assistance of the person who had caused the extraordinary emotions.
Her fancy, indeed, strong as it was, had formed no visionary appearance—it was the very identical Mr. Trueworth whom chance had brought to make the discovery of a secret which, of all things in the world, he had the least suspicion of.
He was intimately acquainted with the person to whom the house adjoining to that where Mrs. Munden lodged belonged; and, hearing where he was, on his return from Oxfordshire, had come the evening before, intending to pass a day or two with him in this agreeable recess.
As he was never a friend to much sleeping, he rose that morning, and went down into the garden before the greatest part of the family had quitted their beds: he saw Mrs. Munden while at too great a distance to know who she was; yet did her air and motion, as she walked, strike him with something which made him willing to see what sort of face belonged to so genteel a form. Drawing more near, his curiosity was gratified with a sight he little expected: he was just about to accost her with the salutation of the morning, when she went into the arbour, and seated herself in the manner already described. The extreme pensiveness of her mind had hindered her from perceiving that any one was near; but the little covert under which she was placed being open on both sides, he had a full view of every thing she did. Though she was in the most negligent night-dress that could be, she seemed as lovely to him as ever; all his first flames rekindled in his heart, while gazing on her with this uninterrupted freedom: he longed to speak to her, but durst not, lest, by doing so, he should be deprived of the pleasure he now enjoyed; till, observing she had something in her hand which she seemed to look upon with great attention, and sometimes betrayed agitations he had never seen in her before, he was impatient to discover, if possible, the motive; he therefore advanced as gently as he could towards the back of the arbour; which having no wood-work, and the leafy canopy only supported by ozier boughs placed at a good distance from each other, he had a full opportunity of beholding all that the reader has been told. But what was his amazement to find it was his own picture!—that very picture, which had been taken from the painter's, was the object of her meditations! He heard her sighs—he saw her lovely hand frequently put up to wipe away the tears that fell from her eyes while looking on it; he also saw her, more than once, (though, doubtless, in those moments, not knowing what she did) press the lifeless image to her bosom with the utmost tenderness: scarce could he give credit to the testimony of his senses, near as he was to her; he even strained his sight to be more sure; and, forgetting all the precautions he had taken, thrust himself as far as he was able between the branches of which the arbour was composed.
On perceiving the effect this last action had produced, the gate, though not above twenty paces off, seemed too slow a passage to fly to her relief; and, setting his foot upon a pedestal of a statue, quick as thought, or the flash of elemental fire, sprang over the myrtle-hedge that parted the garden from the walk. 'Ah, Madam!' cried he, catching her in his arms to hinder her from falling, 'what has the unhappy Trueworth done to render his presence so alarming! How have I deserved to appear thus dreadful in your eyes!'
That admirable presence of mind which Mrs. Munden had shewn on many occasions, did not on this entirely leave her: the time he was speaking those few words sufficed to enable her to recollect her scattered spirits; and, withdrawing herself from the hold he had taken of her, and removing a little farther on the bench, as if to give him room to sit, 'Sir,' said she, with a voice pretty well composed, 'the obligations I have to you demand other sort of sentiments than those you seem to accuse me of; but I thought myself alone, and was not guarded against the surprize of meeting you in this place.'—'I ought, indeed,' replied he, 'to have been more cautious in my approach, especially as I found you deep in contemplation; which, perhaps, I have been my own enemy by interrupting.'
Till he spoke in this manner, she was not quite assured how far he had been witness of her behaviour; but what he now said confirming her of what she had but feared before, threw her into a second confusion little inferior to the former. He saw it—but saw it without that pity he would have felt had it proceeded from any other motive; and, eager to bring her to a more full eclaircissement, 'If you really think, Madam,' said he, 'that you have any obligations to me, you may requite them all by answering sincerely to one question. Tell me, I beseech you,' continued he, taking up the picture, which she had neither thought nor opportunity to remove from the place where it had fallen; 'resolve me how this little picture came into your possession?' What was now the condition of Mrs. Munden! She could neither find any pretence to evade the truth, nor fit words to confess it; till Mr. Trueworth repeating his request, and vowing he would never leave her till she granted it, 'What need have I to answer?' said she, blushing. 'You know it what manner it was taken from the painter's; and the sight of it in my hand is sufficient to inform you of the whole.'
'Charming declaration!—transporting, ravishing, to thought!' cried he, kissing her hand. 'O had I known it sooner, engaged as I then was to one who well deserved my love; could I have guessed Miss Betsy Thoughtless was the contriver of that tender fraud; I know not what revolution might have happened in my heart! the empire you had there was never totally extirpated; and kindness might have regained what cruelty had lost!'—'Do not deceive yourself, Sir,' said she, interrupting him with all the courage she could assume; 'nor mistake that for love which was only the effect of mere gratitude.' These words were accompanied with a look which once would have struck him with the most submissive awe; but he was now too well acquainted with the sentiments she had for him to be deterred by any other outward shew of coldness. 'Call it by what name you please,' cried he, 'so you permit me the continuance of it, and vouchsafe me the same favours you bestow on my insensible resemblance.' In speaking this, he threw his arms about her waist, not regarding the efforts she made to hinder him, and clasped her to his breast with a vehemence which in all his days of courtship to her he never durst attempt. 'Forbear, Sir,' said she; 'you know I am not at liberty to be entertained with discourses, or with actions, of this nature. Loose me this moment! or be assured, all the kind thoughts I had of you, and on which you have too much presumed, will be converted into the extremest hatred and detestation!' The voice in which she uttered this menace convincing him how much she was in earnest, he let go his hold, removed some paces from her, and beheld her for some moments with a silent admiration. 'I have obeyed you, Madam!' cried he, with a deep sigh; 'you are all angel—be all angel still! Far be it from me to tempt you from the glorious height you stand in: yet how unhappy has this interview made me! I love you without daring even to wish for a return! nay, so fully has your virtue conquered, that I must love you more for the repulse you have given my too audacious hopes. You may at least pity the fate to which I am condemned.'
'It would be in vain for me,' replied she, in a voice somewhat broken by the inward conflict she sustained, 'to endeavour to conceal what my inadvertencies have so fully betrayed to you; and you may assure yourself, that I shall think on you with all the tenderness that honour, and the duties of my station, will admit. But remember, Sir, I am a wife; and, being such, ought never to see you more: in regard, therefore, to my reputation and peace of mind, I must intreat you will henceforth avoid my presence with the same care I will do yours.'
'Severe as this injunction is,' replied he, 'my soul avows the justice of it; and I submit.'—'Farewel, then!' said she, rising from her feet. 'Oh, farewel!' cried he, and kissed her hand with emotions not to be expressed. 'Farewel for ever!' rejoined she, turning hastily away to prevent his seeing the tears with which her eyes were overcharged, and in that cruel instant overflowed her cheeks. She advanced with all the speed she could towards the wicker-gate; but, when there, could not forbear giving one look behind; and, perceiving he had left the walk, and was proceeding through the garden, with folded arms, and a dejected pace, 'Poor Trueworth!' cried she, and pursued him with her eyes till he was quite out of sight.
Some readers may, perhaps, blame Mr. Trueworth, as having presumed too far on the discovery of the lady's passion; and others, of a contrary way of thinking, laugh at him for being so easily repulsed: but all, in general, must applaud the conduct of Mrs. Munden. Till this dangerous instance, she had never had an opportunity of shewing the command she had over herself; and, as Mr. Eastcourt justly says—
'Ne'er let the fair-one boast of virtue prov'd,
Till she has well refus'd the man she truly lov'd.'
CHAPTER