Читать книгу The Greatest Regency Romance Novels - Maria Edgeworth - Страница 79

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Presents the reader with some prognosticks, on events in futuro

The reader will easily suppose that, in the present disposition of Miss Betsy's heart, Mr. Munden met with but an indifferent reception from her; she avoided his company as much as possible; and, when obliged to receive a visit from him, could not bring herself to treat him with any thing more than a cold civility. He complained of her cruelty—told her he had expected better things from her after her brothers had approved his flame: he pressed her, in the most pathetick terms he was master of, to let him know when the happy day would arrive, which should put an end to the long series of his hopes and fears.

It is certain, that if this gentleman had loved with that warmth and sincerity which some men have done, he must have been very unhappy during his courtship to Miss Betsy; but he was altogether insensible of the delicacies of the passion he professed—he felt not the pains he affected to languish under—he could support the frowns, or even the slights, of his mistress, without any other anxiety than what his pride inflicted.

It was, therefore, rather owing to this last propensity in his nature, than any emotions of a real tenderness for Miss Betsy, which had made him persevere in his addresses to her. All his acquaintance knew he had courted her a long time; some of them had been witness of her treatment of him: and he was unwilling it should be said of him, that he had made an offer of his heart in vain.

He had, at first, indeed, a liking for her person; he had considered her beauty, wit, and the many accomplishments she was possessed of, were such as would render his choice applauded by the world. The hopes of gaining her in a short time, by the encouragement she had given his addresses, had made him pursue her with vigour; but the delays—the scruples—the capriciousness of her humour—the pretences she of late had made to avoid giving him a definitive answer—had, at length, palled all the inclination he once had for her; and even desire was deadened in him, on so many disappointments.

It is, therefore, a very ill-judged thing in the ladies, to keep too long in play the man they ever design to marry: and, with all due deference to that great wit and poet, Sir John Suckling, there are very few examples which verify his maxim, that—

' 'Tis expectation makes the blessing dear.'

According to my opinion, which is founded on observation, another author, who wrote much about the same time with Sir John, has given us a more true idea of what a tedious courtship may produce, especially on the side of the man. In a matrimonial dialogue, he makes the husband excuse the coldness complained of by his wife, in these terms—

'Unequal lengths, alas! our passions run;

My love was quite worn out, ere yours begun.'

This being the case with Mr. Munden, it rendered Miss Betsy little less indifferent to him, in reality, than he had ever been to her: to which another motive, perhaps, might also be added, viz. that of his indulging himself with amusements with other fair-ones, of a more kind complexion; for continency (as will hereafter appear) was not among the number of that gentleman's virtues.

But enough of Mr. Munden for the present. It is now highly proper to give the reader some account what Mr. Trueworth was doing while Miss Betsy was entertaining sentiments for him, which he had long since ceased the ambition of inspiring her with.

Difficult was it for him to get over the mingled astonishment and vexation which the detection of the wickedness of Miss Flora had involved him in. The remembrance of those guilty moments, in which he had indulged a tender intercourse with a woman of her abandoned principles, filled him with the most bitter remorse, and rendered him almost hateful to himself.

To recollect that he had been the instrument of her base designs on Miss Betsy, and how cruelly he had wronged that lady by a too rash belief, was, of itself, sufficient to inflame his rage; but when he reflected on this last act of baseness, which, if not providentially discovered, might have made his dear Harriot entertain suspicions of him fatal to her peace, if not totally destructive of their mutual happiness, the shock of such a misfortune, though happily frustrated, was more than he could bear with any tolerable degree of patience.

Rage, disdain, and revenge, for the vile contriver of so black an attempt, were the first emotions that took possession of his mind; but the violence of those passions evaporating by degrees, he began to think more coolly, and to reason with himself, from which that depravity of morals and manners, women are sometimes guilty of, proceeded.

'Chastity,' said he, 'is but one branch of virtue, but a material one, and serves as a guard to all the others; and if that is once overcome, endangers the giving entrance to a thousand vices. A woman entirely free from those inordinate desires, which are, indeed, but the disgrace of love, can scarce be capable of envy, malice, or revenge, to any excess.

