Читать книгу The Greatest Regency Romance Novels - Maria Edgeworth - Страница 97

Table of Contents

Presents the reader, among many other particulars, with a full, though as concise an account as can be given, of the real quality and condition of the lady that Mrs. Munden had seen, and been so much charmed with, at the mercer's

Mrs. Munden carried enough home with her from Lady Loveit's to employ her mind, for that whole night at least. What she had been told in relation to the death of Mrs. Trueworth, raised a strange contrariety of ideas in her, which it was impossible for her either to reconcile, or oblige either the one or the other totally to subside.

She thought it great pity that so virtuous, so beautiful, and so accomplished, a young lady, as she had been told Mrs. Trueworth was, should thus early be snatched away from all the joys of love and life; but could not lament so melancholy an accident in a manner she was sensible it deserved: envy had ever been a stranger to her breast; yet, since her own marriage, and that of Mr. Trueworth with his lady, she had sometimes been tempted to accuse Heaven of partiality, in making so wide a difference in their fate; and, though the blame of her misfortunes lay wholly on herself, had been apt to imagine that she had only been impelled, by an unavoidable impulse, to act as she had done, and was fated, by an invincible necessity, to be the enemy of her own happiness.

Thus did this fair predestinarian reason within herself whenever the ill-usage of Mr. Munden made her reflect on the generosity of Mr. Trueworth. She repined not at the felicities she supposed were enjoyed by Mrs. Trueworth, but regretted that her own lot had been cast so vastly different.

But though all these little heart-burnings now ceased by the death of that so late happy lady, and even common humanity demanded the tribute of compassion for her destiny, of which none had a greater share, on other occasions, than Mrs. Munden, yet could she not on this pay it without some interruptions from a contrary emotion: in these moments, if it may be said she grieved at all, it was more because she knew that Mr. Trueworth was grieved, than for the cause that made him so.

Her good-sense, her justice, and her good-nature, however, gave an immediate check to such sentiments whenever she found them rising in her; but her utmost efforts could not wholly subdue them: there was a secret something in her heart which she would never allow herself to think she was possessed of, that, in spite of all she could do, diffused an involuntary satisfaction at the knowledge that Mr. Trueworth was a widower.

If Lady Loveit could have foreseen the commotions her discourse raised in the breast of her fair friend, she would certainly never have entertained her with it; but she so little expected her having any tenderness for Mr. Trueworth, that she observed not the changes in her countenance when she mentioned that gentleman, as she afterwards frequently did, on many occasions, in the course of the visits to each other: nor could Mrs. Munden, being ignorant herself of the real cause of the agitation she was in, make her ladyship a confidante in this, as she did in all her other affairs, the little happiness she enjoyed in marriage not excepted.

Lady Loveit had, indeed, a pretty right idea of her misfortune in this point, before she heard it from herself: Sir Bazil, though not at all conversant with Mr. Munden, was well acquainted with his character and manner of behaviour; and the account he gave of both to her on being told to whom he was married, left her no room to doubt how disagreeable a situation the wife of such a husband must be in. She heartily commiserated her hard fate; yet, as Lady Trusty had done, said every thing to persuade her to bear it with a becoming patience.

Perceiving she had lost some part of her vivacity, and would frequently fall into very melancholy musings, Sir Bazil himself, now fully convinced of her merit and good qualities, added his endeavours to those of his amiable consort, for the exhilarating her spirits: they would needs have her make one in every party of pleasure, either formed by themselves, or wherein they had a share; and obliged her to come as often to their house as she could do without giving offence to her domestick tyrant.

An excess of gaiety, when curbed, is apt to degenerate into its contrary extreme: it must, therefore, be confessed, that few things could have been more lucky for Mrs. Munden than this event; she had lost all relish for the conversation of the Miss Airishes, and those other giddy creatures which had composed the greatest part of her acquaintance; and too much solitude might have brought on a gloominess of temper equally uneasy to herself and to those about her; but the society of these worthy friends, the diversions they prepared for her, and the company to which they introduced her, kept up her native liveliness of mind, and at the same time convinced her that pleasure was no enemy to virtue or to reputation, when partook with persons of honour and discretion.

She had been with them one evening, when the satisfaction she took in their conversation, the pressures they made to detain her, joined to the knowledge that there was no danger of Mr. Munden's being uneasy at her absence, (he seldom coming home till towards daybreak) engaged her to stay till the night was pretty far advanced; yet, late as it was, she was presented with an adventure of as odd a kind as ever she had been surprized with.

She was undressing, in order to go to bed, when she heard a very loud knocking at the street-door; after which her footman came up, and told her that a woman was below, who said she must speak with her immediately. 'I shall speak to nobody at this time of the night,' said Mrs. Munden; 'therefore go down and tell her so.' The fellow went; but returned in a moment or two, and told her that the person would take no denial, nor would go out of the house without seeing her. 'Some very impudent creature, sure!' said Mrs. Munden—'but do you go,' added she in the same breath, to the maid that waited on her, 'and ask her name and business: if she will tell neither, let her be turned out of the house.'

