AI-Generated Graded Readers Masaru Uchida, Gifu University Publication webpage: https://www1.gifu-u.ac.jp/~masaru/a1/ai-generated_graded_readers.html Publication date: May 2, 2026 About This Edition This book is a simplified English adaptation created for extensive reading practice. The text was generated using ChatGPT and prepared for intermediate English learners as part of an educational project. Target reading level: CEFR A2-B1 This edition aims to support fluency development through accessible vocabulary, expanded narration, and improved readability while preserving the original story structure. Content Note This adaptation is based on a historical literary work. It may contain expressions, attitudes, or depictions that some readers may consider inappropriate or offensive by today’s standards. Such elements have been retained or reflected where necessary in order to preserve the historical and literary character of the original work. Source Text Original work: The History of Miss Betsy Thoughtless Author: Eliza Fowler Haywood Source: Project Gutenberg https://www.gutenberg.org/ Full text available at: https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/46346/pg46346.txt The original text is in the public domain. Copyright and Use This simplified edition is intended for educational and non-commercial use only. The source text is provided by Project Gutenberg under its public domain policy. Users should refer to the Project Gutenberg License for full terms: https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html This adaptation was generated with the assistance of artificial intelligence and edited for readability and educational purposes. Disclaimer This edition is an educational adaptation and is not affiliated with or endorsed by Project Gutenberg.

Eliza Haywood, The History of Miss Betsy Thoughtless (Simplified Edition, Adapted and Simplified by ChatGPT)

Part 1: Early Lessons

　　Fewer women, I believe, are ruined by love than by vanity. Many young women do foolish things, not because their hearts are bad, but because they do not stop and think. They want to be liked, praised, and admired, and this wish can lead them into danger before they understand it. People are often quick to blame them, but slower to ask how the mistake began. If young women spent less time asking, “Does this dress suit my face?” and more time asking, “Does this action suit my character?” there would be fewer sad stories to tell.
　　Betsy Thoughtless was the only daughter of a gentleman of good family and good fortune. Her father lived quietly in the country and did not often go to London. After his wife died, he sent Betsy, then about ten years old, to a boarding school not far from his house. The woman who kept the school was known as a sensible and well-bred lady. Betsy’s father believed his daughter would learn there all the things a young lady was expected to know.
　　He loved Betsy very much, but he did not bring her home for the school holidays as many fathers did. The school was only seven or eight miles away, so he visited her once or twice a week. In this way he could see her often, and still leave her education in the hands of the governess. Betsy was lively, kind, and pleasing in her manners. Very soon the governess and the other girls became fond of her.
　　Among the girls there was one whom Betsy liked best. Her name was Miss Forward. She was about two years older than Betsy, and Betsy looked up to her as a person who knew more of the world. Miss Forward was also fond of Betsy and trusted her with many small secrets. At first these secrets were no more than childish matters. But as Miss Forward grew older, she began to have a more dangerous secret.
　　A young gentleman named Master Sparkish had seen Miss Forward at church and had fallen in love with her. He found ways to show his feelings, and Miss Forward was proud to be treated like a grown woman. Letters began to pass between them. Miss Forward showed both his letters and her answers to Betsy. In this way Betsy learned very early how people spoke and wrote when they wished to be admired.
　　Master Sparkish called Miss Forward an angel and a goddess. Betsy was still too young to be courted herself, but these words pleased her imagination. She began to wish she were older, so that someone might say such things to her too. She did not yet understand the danger of such thoughts. She only saw the pleasure of being chosen and praised.
　　At last the governess discovered that some kind of secret exchange was taking place. She questioned the servants, but none of them knew anything. Only Betsy knew the truth, and she kept the secret faithfully. Master Sparkish had found a small crack in the garden wall. He put his letters there, and Miss Forward took them out and placed her replies in the same spot.
　　The governess watched more carefully, but the letters continued. If the young people had been content only to write, the matter might have gone on for a long time. But both of them wanted to meet face to face. Miss Forward soon made a plan, and Betsy helped her carry it out. One Sunday afternoon Miss Forward said that her head hurt so badly that she could not go to church.
　　Betsy asked to stay with her and said she would read to her from a sermon or some other good book. The governess believed them and went to church with the rest of the household. Only one maid stayed in the house. Master Sparkish had been told when to come, and he entered by the garden door. Betsy left the lovers together in an arbour and went to keep the maid busy with talk.
　　After that, there were several secret meetings. Sometimes Betsy said she needed to go into town to buy something from the milliner or the dressmaker. She asked that Miss Forward might go with her to help choose. Master Sparkish was always told beforehand and met them on the way. Betsy enjoyed being trusted by an older girl and used all her cleverness to help the secret continue.
　　Miss Forward, however, did not simply love and obey her admirer. She liked to make him hope and then fear. She gave him kind looks one day and cold words the next. Betsy watched all this and saw how much power a young woman could seem to have over a man who admired her. These were not good lessons, but they were strong ones. Later, when Betsy herself had admirers, she remembered them too well.
　　The secret could not remain hidden forever. The meetings were too frequent, and the girls were not careful enough. The governess learned what had been happening and went to Master Sparkish’s father. He became very angry when he heard that his son was already thinking of love. Under his father’s strong questioning, the frightened young man confessed everything, including Betsy’s part in the plan.
　　Miss Forward and Betsy were both severely reproved. The governess no longer allowed them to be alone together. This was a great punishment to them, for they had been close friends and shared many secrets. Master Sparkish was soon to leave for the university, so the danger from him would not last long. But before Betsy could think much more about this matter, a great change came into her life.
　　Betsy’s father had been involved for years in a troublesome lawsuit. He was a good and honest man, but he disliked business and had trusted too much to other people. At last he was forced to go to London to deal with the matter himself. Before he left, he visited Betsy at school and said sadly that it might be a long time before he saw her again. His words proved more true than either of them wished.
　　In London he found his affairs more confused than he had expected. The worry, hard work, and bad air of the city weakened him quickly. In about three months he died. Before his death, he made his will. Most of his estate went to his eldest son, who was travelling in Europe, while his money in the funds was to be divided between his second son Francis and Betsy.
　　He also named two guardians for Betsy. One was Sir Ralph Trusty, a good neighbour from the country. The other was Mr. Goodman, a rich merchant in London and an old friend. Betsy grieved for her father, as a young and cheerful heart could grieve. But youth often recovers quickly from sorrow. Soon another event came that filled her mind with new expectations.
　　Mr. Goodman had married late in life. His wife was Lady Mellasin, the widow of a baronet. She had little money, but she had a daughter named Flora. Mr. Goodman loved his wife greatly and let her rule almost everything in his house. If she disliked a servant, the servant was dismissed. If she wanted a house near St. James’s, he took one, even though it was not convenient for his business.
　　When Lady Mellasin heard that Mr. Goodman was one of Betsy’s guardians, she said Betsy should be brought from school and live with them. She said Flora would be a good companion for her, and that she herself could improve Betsy’s mind better than a school governess. Mr. Goodman thought this sounded kind and sensible. Sir Ralph Trusty did not object, so Lady Mellasin sent her own woman, Mrs. Prinks, to bring Betsy to London.
　　Betsy had never seen London. She had heard of its plays, balls, visits, fine clothes, and lively company, and she was delighted to go there. Mrs. Prinks praised the city and Lady Mellasin until Betsy’s head was full of bright pictures. The tears of the governess, Miss Forward, and the other girls touched her only for a short time. She promised to write, but before long London pleasures drove the old school friendships from her mind.
　　Mr. Goodman met Betsy at the inn in his own coach, with Miss Flora beside him. He embraced her warmly and promised that his family would do all they could to make up for the loss of her parents. Flora also spoke kindly to her, and the two girls seemed pleased with each other at once. Lady Mellasin received Betsy with great show of affection. She treated her as if she meant to love her almost like her own daughter.
　　The next day Sir Ralph Trusty and Lady Trusty came to visit Betsy. Lady Trusty had been a close friend of Betsy’s mother, and she wept when she held the girl in her arms. Others thought she was crying only for the dead mother. But part of her sorrow was for Betsy herself. Lady Trusty had heard enough about Lady Mellasin to fear that this was not a safe house for a young girl.
　　Lady Trusty was wise and good, but she did not speak openly against Lady Mellasin. She knew Mr. Goodman loved his wife too blindly and would not easily believe ill of her. So Lady Trusty kept her fears to herself. She decided instead to watch over Betsy whenever she could. She wished to teach her, gently and carefully, how to behave in the world.
　　Betsy was now almost fourteen. She was tall, well shaped, and very pleasing, though not a perfect beauty. Her face, her lively manner, and her good nature made people admire her. But these gifts also made her easy to tempt. She needed wise friends and strong judgment. Sadly, the life around her gave her much praise and very little quiet thought.
　　Lady Mellasin’s house was full of visitors. Every morning fashionable men and women came to talk, laugh, and share the news of the town. Plans were almost always made for the evening. There were visits to court, the theatre, the opera, balls, and other public pleasures. Betsy and Flora were included in nearly all of them.
　　At first Betsy was almost dizzy with delight. Everything was new to her. She heard compliments every day, and many people praised both her and Flora. Some praised Lady Mellasin too, though she was no longer young. Such speeches often meant very little, for they were part of fashionable talk. Betsy soon learned to answer them with light jokes and clever replies.
　　But among all these admirers, one young man began to feel something more serious. He was the only son of a very rich alderman and had money of his own. Before meeting Betsy, he had thought Flora very fine. After seeing Betsy, his liking for Flora disappeared. He truly loved Betsy and suffered because she did not believe his love was serious.
　　At last his trembling, his joy when he saw her, and his sadness when he left convinced Betsy that she had power over him. This awakened her vanity. She did not love him, and she scarcely liked him. Yet she enjoyed making him happy one moment and unhappy the next. She thought this proved her beauty and her power. Very soon, however, this small triumph would bring her a painful lesson.

Part 2: First Admirers, First Warnings

　　Betsy’s young admirer was named Mr. Saving. His father was Alderman Saving, a very rich man, but also a very hard and careful one with money. Mr. Saving loved Betsy sincerely, but he had not told his father. Mr. Goodman soon noticed what was happening and thought it was his duty to ask questions. He was Betsy’s guardian, and he did not want any secret courtship to grow under his roof.
　　When Mr. Goodman spoke to Mr. Saving, the young man confessed the truth. He said his father had other plans for him, but he hoped that if Betsy agreed to marry him, his father would forgive them afterward. “He has no child but me,” he said. “He would not throw me away forever only because I followed my heart.” Mr. Goodman did not believe this hope was safe.
　　Mr. Goodman told him plainly that he could not allow the courtship to continue. Until Mr. Saving had his father’s consent, or until Betsy was otherwise settled, he must stop visiting the house. This was a cruel order for the young man, but he could not change Mr. Goodman’s mind. He only received one small comfort. Mr. Goodman promised not to tell Alderman Saving what had passed between them.
　　Mr. Goodman then spoke with Betsy. He began gently, as if he were not against Mr. Saving, because he wanted to learn Betsy’s true feelings. He was pleased to find that she did not love the young man at all. Betsy liked being admired, but she had no wish to marry him. When Mr. Goodman warned her against secret courtship, she seemed to understand and promised to follow his advice.
　　Still, Betsy was not completely grateful. She did not love Mr. Saving, but she had enjoyed his attention very much. His sadness had pleased her vanity, though she did not say this aloud. She may have thought that Mr. Goodman had taken the matter more seriously than necessary. But before she could think long about this, another event showed her how dangerous her behaviour could be.
　　Lady Mellasin gave a ball at her house. Many people came, and among them was a gentleman named Gayland. He was handsome, well dressed, and used to success with women. He could sing, dance, speak French, and talk easily in company. Because many women had admired him, he had become very vain and did not respect their feelings.
　　Betsy had often been especially kind to Gayland when she wanted to trouble poor Mr. Saving. She had not cared for Gayland, but she had used him as a tool to show her power over another man. Gayland, however, misunderstood her kindness. During the ball, when the room was full of music and talk, he found a chance to place a small note in her hand. “You have my heart,” he said softly, “and this paper will tell you what it feels.”
　　Betsy thought the note was only a poem or a polite compliment. She smiled, put it in her pocket, and said nothing. Later, when everyone had gone and she was alone in her room, she opened it. What she read filled her with shame, surprise, and anger. Gayland did not write as an honourable admirer, but as a man who believed she was ready for a secret and shameful meeting.
　　He told her to invent an excuse for going out alone. Then she was to send him a note at White’s, telling him the hour. He would wait near the corner of the street in a coach with the window raised. From there, he said, he would take her to a private place where no one would disturb them. The meaning was clear, and Betsy understood the insult at once.
　　She threw the letter on the floor and stepped on it. In that first heat of anger, she wished Gayland himself were there so that she could treat him with the same contempt. But when her first rage passed, a harder thought came to her. She knew that her own free and careless behaviour had helped him believe he could write such a letter. She was angry with him, but she was also deeply angry with herself.
　　Betsy cried for a long time that night. She was ashamed to tell Lady Trusty or any serious friend, because they might blame her own conduct. She did not trust Lady Mellasin or Flora, for she felt they might laugh instead of helping her. At first she thought of writing to Gayland and telling him how much she despised him. Then she decided that even an angry letter would give him too much honour.
　　For three days Gayland did not come to the house. Perhaps he was waiting for an answer from Betsy. On the fourth day he appeared at Lady Mellasin’s tea table, but other people were present, so he could not speak to Betsy alone. Betsy looked at him with cold anger. A less vain man might have understood those looks, but Gayland thought she was only annoyed because she had found no safe way to answer him.
　　The next day he came again and found Betsy alone in the parlour. He took her hand too freely and asked why she had not answered his note. Betsy pulled her hand away at once. “The best guard for my honour,” she said, “is the little good sense I have. I hope it will always protect me from men more dangerous than an idle fool like you.” Her words were sharp, but Gayland only laughed.
　　He told her she was not in her right mind and said her proud airs did not suit her. Betsy could hardly bear his boldness. “Perhaps I am mistaken,” she answered, “but I would be more mistaken if I thought a man like you deserved anything but contempt.” Then she left the room. Gayland laughed loudly after her, but his pride had been hurt, and he soon left the house.
　　This event gave Betsy a serious lesson. She could not tell anyone, because to do so would also show how her own behaviour had encouraged him. Gayland also kept silent, because he did not wish people to know he had been refused. After this, he continued to visit Lady Mellasin for a time, partly to hide the reason for the change. To annoy Betsy, he now gave all his compliments to Flora.
　　But Betsy was not hurt by this. Her anger against Gayland was too strong. For a short time, it even made her vanity quieter. She saw Flora become proud and pleased by Gayland’s attention, and she recognized in Flora the same foolishness that had lately ruled herself. If this clearer judgment had lasted, Betsy might have escaped many later troubles. But her heart was young, and lessons learned in shame are not always kept.
　　Meanwhile, Mr. Saving was suffering deeply. Because Mr. Goodman had forbidden him to visit, he could no longer see Betsy. He still loved her sincerely and could not forget her. After many days of fear and hope, he wrote to her. He bribed a maid named Nanny to carry the letter secretly, because he feared any open letter might be stopped.
　　Betsy knew his handwriting and opened the letter calmly. She did not love him, and she expected nothing rude from him. Yet as she read, she could not help being moved. He told her that since he had been kept from her, he had walked near Mr. Goodman’s house at night only to breathe the same air. He begged her to meet him once at a shop in Covent Garden, if only to say farewell.
　　Betsy read the letter more than once. She saw the difference between Saving and Gayland very clearly. Both had asked for a private meeting, but the spirit of the two letters was completely different. Gayland had insulted her; Saving had shown respect and pain. Betsy decided that she owed him some kindness, though she would not encourage his love.
　　She wrote back that she would not accept any man without the approval of her guardians. Still, because he had shown sincere affection, she would meet him once. She would go to the shop the next morning, but he must expect only a final farewell. She gave the note to Nanny, who smiled and said the gentleman would surely be grateful. Betsy spent the rest of the day peacefully, for she felt no strong passion in the matter.
　　The next morning, while Lady Mellasin and Flora were busy with visitors, Betsy slipped out. She took a chair to the shop in Covent Garden. She expected Mr. Saving to be there before her, but he was not. At first she thought some accident must have delayed him. She waited and talked with the shopwoman about clothes and fashion, while both of them often looked toward the street.
　　Betsy waited from a little after eleven until nearly two. Still Mr. Saving did not come, and no message arrived. At last she had to return home before dinner. She was confused and hurt, though she did not love him. When Nanny opened the door, Betsy quietly asked if the letter had truly been given to Mr. Saving. Nanny swore that it had, and said he had kissed it with great joy.
　　Betsy could not understand what had happened. For several days she expected a letter that would explain everything. No letter came. She wondered if he had meant to insult her, but she could not believe it. She wondered if Nanny had lied, but that seemed unlikely too. Her pride kept her silent, but the uncertainty troubled her more than she wished to admit.
　　About ten or twelve days later, the truth began to appear. Mr. Goodman met Alderman Saving on business and went with him to a tavern. After their business was finished, the alderman accused Mr. Goodman of trying to draw his son into a secret marriage with Betsy. Mr. Goodman was shocked and explained that he had done the opposite. He had stopped the courtship as soon as he understood it.
　　The alderman was still angry. He said Mr. Goodman should have told him at once. He then spoke rudely of Betsy and said she might try to catch some other foolish young man. Mr. Goodman defended her family, fortune, and character. The two men spoke hotly for a while, but at last they became calm again. They shook hands, drank together, and returned to friendly terms.
　　Then the alderman explained what he had done. To stop all contact between his son and Betsy, he had sent Mr. Saving to Holland. On the very morning when the young man was to meet Betsy, his father had forced him into a coach, pretending they had business out of town. Only later did Mr. Saving learn that he was being sent abroad. The alderman stayed with him until the ship sailed, so he had no chance to write.
　　When Mr. Goodman returned home, he told Betsy that Alderman Saving had sent his son overseas. Betsy said proudly that the father had wasted his trouble, because she had never meant to listen to his son as a lover. Yet in her own mind she understood the matter. The morning of his forced journey was surely the morning of their meeting. She could excuse his absence, though not fully his silence, because she did not yet know how closely his father had watched him.
　　Soon, however, Betsy grew tired of thinking about Mr. Saving. Her heart was not engaged, and London life still offered many pleasures. The shame caused by Gayland had warned her, and Saving’s removal had ended one serious courtship. But these lessons did not yet change her deeply. They only passed across her mind like clouds across a bright morning sky.

