiments she had for him to be deterred by any other outward shew of coldness. 'Call it by what name you please,' cried he, 'so you permit me the continuance of it, and vouchsafe me the same favours you bestow on my insensible resemblance.' In speaking this, he threw his arms about her waist, not regarding the efforts she made to hinder him, and clasped her to his breast with a vehemence which in all his days of courtship to her he never durst attempt. 'Forbear, Sir,' said she; 'you know I am not at liberty to be entertained with discourses, or with actions, of this nature. Loose me this moment! or be assured, all the kind thoughts I had of you, and on which you have too much presumed, will be converted into the extremest hatred and detestation!' The voice in which she uttered this menace convincing him how much she was in earnest, he let go his hold, removed some paces from her, and beheld her for some moments with a silent admiration. 'I have obeyed you, Madam!' cried he, with a deep sigh; 'you are all angel—be all angel still! Far be it from me to tempt you from the glorious height you stand in: yet how unhappy has this interview made me! I love you without daring even to wish for a return! nay, so fully has your virtue conquered, that I must love you more for the repulse you have given my too audacious hopes. You may at least pity the fate to which I am condemned.'
'It would be in vain for me,' replied she, in a voice somewhat broken by the inward conflict she sustained, 'to endeavour to concealwhat my inadvertencies have so fully betrayed to you; and you may assure yourself, that I shall think on you with all the tenderness that honour, and the duties of my station, will admit. But remember, Sir, I am a wife; and, being such, ought never to see you more: in regard, therefore, to my reputation and peace of mind, I must intreat you will henceforth avoid my presence with the same care I will do yours.'
'Severe as this injunction is,' replied he, 'my soul avows the justice of it; and I submit.'—'Farewel, then!' said she, rising from her feet. 'Oh, farewel!' cried he, and kissed her hand with emotions not to be expressed. 'Farewel for ever!' rejoined she, turning hastily away to prevent his seeing the tears with which her eyes were overcharged, and in that cruel instant overflowed her cheeks. She advanced with all the speed she could towards the wicker-gate; but, when there, could not forbear giving one look behind; and, perceiving he had left the walk, and was proceeding through the garden, with folded arms, and a dejected pace, 'Poor Trueworth!' cried she, and pursued him with her eyes till he was quite out of sight.
Some readers may, perhaps, blame Mr. Trueworth, as having presumed too far on the discovery of the lady's passion; and others, of a contrary way of thinking, laugh at him for being so easily repulsed: but all, in general, must applaud the conduct of Mrs. Munden. Till this dangerous instance, she had never had an opportunity of shewing the command she had over herself; and, as Mr. Eastcourt justly says—
'Ne'er let the fair-one boast of virtue prov'd,Till she has well refus'd the man she truly lov'd.'
'Ne'er let the fair-one boast of virtue prov'd,Till she has well refus'd the man she truly lov'd.'
After this solemn parting between Mr. Trueworth and Mrs. Munden, that lady's mind was in too much disorder to think what was become of the little picture that had occasioned it; till, an hour or two after, the maid of the house came running into the chamber with it in her hand. 'Does this pretty picture belong to you, Madam?' said she. Mrs. Munden started; but, soon recovering herself, answered that it did—said that it was the picture of her youngest brother—and that she believed she might pull it out of her pocket with her handkerchief, or some how or other drop it in the walk. 'Aye, to be sure, it was so,' said the maid; 'for it was there I found it: as I was going to the pump for some water, I saw something that glittered just by the little arbour, on which I ran and took it up; but my mistress told me she believed it was yours; for she knew your ladyship was in the walk this morning.'—'I am glad thou hast found it,' replied Mrs. Munden; 'for it would have vexed me to the heart to have lost it.'—'Aye, to be sure, Madam!' cried she; 'for it is a sweet picture—your brother is a handsome gentleman—I warrant there are a thousand ladies in love with him.' Mrs. Munden could not forbear smiling at the simplicity of the wench; but, willing to be rid of her, rewarded her honesty with a crown-piece, and dismissed her.
She was rejoiced, indeed, to have this picture once more in her possession; not only because some other might have found and kept it, but also because she thought she might indulge herself in looking on it without any breach of that duty to which she was resolved so strictly to adhere. To be secure, however, from a second rencounterwith the original in that place, she kept close in the house, and stirred not out of it all the time he was there: but her apprehensions on this score were needless; Mr. Trueworth religiously observed the promise he had made her; and, lest he should be under any temptation to break it while so near her, took leave of his friend that same day, and returned to London; but carried with him sentiments very different from those he had brought down, as will hereafter appear.
As to Mrs. Munden, she found that she had no less occasion for exerting the heroine when alone, than when encircled in the arms of Mr. Trueworth: the accident which had betrayed the secret of her heart to him had also discovered it to herself. She was now convinced that it was something more than esteem—than friendship—than gratitude—his merits had inspired her with; she was conscious that, while she most resisted the glowing pressure of his lips, she had felt a guilty pleasure in the touch which had been near depriving her of doing so; and that, though she had resolved never to see him more, it would be very difficult to refrain wishing to be for ever with him.
This she thought so highly criminal in herself, that she ought not to indulge the remembrance of so dear, so dangerous, an invader of her duty; yet when she considered that, merely for her sake, and not through the weak resistance she had made, his own honour had nobly triumphed over wild desire in a heart so young and amorous as his, it increased that love and admiration which she in vain endeavoured to subdue: and she could not help crying out, with Calista in the play—
'Oh, had I sooner known thy wond'rous virtue,Thy love, thy truth, thou excellent young man!We might have both been happy.'
'Oh, had I sooner known thy wond'rous virtue,Thy love, thy truth, thou excellent young man!We might have both been happy.'
