triumph over my life, but never make me yield up my pretensions to that amiable lady: if I die, I die her martyr, and wish not to live but in the hope of serving her.' These words making Mr. Staple imagine, that his rival had indeed the greatest encouragement to hope every thing, added to the fury he was before possessed of, 'Die, then, her martyr!' said he; and running upon him with more force than skill, received a slight wound in his own breast, while aiming to the other's heart.
It would be needless to mention all the particulars of this combat; I shall only say, that the too great eagerness of Mr. Staple, gave the other an advantage over him, which must have been fatal to him from a less generous enemy: but the temperate Mr. Trueworth seemed to take an equal care to avoid hurting his rival, as to avoid being hurt by him; seeing, however, that he was about to make a furious push at him, he ran in between, closed with him, and Mr. Staple's foot happening to slip, he fell at full-length upon the earth, his sword at the same time dropped out of his hand, which Mr. Trueworth took up. 'The victory is yours,' cried he; 'take also my life, for I disdain to keep it.'—'No,' replied Mr. Trueworth, 'I equally disdain to take an advantage, which mere chance has given me: rise, Sir, and let us finish the dispute between us, as becomes men of honour.' With these words he returned to him his sword. 'I should be unworthy to be ranked among that number,' said Mr. Staple, on receiving it, 'to employ this weapon against the breast, whose generosity restored it, were any thing but Miss Betsy at stake: but, what is life! what is even honour, without the hope of her! I therefore accept your noble offer; and death or conquest be my lot!' They then renewed the engagement with greater violence than before: after several passes, Mr. Trueworth's dexterity could not hinder him from receiving a wound on his left-side; but he gave the other, at the same time, so deep a one in his right-arm, that it deprived him in an instant of the power of continuing the fight; on which Mr. Trueworth dropping the point of his sword, ran to him, 'I am sorry, Sir,' said he, 'for the accident that has happened; I see you are much hurt: permit me to assist you as well as I am able, and attend you where proper care may be taken of you.'—'I do not deserve this goodness,' answered Mr. Staple; 'but it is the will of Heaven that you vanquish every way.'
Mr. Trueworth then seeing the blood run quite down upon his hand, stripped up the sleeve, and bound the wound from which it issued, as tight as he could with his handkerchief, after which they went together to an eminent surgeon near Piccadilly. On examination of his wounds, neither that in his arm, nor in his breast, appeared to be at all dangerous, the flesh being only pierced, and no artery or tendon touched. Mr. Trueworth seemed only assiduous in his cares for the hurts he had given his rival, without mentioning the least word of that which he had received himself, till an elderly gentleman, who happened to be with the surgeon when they came in, and had all the time been present, perceiving some blood upon the side of his coat, a little above the hip, cried out, 'Sir, you neglect yourself. I fear you have not escaped unhurt.'—'A trifle,' said Mr. Trueworth, 'a mere scratch, I believe; it is time enough to think of that.' Nor would he suffer the surgeon, though he bled very fast, to come near him, till he had done with Mr. Staple. It was, indeed, but a slight wound which Mr. Trueworth had received, though happening among a knot of veins, occasioned the effusion of a pretty deal of blood; for the stopping of which the surgeon applied an immediate remedy, and told him that it required little for a cure besides keeping it from the air.
Mr. Staple, who had been deeply affected with the concern this generous enemy had expressed for him, was equally rejoiced at hearing the wound he had given him would be attended with no bad consequences. Every thing that was needful being done for both, the old gentleman prevailed upon them to go with him to a tavern a few doors off, having first obtained the surgeon's leave; who told him a glass or two of wine could be of no prejudice to either.
This good-natured gentleman, who was called Mr. Chatfree, used to come frequently to Mr. Goodman's house, had some knowledge of Mr. Staple; and, though he was wholly unacquainted with Mr. Trueworth, conceived so great an esteem for him, from his behaviour towards the person he had fought with, that he thought he could not do a more meritorious action, than to reconcile to each other two such worthy persons. What effect his endeavours, or rather their own nobleness of sentiments produced, shall presently be shewn.
CHAPTER XXIII
Among other things necessary to be told, gives an account of the success of a plot laid by Mr. Chatfree, for the discovery of Miss Betsy's real sentiments
Though Mr. Goodman had as yet no intimations of the accidents of that morning, yet was he extremely uneasy; the looks, as well as words of Mr. Staple, in going of his house the day before, were continually in his mind, and he could not forbear apprehending some fatal consequence would, one time or another, attend the levity of Miss Betsy's behaviour and conduct, in regard to her admirers: he was also both surprized and vexed, that Mr. Bloomacre, from whom he expected an explanation of the Westminster Abbey adventure, had not come according to his request. This last motive of his disquiet was, however, soon removed: Mr. Bloomacre, who was no less impatient to clear himself of all blame concerning the transactions of that night, had no sooner finished his affair with Lord ——, and was dismissed by the high-bailiff, than he came directly to Mr. Goodman's, and recited to him, and all the ladies, the whole of what had passed.
Miss Betsy laughed prodigiously; but Mr. Goodman shook his head, on hearing the particulars related by Mr. Bloomacre; and, after that gentleman was gone, reproved, as he thought it his duty to do, the inconsiderateness of her conduct: he told her, that as she was alone, she ought to have left the Abbey as soon as divine service was ended; that, for a person of her sex, age, and appearance, to walk in a place where there were always a great concourse of young sparks, who came for no other purpose than to make remarks upon the ladies, could not but be looked on as very odd by all who saw her. 'There was no rain,' said he, 'till a long time after the service was ended, and you might then, in all probability, have got a chair; or if not, the walk over the Park could not have been a very great fatigue.'
Miss Betsy blushed extremely, not through a conscious shame of imagining what she had done deserved the least rebuke, but because her spirit, yet unbroke, could not bear control: she replied, that as she meant no ill, those who censured her were most in fault. 'That is very true,' answered Mr. Goodman; 'but, my dear child, you cannot but know it is a fault which too many in the world are guilty of. I doubt not of your innocence, but would have you consider, that reputation is also of some value; that the honour of a young maid, like you, is a flower of so tender and delicate a nature, that the least breath of scandal withers and destroys it. In fine, that it is not enough to be good, without behaving in such a manner as to make others acknowledge us to be so.'
Miss Betsy had too much understanding not to be sensible what her guardian said on this occasion was perfectly just; and also that he had a right to offer his advice whenever her conduct rendered it necessary; but could not help being vexed, that any thing she did should be liable to censure, as she thought it merited none: she made no farther reply, however, to what Mr. Goodman said, though he continued his remonstrances, and probably would have gone on much longer, if not interrupted by the coming in of Mr. Chatfree. This gentleman having parted from the two wounded rivals, came directly to Mr. Goodman's, in order to see how Miss Betsy would receive the intelligence he had to bring her.
After paying his compliments to Mr. Goodman, and the other ladies, he came towards Miss Betsy; and looking on her with a more than ordinary earnestness in his countenance, 'Ah, Madam!' said he, 'I shall never hereafter see you without remembering what Cowley says of a lady who might, I suppose, be like you—
"So fatal, and withal so fair,
We're told destroying-angels are."'
Though Miss Betsy was not at that time in a humour to have any great relish for raillery, yet she could not forbear replying to what this old gentleman said, in the manner in which she imagined he spoke. 'You are at least past the age of being destroyed by any weapons I carry about me,' cried she: 'but, pray, what meaning have you in this terrible simile?'—'My meaning is as terrible as the simile,' answered he; 'and though I believe you to be very much the favourite of Heaven, I know not how you will atone for the mischief