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Verifies the old proverb, that one affliction treads upon the heels of another

As Miss Betsy was prevented from discovering to any one the impudent attempt Gayland had made on her virtue, by the shame of having emboldened him to it by too unreserved a behaviour; so also the shame of the disappointment and rebuff he had received from her, kept him from saying any thing of what had passed between them; and this resolution on both sides rendered it very difficult for either of them to behave to the other, so as not to give some suspicion. Betsy could not always avoid seeing him when he came to Lady Mellasin's, for he would not all at once desist his visits for two reasons; first, because it might give occasion for an enquiry into the cause; and, secondly, because Miss Betsy would plume herself on the occasion, as having, by her scorn, triumphed over his audacity, and drove him from the field of battle. He therefore resolved to continue his visits for some time; and to pique her, as he imagined, directed all the fine things his common-place-book was well stored with, to Miss Flora, leaving the other wholly neglected.

But here he was little less deceived than he had been before in the sentiments of that young lady; the hatred his late behaviour had given her, and the utter detestation it had excited in her towards him, had for a time extinguished that vanity so almost inseparable from youth, especially when accompanied with beauty; and she rather rejoiced, than the contrary, to see him affect to be so much taken up with Miss Flora, that he could scarce say the least complaisant thing to her, as it freed her from the necessity of returning it in some measure. Her good sense had now scope to operate; she saw, as in a mirror, her own late follies in those of Miss Flora, who swelled with all the pride of flattered vanity on this new imaginary conquest over the heart of the accomplished Gayland, as he was generally esteemed, and perceived the errors of such a way of thinking and acting in so clear a light, as, had it continued, would doubtless have spared her those anxieties her relapse from it afterwards occasioned.

In these serious reflections let us leave her for a time, to see in what situation Mr. Saving was, after being denied access to his mistress. As it was impossible for a heart to be more truly sincere and affectionate, he was far from being able to make any efforts for the banishing Miss Betsy's image thence; on the contrary, he thought of nothing but how to continue a correspondence with her, and endeavour, by all the means in his power, to engage her to a private interview. As his flame was pure and respectful, he was some days debating within himself how to proceed, so as not to let her think he had desisted from his pretensions, or to continue them in a manner at which she should not be offended. Love, when real, seldom fails of inspiring the breast that harbours it with an equal share of timidity; he trembled whenever he thought of soliciting such a meeting; yet, without it, how could he hope to retain any place in her memory, much less make any progress in gaining her affection! At length, however, he assumed enough courage to write to her, and by a bribe to one of the servants, got his letter delivered to her, fearing if he had it sent by the post, or any publick way to the house, it would be intercepted by the caution he found Mr. Goodman had resolved to observe in this point.

Miss Betsy knowing his hand by the superscription, was a little surprized, as perhaps having never thought of him since they parted, but opened it without the least emotion either of pain or pleasure: she knew him too well to be under any apprehensions of being treated by him as she had been by Gayland, and was too little sensible of his merit to feel the least impatience for examining the dictates of his affection; yet, indifferent as she was, she could not forbear being touched on reading these lines—

'Most adored of your sex,

I doubt not but you are acquainted with Mr. Goodman's behaviour to me; but, oh! I fear you are too insensible of the agonies in which my soul labours through his cruel caution. Dreadful is the loss of sight, yet what is sight to me, when it presents not you! Though I saw you regardless of my ardent passion, yet still I saw you—and while I did so, could not be wholly wretched! What have I not endured since deprived of that only joy for which I wish to live! Had it not been improper for me to have been seen near Mr. Goodman's house, after having been forbid entrance to it, I should have dwelt for ever in your street, in hope of sometimes getting a glimpse of you from one or other of the windows: this I thought would be taken notice of, and might offend you; but darkness freed me from these apprehensions, and gave me the consolation of breathing in the same air with you. Soon as I thought all watchful eyes were closed, I flew to the place, which, wherever my body is, contains my heart and all it's faculties. I pleased myself with looking on the roof that covers you, and invoked every star to present me to you in your sleep, in a form more agreeable than I can hope I ever appeared in to your waking fancy. Thus I have passed each night; and when the morning dawned, unwillingly retired to take that rest which nature more especially demands, when heavy melancholy oppresses the heart. I slept—but how? Distracting images swam in my tormented brain, and waked me with horrors inconceivable. Equally lost to business, as to all social commerce, I fly mankind; and, like some discontented ghost, seek out the most solitary walks, and lonely shades, to pour forth my complaints. O Miss Betsy! I cannot live, if longer denied the sight of you! In pity to my sufferings, permit me yet once more to speak to you, even though it be to take a last farewel. I have made a little kind of interest with the woman at the habit-shop in Covent Garden, where I know you sometimes go; I dread to intreat you would call there to-morrow; yet, if you are so divinely good, be assured I shall entertain no presuming hopes on the condescension you shall be pleased to make me, but acknowledge it as the mere effect of that compassion which is inherent to a generous mind. Alas! I must be much more worthy than I can yet pretend to be, before I dare flatter myself with owing any thing to a more soft emotion, than that I have mentioned. Accuse me not, therefore, of too much boldness in this petition, but grant to my despair what you would deny to the love of your most faithful, and everlasting slave,

H. Saving.

P. S. The favour of one line, to let me know whether I may expect the blessing I implore, will add to the bounty of it. The same hand that brings you this, will also deliver your commands to yours as above.'