But, to banish as much as possible all those ideas which her nicety of honour made her tremble at, it was her fixed determination to retire into L——e as soon as she had ended her affairs with her husband, and pass the remainder of her days, where she should never hear the too dear name of Trueworth.
She did not, therefore, neglect sending her servant to town; but he returned that day, and several succeeding ones, without the least intelligence; no letter nor message from Mr. Munden having been left for her at her brother's: on which she began to imagine that he never had, in reality, intended to put his threats in execution.
Mr. Markland, in the mean time, had been twice to wait upon him; but the servants told him that their master was extremely indisposed,and could not be seen: this he looked upon as a feint to put off giving him an answer as he had promised; and both Mr. Thoughtless and his sister were of the same opinion when they heard it. Mr. Markland went again and again, however; but was still denied access: near a whole week passing over in this manner, Mrs. Munden grew very uneasy, fearing she should be able to obtain as little justice as favour from her husband.
But, guilty as he had been in other respects, he was entirely innocent in this: the force of the agitation he had of late sustained, joined to repeated debauches, had over-heated his blood, and thrown him into a very violent fever, insomuch that in a few days his life was despaired of; the whispers of all about him—the looks of the physician that attended him—and, above all, what he felt within himself, convincing him of the danger he was in—all his vices, all his excesses, now appeared to him such as they truly were, and filled him with a remorse which he had been but too much addicted to ridicule in others: in fine, the horrors of approaching dissolution, rendered him one of those many examples which daily verify these words of Mr. Dryden—
'Sure there are none but fear a future state!And when the most obdurate swear they do not,Their trembling hearts belie their boasting tongues!'
'Sure there are none but fear a future state!And when the most obdurate swear they do not,Their trembling hearts belie their boasting tongues!'
Among the number of those faults which presented him with the most direful images, that of the ill-treatment he had given a wife, who so little deserved it, lay not the least heavy upon his conscience: he sent his servants to Mr. Thoughtless, at whose house he imagined she still was, to intreat he would prevail on her to see him before he died; but that gentleman giving a very slight answer, as believing it all artifice, he engaged the apothecary who administered to him, and was known by Mr. Thoughtless, to go on the same errand; on which the brother of Mrs. Munden said she was not with him at present, but he would send to let her know what had happened. Accordingly, he dispatched one of his men immediately to her with the following billet.
'To Mrs. Munden.Dear sister,Mr. Cardiack, the apothecary, assures me that your husband is in fact ill, and in extreme danger; he is very pressing to see you: I will notpretend to advise you what to do on this occasion—you are the best judge; I shall only say that, if you think fit to comply with his request, you must be speedy; for, it seems, it is the opinion of the gentlemen of the faculty, that he is very near his end. I am, dear sister, yours affectionately,T. Thoughtless.'
'To Mrs. Munden.
Dear sister,
Mr. Cardiack, the apothecary, assures me that your husband is in fact ill, and in extreme danger; he is very pressing to see you: I will notpretend to advise you what to do on this occasion—you are the best judge; I shall only say that, if you think fit to comply with his request, you must be speedy; for, it seems, it is the opinion of the gentlemen of the faculty, that he is very near his end. I am, dear sister, yours affectionately,
T. Thoughtless.'
Not all the indifference she had for the person of Mr. Munden—not all the resentment his moroseness and ill-nature had excited in her—could hinder her from feeling an extreme shock on hearing his life was in danger: she sought for no excuses, either to evade or delay what he desired of her; she went directly to him, equally inclined to do so by her compassion, as she thought herself obliged to it by her duty.
As she entered the chamber, she met the apothecary coming out: in asking him some questions, though she spoke very low, Mr. Munden thought he distinguished her voice; and cried out, as loud as he was able, 'Is my wife here?' On which, approaching the bed, and gently opening one of the curtains, 'Yes, Mr. Munden,' replied she; 'I am come to offer all the assistance in my power; and am sorry to find you are in any need of it.'—'This is very kind,' said he, and stretched out one of his hands towards her, which she took between hers with a great deal of tenderness: 'I have been much to blame,' resumed he; 'I have greatly wronged you; but forgive me—if I live, I will endeavour to deserve it.'
'I hope,' said she, 'Heaven will restore your health, and that we may live together in a manner becoming persons united as we are.'—'Then you will not leave me?' cried he. 'Never,' answered she, 'till your behaviour shall convince me you do not desire my stay.'
Here he began to make solemn protestations of future amendment; but his voice failing him, through extreme weakness, a deep sigh, and tender pressure of his cheek to hers, as she leaned her head upon the pillow, gave her to understand what more he would have said: on this she assured him she was ready to believe every thing he would have her—intreated him to compose himself, and endeavour to get a little rest. 'In the mean time,' said she, 'I will order things so that I may lie in the same room with you, and quit your presence neither night nor day.'
Here he pressed his face close to hers again, in token of the satisfaction he felt in hearing what she said; and the nurse whoattended him that instant presenting him with some things the physician had ordered should be given him about that hour, joined her entreaties with those of Mrs. Munden, that he would try to sleep; to which he made a sign that he would do so: and, the curtains being drawn, they both retired to the farther end of the room.
As he lay pretty quiet for a considerable time, Mrs. Munden recollected that there was a thing which friendship and good manners exacted from her: she had wrote, the very day before, to Lady Loveit, acquainting her with the motive which had obliged her to quit her brother's house, and desiring she would favour her with a visit, as soon as convenience would permit, at the place of her retirement. As she doubted not but the good-nature of this lady would prevail on her to comply with her request, she could not dispense with sending her an immediate account of the sudden revolution in her affairs, and the accident which had occasioned this second removal.
She had no sooner dispatched a little billet for this purpose, than the groans of Mr. Munden, testifying that he was awake, drew both her and the nurse again to the bedside: they found him in very great agonies, and without the power of speech; the doctor and apothecary were sent for in a great hurry; but, before either of them came, the unhappy gentleman had breathed his last.
