In the mean time, that gentleman passed through a variety of emotions on her account; nor will it seem strange he should do so to any one who casts the least retrospect on his former behaviour; he had loved her from the first moment he beheld her; and had continued to love her for a long series of time with such an excess of passion, that not all his reason on her ill-treatment of him, and her supposed unworthiness, was scarce sufficient to enable him wholly to desist: a new amour was requisite to divide his wishes—the fondness and artful blandishments of Miss Flora served to wean his heart from the once darling object—but there demanded no less than the amiable person, and more amiable temper, of Miss Harriot, to drive thence an idea so accustomed to preside. All this, however, as it appeared, did not wholly extinguish the first flame; the innocence of the charming Miss Betsy fully cleared up—all the errors of her conduct reformed—rekindled in him an esteem; the sight of her, after so many months absence, made the seemingly dead embers of desire begin to glow, and, on the discovery of her sentiments in his favour, burst forth into a blaze: he was not master of himself in the first rush of so joyous a surprize—he forgot she was married—he approached her in the manner the reader has already been told; and for which he afterwards severely condemned himself, as thinking he ought to be content with knowing she loved him, without putting her modesty to the blush by letting her perceive the discovery he had made.
As Lady Loveit, without suspecting the effect which her discourse produced, had been often talking of the ill-treatment she received from Mr. Munden, and the necessity she had been under of quitting his house, the sincere veneration she now had for her made him sympathize in all the disquiets he was sensible she sustained; but when he heard this cruel husband was no more, and, at the same time, was informed in what manner she behaved, both in his last moments, and after his decease, nothing, not even his love, could equal his admiration of her virtue and her prudence.
What would he not now have given to have seen her! but he knew such a thing was utterly impracticable; and to attempt it might lose him all the tenderness she had for him: his impatience, however, would not suffer him to seem altogether passive and unconcerned at an event of so much moment to the happiness of them both; and he resolved to write, but to find terms to express himself so as not to offend either her delicacy, by seeming too presuming, or her tenderness, by a pretended indifference, cost him some pains; but, at length, he dictated the following little billet.
'To Mrs. Munden.
Madam,
I 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.