She was in a good deal of perplexity to think who should enquire for her at that late hour; when the servant she had sent to examine into the matter, came back, and, before she had well entered the chamber, cried out, 'Lord, Madam! I never was so astonished in my life! I wonder Tom could speak in such a rude manner; the woman, as he called her, is a very fine lady, I am sure, though she has no hoop nor stays on—nothing but a fine rich brocade wrapping-gown upon her: she looks as if she was just going to bed, or rather coming out of bed, for her head-cloaths are in great disorder, and her hair all about her ears.'

'Well, but her name and business,' demanded Mrs. Munden hastily. 'Nay, Madam,' replied the maid, 'she will tell neither but to yourself; so, pray, dear Madam, either come down stairs, or let her be brought up: I am sure she does not look as if she would do you any hurt.'

Mrs. Munden paused a little on what she had heard; and believing there must be something very extraordinary indeed, both in the person and the visit, resolved to be convinced of the truth; therefore, having given a strict charge that both the footmen should be ready at her call in case there should be any occasion for them, went into the dining-room, and ordered that the person who enquired for her should be introduced.

Her whole appearance answered exactly to the description that had been given of her by the maid; but it was her face which most alarmed Mrs. Munden, as being positive she had seen it before, though when or where she could not at that instant recollect.

But the stranger soon eased her of the suspense she was in; when, throwing herself at her feet, and bursting into a flood of tears, 'You once offered me your friendship, Madam,' said she: 'a consciousness of my own unworthiness made me refuse that honour; but I now come to implore your compassion and charitable protection. I have no hope of safety, or of shelter, but in your goodness and generosity.'

The accents of her voice now discovered her to be no other than the lady Mrs. Munden had seen at the mercer's: she was strangely confounded, but not so much as to hinder her from raising the distressed fair-one with the greatest civility, and seating her in a chair, 'Though I cannot comprehend, Madam,' answered she, 'by what accident you are reduced to address me in these terms, yet you may rely upon my readiness to assist the unfortunate, especially a person, whom I cannot but look upon as far from deserving to be so.'

'Oh! would to God,' cried the other, very emphatically, 'that my history could preserve that kind opinion in you! but, alas! though I find myself obliged to relate it to you, in order to obtain the protection I intreat, I tremble lest, by doing so, I should forfeit those pretensions to your mercy, which otherwise my sex, and my distress, might justly claim.'

These words were sufficient to have aroused the curiosity of a woman who had less of that propensity in her nature than Mrs. Munden; she told her that, by being made the confidante of her affairs, she should think herself obliged to excuse whatever she found not worthy of her approbation.

'Prepare yourself, then, Madam,' said her still weeping guest; 'summon all your goodness to forgive the frailties of youth and inadvertency, and to pity the sad consequences which sometimes attend the pride of flattered beauty and vain desire of ambition.'

This expression sunk more deeply in the mind of Mrs. Munden than the person who uttered it imagined: she made no reply, however; and the other began the narrative she had promised in these or the like terms.

The history of Mademoiselle de Roquelair.

'I need not tell you, Madam,' said she, 'that I am not a native of this kingdom; my bad pronunciation of the language speaks it for me: I am, indeed, by birth a Parisian, and daughter of the Sieur de Roquelair, a man of some estimation in the world.

'The great hopes conceived of me in my infancy, encouraged him to be almost profuse in the expences of my education; no accomplishment befitting of my sex and rank was denied me: in fine, it was easy to see he had an affection for me above all his other children; and that the partial opinion he had of my person and understanding, made him build the highest expectations on my future fortune.

'But, alas! what he intended for my happiness proved my undoing; I had but just attained my fifteenth year of age, when the little beauty I was mistress of was taken notice of by the Duke de M——, as I was walking one evening in the Thuilleries, with a young companion of my own sex: he passed us twice without speaking, but at the third turn accosted us with a gallantry natural to persons of his high rank; the praises he bestowed on me were such as might excuse some vanity in a heart so young and inexperienced as mine then was.

'On our leaving the walks, a gentleman of his retinue followed; and, as I afterwards was informed, enquired who I was, and many other particulars concerning me: the next morning, being at mass in the church of St. Sulpice, I saw the duke again; and, on my coming out, had a letter put into my hands, which, as soon as I got to a convenient place, I opened, and found it, as I before imagined, from the duke.

'After magnifying the power of my wit, my beauty, my fine shape, and a thousand charms with which his amorous fancy painted me, and protesting, with the most solemn imprecations words could form, his everlasting adoration of me, he intreated I would meet him at the same place where he had first seen me, and appointed an hour in which he knew least company would be there.