Mrs. Munden had not affected any thing more in this interview than what she really felt; her virtue and her compassion had all the effect on her that love has in most others of her sex; she had been deeply touched at finding her husband in so deplorable a situation; the tenderness he had now expressed for her, and his contrition for his past faults, made a great impression on her mind; and the shock of seeing him depart was truly dreadful to her: the grief she appeared in was undissembled—the tears she shed unforced; she withdrew into another room; where, shutting herself up for some hours, life, death, and futurity, were the subject of her meditations.
Mr. Thoughtless was not at home when the news of Mr. Munden's death arrived; but, as soon as he was informed of it, he went to his sister; and, on finding her much more deeply affected at this accident than he could have imagined, pressed her, in the most tender terms, to quit that scene of mortality, and return to his house: the persuasions of a brother, who of late had behaved with so much kindness towards her, prevailed on her to accept of the invitation; and, having given some necessary orders in regard to the family, was carried away that same night in a chair, with the curtains close drawn.
She saw no company, however, till after the funeral; and, when that was over, Lady Loveit was the first admitted. As Mrs. Munden was still under a great dejection of spirits, which was visible in her countenance, 'If I did not know you to be the sincerest creature in the world,' said Lady Loveit, 'I should take you to be the greatest dissembler in it; for it would be very difficult for any one less acquainted with you, to believe you could be really afflicted at the death of a person whose life rendered you so unhappy.'
'Mistake me not, Lady Loveit,' answered she; 'I do not pretend to lament the death of Mr. Munden, as it deprives me of his society, or as that of a person with whom I could ever have enjoyed any great share of felicity, even though his life had made good the professions of his last moments: but I lament him as one who was my husband, whom duty forbids me to hate while living, and whom decency requires me to mourn for when dead.'
'So, then,' cried Lady Loveit, 'I find you take as much pains to grieve for a bad husband, as those who have the misfortune to lose a good one do to alleviate their sorrows: but, my dear,' continued she, with a more serious air, 'I see no occasion for all this. I am well assured that your virtue, and the sweetness of your temper, enabled you to discharge all the duties of a wife to Mr. Munden while alive; and with that I think you ought to be content: he is now dead—the covenant between you is dissolved—Heaven has released you—and, I hope, forgiven him; decency obliges you to wear black—forbids you to appear abroad for a whole month—and at any publick place of diversion for a much longer time; but it does not restrain you from being easy in yourself, and chearful with your friends.'
'Your ladyship speaks right,' said Mrs. Munden: 'but yet there is a shock in death which one cannot presently get over.'—'I grant there is,' replied Lady Loveit; 'and if we thought too deeply on it, we should feel all the agonies of that dreadful hour before our time, and become a burden to ourselves and to the world.'
It is certain, indeed, that the surprize and pity for Mr. Munden's sudden and unexpected fate had at the first overwhelmed her soul; yet, when those emotions were a little evaporated, she rather indulged affliction, because she thought it her duty to do so, than endeavoured any way to combat with it.
It was not, therefore, very difficult to reason her out of a melancholy which she had in a manner forced upon herself, and was far from being natural to her; and when once convinced that she ought to be easy under this stroke of Providence, became entirely so.
The painful task she had imposed upon her mind being over, more agreeable ones succeeded: the remembrance of Mr. Trueworth—his recovered love—the knowledge he had of hers—and the consideration that now both of them were in a condition to avow their mutual tenderness without a crime, could not but transfuse a sensation more pleasing than she had ever before been capable of experiencing.
In the mean time, that gentleman passed through a variety of emotions on her account; nor will it seem strange he should do so to any one who casts the least retrospect on his former behaviour; he had loved her from the first moment he beheld her; and had continued to love her for a long series of time with such an excess of passion, that not all his reason on her ill-treatment of him, and her supposed unworthiness, was scarce sufficient to enable him wholly todesist: a new amour was requisite to divide his wishes—the fondness and artful blandishments of Miss Flora served to wean his heart from the once darling object—but there demanded no less than the amiable person, and more amiable temper, of Miss Harriot, to drive thence an idea so accustomed to preside. All this, however, as it appeared, did not wholly extinguish the first flame; the innocence of the charming Miss Betsy fully cleared up—all the errors of her conduct reformed—rekindled in him an esteem; the sight of her, after so many months absence, made the seemingly dead embers of desire begin to glow, and, on the discovery of her sentiments in his favour, burst forth into a blaze: he was not master of himself in the first rush of so joyous a surprize—he forgot she was married—he approached her in the manner the reader has already been told; and for which he afterwards severely condemned himself, as thinking he ought to be content with knowing she loved him, without putting her modesty to the blush by letting her perceive the discovery he had made.
As Lady Loveit, without suspecting the effect which her discourse produced, had been often talking of the ill-treatment she received from Mr. Munden, and the necessity she had been under of quitting his house, the sincere veneration she now had for her made him sympathize in all the disquiets he was sensible she sustained; but when he heard this cruel husband was no more, and, at the same time, was informed in what manner she behaved, both in his last moments, and after his decease, nothing, not even his love, could equal his admiration of her virtue and her prudence.
What would he not now have given to have seen her! but he knew such a thing was utterly impracticable; and to attempt it might lose him all the tenderness she had for him: his impatience, however, would not suffer him to seem altogether passive and unconcerned at an event of so much moment to the happiness of them both; and he resolved to write, but to find terms to express himself so as not to offend either her delicacy, by seeming too presuming, or her tenderness, by a pretended indifference, cost him some pains; but, at length, he dictated the following little billet.