Part 3: London Pleasure and the Oxford Trouble

　　Betsy now had no serious lover near her, and this did not trouble her. She had not yet met any man who could touch her heart. What she wanted was simpler and more dangerous. She liked to be told that she was pretty, clever, and pleasing. She liked to be led about in public places by fashionable men, without asking much about their character.
　　This kind of life soon made people talk. Betsy meant no real wrong, but she cared too little about how things looked. She accepted attention from many kinds of men, good and bad, married and unmarried, wise and foolish. Some women envied her because she was admired so often. They smiled at her in company, but secretly waited for a chance to hurt her name.
　　Lady Trusty heard some of these reports and became deeply anxious. She loved Betsy for her own sake and also for the sake of Betsy’s dead mother. She came more often to Mr. Goodman’s house, not for Lady Mellasin’s company, but to watch Betsy. She saw that open blame would not help. Betsy had too much spirit, and if she felt attacked, she would only resist.
　　One day Lady Trusty found Betsy alone, which was not common in that busy house. She gently asked if Betsy would not like to see L----e again. Betsy answered that she respected many people there, but she did not care for country life. She said a long stay in the country would feel almost like being buried alive. London, with its visits, balls, plays, and lively talk, seemed to her the only place where life was truly pleasant.
　　Lady Trusty listened quietly, though the words pained her. Then she said that London pleasures were elegant, especially for young people, but too much of them could fill the whole mind. “A good heart is not always enough,” she said in simple words. “There are people who hide danger under innocent pleasure. It is not wise to walk into danger just to prove that you can escape it. Even when a young woman does nothing wrong, the world may still judge her harshly.”
　　Betsy heard this more seriously than she might once have done. Gayland’s insulting letter came back to her memory. She remembered other freedoms that men had taken with her, and she began to see that her own light manner had helped them. She thanked Lady Trusty and promised to be more careful. Lady Trusty then said she wished Betsy could come with her to L----e for a time, away from Miss Flora and the careless life of Lady Mellasin’s house.
　　Betsy liked this plan more than she expected. She said she would gladly pass the summer with Lady Trusty. Lady Trusty feared that if she invited Betsy alone, Lady Mellasin would be offended, so she invited Flora too. Lady Mellasin accepted the offer with pleasure, because she thought Flora might find rich country gentlemen there. Lady Trusty did not want Flora, but she preferred taking both girls to losing the chance of helping Betsy.
　　After this, the young ladies began to prepare for the journey. Dresses became the great matter of conversation. Lady Mellasin took them to buy silks and chose a fine piece for Flora. For Betsy she chose another silk, rich but heavy, and Betsy disliked it at once. Lady Mellasin and the shopman praised it so much that Betsy was pushed into accepting it, though she felt angry with herself as soon as she reached home.
　　When Betsy looked again at the silk, she liked it even less. Flora defended her mother’s taste in a sharp way and hinted that Lady Mellasin had power over Betsy. This stung Betsy’s pride. Mr. Goodman heard the dispute and came in to calm them. Betsy said she was old enough to choose her own clothes and asked for part of the money allowed for her dress.
　　Mr. Goodman was a little hurt, but he gave her twenty guineas. Betsy took the disliked silk back to the shop and changed it for things she liked better. She chose a light pink silk that would show her shape well, and also bought material for a green riding dress. She came home pleased with her own judgment. Yet this small victory soon led her to discover something far more serious.
　　When Betsy returned, she went up to the room she shared with Flora. The door was locked from the inside. She heard voices and became curious. She went softly into Lady Mellasin’s dressing room, where a thin wooden wall divided the two rooms. Through a small crack she saw enough to understand that Flora was alone with Gayland in a most improper way.
　　Betsy stood still, shocked and almost unable to move. She hated indecency, even though she herself was often careless in public behaviour. She might have stepped into the passage and faced them, but surprise held her back. Gayland left quietly, and Flora soon came looking for Betsy. Flora then tried to cover the truth by telling only part of it, saying Gayland had come in and behaved too freely after the dressmaker left.
　　Betsy was amazed by Flora’s boldness, but she did not expose her. Her own good nature, and perhaps her wish to avoid an ugly quarrel, kept her silent. When Lady Mellasin heard that Betsy had changed the silk, she was first offended, but soon controlled herself. Still, both mother and daughter stored up anger against Betsy in their hearts. They did not openly fight her, but they waited for a chance to repay the wound to their pride.
　　Just before the planned journey to L----e, another event changed everything. Betsy received a letter from her brother Francis, who was studying at Oxford. He had permission to spend a month in London and was coming almost at once. Betsy could not leave London just as her brother arrived. Lady Trusty understood this and did not press her. She only asked Betsy to keep her promise after Francis returned to Oxford.
　　Francis arrived and was welcomed warmly. Betsy loved this brother dearly, and the long time apart made their meeting happier. She wished London had been more lively for him, but many public pleasures had stopped for the season. Still, Lady Mellasin’s house had visitors, parties, and cards, so Francis was not without amusement. One evening he spoke so warmly of Oxford, its air, walks, gardens, and company, that Betsy and Flora both said they wished to see it.
　　Francis invited them to return with him when he went back. Lady Mellasin agreed, saying that Francis would take good care of them. Mr. Goodman’s consent was asked, though everyone knew Lady Mellasin’s wish would guide him. Betsy wrote to Lady Trusty to excuse herself from the visit to L----e. She said her brother wished to show her Oxford, and she hoped Lady Trusty would forgive the delay.
　　The journey pleased Betsy more than the country visit would have done. She and Flora went with Francis in the stagecoach, with Mr. Goodman’s footman attending them for dignity. At Oxford they were delighted by the libraries, halls, gardens, and pleasant walks. Francis was much liked by his friends, and they showed honour to his sister and her companion. Soon the two young ladies were invited everywhere and praised by many young gentlemen.
　　For a while everything seemed safe and bright. Betsy and Flora were lodged in a respectable house, their families were known, and they dressed and behaved with polish. Many people were proud to visit them. Their reputation might have grown better every day if they had remained careful. But one foolish walk changed the whole course of their visit.
　　One warm day, about an hour or two before dinner, Betsy and Flora walked in the park. They met a gentleman-commoner and a young student, both friends of Francis and both known to the ladies from previous entertainments. The young men asked to walk with them, and the ladies agreed. After a while the gentleman-commoner spoke of a nearby garden with shaded seats and cool places out of the sun. He described it so pleasantly that Betsy and Flora agreed to go there without thinking of how it might appear.
　　When they entered one of the dark shaded places, Betsy herself said it looked fit only for people who wished to hide what they were ashamed of. The gentleman-commoner answered in a way that already hinted at danger. He took both her hands and kissed her several times. The student behaved freely with Flora too. The ladies resisted, but not strongly enough to make the men understand that they had gone too far.
　　They did not stay in the dark place, but went into a pleasant room that looked over the garden. Wine, cakes, and sweet dishes were brought. The talk became lively and full of compliments, though not openly improper. The gentlemen urged them not to go home in the heat of the day, and the ladies allowed the footman to be sent back with word that they would not dine at their lodging. This was another careless step, and it made their situation worse.
　　Soon the young people were singing, dancing, laughing, and moving about the room. The gentleman-commoner danced with Betsy, praised her face, her eyes, and her shape, and spoke with more warmth than respect. Betsy laughed and answered with wit, still treating it as a game. Then the student drew Flora out into the garden. Betsy did not notice that she was left alone.
　　As soon as the gentleman-commoner saw that no one else was in the room, his manner changed. He caught Betsy in his arms and kissed her with a force that frightened her. At first her resistance was not as strong as it should have been, because she was surprised and still hoped to turn the matter aside. But when she saw that he meant to take greater freedoms, she gathered all her strength and broke away. She looked around and cried out for Flora, but Flora was gone.
　　The man then locked the door and told Betsy she was in his power. He tried to make his violence seem less wrong by saying that no one would know. Betsy spoke proudly and tried to reach the door, but he held her fast. Her danger was very great. At that moment, loud knocking came at the door, and a voice outside demanded that it be opened.
　　It was Francis. He had gone to the ladies’ lodging, met the footman, and learned where they were. When he found the room locked, he became deeply alarmed. The gentleman-commoner knew his voice and was forced to open the door. Francis saw Betsy in disorder and the man confused. Betsy could only say, “Ask me nothing now. Take me away from this house and from that worst of men.”
　　Francis understood enough to be furious. The gentleman-commoner did not ask pardon, but answered with pride. Francis led Betsy downstairs, and she then remembered Flora. Flora came out of the garden with the student, who greeted Francis lightly. Francis gave him a dark answer and took his sister away. Flora followed in her own time, after leaving her companion as she chose.
　　Back at the lodging, Betsy told Francis as much as modesty allowed. She said that only Heaven had given her strength to escape the man’s plan. Francis listened with anger in his face, but he did not interrupt her. When she finished, he said he would hear what the man had to say and would try to force him to ask her pardon. Betsy was still too frightened and confused to understand what this might mean.
　　After Francis left, Flora blamed Betsy for telling him anything. Betsy answered sharply and accused Flora of leaving her alone because she wanted her own pleasure in the garden. Then Betsy revealed that she had seen Flora with Gayland in the locked room at home. Flora blushed, then recovered herself and attacked Betsy in return. The quarrel grew bitter, and both young women said cruel things.
　　The next morning the consequences became plain. A maid came in while the ladies were at breakfast and said that two gentlemen of the university had fought and nearly killed each other. She had heard that the quarrel was about a young lady who had been attacked. Betsy and Flora looked at each other in fear. Soon a letter arrived from Francis, and Betsy learned the truth.
　　Francis had challenged the gentleman-commoner. They had met early in the morning with swords and pistols. Both were wounded, and Francis had suffered a bullet wound in his shoulder. His letter told Betsy not to blame herself too much and said he would send news every day. Betsy ran to her room, threw herself on the bed, and cried with more pain than she had ever felt before. Flora came after her and offered comfort, though more from policy than real kindness.
　　Francis’s wounds were not the only trouble. News of the duel and its cause spread quickly through Oxford. People spoke of the story everywhere, and few tried to excuse Betsy or Flora. The ladies of Oxford were used to strict behaviour and judged the visitors harshly. Soon Betsy and Flora found that respectable women no longer wished to receive them. They had entered Oxford with pride and pleasure, but now they wished only to leave it.
　　Betsy wrote to Francis, asking if she should visit him before she left. He answered kindly but advised against it, because too many young men came in and out of his rooms, and her visit might start the talk again. He told her to return to London as soon as possible and not to worry about his wounds. Betsy was relieved by his permission to leave. Flora was equally glad, and the footman was sent at once to take places in the stagecoach. Early the next morning the two young ladies left Oxford, a place they had entered with delight and now quitted with shame and little regret.

