Not fourteen, but four hundred years,
Would seem but as one day.'
Mr. Trueworth had a fine voice, and great skill in musick, having perfected himself in that science from the best masters when he was in Italy. Miss Betsy was so charmed both with the words and the notes, that she made him sing them several times over, and afterwards set them down in her musick-book, to the end that she might get them by heart, and join her voice in concert with her spinnet.
Mr. Trueworth would not make his morning visit too long, believing it might be her time to dress against dinner, as she was now in such a dishabille as ladies usually put on at their first rising: so, after having received a second promise from her of giving him her company that day abroad, took his leave, highly satisfied with the progress he imagined he had made in her good graces.
The wind happening to grow a little boisterous, though the weather otherwise was fair and clear, made Mr. Trueworth think a land journey would be more agreeable to the ladies, than to venture themselves upon the water: he therefore procured a handsome livery-coach; and, attended by his two servants, went to Mr. Goodman's. The ladies were already in expectation of him, and did not make him wait a moment.
Nothing extraordinary happening at this entertainment, nor at those others, which, for several succeeding days, without intermission, Mr. Trueworth prevailed on his mistress to accept, it would be superfluous to trouble the reader with the particulars of them.
Mr. Staple all this time was very uneasy: he had not seen Miss Betsy for a whole week; and, though he knew not as yet, that he was deprived of that satisfaction, by her being engrossed by a rival, yet he now began to be sensible she had less regard for him than he had flattered himself he had inspired her with; and this of itself was a sufficient mortification to a young gentleman, who was not only passionately in love, but also could not, without being guilty of great injustice to his own merits, but think himself not altogether unworthy of succeeding. This, however, was no more than a slight sample of the inquietudes which the blind god sometimes inflicts on hearts devoted to him; as will hereafter appear in the progress of this history.
CHAPTER XX
Contains an odd accident, which happened to Miss Betsy in the cloysters of Westminster Abbey
Mr. Trueworth, who was yet far from being acquainted with the temper of the object he adored, now thought he had no reason to despair of being one day in possession of all he aimed to obtain; it seemed certain, to him, at least, that he had nothing to apprehend from the pretensions of a rival, who at first he had looked upon as so formidable, and no other at present interposed between him and his designs.
Miss Betsy, in the mean while, wholly regardless of who hoped, or who despaired, had no aim in any thing she did, but merely to divert herself; and to that end laid hold of every opportunity that offered. Mr. Goodman, having casually mentioned, as they were at supper, that one Mr. Soulguard had just taken orders, and was to preach his first sermon at Westminster Abbey the next day, she presently had a curiosity of hearing how he would behave in the pulpit; his over-modest, and, as they termed it, sheepish behaviour in company, having, as often as he came there, afforded matter of ridicule to her and Miss Flora. These two young ladies therefore, talking on it after they were in bed, agreed to go to the cathedral, not doubting but they should have enough to laugh at, and repeat to all those of their acquaintance who had ever seen him.
What mere trifles, what airy nothings, serve to amuse a mind to not taken up with more essential matters! Miss Betsy was so full of the diversion she should have in hearing the down-looked bashful Mr. Soulguard harangue his congregation, that she could think and talk of nothing else, till the hour arrived when she should go to experience what she had so pleasant an idea of.
Miss Flora, who had till now seemed as eager as herself, cried all at once, that her head ached, and that she did not care for stirring out. Miss Betsy, who would fain have laughed her out of it, told her, she had only got the vapours; that the parson would cure her; and such like things: but the other was not to be prevailed upon by all Miss Betsy, or even Lady Mellasin herself, could say; and answered, with some sullenness, that positively she would not go. Miss Betsy was highly ruffled at this sudden turn of her temper, as it was now too late to send for any other young lady of her acquaintance to go with her; resolving, nevertheless, not to baulk her humour, she ordered a chair to be called, and went alone.
Neither the young parson's manner of preaching, nor the text he chose, being in any way material to this history, I shall therefore pass over the time of divine service; and only say, that after it was ended Miss Betsy passing towards the west gate, and stopping to look on the fine tomb, erected to the memory of Mr. Secretary Craggs, was accosted by Mr. Bloomacre, a young gentleman who sometimes visited Lady Mellasin, and lived at Westminster, in which place he had a large estate.
He had with him, when he came up to her, two gentlemen of his acquaintance, but who were entire strangers to Miss Betsy: 'What,' said he, 'the celebrated Miss Betsy Thoughtless! Miss Betsy Thoughtless! the idol of mankind! alone, unattended by any of her train of admirers, and contemplating these mementos of mortality!'—'To compliment my understanding,' replied she, gaily, 'you should rather have told me I was contemplating the mementos of great actions.'—'You are at the wrong end of the cathedral for that, Madam,' resumed he; 'and I don't remember to have heard anything extraordinary of the life of this great man, whose effigy makes so fine a figure here, except the favours he received from the ladies.'
'It were too much, then, to bestow them on him both alive and dead,' cried she; 'therefore we will pass on to some other.'
Mr. Bloomacre had a great deal of wit and vivacity; nor were his two companions deficient in either of these qualities: so that, between the three, Miss Betsy was very agreeably entertained. They went round from tomb to tomb; and the real characters, as well as epitaphs, some of which are flattering enough, afforded a variety of observations. In fine, the conversation was so pleasing to Miss Betsy, that she never thought of going home till it grew too dark to examine either the sculpture, or the inscriptions; so insensibly does time glide on, when accompanied with satisfaction.
But now ensued a mortification, which struck a damp on the sprightliness of this young lady: she had sent away the chair which brought her, not doubting but that there would be others about the church-doors. She knew not how difficult it was to procure such a vehicle in Westminster, especially on a Sunday. To add to her vexation, it rained very much, and she was not in a habit fit to travel on foot in any weather, much less in such as this.
They went down into the cloisters, in order to find some person whom they might send either for a coach or chair, for the gentlemen would have been glad of such conveniences for themselves, as well as Miss Betsy: they walked round and round several times, without hearing or seeing any body; but, at last, a fellow, who used to be employed in sweeping the church-doors, offered his service to procure them what they wanted, in case there was a possibility of doing it: they promised to gratify him well for his pains; and he ran with all the speed he could, to do as he had said.
The rain and wind increased to such a prodigious height, that scarce was ever a more tempestuous evening. Almost a whole hour was elapsed, and the man not come back; so that they had reason to fear neither coach nor chair was to be got. Miss Betsy began to grow extremely impatient; the gentlemen endeavoured all they could to keep her in a good humour: 'We have a good stone roof over our heads, Madam,' said one of them, 'and that at present shelters us from the inclemency of the elements.'—'Besides,' cried another, 'the storm cannot last always; and when it is a little abated, here are three of us, we will take you in our arms by turns, and carry you home.' All this would not make Miss Betsy laugh, and she was in the utmost agitation of mind to think what she should do; when, on a sudden, a door in that part of the cloister, which leads to Little Dean's Yard was opened, and a very young lady, not exceeding eleven years of age, but very richly habited, came running out, and taking Miss Betsy by the sleeve, 'Madam,' said she, 'I beg to speak with you.' Miss Betsy was surprized; but,