Читать книгу The Greatest Regency Romance Novels - Maria Edgeworth - Страница 76

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Displays Miss Betsy in her penitentials, and the manner in which she behaved after having met with so much matter for the humiliation of her vanity; as also some farther particulars, equally worthy the attention of the curious

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 dwell

With 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—complained of 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 talk no 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 any contrivances 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 of disappointing her rival's expectations contributed greatly to the satisfaction she felt at what she had done.