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.'
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