'To Mrs. Munden.Madam,I send you no compliments of condolence; but beg you to be assured,that my heart is too deeply interested in every thing that regards you, to be capable of feeling the least satisfaction while yours remains under any inquietude: all I wish at present is, that you would believe this truth; which, if you do, I know you have too much justice, and too much generosity, to lavish all your commiseration on the insensible dead, but will reserve some part for the living, who stand most in need of it. I dare add no more as yet, than that I am, with an esteem perfect and inviolable, Madam, your most obedient, most devoted, and most faithful servant,C. Trueworth.'
'To Mrs. Munden.
Madam,
I send you no compliments of condolence; but beg you to be assured,that my heart is too deeply interested in every thing that regards you, to be capable of feeling the least satisfaction while yours remains under any inquietude: all I wish at present is, that you would believe this truth; which, if you do, I know you have too much justice, and too much generosity, to lavish all your commiseration on the insensible dead, but will reserve some part for the living, who stand most in need of it. I dare add no more as yet, than that I am, with an esteem perfect and inviolable, Madam, your most obedient, most devoted, and most faithful servant,
C. Trueworth.'
These few lines, perhaps, served more to raise the spirits of Mrs. Munden than all she could receive from any other quarter; she nevertheless persevered in maintaining the decorum of her condition; and as she had resolved to retire into L——e in case of a separation from her husband, she thought it most proper to fix her residence in that place in her state of widowhood, at least for the first year of it.
Accordingly, she wrote to Lady Trusty to acquaint her with her intentions, and received an answer such as she expected, full of praises for her conduct in this point, and the most pressing invitations to come down with all the speed she could.
What little business she had in London was soon dispatched, and all was ready for her quitting it within a month after the death of Mr. Munden: places for herself and her maid were taken in the stagecoach—all her things were packed up, and sent to the inn; she thought nothing now remained but to take leave of Lady Loveit, whom she expected that same evening, being the last she was to stay in town; but, near as her departure was, fortune in the mean time had contrived an accident, which put all her fortitude, and presence of mind, to as great a trial as she had ever yet sustained.
Lady Loveit, having got a cold, had complained of some little disorder the day before; and though nothing could be more slight than her indisposition, yet, as she was pretty far advanced in her pregnancy, the care of her physician, and the tenderness of Sir Bazil, would not permit her by any means to expose herself to the open air.
Mrs. Munden being informed by a messenger from her of what had happened, found herself under an absolute necessity of waiting on her, as it would have been ridiculous and preposterous, as well as unkind, to have quitted the town for so long a time without taking leave of a friend such as Lady Loveit.
She could not think of going there without reflecting at the same time how strong a probability there was of meeting Mr. Trueworth; she knew, indeed, that he did not live at Sir Bazil's, having heard he had lately taken a house for himself; but she knew also, that his close connection with that family made him seldom let slip a day without seeing them; she therefore prepared herself as well as she was able for such an interview, in case it should so happen.
That gentleman had dined there; and on finding Lady Loveit was forbid going abroad, and Sir Bazil unwilling to leave her alone, had consented to stay with them the whole day: they were at ombre when Mrs. Munden came, but on her entrance threw aside the cards; Lady Loveit received her according to the familiarity between them, and Sir Bazil with little less freedom; but Mr. Trueworth saluted her with a more distant air. 'I had not the honour, Madam,' said he, 'to make you any compliments on either of the great changes you have undergone; but you have always had my best wishes for your prosperity.'
Mrs. Munden, who had pretty well armed herself for this encounter, replied with a voice and countenance tolerably well composed, 'Great changes indeed, Sir, have happened to us both in a short space of time.'—'There have so, Madam,' resumed he; 'but may the next you meet with bring with it lasting happiness!' She easily comprehended the meaning of these words, but made no answer, being at loss what to say, which might neither too much embolden, nor wholly discourage, the motive which dictated them.
After this, the conversation turned on various subjects, but chiefly on that of Mrs. Munden's going out of town: Mr. Trueworth said little; Lady Loveit, though she expressed an infinite deal of sorrow for the loss of so amiable a companion, could not forbear applauding her resolution in this point; but Sir Bazil would fain have been a little pleasant on the occasion, if the grave looks of Mrs. Munden had not put his raillery to silence. Perceiving the day was near shut in, she rose to take her leave; it was in vain that they used all imaginable arguments to persuade her to stay supper; she told them, that as the coach went out so early, it was necessary for her to take some repose before she entered upon the fatigue of her journey; Lady Loveit on this allowed the justice of her plea, and said no more.
The parting of these ladies was very moving; they embraced again and again, promised to write frequently to each other, and mingled tears as they exchanged farewels. Sir Bazil, who had really a very highesteem for her, was greatly affected, in spite of the gaiety of his temper, on bidding her adieu; and happy was it for Mrs. Munden that the concern they were both in hindered them from perceiving that confusion, that distraction of mind, which neither she nor Mr. Trueworth were able to restrain totally the marks of as he approached to make her those compliments, which might have been expected on such an occasion, even from a person the most indifferent; his tongue, indeed, uttered no more than words of course, but his lips trembled while saluting her; nor could she in that instant withhold a sigh, which seemed to rend her very heart: their mutual agitations were, in fine, too great not to be visible to each other, and left neither of them any room to doubt of the extreme force of the passion from which they sprang.
The motive which had made her refuse staying supper at Sir Bazil's, was to prevent Mr. Trueworth from having any pretence to wait upon her home, not being able to answer how far she could support her character, if exposed to the tender things he might possibly address her with on such an opportunity; and she now found, by what she had felt on parting with him, how necessary the precaution was that she had taken.
After a night less engrossed by sleep than meditation, she set out for L——e, where she arrived without any ill accident to retard her journey; and was received by Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty with all those demonstrations of joy, which she had reason to expect from the experienced friendship of those worthy persons.
