By turns, indeed, she blessed Heaven for her escape; but then the means to which she was indebted for that escape, was a fresh stab to her pride. 'I am preserved, 'tis true,' said she, 'from ruin and everlasting infamy: but then by whom am I preserved? by the very man who once adored, then slighted, and must now despise, me. If nothing but a miracle could save me, O why, good Heaven! was not that miracle performed by any instrument but him! What triumph to him! what lasting shame to me, has this unfortunate accident produced!
'Alas!' continued she, weeping, 'I wanted not this proof of his honour—his courage—his generosity—nor was there any need of my being reduced in the manner he found me, to make him think me undeserving of his affection.'
Never was a heart torn with a greater variety of anguish than that of this unfortunate young lady: as she was yet ignorant of what steps her brothers intended to take in this affair, and feared they might be such as would render what had happened to her publick to the world, she fell into reflections that almost turned her brain; she represented to herself all the sarcasms, all the comments, that she imagined, and probably would have been made on her behaviour—her danger, and her delivery—all these thoughts were insupportable to her—she resolved to hide herself for ever from the town, and pass her future life in obscurity: so direful to her were the apprehensions of becoming the object of derision, that, rather than endure it, she would suffer any thing.
In the present despondency of her humour, she would certainly have fled the town, and gone directly down to L——e, if she had not known that Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty were expected here in a very short time; and she was so young when she left that country, that she could not think of any family to whom it was proper for her to go, without some previous preparations.
All her pride—her gaiety—her vanity of attracting admiration—in fine, all that had composed her former character, seemed now to be lost and swallowed up in the sense of that bitter shame and contempt in which she imagined herself involved; and she wished for nothing but to be unseen, unregarded, and utterly forgotten, by all that had ever known her, being almost ready to cry out, with Dido—
'Nor art, nor nature's hand, can ease my grief,
Nothing but death, the wretch's last relief;
Then farewel, youth, and all the joys that dwell
With youth and life—and life itself, farewel!'
The despair of that unhappy queen, so elegantly described by the poet, could not far transcend what poor Miss Betsy sustained during this whole cruel night: nor did the day afford her any more tranquillity—on the contrary, she hated the light—the sight even of her own servants was irksome to her—she ordered, that whoever came to visit her, except her brothers, should be denied admittance—complained of a violent pain in her head—would not be prevailed upon to take the least refreshment; but kept herself upon the bed, indulging all the horrors of despair and grief.
In the afternoon Mr. Francis Thoughtless came—seemed a little surprized to find his brother was not there; and told Miss Betsy, that, having been called different ways, they had appointed to meet at her lodgings, in order to have some serious discourse with her concerning her future settlement: to which she replied, that her late fright hung so heavy on her spirits, that she was in little condition at present to resolve on any thing.
She spoke this with so dejected an air, that Mr. Francis, who truly loved her, in spite of all the resentment he had for the errors of her conduct, could not forbear saying a great many tender things to her; but nothing afforded her so much consolation as the account he gave her, that no prosecution would be commenced against the sham Sir Frederick Fineer. 'The villain', said he, 'is run away from his lodgings, but, questionless, might easily be found out, and brought to justice; but the misfortune is, that in cases of this nature, the offended must suffer as well as the offender: to punish him, must expose you. You see, therefore, to what your inadvertency has reduced you—injured to the most shocking degree, yet denied the satisfaction of revenge.'