'I was imprudent enough to comply with this request: my illustrious lover was there before me—he saluted me with the utmost transport in his voice and eyes—led me to a retired part of the walk—made me the most splendid offers—and endeavoured to persuade me, that being his mistress was a station more respectable than being the wife of a private gentleman, or even of a little marquis.

I was unprepared to confute the arguments he urged; and, to confess the truth, felt but too much satisfaction in hearing him speak: my tongue obeyed the dictates of my heart, and told him that I would be his, though I cannot say that I was tempted by any extraordinary liking of his person, but merely by my ambition of pleasing a prince of the blood-royal.

'It was agreed between us, that a proper place should be provided for my reception, and I should quit my father's house entirely; and this was to be accomplished at the end of three days: but, before the expiration of that time, a person who had seen me in the Thuilleries carried home intelligence with what company I had been, and my father, who preferred virtue above grandeur, took all imaginable precautions to prevent my continuing so dangerous an intercourse.

But what cannot the power of gold effect? Though I was locked up in my chamber, no letters or messages permitted to be delivered to me, an agent of the duke's, by a large bribe, corrupted one of the servants, by whose assistance I got out of the house when all the rest of the family were asleep; and a chariot, waiting for me at the end of the street, carried me to a magnificent hotel; where I found my noble lover, and every thing I could wish, ready to receive me.

'Here I lived, for near two whole years, in a pomp which excited the envy, and set me above the scandal, of the censorious: but, at length, malice overtook me; the baseness of those about me accused me to my prince of having wronged his bed; he too easily gave credit to their aspersions; and not only withdrew his affection and his favours from me, but cruelly discarded me without the least provision for my future support.

'My father, who would never see me in my exalted state, equally shunned me in my fallen one; but, at last, through the intercession of some friends, he was prevailed upon to forgive what was past, provided I would leave Paris for ever, and spend the remainder of my days in a monastery: to this, in the distracted condition I then was, I yielded; and a convent at Roan was made choice of for my retreat; the abbess was wrote to concerning me; and every thing was prepared for my departure; when chance brought me acquainted with Mr. Thoughtless.

'You start, Madam,' continued she, perceiving Mrs. Munden looked very much confused; 'but know, at once, that I am that very unfortunate woman your brother brought with him from Paris, who has ever since lived with him, and whom you must have heard of.'

The amazement Mrs. Munden was in, on finding her the mistress of her brothers, was such as would not permit her to make any other reply than to desire she would go on with what she had farther to relate: on which Mademoiselle de Roquelair resumed her discourse in this manner.

'This gentleman,' said she, 'was very well acquainted with my story; but it did not hinder him from entertaining a passion for me—he declared it to me; the aversion I had to a recluse life, the allurements of the world, and his more persuasive rhetorick, soon won me to yield to his desires; I made a second elopement—we embarked together, and came to England; where I have had the command of his family, and lived with him in all things like a wife, except the name. But fortune, always my enemy, conjured up a spirit of jealousy in him, for my torment at first, and, at last, for my utter ruin. His fears of losing me, as he pretended, secluded me from all society; denied me all the publick diversions of the town; and though I lived amidst the very seat of pleasures, kept me as much a stranger to them as if I had been a thousand leagues removed: but, oh! this night, this night, Madam, has compleated all his too suspicious temper long since threatened! The poor mercer, at whose house you saw me, came this night to bring a piece of silk I had bespoke of him: Mr. Thoughtless came home immediately after; and being told who was above with me, flew up stairs, burst open the door, which by some accident was locked, rushed in with his drawn sword, swearing he would sacrifice us both: the man, to avoid his fury, jumped out of the window into the yard; Mr. Thoughtless ran down the back stairs, in order, I suppose, to make him in that place the victim of his rage: whether he has effected it, I know not; for, trembling at my own danger, I took that opportunity of running directly out of the house; though where to go I knew not—I had no friend—no acquaintance to whom I could apply; I found myself all alone in the street, and exposed to insults, even worse than those from which I fled. My good genius, (for so I hope it was) in that dreadful instant, reminded me of you; I had heard a high character of your goodness; and was assured of it, even by the little I had seen of you, when you were pleased to think me worthy of your notice.

'This, Madam,' added she, 'has brought me to you; and I once more beseech shelter and protection under your roof for this night at least, till I can recollect in what manner I can dispose of my wretched self.'

Though Mrs. Munden was apprehensive this lady had favoured herself too much in the recital she had made, yet she could not think of refusing what she asked: she ordered a bed to be instantly prepared for her; and having conducted her to the chamber where she was to lie, told her she would defer, till the next morning, any farther discourse on the subject they had been talking of, as it was very late, and she expected Mr. Munden home; so wishing her a good repose, returned to her own apartment, to reflect at more leisure on this strange adventure.