As this was the place of her nativity, and her father had always lived there in very great estimation, the house of Lady Trusty at first was thronged with persons of almost all conditions, who came to pay their compliments to her fair guest; and as no circumstance, no habit, could take from her those charms which nature had bestowed upon her, her beauty and amiable qualities soon became the theme of conversation through the whole country.
She was not insensible of the admiration she attracted; but was now far from being elated with it: all the satisfaction she took out of her dear Lady Trusty's company was in reading some instructive or entertaining book, and in the letters of those whom she knew to be her sincere friends; but she had not been much above two months in the country before she received one from a quarter whence she had not expected it. It was from Mr. Trueworth, and contained as follows.
'To Mrs. Munden.Madam,I have the inexpressible pleasure to hear that you are well by those whom you favour with your correspondence; but, as they may not think any mention of me might be agreeable to you, I take the liberty myself to acquaint you that I live; and flatter myself that information is sufficient to make you know that I live only to be, with the most firm attachment, Madam, your eternally devoted servant,C. Trueworth.'
'To Mrs. Munden.
Madam,
I have the inexpressible pleasure to hear that you are well by those whom you favour with your correspondence; but, as they may not think any mention of me might be agreeable to you, I take the liberty myself to acquaint you that I live; and flatter myself that information is sufficient to make you know that I live only to be, with the most firm attachment, Madam, your eternally devoted servant,
C. Trueworth.'
These few lines assuring her of his love, and at the same time of his respect, by his not presuming once to mention the passion of which he was possessed, charmed her to a very high degree, and prepared her heart for another, which, in a few weeks after, he found a pretence for sending to her. It contained these lines.
'To Mrs. Munden.I am now more unhappy than ever; Lady Loveit is gone out of town, and I have no opportunity of hearing the only sounds that can bless my longing ears: in pity, therefore, to my impatience, vouchsafe to let me know you are in health—say that you are well—it is all I ask. One line will cost you little pains, and be no breach of that decorum to which you so strictly adhere; yet will be a sovereign specifick to restore the tranquillity of him who is, with an unspeakable regard, Madam, your unalterable, and devoted servant,C. Trueworth.'
'To Mrs. Munden.
I am now more unhappy than ever; Lady Loveit is gone out of town, and I have no opportunity of hearing the only sounds that can bless my longing ears: in pity, therefore, to my impatience, vouchsafe to let me know you are in health—say that you are well—it is all I ask. One line will cost you little pains, and be no breach of that decorum to which you so strictly adhere; yet will be a sovereign specifick to restore the tranquillity of him who is, with an unspeakable regard, Madam, your unalterable, and devoted servant,
C. Trueworth.'
Mrs. Munden found this epistle so reasonable, and withal couched in such respectful terms, that she ought not to refuse compliance with it; and, accordingly, wrote to him in this manner.
'To Charles Trueworth, Esq.Sir,The generous concern you express for my welfare demands a no less grateful return. As to my health, it is no way impaired since I left London; nor can my mind labour under any discomposure, while my friends continue to think kindly of me. I am, with all due respect, Sir, yours, &c.B. Munden.'
'To Charles Trueworth, Esq.
Sir,
The generous concern you express for my welfare demands a no less grateful return. As to my health, it is no way impaired since I left London; nor can my mind labour under any discomposure, while my friends continue to think kindly of me. I am, with all due respect, Sir, yours, &c.
B. Munden.'
Upon this obliging answer he ventured to write again, intreatingher to allow a correspondence with him by letters while she remained in L——e; urging, that this was a favour she could not reasonably deny to any friend who desired it with the same sincerity she must be convinced he did.
Mrs. Munden paused a little; but finding that neither her virtue nor her reputation could any way suffer by granting this request, her heart would not permit her to deny both him and herself so innocent a satisfaction; and by the next post gave him the permission he petitioned for, in these words.
'To Charles Trueworth, Esq.Sir,I should be unjust to myself, as well as ungrateful to the friendship with which you honour me, should I reject any proofs of it that are consistent with my character to receive and to return: write, therefore, as often as you think proper; and be assured I shall give your letters all the welcome you can wish, provided they contain nothing unsuitable to the present condition of her who is, as much as you ought to expect, Sir, yours, &c.B. Munden.'
'To Charles Trueworth, Esq.
Sir,
I should be unjust to myself, as well as ungrateful to the friendship with which you honour me, should I reject any proofs of it that are consistent with my character to receive and to return: write, therefore, as often as you think proper; and be assured I shall give your letters all the welcome you can wish, provided they contain nothing unsuitable to the present condition of her who is, as much as you ought to expect, Sir, yours, &c.
B. Munden.'
After this, an uninterrupted intercourse of letters continued between them for the whole remainder of the year. Mr. Trueworth was for the most part extremely cautious in what manner he expressed himself; but whenever, as it would sometimes so happen, the warmth of his passion made him transgress the bounds which had been prescribed him, she would not seem to understand, because she had no mind to be offended.
Thus equally maintaining that reserve which she thought the situation she was in demanded, and at the same time indulging the tenderness of her heart for a man who so well deserved it, she enjoyed that sweet contentment which true love alone has the power of bestowing.
Innocent and pure as the inclinations of Mrs. Munden were, it is highly probable, however, that she was not sorry to see the time arrive which was to put an end to that cruel constraint her charming lover had been so longer under; and, while it gave him leave to declare the whole fervency of the passion he was possessed of, allowed her also to confess her own without a blush.
Mr. Trueworth, who had kept an exact account of the time, contrived it so that a letter from him should reach her hands the very next day after that in which she was to throw off her mourning weeds. It was in these terms he now wrote.