Part 4: New Suitors and Miss Forward’s Story

　　When Betsy and Flora returned to London, they were both uneasy about the Oxford affair. They could not hide the story completely, because Francis’s duel would certainly be known. Flora therefore told the matter to Lady Mellasin in her own clever way. She made both herself and Betsy appear as innocent as possible. Mr. Goodman left the young ladies mostly to Lady Mellasin’s care, but he was deeply troubled about Francis.
　　Francis had begun to think of leaving Oxford. Mr. Goodman believed this would be a serious mistake. A powerful relation of the family had promised to help Francis in the church, if he finished his studies. Mr. Goodman wrote to him with great concern and urged him not to throw away such hopes. He also wrote to Sir Ralph Trusty, asking him to advise Francis in the same way.
　　These efforts did not change Francis’s mind at once. He answered with reasons that were not easy to reject, especially that he did not feel called to become a clergyman. Betsy did not trouble herself much about this argument. Her own spirits had been low since Oxford, but a letter from Francis soon raised them again. It brought news that pleased her vanity more than any moral advice could have done.
　　Francis wrote that a gentleman named Mr. Trueworth had seen Betsy at Oxford and had fallen deeply in love with her. He said Trueworth had been away when the dangerous event happened, but when he heard of it, he wished he had been there to defend her honour himself. Francis was surprised by the strength of his feeling. Trueworth then confessed that he loved Betsy and wanted to follow her to London.
　　Francis praised Trueworth warmly. He said Trueworth had good sense, honour, kindness, a good family, and a fine estate. He had travelled abroad but had not brought home the vices of other countries. Francis did not command Betsy to accept him, but he clearly wished her to think well of him. He ended by saying that Trueworth did not know he was writing this letter, so Betsy was free to receive him as she pleased.
　　Betsy had only time to read the letter quickly at first. Lady Mellasin had planned a grand visit that evening, and everyone was busy dressing. The coach stood ready at the door, and Mrs. Prinks was drawing on Lady Mellasin’s gloves. At that moment a footman came in and said that a poor-looking woman was at the door. The woman insisted on speaking to Lady Mellasin herself and would give a letter to no one else.
　　Lady Mellasin went to the back parlour to see the woman. In only a few minutes she returned pale, trembling, and confused. She said something had happened that made the visit impossible, and she hurried upstairs with Mrs. Prinks. Betsy and Flora stared after her, unable to guess the truth. Soon Lady Mellasin came down again in a cloak and hood, dressed so plainly that no one would easily know her.
　　Flora asked if she was really going out in that dress. Lady Mellasin answered that a poor relation was very ill and had begged to see her. She said no more, but stepped quickly into a hired coach with Mrs. Prinks. After they left, Flora wished to go out and visit someone else, but Betsy preferred to stay at home. She told the servants to say she was not receiving visitors that evening.
　　Alone in her room, Betsy read Francis’s letter again. She remembered a gentleman at Oxford who had looked at her with particular attention. She thought he must have been Trueworth. The idea pleased her greatly. Yet she did not like being pressed to think of marriage, even by a brother she loved.
　　Betsy liked the thought of having such a lover, but she did not like the thought of having a husband. Marriage seemed to mean seriousness, duty, and limits on her pleasures. She still wanted admiration, visits, compliments, and freedom. She did not think these things wicked, but she knew a husband might not allow them. So she decided that marriage must wait until she was tired of being admired.
　　While Betsy was thinking in this way, she heard someone hurry into Lady Mellasin’s dressing room. She looked in and saw Mrs. Prinks at the jewel cabinet. Mrs. Prinks said Lady Mellasin’s poor cousin was very ill and had sent her home for some drops. Betsy saw her put something into her pocket and hurry away. Betsy knew the cabinet held jewels, not medicine, and she felt there was some secret in the matter.
　　Yet Betsy was not a person who liked to think long and deeply about other people’s affairs. When Flora came home and began talking about the visits she had made and the dresses she had seen, Betsy’s thoughts soon turned away. Later Mr. Goodman became very anxious because Lady Mellasin had not returned. He feared for her safety in the dark streets. When Lady Mellasin finally came home, she told a long story about the poor cousin and explained her strange dress in a way that sounded almost true.
　　The next day Mr. Goodman brought home a young gentleman to dinner. This gentleman treated Lady Mellasin with respect and Flora with politeness, but his manner toward Betsy seemed warmer. Betsy noticed it at once. She was very quick in such matters and rarely failed to know when she had made a new conquest. She used all her small arts to make the impression stronger.
　　The gentleman stayed through dinner and tea. He left only when more company arrived. Betsy wanted very much to know who he was, but she asked Flora in a careless voice, as if the matter were nothing. Flora had never seen him before and knew no more than Betsy. Betsy slept well that night, however, because she felt sure she would soon learn everything.
　　The next morning a maid brought Betsy a letter. Betsy’s heart moved quickly, for she hoped it might be from the gentleman of the day before. But the writing was a woman’s hand, and when she opened it, she found it was from Miss Forward. Betsy had not written to her old school friend for many months. Now Miss Forward wrote that she was in London and had strange things to tell.
　　Miss Forward said she could not come to Betsy, but begged Betsy to visit her alone. She gave an address at Mrs. Nightshade’s house in Chick Lane, near Smithfield. Betsy was surprised by this strange address and became very curious. She answered at once, saying she would come that afternoon. Flora came in while Betsy was sealing the answer and teased her, saying she must be writing to a new lover.
　　At breakfast Mr. Goodman asked Betsy how she had liked the gentleman who had dined there the day before. Betsy blushed and said she had taken no notice of him. Mr. Goodman laughed and told her the matter was serious. The gentleman was Mr. Staple, the son of a retired merchant of large fortune. He had seen Betsy at St. Paul’s and had asked permission to court her.
　　Mr. Goodman had learned from the case of Mr. Saving and would not act without the father’s knowledge. He had therefore spoken with Mr. Staple’s father, who had no objection after hearing of Betsy’s family, fortune, and character. Mr. Goodman thought the match might be proper. Betsy said marriage had never entered her head. Mr. Goodman answered that there was no hurry, but that a good husband could never come at a bad time.
　　Betsy now had two possible admirers in her mind. Trueworth came recommended by Francis; Staple came recommended by Mr. Goodman. Her heart was not touched by either, but her vanity was delighted. She imagined how pleasant it would be to have both men seeking her favour. She thought a man in love was like an instrument in a woman’s hand, rising or falling as she chose.
　　After dinner Betsy remembered her promise to Miss Forward. She ordered a hired coach and went to the address in Chick Lane. She expected to find Miss Forward in respectable lodgings, because her father was a gentleman of fortune. Instead, an ugly old woman led her up narrow stairs to a poor, dirty little room. There Betsy found Miss Forward lying sadly on a miserable bed.
　　Miss Forward rose as well as she could and embraced Betsy with great feeling. Betsy was so shocked by the room and by her friend’s condition that she could hardly answer. Miss Forward saw her confusion and said, “Do not wonder at what you see. My letter told you I had suffered, but I could not tell the whole story in writing. If you hear everything, you may blame me, but I think you will pity me more.”
　　Betsy promised to listen as a friend. Miss Forward then began her history. After Betsy left school, Miss Forward was watched for a time because of Sparkish, but when he went to the university she regained her freedom. A French woman named Mademoiselle Grenouille had become one of the teachers. She looked serious before the governess, but she was much lighter and more careless when the old lady was not present.
　　One evening Miss Forward, two other girls, and Mademoiselle went walking near a great lord’s park. They heard music and followed the sound until they came near a small gate. Several gentlemen saw them, opened the gate, and drew them into the park. Mademoiselle said they were young ladies from a boarding school and must be treated with respect. The lord promised this, and they were brought into a tent where wine and sweet things were set out.
　　There Miss Forward met a man named Mr. Wildly. He praised her, held her, kissed her, and made her feel more admired than Sparkish ever had. She was excited and confused. Before they parted, he asked how he could write to her. She told him to place a note in her hand at church, where the crowd would hide the action.
　　Wildly wrote as he had promised. His letter said he could not live without seeing her again. Miss Forward wished for the meeting almost as much as he did, though she still tried to excuse herself in her own mind. She remembered the garden door that had once admitted Sparkish. She wrote to Wildly that he might wait there at night, between eleven and twelve.
　　That night she slipped out when the house was asleep. Wildly was waiting. At first he kneeled, kissed her hand, and called her his angel. She led him to the arbour, thinking it would be rude and unsafe to keep him at the door. The night was beautiful, and the quiet garden seemed to soften every thought of duty.
　　Miss Forward told Betsy, with tears, that Wildly’s praises overcame her judgment. She had meant only to secure him as a lover, not to give herself up to him. But she was alone, lightly dressed, and far weaker than he was. Step by step, he passed from one freedom to another. At last she lost the honour she should have guarded.
　　Betsy was deeply moved, though she also saw how wrong Miss Forward’s conduct had been. Miss Forward continued her story. Wildly soon arranged further meetings by using Mademoiselle. Sir John Shuffle amused the French woman, while Wildly met Miss Forward. These meetings continued for more than two months while the gentlemen stayed in the country.
　　When Wildly went away, Miss Forward asked him to write, but no letter came. Mademoiselle laughed and said such men soon forgot such adventures. Miss Forward tried to forget him, but then she discovered she was with child. Mademoiselle, frightened for herself as well as for Miss Forward, advised a cruel and dangerous attempt to hide the matter. It failed, and Miss Forward’s condition could no longer be concealed.
　　In terror of her father, Miss Forward ran away to London. She searched for Wildly, first near St. James’s, then at Tunbridge, and finally at Bath. When she found him, he was surprised and troubled, but he refused marriage. He said he had lost his money by gaming and could not support a family. He brought her at last to Mrs. Nightshade’s house and paid for her lying-in.
　　Miss Forward said the child had died after three days. This was her only comfort, because the poor infant would not have to suffer a life of shame and want. Wildly had now left her. She had written to an aunt, hoping that her father might forgive her if the truth were not fully known. When her story ended, Betsy did not add blame to her sorrow.
　　Miss Forward then asked to borrow twenty shillings, because she owed Mrs. Nightshade money and had been insulted for not paying. Betsy at once opened her purse. She gave the twenty shillings and added two guineas more. “You may need something after the debt is paid,” she said. Then she took leave, asking Miss Forward to write and tell her what happened with her family.

Part 5: Trueworth, Staple, and Vanity

　　Miss Forward’s sad story made Betsy thoughtful for a little while. She wondered how a young woman could begin with only free talk and end in such misery. Then she told herself that Miss Forward had been kept too strictly from men, and this had made her too curious when she met one. Betsy pitied her old friend, but she also felt safe in herself. She believed she could meet danger and still defend her honour.
　　Her thoughts then turned to Flora and Gayland. Betsy could not understand how Flora, who heard compliments every day, could risk so much for one man’s false love. She valued innocence and good name very highly, at least when she stopped long enough to think. Yet even these good thoughts were touched by vanity. She remembered that Gayland and the Oxford gentleman had both tried to insult her, and she was proud that she had refused them.
　　This was the weak part of Betsy’s mind. She hated dishonour, but she also trusted herself too much. She thought it was beneath her to avoid danger carefully, because she believed she could defeat it when it came. This made her brave in the wrong way. She did not understand that wise people often keep far from danger, not because they are weak, but because they know human hearts are not always strong.
　　At this time two honourable suitors stood before her. One was Mr. Staple, recommended by Mr. Goodman. The other was Mr. Trueworth, recommended by her brother Francis. Mr. Staple came first, because Trueworth’s journey to London had been delayed. Lady Mellasin and Flora knew why he had come, so they left him alone with Betsy.
　　Mr. Staple spoke to Betsy as a man should speak when he wishes to marry. He praised her, but with respect, and he showed that his purpose was serious. Betsy answered carefully. She did not encourage him too much, but she did not send him away without hope. She liked the feeling that a man of good fortune and good face was waiting for her favour.
　　While they were speaking, a footman came in and said that a gentleman from Oxford wished to see her. He had a letter from her brother. Mr. Staple believed the matter was family business and politely left. Then Mr. Trueworth entered. He greeted Betsy with deep respect and gave her Francis’s letter.
　　Betsy asked him to sit while she read. In the letter, Francis said that Trueworth was one of his dearest friends and was going to London partly because he wished to know Betsy better. Francis praised his family, fortune, honour, and character. He asked Betsy to receive him kindly, not because he wished to force her, but because he believed Trueworth deserved her attention. Betsy blushed as she read, and Trueworth saw the blush with hope.
　　Trueworth did not speak of love at once. He was too respectful, and soon Lady Mellasin and Flora returned. Other visitors also came in, and conversation became general. Trueworth spoke well about his travels in Italy and other countries. Everyone admired his sense, his manners, and his easy way of speaking. Betsy said little, but in her heart she thought Francis had not praised him too much.
　　When Mr. Goodman came home, he looked unusually displeased. He waited until the visitors had gone, and then spoke sharply to Betsy. He said she had used him badly by allowing him to encourage Mr. Staple, when Francis had already recommended another man. Betsy was surprised and offended. Mr. Goodman then showed the letter he had received from Francis, which clearly named Trueworth and explained his hopes.
　　Lady Mellasin read the letter aloud. Then she blamed Betsy in a soft but cutting way and asked what Mr. Staple would think when he learned she was already promised elsewhere. Betsy answered proudly that she was promised to no one. She had seen Trueworth only a few times, and he had not yet spoken one word of love. Mr. Goodman said she should still have told him of Francis’s letter, so that he could guide the matter honestly.
　　Then he added something that hurt Betsy’s vanity even more. He said that another man had also asked about her, but he had discouraged him because of the confusion already around her. Betsy did not want that third man as a husband, but she disliked losing any admirer before she had enjoyed his attention. She said coldly that Mr. Goodman might do as he pleased. Then she went upstairs and would not come down again that night.
　　Lady Mellasin was not truly sorry that Betsy had several lovers. She hoped that when Betsy chose one, one of the rejected men might turn to Flora. The next morning, she persuaded Mr. Goodman to stop interfering too much. Mr. Goodman spoke kindly to Betsy and said she might act as she wished. Betsy answered that she would ask advice when she truly thought of marriage, but at present she had no wish for such a state.
　　At that moment another letter arrived. It was from the third admirer, Captain Hysom. He was not young, polished, or elegant. He was a sea captain who had made a large fortune in the East India service. His letter was honest, but rough and comic. He said he was no courtier, but he had money, wanted a wife, and had fixed his choice on Betsy.
　　Betsy laughed so much while reading the letter that she could hardly finish it. She gave it to Mr. Goodman and said, “Now you see that I do not hide all my lovers from you.” Flora and Lady Mellasin also laughed when they heard it. Mr. Goodman said Captain Hysom was not graceful, but he was honest, rich, and good-natured. He even said he wished the captain had offered himself to Flora.
　　Betsy and Flora then turned the captain into a joke. Betsy said she would keep him in hope for a while, because if she answered him honestly, he would disappear at once and the sport would end. She planned to say that her brother had recommended one man and Mr. Goodman another, but that she was not inclined to either. Flora called her very clever in love affairs. Betsy enjoyed the praise, though it was praise for a dangerous kind of cleverness.
　　Soon after, Nanny came upstairs with news of trouble among the servants. Lady Mellasin had dismissed the butler John and tried to stop part of his wages because a silver tool was missing. In anger, John had said the tool might have gone the same way as the diamond necklace. Nanny then told Betsy a secret. She said John had seen Mrs. Prinks pawn Lady Mellasin’s diamond necklace and then follow the coach to a place where someone had been arrested.
　　Betsy remembered the strange day when Lady Mellasin had changed clothes, gone out in a hired coach, and sent Mrs. Prinks back to the jewel cabinet. Now the mystery seemed clearer. Lady Mellasin had probably needed a large sum of money for some hidden friend. Betsy was curious and uneasy, but Flora came in before Nanny could say more. Betsy kept the matter to herself, though she now understood that Lady Mellasin had secrets darker than she showed.
　　That same day the family laughed again about Captain Hysom. Betsy joked that she might prefer him to all the finer men who wanted her. Flora asked her not to forget that she had promised to pass the captain on to her when she was done with him. They then compared Mr. Staple and Mr. Trueworth. Staple had the finer face and a lively manner; Trueworth had a better shape, a sweeter air, and stronger understanding.
　　A letter then came from Mr. Staple. Betsy gave it at once to Mr. Goodman and asked him to read it aloud. Staple invited the ladies to a concert and sent tickets for them and any friends they wished to bring. He also asked leave to attend Betsy himself and renew his respectful declaration of love. Betsy was pleased, partly with the invitation and partly with the chance it gave her to delay Captain Hysom.
　　Soon another letter arrived, this time from Trueworth. He sent Betsy a little squirrel, because he remembered that she had enjoyed watching one at Oxford. The squirrel wore a fine gold chain, and everyone admired the taste of the gift. Betsy was delighted. She liked the present, the letter, and the careful attention that had led Trueworth to remember such a small thing.
　　Mr. Staple and Captain Hysom arrived almost at the same time. Staple was shown upstairs, while the captain was kept waiting below. The captain grew angry and knocked with his stick, so Betsy went to the stairs and called him up herself. She received him with great sweetness, and this put him into good humour again. He kissed her loudly, spoke of his “business,” and said he wanted a quick answer.
　　Betsy would not give him one. She said they were going to a concert and that Lady Mellasin had a ticket for him. Staple made jokes about ships and rivals, and the captain answered in his rough sea language. For a moment Staple looked offended, but Lady Mellasin smoothed the matter with polite words. Betsy then privately told Staple that he must be civil to this harmless rival and lead Flora into the concert room when she herself took his hand.
　　They went to the concert together. Captain Hysom enjoyed the music but made odd remarks about hiring the musicians for his next voyage. His mistakes amused the people near him. Betsy enjoyed the whole evening as a kind of play, with herself at the centre. She did not yet think of the pain or shame such games could cause.
　　The next day Betsy wished to hear Trueworth speak more openly. To keep Staple and Hysom away, she told them she was engaged elsewhere for the whole afternoon. Trueworth came soon after dinner, and Betsy received him in a nearby room while Lady Mellasin entertained visitors. He was delighted to find her alone and even more pleased to see her playing with the squirrel he had sent. When she praised the little animal, he said he had something better to offer her: a loving and faithful heart.
　　Betsy answered playfully that a heart was hard to judge, because no one could see inside it. Trueworth explained that a heart could be known by its actions and offered all his future service to her. He spoke with warmth, but also with honour. Betsy did not accept him, but she did not reject him either. Before he could say much more, Flora came in and called them to tea.
　　Trueworth visited again the next day. Mr. Goodman received him politely and then left, so that he could speak with Betsy alone. But this happiness lasted only a short time. Mr. Staple arrived, and soon after him Captain Hysom. Trueworth at once began to feel jealous, though Staple did not yet understand that Trueworth was his rival.
　　Captain Hysom sent word from the back parlour that he must speak with Betsy alone. Betsy laughed and ordered him to come in. He asked again for an answer, saying he lived far away at Mile End and could not keep coming back. His ship would soon sail, and if they were to marry, matters had to be settled quickly. Betsy told him lightly that perhaps they should speak of it when he returned.
　　The captain reminded her that he would be gone three years. Betsy said she might not be able to answer him even after twice that time. Trueworth and Staple could not hide their amusement, and soon they joined the raillery. Captain Hysom finally understood that he had become a joke. His good nature turned to anger, and he told Betsy she had treated him badly. He said she was only a young flirt and that he would not trouble her again.
　　As he left, he met Lady Mellasin and Flora, who tried to bring him back. He refused. He said he would gladly drink a bowl of punch with Mr. Goodman before sailing, but he would not visit that house again to be laughed at by Betsy and her followers. Flora and Lady Mellasin tried to flatter him, hoping his rejected attention might still be useful to them. But the captain stood firm, went away, and ended Betsy’s comic conquest.