'That sex,' cried he again, 'are endued by nature with many perfections which ours cannot boast of; it is their own faults when they sink beneath us in value; but the best things, when once corrupted, become the worst. How dear, therefore, ought a woman to prize her innocence! As Shakespeare says—

'—They are all white—a sheet

Of spotless paper, when they first are born;

But they are to be scrawl'd upon, and blotted

By every goose-quill.'

He was in the midst of these contemplations, when a letter from Miss Flora was brought to him: she still flattered herself with being able to work on his good nature by submissions, and a seeming contrition for what she had done; and had accordingly wrote in the most moving terms she was mistress of; but he knowing, by the hand-writing on the superscription, from whom it came, would not even open it; and his indignation rekindling afresh, he took a piece of paper, in which he wrote only this line—

'I read no letters from incendiaries.'

This served as a cover to the letter, which he sent directly by the messenger that brought it.

If the mind of Mr. Trueworth had been less taken up than it was at present, this ugly accident would doubtless have dwelt much longer upon it; but affairs of a more important, and more pleasing nature, demanded his whole attention.

The day prefixed for the celebration of his marriage with Miss Harriot, and also of that of Sir Bazil and Miss Mabel, had been delayed on account of Mrs. Blanchfield's death. None of these generous persons could think of indulging the joys they so much languished for till all due rites were paid to the memory of that amiable lady.

Mr. Trueworth and Miss Harriot went into deep mourning; Sir Bazil and Mrs. Wellair also put on black; Miss Mabel did the same, in compliment to them, for she had not the least acquaintance with the deceased.

Nor was this all; Mr. Trueworth, to testify his gratitude and respect, ordered a very curious monument of white marble to be erected over her remains, the model of which he drew himself, after one he had seen in Italy, and was much admired by all judges of architecture and sculpture.

If, by a secret and unfathomable intuition, the souls of the departed are permitted any knowledge of what is done below, that of Mrs. Blanchfield's must feel an extreme satisfaction, in such proofs of the esteem of him she had so tenderly and so fatally loved, as well as those of her fair friend and rival.

That generous young lady would fain have prolonged their mourning for a whole month, and consequently have put off her marriage till that time; but this, if Mr. Trueworth would have been prevailed upon to have submitted to, Sir Bazil and Mrs. Wellair would not agree to: he thought he had already sacrificed enough of the time of his promised happiness, and Mrs. Wellair was impatient to get home, though equally loath to leave her sister till she had disposed of herself.

They were arguing on this topick one evening—Mr. Trueworth opposed Miss Harriot as much as he durst do without danger of offending her; but Sir Bazil plainly told her, that if she continued obstinate, Miss Mabel and he would finish their affairs without her. Mrs. Wellair urged the necessity there was for her return; and Mr. Trueworth, encouraged by what these two had said, added, that he was certain Mrs. Blanchfield did not mean, by what she had done, to obstruct his happiness a moment: to which Miss Harriot, with a most obliging smile, replied, 'Well, obedience will very shortly be my duty, and I will give you a sample of it beforehand. Here is my hand,' continued she, giving it to him; 'make it your own as soon as you please.'

It is not to be doubted but Mr. Trueworth kissed the hand she gave him with the utmost warmth and tenderness; but before he could make any reply to so kind a declaration, Sir Bazil cried out, 'Well said, Harriot! love has already wrought wonders in your heart; you will grant to a lover what you refuse to us.'—'Not to a lover, Sir,' answered she, 'but to a person who is about to be my husband. I think it is as ill-judged a reserve in a woman to disown her affection for the man she has consented to marry, as it would be imprudence to confess it before she has consented.'

After some farther conversation on this head, (in the course of which Mr. Trueworth had the opportunity of being more confirmed than ever, that the disposition of his mistress was, in every respect, such as he wished to find it) all that was yet wanting for the completions of the nuptials was settled.

The second day after this was fixed for the celebration of the ceremony; after which it was determined that the two bridegrooms, with their brides, the father of Miss Mabel, Mrs. Wellair, and two other friends, should all set out together for Sir Bazil's seat in Staffordshire; and that Mrs. Wellair should write to her husband to meet them there, that the whole family might be together on so joyful an occasion.