'To Mrs. Munden.Madam,The year of my probation is expired—I have now fully performed the painful penance you enjoined; and you must expect me shortly at your feet, to claim that recompence which my submission has in some measure merited. You cannot now, without an injustice contrary to your nature, forbid me to approach you with my vows of everlasting love; nor any longer restrain my impatient lips from uttering the languishments of my adoring heart: nor can I now content myself with telling you, at the distance of so many miles, how very dear you are to me. No! you must also read the tender declarations in my eyes, and hear it in my sighs. The laws of tyrant custom have been fulfilled in their most rigorous forms; and those ofgentler love, may, sure, demand an equal share in our obedience. Fain would my flattering hopes persuade me that I shall not find you a too stubborn rebel to that power, to whose authority all nature yields a willing homage, and that my happiness is a thing of some consequence to you. If I am too presuming, at least forgive me; but let your pen assure me you do so by the return of the post; till when I am, with a mixture of transport and anxiety, Madam, your passionately devoted, and most faithful adorer,C. Trueworth.'
'To Mrs. Munden.
Madam,
The year of my probation is expired—I have now fully performed the painful penance you enjoined; and you must expect me shortly at your feet, to claim that recompence which my submission has in some measure merited. You cannot now, without an injustice contrary to your nature, forbid me to approach you with my vows of everlasting love; nor any longer restrain my impatient lips from uttering the languishments of my adoring heart: nor can I now content myself with telling you, at the distance of so many miles, how very dear you are to me. No! you must also read the tender declarations in my eyes, and hear it in my sighs. The laws of tyrant custom have been fulfilled in their most rigorous forms; and those ofgentler love, may, sure, demand an equal share in our obedience. Fain would my flattering hopes persuade me that I shall not find you a too stubborn rebel to that power, to whose authority all nature yields a willing homage, and that my happiness is a thing of some consequence to you. If I am too presuming, at least forgive me; but let your pen assure me you do so by the return of the post; till when I am, with a mixture of transport and anxiety, Madam, your passionately devoted, and most faithful adorer,
C. Trueworth.'
Though this was no more than Mrs. Munden had expected, it diffused through her whole frame a glow of satisfaction unknown to those who do not love as she did: she thought, indeed, as well as he, that there was no need of continuing that cruel constraint she so long had imposed upon herself; and hesitated not if she should acknowledge what he before had not the least cause to doubt. The terms in which she expressed herself were these.
'To Charles Trueworth, Esq.Sir,I know there is a great share of impatience in the composition of your sex, and wonder not at yours—much less have I any pretence to excuse you of presumption, as you are too well acquainted with the just sensibility I have of your merits not to expect all the marks of it that an honourable passion can require. An attempt to conceal my heart from you will be vain—you saw the inmost recesses of it at a time when you should most have been a stranger there: but what was then my shame to have discovered, is now my glory to avow; and I scruple not to confess, that whatever makes your happiness will confirm mine. But I must stop here, or, when I see you, shall have nothing left to add in return for the pains so long a journey will cost you. Let no anxieties, however, render the way more tedious; but reflect that every step will bring you still nearer to a reception equal to your wishes, from her who is, with an unfeigned sincerity, yours &c.B. Munden.'
'To Charles Trueworth, Esq.
Sir,
I know there is a great share of impatience in the composition of your sex, and wonder not at yours—much less have I any pretence to excuse you of presumption, as you are too well acquainted with the just sensibility I have of your merits not to expect all the marks of it that an honourable passion can require. An attempt to conceal my heart from you will be vain—you saw the inmost recesses of it at a time when you should most have been a stranger there: but what was then my shame to have discovered, is now my glory to avow; and I scruple not to confess, that whatever makes your happiness will confirm mine. But I must stop here, or, when I see you, shall have nothing left to add in return for the pains so long a journey will cost you. Let no anxieties, however, render the way more tedious; but reflect that every step will bring you still nearer to a reception equal to your wishes, from her who is, with an unfeigned sincerity, yours &c.
B. Munden.'
This was the first love-letter she had ever wrote; and it must be owned that the passion she was inspired with had already made her a pretty good proficient that way: but though the prudish part of the sex may perhaps accuse her of having confessed too much, yet those of amore reasonable way of thinking will be far from pronouncing sentence against her—the person of Mr. Trueworth—his admirable endowments—the services he had done her, might well warrant the tenderness she had for him—his birth, his estate, his good character, and her own experience of his many virtues, sufficiently authorized her acceptance of his offers; and it would have been only a piece of idle affectation in her to have gone about to have concealed her regard for a person whom so many reasons induced her to marry, especially as chance had so long before betrayed to him her inclinations in his favour.
Thus fully justified within herself, and assured of being so hereafter to all her friends, and to the world in general, she indulged the most pleasing ideas of her approaching happiness, without the least mixture of any of those inquietudes, which pride, folly, ill-fortune, or ill-humour, too frequently excite, to poison all the sweets of love and imbitter the most tender passion.
As she had not made Lady Trusty the confidante of any part of what had passed between her and Mr. Trueworth; deterred at first through shame, and afterwards by the uncertainty of his persisting in his addresses, that lady would have been greatly surprized at the extraordinary vivacity which now on a sudden sparkled in her eyes, if there had not been other motives besides the real one by which she might account for it.
Mrs. Munden had received intelligence that Lady Loveit was safely delivered of a son and heir; and, what was yet more interesting to her, that Mr. Thoughtless was married to a young lady of a large fortune, and honourable family: letters also came from Mr. Francis Thoughtless, acquainting them that he had obtained leave from his colonel to leave the regiment for two whole months; and that, after the celebration of his brother's nuptials, he would pass the remainder of his furlow with them in L——e.
These, indeed, were the things which at another time would have highly delighted the mind of Mrs. Munden; but at this her thoughts were so absorbed in Mr. Trueworth, whom she now every hour expected, that friendship, and even that natural affection which had hitherto been so distinguishable a part of her character, could not boast of but a second place.
