send you no compliments of condolence; but beg you to be assured, that my heart is too deeply interested in every thing that regards you, to be capable of feeling the least satisfaction while yours remains under any inquietude: all I wish at present is, that you would believe this truth; which, if you do, I know you have too much justice, and too much generosity, to lavish all your commiseration on the insensible dead, but will reserve some part for the living, who stand most in need of it. I dare add no more as yet, than that I am, with an esteem perfect and inviolable, Madam, your most obedient, most devoted, and most faithful servant,
C. Trueworth.'
These few lines, perhaps, served more to raise the spirits of Mrs. Munden than all she could receive from any other quarter; she nevertheless persevered in maintaining the decorum of her condition; and as she had resolved to retire into L——e in case of a separation from her husband, she thought it most proper to fix her residence in that place in her state of widowhood, at least for the first year of it.
Accordingly, she wrote to Lady Trusty to acquaint her with her intentions, and received an answer such as she expected, full of praises for her conduct in this point, and the most pressing invitations to come down with all the speed she could.
What little business she had in London was soon dispatched, and all was ready for her quitting it within a month after the death of Mr. Munden: places for herself and her maid were taken in the stagecoach—all her things were packed up, and sent to the inn; she thought nothing now remained but to take leave of Lady Loveit, whom she expected that same evening, being the last she was to stay in town; but, near as her departure was, fortune in the mean time had contrived an accident, which put all her fortitude, and presence of mind, to as great a trial as she had ever yet sustained.
Lady Loveit, having got a cold, had complained of some little disorder the day before; and though nothing could be more slight than her indisposition, yet, as she was pretty far advanced in her pregnancy, the care of her physician, and the tenderness of Sir Bazil, would not permit her by any means to expose herself to the open air.
Mrs. Munden being informed by a messenger from her of what had happened, found herself under an absolute necessity of waiting on her, as it would have been ridiculous and preposterous, as well as unkind, to have quitted the town for so long a time without taking leave of a friend such as Lady Loveit.
She could not think of going there without reflecting at the same time how strong a probability there was of meeting Mr. Trueworth; she knew, indeed, that he did not live at Sir Bazil's, having heard he had lately taken a house for himself; but she knew also, that his close connection with that family made him seldom let slip a day without seeing them; she therefore prepared herself as well as she was able for such an interview, in case it should so happen.
That gentleman had dined there; and on finding Lady Loveit was forbid going abroad, and Sir Bazil unwilling to leave her alone, had consented to stay with them the whole day: they were at ombre when Mrs. Munden came, but on her entrance threw aside the cards; Lady Loveit received her according to the familiarity between them, and Sir Bazil with little less freedom; but Mr. Trueworth saluted her with a more distant air. 'I had not the honour, Madam,' said he, 'to make you any compliments on either of the great changes you have undergone; but you have always had my best wishes for your prosperity.'
Mrs. Munden, who had pretty well armed herself for this encounter, replied with a voice and countenance tolerably well composed, 'Great changes indeed, Sir, have happened to us both in a short space of time.'—'There have so, Madam,' resumed he; 'but may the next you meet with bring with it lasting happiness!' She easily comprehended the meaning of these words, but made no answer, being at loss what to say, which might neither too much embolden, nor wholly discourage, the motive which dictated them.
After this, the conversation turned on various subjects, but chiefly on that of Mrs. Munden's going out of town: Mr. Trueworth said little; Lady Loveit, though she expressed an infinite deal of sorrow for the loss of so amiable a companion, could not forbear applauding her resolution in this point; but Sir Bazil would fain have been a little pleasant on the occasion, if the grave looks of Mrs. Munden had not put his raillery to silence. Perceiving the day was near shut in, she rose to take her leave; it was in vain that they used all imaginable arguments to persuade her to stay supper; she told them, that as the coach went out so early, it was necessary for her to take some repose before she entered upon the fatigue of her journey; Lady Loveit on this allowed the justice of her plea, and said no more.
The parting of these ladies was very moving; they embraced again and again, promised to write frequently to each other, and mingled tears as they exchanged farewels. Sir Bazil, who had really a very high esteem for her, was greatly affected, in spite of the gaiety of his temper, on bidding her adieu; and happy was it for Mrs. Munden that the concern they were both in hindered them from perceiving that confusion, that distraction of mind, which neither she nor Mr. Trueworth were able to restrain totally the marks of as he approached to make her those compliments, which might have been expected on such an occasion, even from a person the most indifferent; his tongue, indeed, uttered no more than words of course, but his lips trembled while saluting her; nor could she in that instant withhold a sigh, which seemed to rend her very heart: their mutual agitations were, in fine, too great not to be visible to each other, and left neither of them any room to doubt of the extreme force of the passion from which they sprang.
The motive which had made her refuse staying supper at Sir Bazil's, was to prevent Mr. Trueworth from having any pretence to wait upon her home, not being able to answer how far she could support her character, if exposed to the tender things he might possibly address her with on such an opportunity; and she now found, by what she had felt on parting with him, how necessary the precaution was that she had taken.
After a night less engrossed by sleep than meditation, she set out for L——e, where she arrived without any ill accident to retard her journey; and was received by Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty with all those demonstrations of joy, which she had reason to expect from the experienced friendship of those worthy persons.
As this was the place of her nativity, and her father had always lived there in very great estimation, the house of Lady Trusty at first was thronged with persons of almost all conditions, who came to pay their compliments to her fair guest; and as no circumstance, no habit, could take from her those charms which nature had bestowed upon her, her beauty and amiable qualities soon became the theme of conversation through the whole country.
She was not insensible of the admiration she attracted; but was now far from being elated with it: all the satisfaction she took out of her dear Lady Trusty's company was in reading some instructive or entertaining book, and in the letters of those whom she knew to be her sincere friends; but she had not been much above two months in the country before she received one from a quarter whence she had not expected it. It was from Mr. Trueworth, and contained as follows.
'To Mrs. Munden.
Madam,
I have the inexpressible pleasure to hear that you are well by those whom you favour with your correspondence; but, as they may not think any mention of me might be agreeable to you, I take the liberty myself to acquaint you that I live; and flatter myself that information is sufficient to make you know that I live only to be, with the most firm attachment, Madam, your eternally devoted servant,
C. Trueworth.'
These few lines assuring her of his love, and at the same time of his respect, by his not presuming once to mention the passion of which he was possessed, charmed her to a very high degree, and prepared her heart for another, which, in a few weeks after, he found a pretence for sending to her. It contained these lines.
'To Mrs. Munden.
I am now more unhappy than ever; Lady Loveit is gone out of town, and I have no opportunity of hearing the only sounds that can bless my longing ears: in pity, therefore, to my impatience, vouchsafe to let me know you are in health—say that you are well—it is all I ask. One line will cost you little pains, and be no breach of that decorum to which you so strictly adhere; yet will be a sovereign specifick to restore the tranquillity of him who is, with an unspeakable regard,