Part 6: Abbey, Duels, and Discovery

　　After Captain Hysom left the house in anger, the others talked of him for some time. His love, his rough manners, and the way he had received Betsy’s laughter gave them plenty to discuss. Mr. Trueworth said that the captain had at least shown strong resolution in going away. Mr. Staple answered that the captain’s feeling was probably not real love, but only a rough liking for a pretty woman.
　　Mr. Trueworth spoke more kindly. He agreed that Captain Hysom’s courtship had been strange and even funny, but he said a man’s work at sea should not be mocked because of one foolish love affair. Trade and sea service, he said, helped make the nation strong. This pleased Mr. Staple, because his own father had been a merchant. At that moment he saw Trueworth only as a polite gentleman, not yet as a serious rival.
　　Trueworth, however, already felt anxious. He saw that Staple came to the house often and was treated with much freedom. He guessed that Staple loved Betsy and that Mr. Goodman had encouraged him. Trueworth decided he must keep near Betsy as much as possible until Francis came to London. He hoped Francis’s friendship would help him gain more favour with his sister.
　　The next morning Trueworth came early. Mr. Goodman was busy with guests, so Betsy received him in another room. Trueworth spoke first of simple things, such as the weather and the shorter days. Then he asked Betsy and Flora to take an afternoon drive with him through the pleasant villages near London. Betsy agreed at once and sent for Flora, who also accepted.
　　While Flora went to arrange the coach, Trueworth spoke more directly. He told Betsy that he feared he had come too late. Mr. Staple, he said, had spoken first and might already have won some place in her heart. Betsy smiled and told him he was not too late, but rather too early. Her heart was still her own, she said, and any man who wished to win it must not be in a hurry.
　　Trueworth was pleased by this answer, because it did not shut him out. During the drive he made himself as lively as possible. He soon understood that Betsy did not like too much seriousness. The day passed pleasantly, and they returned late. When they reached Mr. Goodman’s house, the footman told Betsy that Mr. Staple had called while she was out. Trueworth went home with a lighter heart, because he had given his rival one day of disappointment.
　　He came again the next morning, pretending to ask if the night air had hurt Betsy’s health. She said she felt perfectly well and would be ready for another such outing whenever he wished. He gladly took her at her word. Before leaving, he sang some verses he had set to music. They spoke of a lover who could wait many years for the woman he loved, if only she might reward him in the end.
　　Betsy was charmed by his voice and by the song. She asked him to sing it several times, then wrote the music down so that she might learn it herself. Trueworth did not stay too long, because he knew morning was the time when young ladies dressed for the day. That afternoon he returned with a hired coach, and the ladies were ready at once. For several days after this, he found ways to take Betsy and Flora to different entertainments.
　　During this time Mr. Staple grew more and more uneasy. A whole week passed without his seeing Betsy. He did not yet know that Trueworth had taken so much of her time, but he felt that her favour toward him was colder than before. Since he truly loved her and thought himself not unworthy, this wounded him deeply. Love began to make him restless, suspicious, and unhappy.
　　Meanwhile, another strange adventure came to Betsy. One evening Mr. Goodman mentioned that a young clergyman named Mr. Soulguard would preach his first sermon at Westminster Abbey the next day. Betsy and Flora knew him as a shy young man and had often laughed at his awkward manners. They decided to go and hear him, expecting to find something amusing. The next day, however, Flora suddenly said she had a headache and would not go.
　　Betsy was annoyed, but she would not give up her plan. It was too late to ask another young lady to go with her, so she called for a chair and went alone. After the service, she stopped to look at one of the tombs. There she was greeted by Mr. Bloomacre, a lively gentleman who sometimes visited Lady Mellasin’s house. He was with two other gentlemen, and all three began to talk with her.
　　They moved from tomb to tomb, making remarks about the monuments, the people buried there, and the words written about them. Betsy found the conversation very pleasant and did not notice how much time was passing. When she at last wished to go home, evening had come, and rain had begun. She had sent away the chair that brought her and now could find no other. The rain grew harder, and she was forced to wait with the three gentlemen in the cloisters.
　　After almost an hour, a little girl came suddenly from a door and pulled gently at Betsy’s sleeve. She begged to speak with her in private. Betsy, surprised, stepped toward the door. As soon as she crossed the threshold, a footman closed it and fastened the chain. Betsy was frightened and asked where she was. The child said her brother was Lord ---- and that he would explain everything.
　　Lord ---- received Betsy in a fine room and told her that he had saved her from danger. He said he had heard Mr. Bloomacre and his friends planning to carry her away in a coach. Betsy was confused. She knew Bloomacre and had never seen anything in his behaviour that suggested such wickedness. Yet she remembered the Oxford adventure and knew that men could become bold when they saw a chance.
　　She thanked Lord ----, but said she could not condemn Mr. Bloomacre unless the matter was clear. Soon loud knocking began at the door. The gentlemen outside wanted to speak with Betsy, and the servants answered them from above. Lord ---- would not allow her either to go to the door or to speak from a window. He told more dark stories about Bloomacre and insisted that she must remain hidden.
　　At last the knocking stopped. Lord ---- still said it was unsafe to leave by the front door. A servant went through a back way to a nearby house and found a chair in College Street. Betsy had to pass through a window and down some steps, with help from the servants. Covered with a cloak and without a light, she was carried home in the chair, her mind full of questions and doubt.
　　It was near ten when Betsy returned. Mr. Goodman had been very anxious, and both he and Lady Mellasin were amazed by her story. The next morning Mr. Goodman went to see Bloomacre, but he was not at home. This made the matter look worse. In truth, Bloomacre knew nothing of the message, because he was busy answering a false charge made by Lord ----.
　　Lord ---- had an old quarrel with Bloomacre about land and had used the Abbey event to injure him. He complained to the dean, who was also a bishop, saying that Bloomacre had planned to carry off a young lady from the cloisters. The bishop sent for Bloomacre and blamed him severely. Bloomacre denied everything and explained the whole matter. He said Betsy herself could prove his innocence if needed.
　　The bishop believed that a mistake had been made and let him go. Bloomacre, however, guessed that Lord ---- was behind the accusation. He and his friends decided that such an insult must be answered as gentlemen then answered insults. A challenge was sent, and Lord ---- finally accepted. So the strange adventure in the Abbey now threatened to become a duel.
　　At the same time, another quarrel was growing. Mr. Staple had learned that Trueworth was his rival and that Betsy had been spending time with him. He first spoke to Mr. Goodman, who admitted that Francis had recommended Trueworth. Mr. Goodman said Betsy must decide for herself. Staple then visited Betsy early the next morning and tried to ask plainly what he might hope.
　　Betsy did not like being questioned. When Staple spoke of Trueworth and his own jealous fears, she answered with pride. She said she was mistress of her own actions and feelings, and no man had a right to examine them. Staple pleaded with her, saying real love could not live without fear. But she would not soften. He left the house in despair and told Mr. Goodman that he would not endure many such mornings.
　　Soon after, Staple wrote a challenge to Trueworth. He said they both wished for the same beautiful object and that the sword must decide between them. Trueworth thought such a decision foolish, because Betsy herself must finally choose. Still, he would not refuse a challenge to his honour. He answered that he would meet Staple at the appointed time and place.
　　That same day Trueworth visited Betsy and showed no sign of what was coming. Flora was in a strange, angry mood and did not want to go out with them. Betsy mocked her changing temper and then turned to Trueworth. She said that if he would accept her company without Flora, they could walk in the Park. Flora sharply said it was just like Betsy to go abroad alone with a man, but Betsy ignored the reproach and went with Trueworth.
　　The next morning brought two planned duels. The first, between Lord ---- and Bloomacre, was stopped almost at once. Constables rushed in, struck down their swords, and took all four men to the high bailiff of Westminster. He blamed both sides and made them promise on their honour to forget the matter. The affair made much noise, and people did not speak well of Lord ---- after it.
　　The second duel, between Staple and Trueworth, went farther. Staple cried that love was the word and Betsy the prize. Trueworth answered that even if he died, he would not give up his hope of serving her. Staple became more furious and attacked with more force than skill. Trueworth fought carefully and generously, trying not to hurt him more than he must.
　　At one point Staple fell and dropped his sword. Trueworth picked it up and returned it to him instead of taking advantage. Staple was moved by this noble act, yet he said that with Betsy at stake he must continue. They fought again. Trueworth received a slight wound in his side, but he wounded Staple’s arm so badly that Staple could no longer hold his sword. Trueworth then stopped the fight and helped him.
　　The two men went together to a surgeon near Piccadilly. Staple’s wounds were painful but not dangerous. Trueworth would not let the surgeon attend to his own wound until Staple had been cared for. An older gentleman named Mr. Chatfree saw all this and greatly admired Trueworth’s conduct. He knew Mr. Goodman’s house and decided to help reconcile the two rivals if possible.
　　Mr. Chatfree then went to Mr. Goodman’s house to test Betsy’s feelings. By then Bloomacre had already come and explained the truth of the Abbey adventure. Betsy had laughed at the strange mistake, but Mr. Goodman had seriously warned her that even innocent actions could harm a young woman’s reputation. Betsy understood that he spoke with reason, though she disliked being corrected.
　　Mr. Chatfree entered and began with playful but alarming words. He said Betsy’s eyes had caused two gentlemen to fight. Betsy thought he meant Bloomacre and Lord ----, so she laughed. Then he named Staple and Trueworth. Betsy was startled. Mr. Chatfree first said that Staple was dead, and Betsy cried out in horror. Then he pretended he had mistaken the name and said that Trueworth was dead instead.
　　At this Betsy lost all control. She cried that Trueworth was the best and most accomplished man on earth and asked if his murderer would be punished. Mr. Chatfree could no longer keep from laughing. He told her that both men were alive, though both wounded, and that he had only tried to discover which man she cared for more. “Now I know,” he said. “Mr. Trueworth is the happy man.”
　　Betsy was angry and ashamed. Lady Mellasin laughed and said there would soon be a wedding. Mr. Chatfree teased Betsy more, saying she was certainly in love. Flora, however, did not laugh at all. Her face showed anger and pain, though no one paid enough attention to it. Mr. Goodman was too serious to join the jest. He told Betsy that encouraging several lovers at once could have ended in death.
　　Betsy walked about the room in great agitation. She said she did not ask men to love her, and if they chose to fight like fools, it was not her fault. Yet the whole scene troubled her more than she would confess. Between Mr. Chatfree’s teasing and Mr. Goodman’s warnings, she could bear no more. She left the room almost in tears, while Mr. Goodman and Mr. Chatfree went aside to decide how they might prevent any further harm.