Lady Trusty observing her one day in a more than ordinarily chearful humour, took that opportunity of discoursing with her on a matter which had been in her head for some time. 'Mr. Munden hasbeen dead a year,' said she; 'you have paid all that regard to his memory which could have been expected from you, even for a better husband; and cannot now be blamed for listening to any offers that may be made to your advantage.'—'Offers, Madam!' cried Mrs. Munden; 'on what score does your ladyship mean?'—'What others can you suppose,' relied she gravely, 'than those of marriage? There are two gentleman who have solicited both Sir Ralph and myself to use our best interest with you in their behalf; neither of them are unworthy your consideration; the one is Mr. Woodland, whom you have frequently seen here; his estate at present, indeed, is no more than eight hundred pounds a year, but he has great expectations from a rich uncle: the other is our vicar, who, besides two large benefices, has lately had a windfall of near a thousand pounds a year by the death of his elder brother; and it is the opinion of most people, that he will be made a bishop on the first vacancy.'
'So much the worse, Madam,' said the spiritous Mrs. Munden; 'for if he takes the due care he ought to do of his diocese, he will have little time to think of his wife: as to Mr. Woodland, indeed, I have but one objection to make, but that is a main one; I do not like him, and am well assured I never can. I therefore beg your ladyship,' continued she, with an air both serious and disdainful, 'to advise them to desist all thoughts of me on the account you mention, and to let them know I did not come to L——e to get a husband, but to avoid all impertinent proposals of that kind.'
'It is not in L——e,' replied Lady Trusty, a little piqued at these last words, 'but in London you are to expect proposals deserving this contempt: here are no false glosses to deceive or impose on the understanding—here are no pretenders to birth, or to estate; every one is known for what he really is; and none will presume to make his addresses to a woman without a consciousness of being qualified to receive the approbation of her friends.'
'I will not dispute with your ladyship on this point,' replied Mrs. Munden: 'I grant there is less artifice in the country than the town, and should scarce make choice of a man that has been bred, and chuses to reside always, in the latter; but Madam, it is not the place of nativity, nor the birth, nor the estate—but the person, and the temper of the man, can make me truly happy: I shall always pay a just regard to the advice of my friends, and particularly to your ladyship; but as I have been once a sacrifice to their persuasions, I hope you will have the goodness to forgive me when I say, that if ever I becomea wife again, love, an infinity of love, shall be the chief inducement.'
'On whose side?' cried Lady Trusty hastily. 'On both, I hope, Madam!' replied Mrs. Munden with a smile.
'Take care, my dear,' rejoined the other; 'for if you should find yourself deceived in that of the man, your own would only serve to render you the more unhappy.'
The fair widow was about to make some answer, which perhaps would have let Lady Trusty into the whole secret of her heart, if the conversation had not been broke off by a very loud ringing of the bell at the great gate of the courtyard before the house; on which, as it was natural for them, they both ran to the window to see what company were coming.
The first object that presented itself to them was a very neat running footman, who, on the gate being opened, came tripping up towards the house, and was immediately followed by a coach, with one gentleman in it, drawn by six prancing horses, and attended by two servants in rich liveries, and well mounted. Lady Trusty was somewhat surprized, as she never had seen either the person in the coach, or the equipage, before; but infinitely more so when Mrs. Munden, starting from the window in the greatest confusion imaginable, cried, 'Madam, with your leave—I will speak to him in the parlour!'—'Speak to whom?' said Lady Trusty. The other had not power to answer and was running out of the room, when a servant of Sir Ralph's came up to tell her a gentleman, who called himself Trueworth, was come to wait on her. 'I know—I know!' cried she, 'conduct him into the parlour.'
Prepared as she was by the expectation of his arrival, all her presence of mind was not sufficient to enable her to stand the sudden rush of joy which on sight of him bursted in upon her heart: nor was he less overcome—he sprang into her arms, which of themselves opened to receive him; and, while he kissed away the tears that trickled from her eyes, his own bedewed her cheeks. 'Oh, have I lived to see you thus!' cried he, 'thus ravishingly kind!'—'And have I lived,' rejoined she, 'to receive these proofs of affection from the best and most ill-used of men! Oh, Trueworth! Trueworth!' added she, 'I have not merited this from you.'—'You merit all things!' said he; 'let us talk no more of what is past, but tell me that you now are mine; I came to make you so by the irrevocable ties of love and law, and we must now part no more! Speak, my angel—my first, my last, charmer!' continued he, perceiving she was silent, blushed, and hungdown her head; 'let those dear lips confirm my happiness, and say the time is come that you will be all mine.' The trembling fair now, having gathered a little more assurance, raised her eyes from the earth, and looking tenderly on him, 'You know you have my heart,' cried she; 'and cannot doubt my hand.'
After this a considerable time was passed in all those mutual endearments which honour and modesty would permit, without Mrs. Munden once remembering the obligations she was under of relieving Lady Trusty from the consternation she had left her in.
That lady had, indeed, heard her servant say who was below; but as Mrs. Munden had never mentioned the name of Mr. Trueworth the whole time she had been with her, and had not any suspicion of the correspondence between them, much less could have the least notion of her affection for a gentleman whom she had once refused, in spite of the many advantages an alliance with him offered, nothing could be more astonishing to her than this visit, and the disorder with which Mrs. Munden went down to receive it.
She was still ruminating on an event which appeared so extraordinary to her, when the now happy lovers entered the room, and discovered, by their countenances, some part of what she wished to know: 'I beg leave, Madam,' said Mrs. Munden, 'to introduce to your ladyship a gentleman whose name and character you are not unacquainted with, Mr. Trueworth.'