Miss Betsy read this letter several times, and, the oftener she did so, the more she saw into the soul of him that sent it. How wide the difference between this and that she received from Gayland! 'Tis true, they both desired a meeting, each made the same request; but the manner in which the former was asked, and the end proposed by the grant of it, she easily perceived were as distant as heaven and hell. She called to mind the great respect he had always treated her with; she was convinced both of his honour and sincerity, and thought something was due from her on that account. In fine, after deliberating a little within herself, she resolved to write to him in these terms—

'Sir,

Though it is my fixed determination to encourage the addresses of no man whatever, without the approbation of my guardians, yet I think myself too much obliged to the affection you have expressed for me, to refuse you a favour of so trifling a nature as that you have taken the pains to ask. I will be at the place you mention to-morrow, some time in the forenoon; but desire you will expect nothing from it but a last farewel, which you have promised to be contented with. Till then, adieu.'

After finishing this little billet, she called the maid, whom Saving had made his confidante, into the chamber, and asked her, when she expected he would come for an answer. To which the other replied, that he had appointed her to meet him at the corner of the street very early in the morning, before any of the windows were open. 'Well, then,' said Miss Betsy, smiling, and putting the letter into her hands, 'give him this. I do it for your sake, Nanny; for, I suppose, you will have a double fee on the delivery.'—'The gentleman is too much in love,' answered she, 'not to be grateful.'

Miss Betsy passed the remainder of that day, and the ensuing night, with that tranquillity which is inseparable from a mind unincumbered with passion; but the next morning, remembering her promise, while Lady Mellasin and Miss Flora were engaged with the beaux and belles at their levee, she slipped out, and taking a chair at the end of the street, went to the milliner's according to appointment. She doubted not but the impatience of her lover would have brought him there long before her, and was very much amazed to find herself the first comer. She knew not, however, but some extraordinary accident, unforeseen by him, might have happened to detain him longer than he expected; and from the whole course of his past behaviour, could find no shadow of reason to suspect him of a wilful remissness. She sat down in the shop, and amused herself with talking to the woman on the new modes of dress, and such like ordinary matters; but made not the least mention of the motive which had brought her there that morning: and the other, not knowing whether it would be proper to take any notice, was also silent on that occasion; but Miss Betsy observed she often turned her head towards the window, and ran to the door, looking up and down the street, as if she expected somebody who was not yet come.

Miss Betsy could not forbear being shocked at a disappointment, which was the last thing in the world she could have apprehended. She had, notwithstanding, the patience to wait from a little past eleven till near two o'clock, expecting, during every moment of that time, that he would either come or send some excuse for not doing so; but finding he did neither, and that it was near the hour in which Mr. Goodman usually dined, she took her leave of the woman, and went home full of agitations.

The maid, who was in the secret, happening to open the door, and Miss Betsy looking around and perceiving there was nobody in hearing, said to hear, 'Nanny, are you sure you delivered my letter safe into Mr. Saving's hand?'—'Sure, Miss!' cried the wench, 'yes, as sure as I am alive; and he gave me a good Queen Anne's guinea for my trouble. I have not had time since to put it up,' continued she, taking it out of her bosom; 'here it is.'—'Well, then, what did he say on receiving it?' said Miss Betsy. 'I never saw a man so transported,' replied she; 'he put it to his mouth, and kissed it with such an eagerness, I thought he would have devoured it.' Miss Betsy asked no farther questions, but went up to her chamber to pull off her hood, not being able to know how she ought to judge of this adventure.

She was soon called down to dinner; but her mind was too much perplexed to suffer her to eat much.

She was extremely uneasy the whole day for an explanation of what at present seemed so mysterious, and this gave her little less pain than perhaps she would have felt had she been possessed with an equal share of love; but in the evening her natural vivacity got the better, and not doubting but the next morning she should receive a letter with a full eclaircissement of this affair, she enjoyed the same sweet repose as if nothing had happened to ruffle her temper.

The morning came, but brought no billet from that once obsequious lover: the next, and three or four succeeding ones, were barren of the fruit she so much expected. What judgment could she form of an event so odd? She could not bring herself to think Saving had taken pains to procure a rendezvous with her, on purpose to disappoint and affront her; and was not able to conceive any probable means by which he could be prevented from writing to her. Death only, she thought, could be an excuse for him, and had that happened she should have heard of it. Sometimes she fancied that the maid had been treacherous; but when she considered she could get nothing by being so, and that it was, on the contrary, rather her interest to be sincere, she rejected that supposition. The various conjectures, which by turns came into her head, rendered her, however, excessively disturbed, and in a situation which deserved some share of pity, had not her pride kept her from revealing the discontent, or the motives of it, to any one person in the world.