Part 7: Rivals and Letters

　　After the duel, Mr. Goodman and Mr. Chatfree went to visit Mr. Staple. They found him in his room, sitting near a table with papers before him. His arm was hurt, yet he had been writing. He received them politely, but his face showed that his mind was full of pain. Mr. Chatfree tried to speak lightly, but the matter before them was too serious for easy jokes.
　　Mr. Goodman told Staple that he was sorry he had ever encouraged his hope of marrying Betsy. At the time, he had not known that Francis had already recommended Mr. Trueworth. He also said that Betsy’s kindness might have come more from youth and vanity than from real love. Mr. Chatfree then said plainly that Betsy seemed to prefer Trueworth. He added that when Francis came to London, that preference would probably become clearer.
　　Mr. Staple listened quietly until they had finished. Then he said that their advice was kind, but not needed. He had already argued with himself and had already decided what he must do. He did not fear Trueworth’s merit, Betsy’s coldness, or Francis’s influence most of all. His strongest reason was honour and gratitude, because Trueworth had twice spared him in the duel.
　　Staple then gave Mr. Goodman a letter and asked him to read it aloud. It was addressed to Trueworth. In it, Staple said that when he had challenged Trueworth, he had offered that the winner should keep the hope of serving Betsy. Trueworth had refused to accept such an advantage. Yet by his generosity, he had won a stronger victory than the sword could give. Staple therefore gave up his claim to Betsy forever and asked only to be worthy of Trueworth’s friendship.
　　Mr. Goodman praised this decision warmly. Mr. Chatfree, half joking and half serious, said he hoped Trueworth would not be so generous that he too would give up Betsy. Staple sighed, but said his own resolution was fixed. As soon as his wounds allowed it, he would leave London and try to cure his unhappy love by absence. To prove that he meant what he said, he sealed the letter and sent it to Trueworth while the two gentlemen were still in the room.
　　Mr. Goodman returned home much relieved. He did not speak of the visit before Betsy, and she knew nothing yet of Staple’s decision. She tried to look grave after hearing of the duel, but in truth she was not wholly displeased. It pleased her vanity to know that two men had risked their lives for her. Yet she had no safe person with whom she could talk freely about this dangerous triumph.
　　Flora was no help to her. During the past few days Flora had become gloomy, sharp, and hard to please. Betsy thought this change came from a small disappointment of Flora’s own. A young linen-draper had wished to marry Flora, believing she had money. When he learned that Mr. Goodman could give her only five hundred pounds, he quietly withdrew. Flora pretended to despise him, but Betsy believed her sadness came from this wound to her pride.
　　In truth, Betsy was wrong. Flora’s deepest pain came from jealousy, not from the draper. She saw Trueworth’s growing care for Betsy, and she could not bear it. Betsy, however, did not suspect the real cause. Because she was naturally kind, she tried to soften Flora’s temper and did not answer her little insults. This goodness would soon be repaid in a very cruel way.
　　Trueworth received Staple’s letter with mixed feelings. He admired Staple’s honour, but he did not wish to profit from another man’s gratitude. He wrote back at once. He said that Betsy alone must decide between them, and that neither justice nor honour required Staple to give up hope merely because of the duel. He offered friendship sincerely and wished that, whatever happened in love, they would not become enemies.
　　Staple read this answer many times. It made him admire Trueworth more, but it did not change his mind. He thought no man in love could be so calm about a rival unless he felt sure of the lady’s heart. He therefore believed that Betsy must already prefer Trueworth. His pride helped his honour. He would not remain in the field only to be defeated again before the world.
　　That same day Trueworth visited Betsy. She expected him to speak of the duel, but he did not. He felt it would be improper to praise his own conduct. Lady Mellasin, however, soon entered and congratulated him on his safety and victory. Trueworth blushed and said fortune was not always fair, and that he could not be happy unless Betsy one day allowed his service to succeed.
　　Betsy answered lightly that winning a duel had nothing to do with winning her heart. Then they spoke of duelling itself. Betsy and Lady Mellasin condemned the custom, and Trueworth agreed that it was both foolish and dangerous. Yet he also said that a gentleman who refused a challenge risked being called a coward by the world. This showed Betsy that men were often ruled by public opinion as women were.
　　The next morning Betsy received a letter from Staple. In it, he said that Francis’s recommendation, Trueworth’s merit, and Betsy’s own inclination had all joined against him. He declared that he would trouble her no more. He praised Trueworth as both rival and conqueror, and said goodbye forever. The letter was full of pain, respect, and wounded pride.
　　Betsy was astonished and angry. She broke off while reading and cried that the man must be mad. She did not mind losing a lover she had not meant to accept, but she hated being told that she loved Trueworth. Mr. Goodman read the letter aloud and said Staple had acted like a man of sense and honour. Betsy answered that Staple had been very quick to decide her heart for her.
　　Mr. Goodman then explained more fully what had happened in the duel. He told them how Trueworth had returned Staple’s sword, how he had tried not to harm him, and how he had waited for Staple’s wound to be dressed before attending to his own. Lady Mellasin praised Trueworth’s generous spirit. Flora said little, and when she spoke, she praised Staple more than Trueworth. This did not escape Betsy, but she did not yet understand it.
　　When Betsy and Flora went upstairs to dress for a walk in the Park, Flora suddenly became very friendly. She said she was sorry that people would now say Betsy was in love with Trueworth. She claimed the rumour must have come from Trueworth himself. Betsy defended him and said Mr. Chatfree was more likely to have caused the talk. Flora then urged Betsy to write to Staple and clear herself.
　　Betsy refused at once. She thought it beneath her to write to a man who had courted her, especially to explain her feelings. Flora then offered another plan. She would visit Staple herself and speak as if by accident. She would let him understand that Betsy was not in love with Trueworth. Betsy did not like the idea at first, but her pride wanted Staple to know the truth. At last she agreed, after making Flora promise complete secrecy.
　　That day, in the Park, Betsy met someone she did not expect: Mr. Saving. He had returned from abroad and had grown fuller and healthier in appearance. He was with two other gentlemen, and after the first greetings he asked leave to walk with the ladies. During the walk, he found a moment to speak privately to Betsy. He said he had something important to tell her, something that concerned her honour and peace.
　　Betsy was startled and answered that she did not make secret meetings with men. She also said she had not forgotten the meeting he had once failed to keep. Saving told her he could clear himself on that matter, but then added something more important. He was now married, he said, and came only as a friend. He wished to warn her against the false heart of someone who pretended to be her friend.
　　Betsy guessed he might mean Flora, but she could not imagine what Flora had done. She agreed to meet him that afternoon in a quiet gallery near the Chapel Royal at St. James’s Palace. Saving was there before her, and this pleased her, because she had no wish to be seen wandering there alone. They wasted little time in polite words. He first tried to explain his old failure to meet her, but Betsy said she already knew how his father had sent him away.
　　Then Saving gave her a paper. It was a letter addressed to his father, Alderman Saving. Betsy looked at the writing and cried out that it was Flora’s hand. In the letter, Flora had warned the alderman that his son was being trapped by Betsy. She called Betsy vain, artful, fond of gaming and expensive pleasures, and said her fortune and reputation were small. She even hinted that Betsy’s name was well known among careless men in town.
　　Betsy could hardly speak after reading it. The injury was so bitter because it came from a girl who lived with her, shared her room, and called herself her friend. Saving said Flora’s malice was aimed partly at him. Before he had seen Betsy, he had once shown Flora some light attention. Flora had taken it seriously. When he turned to Betsy, she grew angry and used this secret letter to have him sent away.
　　Betsy wanted at once to show the letter to Mr. Goodman and demand justice. Saving begged her to be careful. If the story came out, people would ask how he had brought her the letter and why she had met him alone. Flora would surely twist the matter and hurt Betsy’s reputation again. Saving said he had not shown her the letter so that she might take revenge, but so that she would know what kind of person she was trusting.
　　Betsy saw the force of his warning, though it cost her much effort. She hated pretending to be calm with Flora. She said it would be hard to speak kindly to someone so false, and harder still to share the same room and bed. Yet she thanked Saving for his friendship and promised to be careful. She left him with her mind full of anger, shame, and fear.
　　To recover herself, Betsy visited Miss Forward and stayed there for supper. When she returned home, it was near one in the morning, but the family was still awake. Mr. Goodman was cheerful. He told her that Trueworth had spent the evening with them, and that three letters had come for her. Two were from Francis and Lady Trusty, and one had been left by a porter. He also had greater news: her elder brother Thomas was coming home from abroad.
　　Thomas’s letter pleased Betsy. He wrote that he had finished his travels and would soon return to England. He meant to set up a house in London, preferably near St. James’s. Betsy was glad, because she hoped he would ask her to live with him. That would give her a proper reason to leave Mr. Goodman’s house and escape Flora’s company. She also reproached Mr. Goodman a little for having told Thomas about her possible marriage.
　　When Betsy went upstairs, she opened the letter from Miss Forward first. Miss Forward wrote that she had suffered terribly after Betsy last saw her. Her father still refused to forgive her, and her money had nearly run out. Then, by a sudden change of fortune, a relation of her mother had found her, taken pity on her, moved her to better lodgings, and promised to support her until her father softened. Miss Forward asked Betsy to visit her in Tavistock Street.
　　Betsy was touched and resolved to go soon. She was sleepy, but Flora entered the room, and Betsy did not wish to talk with her. So she opened the next letter, which was from Francis. He wrote that he would not come to London as soon as expected, because friends had persuaded him to spend part of the hunting season in L----e. But his main purpose was to urge Betsy to think seriously about Trueworth. He said Trueworth was one of the most deserving men on earth and that Betsy should not be blind to her own happiness.
　　The last letter was from Lady Trusty. She wrote with motherly care. She reminded Betsy of the danger at Oxford and warned her that London was full of people who could trap an innocent young woman. Betsy had no mother to guide her and no father to protect her, so Lady Trusty believed a good husband might be her safest defence. She said that Trueworth seemed to have fortune, character, and good qualities enough for any woman to desire.
　　Betsy read the letters with a tired but troubled mind. So many voices were now pressing her toward Trueworth. Francis, Lady Trusty, Mr. Goodman, and even the strange actions of Staple all seemed to point the same way. Yet Betsy did not want to be hurried. She locked the letters carefully in her cabinet and went to bed, deciding to think more before she answered anyone.

Part 8: Near Engagement, Secret Jealousy

　　The next morning Flora began speaking almost as soon as she woke. She reminded Betsy of the plan they had discussed about Mr. Staple. Flora said she had thought about it all night and had found a way to speak to him without making him suspect that Betsy had sent her. She would explain that Betsy was not in love with Trueworth. Then Staple would understand, take courage again, and not leave the field to his rival.
　　Betsy listened coldly. After reading Flora’s cruel letter to Alderman Saving, she no longer trusted her. “You shall do no such thing,” she said. “I do not care what Mr. Staple thinks, or what anyone else thinks. Men may think and do as they please. I will not fill my mind with such nonsense.” Flora was shocked by this sudden change. She had expected Betsy to be easy to move, as usual.
　　Flora tried every method she knew. First she spoke softly, then seriously, then with a little anger. She said she cared only for Betsy’s reputation and wished to stop people from saying Betsy was already lost in love for Trueworth. Betsy remained firm. The more Flora pressed, the more certain Betsy became that some hidden design lay under this offer of service.
　　At last Flora said she would go whether Betsy approved or not. Betsy then turned and looked at her steadily. “If you are so eager to visit Mr. Staple,” she said, “I will not prevent you. But first you must promise, before Mr. Goodman, that you will not mention my name, Mr. Trueworth’s name, or any affairs that were never trusted to you.” This answer struck Flora hard. She had not expected such presence of mind.
　　For a moment Flora could not speak. Then she forced a laugh and said Betsy was making a great matter of a small joke. She claimed she had only been trying Betsy, just as Mr. Chatfree had done. “You did not really think,” she said, “that I loved you so well that I would risk myself by going alone to a young man’s lodgings for your sake.” Betsy answered with quiet contempt that she knew how to value both Flora’s modesty and her truth.
　　From that day the two young women were changed toward each other. They still lived in the same house, ate at the same table, and slept in the same room, but they spoke only when necessary. Flora hid her anger as well as she could. Betsy, for her part, began to think more seriously. Lady Trusty’s letter, Saving’s warning, and Flora’s false friendship all worked together upon her mind.
　　Betsy now saw that much of what she had loved was empty. A crowd of admirers, once so pleasing, began to look like a noisy and tiring game. She saw that to encourage a foolish man was dangerous and silly. She also saw that to give false hope to an honourable man was cruel. When she thought of Trueworth, she could find little excuse for the light way in which she had treated him.
　　Yet marriage still frightened her. “What shall I do with him?” she asked herself. “Must I send him away? Or must I begin to think of him as the man who may one day be my husband?” She did not dislike him. Indeed, she respected him more than any man she knew. But she could not easily bear the idea of becoming a wife while she was still so young and fond of freedom.
　　She wrote to Lady Trusty in this changed state of mind. She thanked her for her care and confessed that she had often been led by bad example and by her own foolish wishes. She said she now saw the dangers that surrounded a young woman without parents. She also admitted that she was not blind to Trueworth’s worth. She could not yet promise marriage, but she said she received no other man’s addresses and thought it possible that one day she might accept what her friends advised.
　　Betsy wrote to Francis in nearly the same spirit. These letters showed real improvement, though not complete change. Trueworth soon felt the benefit of this new seriousness. Betsy listened to his declarations with more attention than before. Because she now avoided Flora, he often found her alone for long periods. He used these hours well and tried to deepen the esteem she already admitted she felt for him.
　　Mr. Staple had left town, and no other active rival stood in Trueworth’s way. Plays, operas, and masquerades were now beginning again, and Trueworth often offered tickets or made plans for public entertainments. Betsy refused invitations from Lady Mellasin’s male visitors, but accepted Trueworth’s. This pleased him greatly, though the truth was not quite as tender as he imagined. Betsy refused the others mostly because Flora would have been included.
　　To avoid going out with Flora, Betsy chose her companions carefully. The person she took most often was Miss Mabel, a young lady who lived nearby. Betsy had known her for some time, but Lady Mellasin and Flora had always described her as proud, severe, and too ready to judge others. Betsy now began to see that this was unjust. Miss Mabel was modest, sincere, cheerful without being wild, and kind without being weak.
　　Miss Mabel soon became one of Betsy’s best advisers. She often saw Trueworth with Betsy and understood that his love was honourable and sincere. Because she truly wished Betsy well, she told her not to treat such a man carelessly. Mr. Goodman said the same thing every day in his own kindly way. Betsy’s heart was now pressed from many sides, first by Trueworth’s merit, and then by the advice of people whose friendship she could trust.
　　One day, while Betsy was alone and thoughtful, a letter came by the penny post. She opened it with surprise, because she did not usually receive letters in that way. The letter pretended to come from a secret friend. It warned her against Trueworth and Miss Mabel. It said Trueworth was not sincere, that he only played with her until her brothers came to town, and that Miss Mabel was spreading the story that Betsy was madly in love with him.
　　If Betsy had received this letter earlier, it might have hurt her deeply. It attacked the exact places where her pride was most sensitive. But now Saving’s discovery of Flora’s first treachery protected her. As she read, she saw the plan at once. She believed Flora had caused the letter to be written, though she could not understand why Flora hated Trueworth so much. She thought it must be simple envy and love of mischief.
　　Betsy decided to punish the trick without openly naming Flora. At dinner she was brighter than usual. When the meal was over, she turned to Mr. Goodman and said she had a strange dessert to offer him. Then she gave him the letter and asked him to read it. “Someone has taken great trouble,” she said, “to break off my acquaintance with Mr. Trueworth. Judge for yourself whether there was ever a more foolish plot.”
　　Mr. Goodman read the letter and was angry at its meanness. Lady Mellasin also condemned it loudly. Betsy then said that the writer’s plan would have the opposite effect. “Mr. Trueworth will do better because of this attempt,” she said. “I now make no difficulty in preferring him to all other men. Perhaps, when my brothers arrive, I shall consent to all he wishes.” These words delighted Mr. Goodman and wounded Flora like a knife.
　　Flora said little. As soon as she could leave the table decently, she went to her room, pretending that she had work to finish. Betsy saw her looks and needed no more proof. She felt a sharp pleasure in knowing that Flora had heard every word and could not complain. Betsy later told the whole affair to Miss Mabel, who was not surprised to learn that Flora had spoken ill of her. But neither young woman guessed the true source of Flora’s hatred.
　　Flora’s secret was now at its worst. She had fallen violently in love with Trueworth, though he had never encouraged her. When she had tried to please him, he had either not understood or had chosen not to understand. His coldness only increased her passion. She saw Betsy as the only wall between herself and the man she desired. So her love turned into envy, rage, and a wish to separate them at any cost.
　　The failed letter threw Flora into a wild anger. Alone in her room, she broke her fan, threw things about, and poured ink over one of Betsy’s fine petticoats as if by accident. Then she looked from the window and saw Betsy, Miss Mabel, and Trueworth pass by in a landau on their way to a party of pleasure. This sight almost drove her mad. She wished the carriage might break, the wine might be poisoned, or some other terrible thing might stop their happiness.
　　While Flora was giving herself up to these dark passions, Betsy was cheerful and unsuspecting. She did notice Flora’s poor excuses about the spoiled petticoat, and the excuse amused her more than the loss vexed her. Yet she did not know how far Flora’s hatred had gone. She believed she was dealing with a spiteful girl. She did not understand that Flora was becoming a dangerous enemy.
　　Trueworth, meanwhile, believed he was close to success. Betsy often told him she would give no final answer until her elder brother Thomas arrived and Francis came with him. Since both brothers were now expected soon, Trueworth thought his happiness might be near. But his aunt, a wise and careful woman, was less easy. She had asked many people about Betsy and had heard troubling reports of her light behaviour.
　　The aunt warned Trueworth that beauty and wit were not enough for a wife. A woman who loved public pleasure too much might bring sorrow into marriage, even if she meant no wrong. Trueworth listened respectfully, but love made him hopeful. He admitted that Betsy had faults, but he believed they came from youth and bad company, not from a bad heart. His aunt saw that she could not turn him away, so she advised him at least to take Betsy into the country after marriage.
　　This advice stayed in Trueworth’s mind. The next time he saw Betsy, he spoke warmly of a quiet country life. He described two people who loved each other living far from noise, crowds, and public show. Betsy laughed aloud. “What a romantic picture!” she said. “Shaded walks and little streams! How dull! You may be a shepherd in the woods if you like, but I shall never envy the lady who is shut up there with you.”
　　Trueworth was hurt, but he tried to continue. He said innocence was safer away from crowds. Betsy answered that innocence could be safe anywhere, unless the person was a fool. They exchanged many sharp remarks, and Betsy had the brighter wit. Trueworth at last changed the subject, knowing he had pushed too far. Still, when he left her, he could not forget how strongly she had mocked the kind of life he had hoped to share with her.
　　A greater trouble soon followed. Miss Forward’s last letter had made Betsy believe she was supported by a kind relation. In truth, when her father refused to forgive her and poverty pressed hard upon her, Miss Forward had accepted the protection of a rich merchant and become his mistress. She did not remain faithful even to him. Sir Bazil Loveit, a young baronet and old friend of Trueworth, had become one of her favourite visitors.
　　One evening Trueworth met Sir Bazil by chance at a coffee-house. They had travelled together abroad and were glad to see each other again. Trueworth proposed that they spend the evening together. Sir Bazil said he was already going to supper with a lady, but added that Trueworth might come too, because there would be no strict ceremony there. On the way, he explained that the lady was a woman of pleasure, though young, pretty, and better behaved than most.
　　Trueworth did not like such company, especially now that his heart was full of honest love. But he had agreed to go and did not wish to seem too severe before his old friend. When they arrived, Miss Forward received them with lively ease. Trueworth soon saw enough to understand her situation. He was uneasy, but he tried to behave with ordinary politeness.
　　They had not been there long when a maid entered and said that a young lady named Thoughtless was at the door in a chair. Miss Forward cried out with joy and ordered that she be brought up. Sir Bazil laughed and said this was lucky, because now each gentleman would have a companion. Miss Forward warned him that Betsy was virtuous and that he must be careful what he said. Trueworth, shocked by Betsy’s name, had gone to the window and did not hear this warning.
　　Betsy came in warmly and embraced Miss Forward. She said she was ashamed to have stayed away so long, but one foolish matter after another had stopped her. Then she saw Trueworth. “Mr. Trueworth!” she cried. “Who would have thought of finding you here?” He answered gravely that she had not expected him, and he had expected her just as little. Sir Bazil laughed, thinking the meeting very amusing.
　　Miss Forward took Betsy into the next room for a moment and returned the money Betsy had once lent her. She said she had much to tell, but could not leave the gentlemen long. While the ladies were away, Sir Bazil spoke lightly to Trueworth, as if Betsy were like the other women of the house. The ladies returned before Trueworth could answer. Then the conversation became lively, but Sir Bazil sometimes used freedoms he would not have used with women of known reputation.
　　Betsy, suspecting no evil, answered him with her usual open wit. Her words were innocent in her own mind, but in that room and with that company, they could easily be judged badly. Trueworth tried to speak cheerfully, but his heart was heavy. He saw the danger of the place, the careless freedom of Sir Bazil, and Betsy’s ignorance of how all this might appear.
　　Sir Bazil ordered supper, and Betsy stayed until it was over. Then she rose and said she must go home to write letters. A hired coach was called. Trueworth offered to take her home, and she accepted. As they went downstairs, Sir Bazil whispered some laughing words to Trueworth. Betsy did not understand them, but Trueworth did. They filled him with pain, and he entered the coach beside her with a troubled and silent heart.