'I am, indeed, no stranger to both,' replied Lady Trusty, advancing to receive him, 'nor to the respect they claim:' he returned this compliment with a politeness which was natural to him; and, after they were seated, her ladyship beginning to express the satisfaction she felt in seeing a gentleman of whose amiable qualities she had so high an idea, 'Your ladyship does me too much honour,' said he; 'but I fear you will repent this goodness, when you shall find I am come with an intent to rob you of a companion who, I know, is very dear to you.'
'If you should succeed in the robbery you mention,' answered she, smiling, 'you will make me ample atonement for it by the pleasure you will give me in knowing what I have lost is in such good hands.'
Mr. Trueworth had no time to make any reply to these obliging words; Sir Ralph, who had dined abroad, came in that instant, not a little surprized to find so gay an equipage, and altogether unknown to him, before his door; but on his lady's acquainting him with the name of their new guest, welcomed him with a complaisance not at allinferior to what she had shewn. There requires little ceremony between persons of good-breeding to enter into a freedom of conversation; and the good old baronet was beginning to entertain Mr. Trueworth with some discourses, which at another time would have been very agreeable to him; but that obedient lover having undertaken, in order to save the blushes of his fair mistress, to make them fully sensible of the motive which had brought him into L——e, delayed the performance no longer than was necessary to do it without abruptness.
Mrs. Munden, who, in desiring he should break the matter, had not meant he should do it suddenly, or in her presence, looked like the sun just starting from a cloud all the time he was speaking, and was ready to die with shame; when Sir Ralph said, that since all things were concluded between them, and there was no need for farther courtship, he could not see any reason why their marriage should not be immediately compleated: but Lady Trusty, in compassion to her fair friend's confusion, opposed this motion. The next day after the succeeding one was, however, appointed without any shew of reluctance on the side of Mrs. Munden, and the inexpressible satisfaction of Mr. Trueworth.
He had lain the night before at an inn about eight miles short of Sir Ralph's seat; and, as he had no acquaintance either with him or his lady, had intended to make that his home during his stay in the country: but Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty would not consent to his departure; and all he could obtain from them was, permission to send back his coach, with one servant to take care of the horses.
No proposals having yet been made concerning a settlement for Mrs. Munden, by way of dowry, Mr. Trueworth took Sir Ralph aside the next morning, and desired he would send for a lawyer, which he immediately did—a gentleman of that profession happening to live very near; and, on his coming, received such instructions from Mr. Trueworth for drawing up the writings, as convinced Sir Ralph both of the greatness of his generosity, and the sincerity of his love, to the lady he was about to make his wife.
Expedition having been recommended to the lawyer, he returned soon after dinner with an instrument drawn up in so judicious a manner, that it required not the least alteration. While Sir Ralph and Mr. Trueworth were locked up with him in order to examine it, Mrs. Munden received no inconsiderable addition to the present satisfaction of her mind by the arrival of her brother Frank. After the firstwelcome being given—'You are come, captain,' said Lady Trusty, 'just time enough to be a witness of your sister's marriage, which is to be celebrated to-morrow.'—'Marriage!' cried he; 'and without acquainting either of her brothers with her intentions! But I hope,' continued he, 'it is not to disadvantage, as your ladyship seems not displeased at it?'—'I assure you, captain,' resumed Lady Trusty, 'I knew nothing of the affair till yesterday, nor had ever seen before the gentleman your sister has made choice of: but love and destiny,' added she, 'are not to be resisted.' These words, and the serious air she assumed in speaking them, giving him cause to fear his sister was going to throw herself away, he shook his head, and seemed in a good deal of uneasiness; but had not an opportunity to testify what he felt any otherwise than by his looks; Sir Ralph and Mr. Trueworth in that instant entering the room. The extreme surprize he was in at the sight of the latter, was such as prevented him from paying his respects to either in the manner he would have done if more master of himself; but Mr. Trueworth, guessing the emotions of his mind, locked him in his arms, saying, 'Dear Frank! I shall at last be so happy as to call you brother.'—'Heavens! is it possible?' cried he. 'Am I awake, or is this illusion!' Then running to Mrs. Munden, 'Sister,' said he, 'is what I hear a real fact? Are you, indeed, to be married to Mr. Trueworth?'—'You hear I am,' answered she, smiling, 'and hear it from a mouth not accustomed to deceit.' He then flew to Mr. Trueworth, crying, 'My dear, dear Trueworth! I little hoped this honour!' Then, turning to Lady Trusty, 'Oh, Madam!' said he, 'how agreeably have you deceived me!'—'I knew it would be so,' replied she; 'but I told you nothing but the truth.'
The extravagance of the young captain's joy being a little over, Mr. Trueworth presented Mrs. Munden with the parchment he had received from the lawyer. 'What is this?' demanded she. 'Take it, take it!' cried Sir Ralph; 'it is no less than a settlement of eight hundred pounds a year on you in case of accidents.'—'I accept it, Sir,' said Mrs. Munden to Mr. Trueworth, 'as a fresh proof of your affection: but Heaven forbid I should ever live to receive any other advantage from it.' He kissed her hand with the most tender transports on these obliging words; after which they all seated themselves: and never was there a joy more perfect and sincere than what each of these worthy company gave demonstrations of in their respective characters. The next morning compleated the wishes of the enamoured pair, and the satisfaction of their friends.
An account of this event was dispatched the next post to all who had any welfare in the interest of the new-wedded lovers. Mr. Thoughtless, though very much engrossed by his own happiness, could not but rejoice in the good fortune of his sister. Sir Bazil, who, since his thorough knowledge of Mrs. Munden, had a high esteem of her, was extremely glad; but his lady was warm even to an excess in her congratulations: in fine, there were few of her acquaintance who did not in some measure take part in her felicity.
Thus were the virtues of our heroine (those follies that had defaced them being fully corrected) at length rewarded with a happiness retarded only till she had rendered herself wholly worthy of receiving it.