Part 9: Miss Forward and Suspicion

　　Trueworth went home that night with a heart full of pain. He had seen Betsy in the house of Miss Forward, a woman whose present way of life he knew to be shameful. He wished to believe Betsy innocent, and in truth she was innocent of the worst kind of fault. But he could not understand how innocence could be safe or proper in such company. He began to see that his aunt’s warnings about Betsy’s careless temper had not been without reason.
　　All night he turned the matter over in his mind. One thought told him that a wife with such habits could never give him peace. Another thought told him that Betsy’s faults came from youth, vanity, and want of care, not from a bad heart. He asked himself whether he could leave her forever, and the pain of that thought showed him that he could not. So he decided, if possible, to guide her gently instead of breaking with her at once.
　　In the morning Sir Bazil Loveit came to see him. Sir Bazil spoke lightly about the evening before and asked, in joking words, what had become of “pretty Betsy.” Trueworth became serious at once. He told Sir Bazil that he was badly mistaken about her. Betsy, he said, was a young lady of family, fortune, and reputation. Sir Bazil was surprised and said he was sorry he had spoken and acted so freely before her.
　　Trueworth explained that Betsy had known Miss Forward when they were children and was probably ignorant of her present character. Sir Bazil said this might be true and advised Trueworth to warn her. Trueworth already meant to do so. He felt bound not only by love, but also by friendship for Betsy’s family. Still, Sir Bazil stayed so long that Trueworth could not make a morning visit and had to wait until after dinner.
　　When he came to Mr. Goodman’s house, Betsy was dressing. He waited only a short time before she entered the room, looking more beautiful than ever. She was wearing a new gown that pleased her greatly, and her eyes were bright with the pleasure of being well dressed. Trueworth praised her taste and then asked if she meant to go out that evening. Betsy said she did, for a new tragedy was being acted, and she would not miss the first night.
　　Trueworth asked if he might attend her. Betsy answered that he might, but added that only one lady was going with her. He guessed Miss Mabel, but Betsy said no. She had asked Miss Forward, the lady he had seen with her the night before. Trueworth could no longer keep silent. He asked how Betsy could think of being seen in a public place with a woman of Miss Forward’s reputation.
　　Betsy was offended at once. She demanded what he meant and why he questioned her in such a manner. Trueworth asked how long her friendship with Miss Forward had continued. Betsy answered that they had known each other at school and had renewed their friendship in London. Trueworth then said that childhood friendships should continue only while both people remain worthy of them. A woman’s good name, he warned her, was easily hurt and not easily restored.
　　Betsy could not bear such advice from a man who loved her. She thought a lover should praise, not correct. She asked angrily whether he dared to suspect her of anything wrong. Trueworth said he suspected nothing evil in her heart, but feared that another woman’s bad name might darken her own. He begged her not to continue an intimacy that would bring her into danger before she saw it.
　　Betsy grew more and more angry. She said she loved Miss Forward and would not believe evil of her from common report. If she ever gave up that friendship, she said, it would be because Miss Forward’s own actions proved her unworthy, not because Trueworth chose to advise her. Then she told him that he had no right to guide her conduct. If he wished to stay on good terms with her, he must not act like a governor.
　　At that moment a letter was brought to Betsy. She saw that it came from Miss Forward and read it aloud on purpose to vex Trueworth. Miss Forward said that places had been kept at the theatre and asked Betsy to come to her at once, since she was alone. Betsy ordered a chair immediately. Trueworth offered to go with her even to Miss Forward’s rooms, but begged her not to appear at the play with such a companion.
　　Betsy said his words were rude and would hear no more. As she stepped into the chair, she said coldly that when she wanted a spy or a ruler, she might perhaps choose him. Trueworth, hurt beyond patience, answered that perhaps the choice would not be hers to make. Then he left the house in anger, half resolved never to see her again. Betsy went away too, proud on the outside, but not easy within.
　　Trueworth’s warning had touched her more than she wished to show. On the way to Miss Forward’s lodging, she began to think. She remembered that Miss Forward had once been poor and miserable, but was now living comfortably. She had never clearly explained how this change had happened. Betsy decided to watch her closely and ask direct questions. If she found that Trueworth’s warning was true, she would pity Miss Forward but see her no more.
　　When Betsy arrived, however, she could not carry out this plan. Some visitors were already there, and their behaviour did not look respectable. They stayed until it was time to go to the play. More than once Betsy thought of saying she would not go, but she had made the first proposal and did not want to seem rude. So she went, though with far less pleasure than usual.
　　The theatre was crowded, and the seats kept for them were not as good as Betsy liked. At another time this would have annoyed her, but now she cared little about being seen. Trueworth’s words still sounded in her mind. She would not admit that he had a right to speak so freely, yet she knew that his concern came from care for her honour. For a short time her judgment was serious and clear.
　　But the music, the lights, the play, and the attention of young men soon changed her mood. Between the acts several gentlemen brought fruit and sweets to Betsy and Miss Forward. Betsy laughed, talked, and answered with her usual easy wit. The serious thoughts faded. By the end of the play, two fashionable rakes had attached themselves closely to the two women.
　　These men invited them to supper at a tavern. Betsy was startled and pleased to find that Miss Forward refused. Then one of the men asked leave to see them safely home. Miss Forward said this could be accepted, because their company would protect them from worse people in the street. Betsy made no objection. All four went in a hired coach to Miss Forward’s lodging.
　　When they reached the house, Miss Forward invited the men to come upstairs. Since they had behaved politely in the coach, Betsy did not think the invitation very improper. She also did not want to leave Miss Forward alone with two strangers. In the room, one gentleman drew Miss Forward aside, while the other spoke to Betsy. He praised her beauty in a bold and playful way, and Betsy answered with wit.
　　Soon supper was proposed. Betsy first said she could not stay, but they pressed her warmly, and she allowed herself to be persuaded. The talk was lively, and though some of it was not quite proper, Betsy laughed at what she should have disliked. She had a watch, but did not notice the passing hours. At last she heard the night watchman cry that it was past twelve.
　　Then Betsy insisted on going home. She asked for a chair, but the gentleman who had spoken most to her said he could not allow her to go alone at that hour. A coach was called. Betsy hesitated to trust herself to a man she scarcely knew, but he said all acquaintance must begin somewhere and promised he was a man of honour. She entered the coach and told the driver where to go.
　　The gentleman secretly gave another order. The coach was to go to a bagnio in Orange Street, a private house used for shameful meetings. As soon as the windows were drawn up, he began to treat Betsy with shocking freedom. She struggled and cried that this was not honour. He answered that he would give her money and keep her handsomely, as if she were a woman who sold herself.
　　Betsy was first too shocked to speak. Then she cried out and asked what he took her for. He laughed and told her not to pretend. Rage and fear gave her strength. She pushed down the window, called him a monster, and screamed to the coachman to stop. When the man held her back, she said she would rather risk death than suffer such insults.
　　Her terror and firmness at last made the gentleman doubt himself. He had thought her a woman of the town because of her company and her free talk. But now he saw real fear, real shame, and real virtue. He asked if it was possible that she was innocent. Betsy swore that she had never held one dishonourable thought and that she would rather die than live in shame.
　　At that moment the coach stopped before the bagnio, and servants ran to open the door. Betsy almost fainted with horror. The gentleman saw her condition by the light of the lamps and was truly moved. He sent the servants away and knelt before her, asking pardon. He said he loved pleasure, but he honoured true virtue and would never knowingly destroy innocence.
　　He then ordered the coachman to drive to the place Betsy had first named. During the short ride, he asked how she had come to be with a woman like Miss Forward. Betsy told him honestly that they had known each other as children, and that she had not known Miss Forward’s present life. He warned her that one bad female friendship could hurt a young woman’s reputation more than many male visitors. Betsy answered that in future she would be careful of company of both sexes.
　　When Betsy reached Mr. Goodman’s house, Mr. Goodman and Lady Mellasin had gone to bed. Flora, however, was still awake, pretending kindness, but really wishing to know who had brought Betsy home. Betsy told her nothing. She went to her room with a heart full of shame, fear, and self-blame. She had been saved, but she knew she had walked into danger by her own careless choices.
　　That night she could not sleep. She thought of the coach, the locked windows, the bagnio door, and the stranger’s first insult. She also thought of Trueworth’s warning and saw that he had been right. In her pain she would almost have asked his pardon, if pride had allowed it. By morning her distress had brought on a violent headache, and she stayed in bed, refusing breakfast and visitors.
　　One thing she could do. She wrote to Miss Forward and ended the friendship. In the letter she said that Miss Forward had abused her pity and had drawn her into danger. She would never again visit her, speak with her, or answer her letters. Yet this act did not give Betsy peace. Her good name was dear to her, and her honour was dearer still. Both seemed to have been placed near ruin.
　　Trueworth also spent a wretched night. After leaving Betsy in anger, he had wondered whether she might still change her mind and not go to Miss Forward or to the play. Love made him hope even against reason. To learn the truth, he disguised himself with a black wig and cloak and went to the theatre. From the gallery he searched the boxes until he found Betsy with Miss Forward.
　　He saw men speaking to them and bringing them fruit. He saw people in the pit nodding and looking toward them in a way that made his heart burn. When the play ended, he followed them outside, hoping Betsy would take a chair and go home. Instead he saw her enter a coach with Miss Forward and two gentlemen. Later he learned enough to believe the worst of her judgment, though not yet the truth of her danger.
　　The next day he came to ask after Betsy. At the door he was told she could see no one. Flora, who had been watching from the parlour window, called him in. She said Betsy was not very ill, but had come home late and in much disorder. Trueworth became alarmed and asked the reason. Flora answered that she did not know, because Betsy no longer shared her secrets with her.
　　These words were carefully chosen. Flora wished to feed Trueworth’s jealousy without saying anything that could be proved false. She hinted that Betsy had secrets and that some new person knew them better than she did. Trueworth left quickly, more troubled than before. But when he reached his lodging, a worse blow was waiting for him.
　　To understand that blow, another part of Betsy’s story must be told. Soon after Betsy first came to London, she had employed a poor woman to care for her fine linen. This woman was honest and hard-working, but very unhappy. Her husband had left her and become a soldier. She was with child, had no family near her, and lived only by the work of her hands.
　　Betsy’s kind heart was touched by this poor woman’s trouble. She often paid more than was asked and gave her clothes she no longer wore. Miss Mabel also helped the woman. When the child was born, both young ladies stood as godmothers. The mother soon died, and the baby girl was in danger of being left to the parish. Betsy and Miss Mabel agreed to support the child together.
　　They placed the baby with a gardener’s wife at Denham, near Uxbridge. They paid for her care as well as they could, though neither of them had full control of her fortune. This was one of Betsy’s best actions. It came from pity, duty, and a generous heart. But Flora, who knew of it, now saw a way to turn even this goodness into poison.
　　Flora wrote an anonymous letter to Trueworth. In it she said that Betsy was not the innocent woman she appeared to be. She claimed that Betsy had secretly been a mother and that the child was now kept at Denham by a woman called Goody Bushman. She gave enough true details to make the lie look possible. Then she warned Trueworth not to marry a woman whose past and present conduct were so doubtful.
　　Flora read the letter again and again before sending it. She wanted every sentence to work like a knife. To hide her hand, she had another person copy it, and then she sent it by the penny post. She believed this would destroy Trueworth’s love or at least fill him with such doubt that he could never trust Betsy again. For the moment, the letter went out into the city like a secret enemy, carrying a falsehood made from one of Betsy’s kindest deeds.

Part 10: Mellasin Exposed

　　Betsy’s fear after the night with Miss Forward did not last with its first force. She was young, lively, and not made for long sorrow. Still, the danger had done her some good. She now saw that Trueworth had spoken from care, not from pride. When she remembered how sharply she had answered him, she felt ashamed and thought she ought to ask his pardon.
　　Trueworth, however, did not know this change in her mind. He could judge only from what he had seen and heard. He had seen her in Miss Forward’s house, and he had seen her go to the play with that dangerous companion. Then Flora’s false letter about the child at Denham reached him. The letter struck him at the worst possible moment, when his mind was already full of doubt.
　　Betsy knew nothing of this new trouble. After one quieter night, she came down to breakfast almost like herself again. There she received a pleasant surprise. Her elder brother, Mr. Thomas Thoughtless, had returned from abroad and was already in the house. Betsy welcomed him with great joy, for she had long wished to see him and had hoped to live under his protection.
　　Thomas answered her kindness with politeness, but not with much warmth. Betsy soon felt the difference between him and Francis. Francis loved her openly and tenderly. Thomas had been long away from England, and other habits and attachments had cooled the natural affection he might have felt for his only sister. This hurt Betsy, though she did not yet understand the reason.
　　Mr. Goodman had already hired a house for Thomas in London. After breakfast, he and Thomas went to see it. When they returned, Thomas seemed pleased with the house and talked with Lady Mellasin, Flora, and Betsy about furniture and decoration. Mr. Goodman invited him to stay in his own house until the new house was ready. Thomas refused, saying he could not leave the friends with whom he had travelled from Paris.
　　His refusal sounded cold, but the family did not know the truth. Thomas had brought with him from Paris a young and beautiful mistress. He was deeply attached to her and very jealous of her. He meant to place her at the head of his house, almost as if she were his wife. For that reason he could not invite his sister to live with him, though Betsy was still innocent of this secret.
　　After Thomas left, Mr. Goodman went to the Exchange on business. He had hardly arrived when two rough officers stopped him. They said they had a writ against him and that he was their prisoner. Mr. Goodman thought at first that they had mistaken the person. He knew himself to be honest in business and could not imagine any debt that would bring such an arrest upon him.
　　The officers told him the action was brought by a man named Oliver Marplus. The sum was very large, more than two thousand five hundred pounds. Mr. Goodman had never heard the name, but he saw that the officers were only doing their work. He went with them quietly to the officer’s house and sent his servant to call his lawyer. He still believed that some mistake would soon be cleared up.
　　When the lawyer came, the truth was far worse than a mistake. The action was on a bond that Lady Mellasin had given to Oliver Marplus shortly before she married Mr. Goodman. Mr. Goodman asked to see the paper, hoping it might be false. But there was Lady Mellasin’s own signature, and Mrs. Prinks had signed as a witness. The shock was so great that he could hardly speak.
　　Mr. Goodman was forced to give bail, though two good citizens came at once to help him. By the time he was free to return home, it was very late. Lady Mellasin, Flora, and Betsy were sitting together, each troubled in her own way. Lady Mellasin ran to him with a show of deep affection. “My dear Mr. Goodman,” she cried, “how frightened I have been for you!”
　　Mr. Goodman pushed her away. “The worst thing has happened,” he said, “and you might have expected it one day.” Lady Mellasin turned pale and tried to ask what he meant. He told her of the arrest and the bond. At first she tried to deny it, but the proof was too plain. Then she fell at his feet and begged forgiveness.
　　She told a weak story. She said the debt had belonged to her former husband, Sir Solomon Mellasin. She claimed she had taken his affairs into her hands after his death and had foolishly given her own bond for the money. Mr. Goodman no longer trusted her words. He asked what good it would have done if Marplus had warned her before arresting him. She could not have paid the money unless she robbed or deceived her husband.
　　In anger and pain, Mr. Goodman ordered another bed to be made ready for himself. Lady Mellasin wept, pleaded, and tried every soft word she could command. Nothing moved him. He left the room, saying that perhaps they would never again sleep as man and wife. Whether he fully meant this at the moment is uncertain, but what happened soon after left him little choice.
　　The house was full of confusion that night. Lady Mellasin either fainted or pretended to faint. Flora was called up, and Mrs. Prinks stood near her mistress in terror. Mr. Goodman would not go to Lady Mellasin, though he was told that she begged to see him. He passed the rest of the night in bitter thought, remembering how blindly he had trusted her.
　　By morning, he had begun to suspect more debts. He sent for every tradesman who had supplied the house. His fear proved correct. Tailors, shopkeepers, kitchen suppliers, and others all had unpaid bills. Mr. Goodman paid each bill at once and ordered that no more goods should ever be left at his house unless they were paid for on delivery. He wished to stop the ruin before it went farther.
　　When the last tradesman had gone, a plain-looking woman asked to speak with him. Mr. Goodman thought she was another creditor, but she said she wanted no money. She had come to tell him something that deeply concerned him. She then said she was the unhappy wife of Oliver Marplus. The bond, she told him, was not an honest debt but part of a shameful fraud.
　　Mrs. Marplus explained the whole matter. Her husband had once served a nobleman at court and had become Lady Mellasin’s secret lover while Sir Solomon was still alive. Their connection had continued after Sir Solomon’s death. When Marplus learned that Lady Mellasin was going to marry Mr. Goodman, he feared that marriage might end his supply of money. So he formed a cruel plan.
　　Marplus arranged a false discovery of Lady Mellasin’s guilt. His wife and two men pretending to be officers broke into a room where Lady Mellasin and Marplus were together. Mrs. Marplus played the angry wife and threatened to expose Lady Mellasin before the law and the public. Lady Mellasin was terrified. To save her name and her coming marriage, she agreed to give a bond for a large sum of money.
　　The next morning, a lawyer came with the paper ready. Lady Mellasin signed it, and Mrs. Prinks and another man signed as witnesses. Marplus promised Lady Mellasin that he would never use the bond against her if she continued to supply him with money. In truth, the paper was meant as a weapon against Mr. Goodman. After the marriage, Marplus used it again and again to force money from Lady Mellasin.
　　Mrs. Marplus also explained the mystery of the diamond necklace. One day Marplus had pretended to need three hundred pounds. Lady Mellasin could not find the money quickly, so she sent Mrs. Prinks to pawn the necklace. This was the same strange day Betsy had partly noticed before. Now the hidden meaning of that day became clear.
　　Mrs. Marplus had not come from virtue alone. Marplus had used her badly and now planned to leave England with another woman. He had meant to use the bond to get a large sum, then escape abroad and abandon his wife. In revenge, and also to save herself, Mrs. Marplus brought Mr. Goodman proof of the fraud. She even had a letter from Marplus to Lady Mellasin, where he spoke of Mr. Goodman as the old man whom she had married to serve as his banker.
　　Mr. Goodman was almost overcome when he read this letter. He saw not only that he had been cheated, but that his marriage itself had been tied to vice and fraud. Still, he did not waste time in useless anger. His lawyer came to see him soon after, and Mr. Goodman told him the whole story. The lawyer advised him to collect sworn statements, arrest Marplus, and begin proceedings that might free him from the bond and perhaps from Lady Mellasin herself.
　　Mr. Goodman agreed at once. He said the house felt like hell while Lady Mellasin remained in it. Mrs. Prinks was called down and came trembling to the door. Mr. Goodman told her to carry a message to her mistress. Lady Mellasin, Flora, Mrs. Prinks, and all who belonged to them must leave the house that very night. Mrs. Prinks dared not argue and hurried away.
　　Betsy had spent the morning in a painful state. She had visited Lady Mellasin’s room out of ordinary politeness and found a scene of sorrow. Lady Mellasin lay in bed, looking full of grief; Flora wept near her; Mrs. Prinks stood like a frightened statue. Betsy did not know the worst of the truth, and her generous heart was moved. She tried to comfort Lady Mellasin, telling her that Mr. Goodman was naturally kind and would perhaps forgive her.
　　Later, Betsy was called down to dinner. Mr. Goodman asked her to do the honours of the table, because Lady Mellasin could no longer do so. Betsy answered modestly and with sorrow. She asked whether Lady Mellasin had truly lost her place forever. Before Mr. Goodman could answer, Lady Mellasin’s loud voice was heard on the stairs, crying that she would not be treated in such a manner.
　　The lawyer went quickly to stop her from entering. While he was gone, Mr. Goodman told Betsy plainly that Lady Mellasin and Flora would leave the house that night. Betsy was deeply surprised. Mr. Goodman said the reasons would later appear to be strong enough. Then he kindly added that Betsy might find his house dull after they were gone, and that perhaps her brother Thomas would be glad to receive her.
　　The lawyer at last persuaded Lady Mellasin to yield. She had first tried tears and soft words; when those failed, she tried pride. She declared that she was Mr. Goodman’s wife and had a right to his fortune and his house. The lawyer answered that, though a wife might have rights, a husband could decide where and how she should receive support. He hinted that calm behaviour might help her later, and this made her obey for the moment.
　　Lady Mellasin still believed Mr. Goodman would soon ask her to return. While the servants packed her things, she spoke proudly before them. “Your master will be glad to fetch me back,” she said. “He will be sorry when he thinks what he has done.” The servants did not believe her. They had seen too much, and when they were out of her sight, they laughed at her pride and her fall.
　　Betsy could not laugh. All her anger against Flora disappeared when she saw mother and daughter leaving in disgrace. She had been badly used by them, but their humiliation touched her deeply. This was one of the best parts of Betsy’s nature. When real suffering stood before her, resentment quickly became pity.
　　After they were gone, Betsy sat alone and thought seriously about the sudden change in the house. Thomas came in, and she tried to discover whether he would ask her to live with him. She told him what had happened and said the house would be dull with only Mr. Goodman and an elderly housekeeper. Thomas answered carelessly that he had thought she was going to marry. Betsy felt the coldness of the answer like a blow.
　　She said that the matter of marriage had been spoken of by other people, not settled by herself. Trueworth had been recommended by Francis and others, but she had not made up her mind. She added that if she had to remain in Mr. Goodman’s house until marriage freed her, she might be buried alive there. Thomas asked why she should not board somewhere with good company. Betsy replied with spirit that if no friend invited her, she would have to seek shelter among strangers.
　　Thomas was embarrassed, but a letter arrived and saved him from answering. It was from Lady Trusty. She wrote that while Betsy had welcomed one brother home, the other had been in danger. Francis had fallen from his horse, and what first seemed a bruise had brought on fever. For two days they feared for his life. But Lady Trusty added in a postscript that the doctor now found him much better.
　　Betsy wept as she read, and Thomas showed more tenderness than before. He said he was sorry for Francis and hoped soon to see him. He also said he had spoken to a military officer in Paris who might help Francis obtain a commission. These words pleased Betsy, because Francis had never truly wished for the church. Thomas then left her, saying kindly that she had too much merit to be unhappy for long.
　　For a short time Betsy’s spirits rose again. She hoped Thomas might still invite her to his house, perhaps after Mr. Goodman spoke to him. Mr. Goodman did speak to Thomas later, but Thomas refused. He said that, as a single man, he expected many lively young fellows at his house, and such company would not suit his sister. This excuse seemed weak and unkind to Betsy, because she did not know about the French mistress.
　　Mr. Goodman comforted her and offered to find another place where she could board. Betsy then saw that she had perhaps been ungrateful. She told him sincerely that, except for a brother’s house, no house in London could be better for her than his. She would stay, unless some future event made removal necessary. Mr. Goodman’s elderly kinswoman came to manage the household, and she proved pleasant, sensible, and kind.
　　In many ways, Betsy had less reason to complain than before. She could receive the visitors she approved of, and the servants were ready to serve her. Lady Mellasin and Flora were gone, and their false friendship no longer troubled the house. Yet Betsy was still not easy. Francis’s illness, Thomas’s coldness, and above all Trueworth’s absence weighed on her mind.
　　More than a week passed without Trueworth’s visit. Betsy believed he was offended by the way she had treated him about Miss Forward. She knew in her heart that she had been wrong, yet her pride suffered because he stayed away. She had expected him to forgive everything quickly if he truly loved her. His silence taught her, painfully, that even a loving heart may grow weary when it is treated with careless pride.

Part 11: Trueworth Breaks Away

　　Trueworth received Flora’s false letter at the worst time. If it had come two days earlier, he would have thrown it away in anger and trusted Betsy at once. But now his mind was already wounded by what he had seen. He had found Betsy in Miss Forward’s rooms, had warned her, had seen her go to the play with that woman, and had learned that she came home late with a stranger. The false story about the child at Denham therefore entered a heart already full of pain and suspicion.
　　Still, Trueworth could not believe the worst without proof. His love, though shaken, did not die in one moment. He told himself that Betsy was proud, and that pride itself might protect her from real shame. Then doubt returned and whispered that pride could also blind a person. To end his torment, he went himself to Denham and found the cottage named in the letter.
　　Goody Bushman received him with simple respect. She was sitting by the fire with a child in her arms, while two little boys ate bread and butter near her. Trueworth pretended that a kinswoman of his might place a child with her to nurse. He asked questions slowly, and the honest woman answered freely. The child, she said, was a poor orphan from London, saved from the parish by a sweet young lady who was her godmother.
　　Trueworth asked if the young lady was related to the child. Goody Bushman said no. She then explained that the lady’s name was Miss Betsy Thoughtless, and that another young lady, Miss Mabel, helped with the cost. Betsy paid regularly and even gave small gifts to Goody Bushman’s husband when he went to London for the money. In this way Trueworth learned that the dark accusation was false and that the child was proof of Betsy’s kindness, not of her shame.
　　He left the cottage relieved, but not happy. Betsy was innocent of that charge, yet he still believed her conduct was too careless for the woman he wished to marry. Her goodness had been hidden under actions that made people suspect her. This thought hurt him deeply. He could clear her of one false story, but he could not clear her of the light manner that had made such a story seem possible.
　　When he returned to London, he wrote Betsy a farewell letter. He did not tell her the full cause of his suspicion, because he was ashamed to have doubted her so far. He said only that he had learned enough to think better of her in one matter, but not enough to renew his hope. He wished her happiness in the life she chose, and told her he would trouble her no more. After sending the letter, he prepared to leave town and retire to his country seat.
　　Betsy, meanwhile, had been thinking more of Trueworth than she wished to admit. His absence troubled her every day. When she went out, she hoped to hear on returning that he had called. When no message came, she felt a new disappointment. She did not know whether this was love or only wounded vanity, but it gave her no peace.
　　One evening she went with Miss Mabel and other ladies to see a comedy called The Careless Husband. Some scenes touched her strongly. She saw something of herself in the proud, careless lady on the stage, and something of Trueworth in the faithful lover. She came home serious and almost ready to confess that she had treated him badly. Then his letter was put into her hand.
　　At first she was surprised and moved. But when she read his cold farewell, her pride rose against her softer feelings. She cried that he had no right to judge her so severely. She knew of no fault except her visit to Miss Forward, and she thought that fault had not deserved such a punishment. She wept, but her tears were mixed with anger. “He never truly loved me,” she thought, “or he would not leave me at the first offence.”
　　The next morning a street singer woke her with a song about a woman who had refused a faithful lover and then wished for him when it was too late. The words struck Betsy painfully. She began to see that she had not valued Trueworth while he was near. At breakfast, Mr. Goodman asked innocently how Trueworth’s courtship was going, and Betsy could hardly answer. Her confusion showed more than she wished.
　　Miss Mabel also came that morning and spoke with friendly plainness. She had met Trueworth in the Park and had learned that he meant to leave London, perhaps forever. She tried to make Betsy see that a sincere and honourable lover should not be treated like a toy. Betsy did not like hearing this, though she knew much of it was true. She could correct herself in secret, but she hated being corrected by another person.
　　To escape painful thoughts, Betsy went often to two lively young ladies who had rooms at St. James’s Palace. Their company was gay, noisy, and full of town news. There she met Mr. Munden. He was not as noble in spirit as Trueworth, but he had good manners, a handsome appearance, and enough fortune to seem acceptable. He admired Betsy openly, and because he was new, his attention pleased her wounded vanity.
　　Mr. Munden soon followed her closely with visits, small gifts, and fine speeches. Betsy did not love him, but she enjoyed his eagerness. She also liked to imagine that if Trueworth heard of this new admirer, he might feel jealousy and return. At the same time, Mr. Goodman became more troubled. He knew Trueworth had stopped visiting, saw that Munden had begun to court Betsy without proper family permission, and heard that Betsy often came home very late.
　　Mr. Goodman tried to speak seriously to her. He asked why Trueworth no longer came and whether she knew enough of Mr. Munden’s character. Betsy answered carelessly that she and Trueworth had not agreed in temper, so it was best to end the matter. As for Munden, she said she did not trouble herself about his character, since she had no intention of being better or worse for him. Mr. Goodman was grieved by this answer and meant to continue, but visitors interrupted them.
　　The next morning Mr. Goodman renewed his advice. Betsy could not deny that he spoke with kindness and reason, yet she could not bring herself to obey. Mr. Goodman then spoke sadly of his own affairs. The misery caused by Lady Mellasin had wounded him deeply, and his health was failing. He wished Betsy could be under some safer care, perhaps with her brother or in proper lodgings, if his own house became unfit for her.
　　Not long after this, Mr. Goodman had a severe attack in a coffee-house. He was brought home very ill. Doctors were called, and for a time there was hope that he might recover. But he was weak, and even small noises disturbed him. Because Betsy needed company and activity, it was thought better that she should move out. She took lodgings near St. James’s Palace, where she could be close to the lively friends she now liked so much.
　　Betsy was truly moved when she said goodbye to Mr. Goodman. He had been a kind guardian and had improved her fortune greatly. She felt gratitude and sorrow, but her lively nature did not let sorrow stay long. She was soon busy sending messages to all her friends about her new address. A letter from Francis, telling her that he had recovered from his illness, brought her more comfort, though she feared what he would say when he learned that Trueworth was gone.
　　Trueworth did not leave London after all. First, a strange secret meeting stopped him. A mysterious letter from a lady who called herself “Incognita” asked him to meet her in St. James’s Park. She told him that his love for Betsy had unknowingly injured her peace. Trueworth met her, and little by little the hidden lady drew him into a secret attachment. When she at last showed her face, he discovered that she was Flora Mellasin.
　　Flora’s passion for him had become bold and dangerous. Trueworth was surprised, but he let himself be pleased. She was lively and pretty, and her devotion helped him forget Betsy’s power over him. He did not truly esteem Flora as he had once esteemed Betsy, but the affair amused him and soothed his wounded pride. For a short time he believed he was free from his old love.
　　Then another woman entered his life. Sir Bazil Loveit, his close friend, had two sisters staying with him from Staffordshire. One was Mrs. Wellair, already married. The other was Miss Harriot, young, modest, sensible, and gentle. Trueworth met her at Sir Bazil’s house and was struck by her quiet grace. Unlike his troubled love for Betsy, his admiration for Harriot seemed guided by reason and respect.
　　Betsy knew none of this. She imagined Trueworth still lingered in London because of her. Meanwhile, Munden continued to court her, and another new admirer appeared. Her mantua-maker, Mrs. Modely, came early one morning to say that Sir Frederick Fineer, a rich baronet, had seen Betsy at her shop and was almost mad with admiration. Betsy laughed at the story, but she listened closely and spent much time choosing ornaments before going to the meeting Mrs. Modely had arranged.
　　Before she could go, Flora visited her. Betsy received her coldly, and Flora pretended friendship while trying to learn whether Betsy still cared for Trueworth. Betsy gave her no useful answer. Then Betsy went to Mrs. Modely’s shop, where Sir Frederick entered as if by chance. He poured out foolish praises, comparing her badly to goddesses and famous beauties, and Betsy answered each compliment with quick wit.
　　During this visit, Mr. Munden arrived in a coach, asking to take Betsy to the evening card party where she had promised to go. Betsy was annoyed by his freedom, but also pleased because it made Sir Frederick jealous. She sent Munden away and stayed with Sir Frederick instead. Mrs. Modely often left the room so that he could speak more freely. Supper was served, and when Betsy finally left, Sir Frederick insisted on escorting her in another chair.

Part 12: Brothers and Bad Choices

　　After Betsy returned from Mrs. Modely’s house, she thought again about Sir Frederick Fineer. She did not like his person, his talk, or his strange way of showing love. He seemed stiff, foolish, and too full of high words. Yet he had a title, a great estate, and a place in the world that might make any woman important. Betsy could not think of him as a husband, but she was quite willing to keep him as an admirer.
　　Mr. Munden, meanwhile, was not pleased. He had gone to Mrs. Modely’s house expecting to take Betsy to the evening party, but had been sent away. The next morning he called at Betsy’s lodgings and found she was out. He asked for paper and ink and left her a letter. In it he said that her sudden coldness had surprised and troubled him, because she had seemed to receive his service with kindness before.
　　When Betsy came home, she found two letters waiting for her. One was from Mr. Munden, and the other was from Sir Frederick. She read Munden’s first and laughed. She thought, “He is jealous already, and he does not even know of whom.” She felt pleased that Sir Frederick might be used to humble Munden’s confidence.
　　Sir Frederick’s letter was even more foolish than the first. He called Betsy the wonder of her sex, the ruler of his heart, and the only person who could make him happy or miserable. He said he could not live unless she soon gave him hope. Betsy laughed at the wild language. Yet she also told herself that perhaps his wish to please her had made him write in such a silly way.
　　Then sad news came and stopped all this light amusement. Betsy had sent a servant, as she did every day, to ask after Mr. Goodman. The servant returned with the news that Mr. Goodman had died that morning. Betsy was sitting at dinner when she heard it. She put down her knife and fork, went to her room, and cried bitterly.
　　Mr. Goodman had been more than a guardian to her. He had given her protection, kindness, and careful advice, even when she did not like to hear it. His death made the noisy world seem empty for a short time. Love letters, fine clothes, and public pleasures all looked poor and foolish. Because Sir Frederick had said he would visit that evening, Betsy sent word to Mrs. Modely that she had lost a dear friend and could receive no company.
　　That same day her brother Francis arrived in London. Her elder brother Thomas met him at the inn and took him to his own house. Thomas had not been willing to receive Betsy, but he had no such difficulty with Francis. A young man could live in his house without causing the same questions. Betsy did not know all the reasons for this difference, but she was happy to hear that both brothers were together.
　　Francis wrote to Betsy that he was safe in London after his long illness. He said he had heard of Mr. Goodman’s death and knew she must be deeply grieved. He was tired from the journey and needed rest, but he promised to visit her the next morning. Betsy felt real comfort from this letter. She loved Francis warmly, and his return seemed to give her back part of the family care she had lost.
　　Before his death, Mr. Goodman had sent for Thomas and spoken to him very seriously. First, he warned Thomas about the woman he was keeping in his house. He said such a connection was wrong before Heaven and shameful before the world. Thomas listened politely, but in his heart he thought Mr. Goodman spoke like an old man. He did not mean to give up his pleasures.
　　Mr. Goodman then spoke of Betsy. He said he did not doubt her innocence, but he feared her conduct. Her youth, beauty, lively temper, and love of praise placed her in danger every day. He wished she were well married and said that Trueworth seemed the best choice he knew. He also mentioned Munden, but said he knew nothing of that man’s character and had never been properly consulted about him.
　　Mr. Goodman added that Betsy should not live alone in lodgings while she remained unmarried. She needed company, and if there was no good company at home, she would search for amusement outside. He asked Thomas to give her this advice as a dying friend’s last message. Thomas promised that he would not forget it. Though he ignored the warning about himself, he took the warning about Betsy more seriously.
　　When Francis arrived, Thomas told him what Mr. Goodman had said. Francis agreed that Betsy’s situation was unsafe. The brothers talked for a long time and decided that marriage was probably the safest protection for a young woman of Betsy’s temper. They would visit her together and learn what she meant to do. They especially wished to know whether Trueworth could still be brought back.
　　Betsy received them with true affection, especially Francis. She had hardly finished welcoming him when Thomas began to speak of Mr. Goodman. He said their old friend had left her a legacy. Betsy asked what kind of legacy he meant. Thomas answered that it was not money, but advice, and that she might not like receiving it.
　　Betsy quickly understood and became uneasy. Thomas then repeated Mr. Goodman’s last warning. He told her that she needed care, that she should not live alone, and that her conduct, though innocent, exposed her to danger. Betsy’s face changed as he spoke. She was sad at the mention of Trueworth, annoyed at the mention of Munden, and deeply angry when she felt that her reputation was being questioned.
　　At last she burst into tears. “What have I done,” she cried, “to make my friends speak of me in this way? Let my worst enemy prove one real fault against my honour.” Thomas was moved and embraced her tenderly. He said no one accused her of guilt. They only wished to protect her innocence before wicked people could take advantage of it.
　　Francis then spoke of Trueworth. He said he had hoped Betsy would already be under the care of a husband so worthy of her. Thomas also said he had heard enough of Trueworth’s merit to wish him for a brother-in-law. Betsy answered with confusion. She said she had no objection to Trueworth’s person or character, but she did not wish to marry yet. She added that Trueworth had been too quick to leave her after a small quarrel.
　　Francis asked to see Trueworth’s farewell letter. Betsy regretted mentioning it, but she could not pretend it was lost. She brought it from her cabinet and gave it to him. Francis read it and looked at her several times with displeasure. When he finished, he said plainly that Trueworth had done with her, and that the fault seemed to be her own.
　　This wounded Betsy’s pride. She begged Francis not to force his sister upon any man. If Trueworth returned of his own will, she said, she would receive him for Francis’s sake as she had done before. But she would not promise to marry him or anyone else until she felt ready. Thomas tried to calm them both. He said Betsy had too much sense to let a little pride destroy her happiness.
　　After her brothers left, Betsy thought over all that had been said. At first she was angry because they had spoken to her as if they had authority over her. Then better feelings returned. She remembered Francis’s love and Thomas’s natural duty as head of the family. She also remembered her own dangers, especially the night when she had ignored Trueworth’s warning about Miss Forward. For a moment she admitted that she had used Trueworth badly and that, if he returned and forgave her, she ought to reward his love.
　　This serious mood was interrupted by Mrs. Modely. The dressmaker brought another letter from Sir Frederick. It was full of wild words about death, fire, joy, despair, and the need to see Betsy at once. Betsy laughed, though she had been serious only moments before. Mrs. Modely praised Sir Frederick’s fortune and said he had a great estate, many servants, fine carriages, and no wish for Betsy’s money.
　　Betsy was tempted by the picture of greatness. She imagined a large house, fine coaches, many servants, and the power to stand above women who now thought themselves equal to her. Yet good sense was not dead in her. She could not bear the thought of giving herself to a man she neither loved nor respected. At last she said Sir Frederick might visit that afternoon, but Mrs. Modely must tell him that she had allowed it only with great difficulty.
　　Sir Frederick came soon after dinner. Betsy tried to receive him gravely, but his behaviour made seriousness almost impossible. He kissed her hand, fell on his knees, seized her shoes, and spoke as if every breath would be his last. His words were all fire, death, heaven, and despair. Betsy tried not to laugh, but sometimes she could not help smiling.
　　Sir Frederick thought her smiles meant favour, so he became even more foolish. He repeated his strange speeches and seemed proud of them. He might have tired her completely if some ladies, returning from church, had not come to visit her. Their arrival forced him to leave. Soon after, Mr. Munden came, and after Sir Frederick’s absurd talk, Munden seemed more sensible and agreeable than usual.
　　Betsy was in such good humour that she treated Munden better than before. She even apologized for having sent him away from Mrs. Modely’s house. This was something she had rarely done for any lover. She then invited him to take her to a country dance the next evening. Munden was delighted, not knowing that he owed this kindness partly to Sir Frederick’s foolishness.
　　The next morning Sir Frederick sent another letter, this time with a poem. Betsy did not admire the writing, but she liked the trouble he had taken to praise her. She sent a polite message saying she was engaged with relations and could not receive him that day. Francis also called, but he had not found Trueworth at home and could stay only a short time because he had business with Thomas about a military commission.
　　Betsy had two free hours before Munden was to come for her. She decided to visit Miss Mabel, whom she had neglected. She took a hired coach, but on the way another carriage struck it hard in a narrow street. The wheels locked together, the horses were stopped with difficulty, and Betsy screamed in terror. A kind tradesman helped her into his shop and gave her a seat.
　　Two gentlemen came from the other carriage to apologize. One was Sir Bazil Loveit. The other was Trueworth. Betsy was shocked to see him, but she hid her feeling under pride. Trueworth asked, coldly and politely, if she was hurt. His manner was so different from the old days that it cut her deeply.
　　Betsy answered that the danger seemed over. Then, with a forced smile, she said she had expected Trueworth to be in the country, not still in noisy London. Trueworth replied that unexpected events had kept him in town. Sir Bazil then remembered seeing Betsy at Miss Forward’s house. Betsy said firmly that he had seen her once in a place where she would never be seen again, because she had not then known the woman’s character.
　　Trueworth answered that even careful people might be deceived once. The way he said “once” told Betsy that he had not forgotten her second visit to Miss Forward. She looked at him with anger, but there was no time for more words. Sir Bazil’s carriage was ready, and the two gentlemen left. Trueworth showed no more concern than if Betsy had been only a slight acquaintance. Betsy would not enter the hired coach again. She called for a chair and went home, where she could at last give way to all the feelings she had hidden in the shop.

Part 13: Trueworth’s New Path

　　The meeting in the shop shook Betsy deeply, but it also shook Trueworth. He had once loved her with great warmth. He had tried to tear that love from his heart because he believed her unworthy of it. Flora’s false letters, Betsy’s careless conduct, and his own pain had all helped him turn away. Yet when he saw Betsy again, the old wound almost opened.
　　Trueworth was saved from returning to his first love by the thought of Miss Harriot. She was Sir Bazil Loveit’s younger sister and Mrs. Wellair’s sister too. She had a calm sweetness that pleased him more every time he saw her. Betsy had beauty, wit, and a generous heart, but her conduct had often been light and proud. Harriot had beauty also, but with modesty, peace, and steady good sense.
　　Trueworth now visited Sir Bazil’s family almost every day. Mrs. Wellair liked his conversation very much, and Miss Harriot treated him with innocent kindness. She did not guess how important every word and look had become to him. One day, after they had sung together, she said to her sister that they would miss him when they went into the country. Trueworth received this only as polite praise, but in his heart it gave him joy.
　　He did not declare his love at once. He knew that Harriot was very close to Mrs. Wellair and did not wish to leave her. He also saw that Sir Bazil did not seem eager for Harriot to marry, though he could not understand why. Trueworth therefore tried to win the good opinion of the whole family before speaking openly. This quiet plan worked well, but an unexpected event made him speak sooner than he had intended.
　　A young lady named Mrs. Blanchfield often visited Sir Bazil’s sisters. She had recently inherited a large fortune and was lively, good-humoured, and admired by many people. Sir Bazil told Trueworth one morning that this lady seemed to be in love with him. She had praised his person, wit, voice, and manners many times. Sir Bazil joked that with very little trouble Trueworth might win both her hand and twenty thousand pounds.
　　Trueworth was not moved. He said he was neither vain enough to believe such happiness was certain, nor ambitious enough to desire it. Sir Bazil was surprised. Mrs. Blanchfield had beauty, good birth, money, and reputation. But Trueworth answered that such qualities meant nothing to him if his heart was fixed elsewhere.
　　This led Sir Bazil to confess his own secret. He loved Miss Mabel, the sensible young lady who had long been Betsy’s friend. Trueworth knew her and praised the choice warmly. Sir Bazil then explained the difficulty. Miss Mabel’s father approved the match, but he was extremely greedy. He would promise money after his death, but would not give one shilling during his life.
　　Sir Bazil loved Miss Mabel enough to marry her without money, but his own affairs made ready money necessary. His father had left six thousand pounds to Harriot, to be paid when she married or came of age. If Harriot married soon and demanded the sum at once, Sir Bazil would be in difficulty. This was the reason he had not wished his sister to marry yet. Trueworth now saw that the obstacle to his own hopes could become the very means of removing Sir Bazil’s trouble.
　　After a short pause, Trueworth spoke openly. He told Sir Bazil that he loved Harriot with all his heart. He had loved her from the first moment, and every later conversation had made his feeling stronger. He admired not only her face, but her modest mind, her good sense, and her gentle spirit. He then said that if Harriot would accept him, he would not demand her fortune until Sir Bazil could pay it without harm to himself.
　　Sir Bazil was amazed and deeply moved. He asked whether Trueworth would really refuse Mrs. Blanchfield and her fortune for Harriot with little or no present money. Trueworth answered that he would choose Harriot over any woman in the world, even if that woman had millions. Sir Bazil embraced him warmly and promised to use all his influence with his sister. He said that giving Harriot such a husband would be a greater service than keeping her fortune for himself.
　　When Mrs. Wellair and Harriot returned from shopping, Sir Bazil found a playful way to begin. Harriot had bought a rich white silk. Sir Bazil said it looked like a wedding gown and that he would not be surprised to see her married in it. Harriot blushed and said she must first find the man. Sir Bazil answered that the man was not far away.
　　Harriot ran upstairs with her silk, half laughing and half confused. Then Sir Bazil told Mrs. Wellair the whole truth. He described Trueworth’s love, his character, his fortune, and his generous refusal to demand Harriot’s six thousand pounds. Mrs. Wellair was delighted. She said she would never keep Harriot from happiness merely because she loved her company.
　　Mrs. Wellair promised to speak to Harriot while they dressed. She would begin with the joke about the white silk and then move gently to the serious matter. Sir Bazil asked for a secret sign, because he was to meet Trueworth later and tell him how things stood. Mrs. Wellair said that at dinner he should ask how she did. Her answer would tell him whether the first attempt had succeeded.
　　Sir Bazil then visited Miss Mabel, as he did often. He told her that the trouble about Harriot’s fortune might soon be solved. This made them both very happy, though Miss Mabel still kept her wise rule. She would not marry him until all matters that could disturb their future peace were settled. Her love was sincere, but her judgment governed it.
　　At dinner, Sir Bazil watched Harriot’s face carefully. She seemed quieter than usual, and this made him afraid. Then he remembered the agreed sign. “How do you do, sister?” he asked Mrs. Wellair. She answered with a smile, “As well as can be expected.” Then she added a small joke about the rough streets, so no one else would wonder at the strange answer. Sir Bazil understood that Harriot had not refused the idea, though she was shy and troubled.
　　That evening Sir Bazil met Trueworth at the chocolate-house. Trueworth listened to the news with great joy. He believed that if Mrs. Wellair supported him, he had reason to hope. Sir Bazil told him there was no time to lose, because his sisters would soon return to the country. Trueworth agreed to dine with them the next day and to speak to Harriot if a proper chance appeared.
　　Before that happiness could come, another painful matter met him. At the coffee-house a letter from Flora was waiting. She wrote with wild passion, blaming him for three days of absence and begging to see him at once. She said she could not live without him and would come to the coffee-house in a hired coach. Trueworth was shocked. He had let Flora believe too much, and now her uncontrolled love threatened both her peace and his honour.
　　He did not love Flora. Whatever small liking he had once felt had disappeared since his heart turned to Harriot. Yet he pitied her and feared what she might do if he broke with her too harshly. When she arrived, he went out to the coach but did not take her to any private house. Instead, he told the driver to move slowly around St. James’s Square.
　　Flora was hurt by this cold caution. She accused him of cruelty and cried that she had lost his heart. Trueworth spoke gently but firmly. He told her that love should not be all pain, tears, and reproach. He said business and other duties would take much of his time for a while. He promised to see her when he could, but he would not name a day. After a cold embrace and a few soft words, he left her with more despair than comfort.
　　The next day Mrs. Wellair continued her work with Harriot. Harriot was so modest that even to hear she had inspired love made her blush with pain. She did not dislike Trueworth. In truth, she liked him more than she knew. But she feared that her friendly manner had encouraged him too much, and she looked back with shame on every little kindness she had shown him.
　　Mrs. Wellair understood her sister well. Harriot had rejected other suitors with clear dislike, but she did not speak so of Trueworth. At night Mrs. Wellair urged the matter again. At last Harriot said in a low voice that she would be guided by friends who loved her and knew better than she did what was right. This was not a full promise, but it was enough to give hope.
　　At breakfast, Sir Bazil teased her once more and praised Trueworth openly. Harriot said he was certainly a very fine gentleman. Sir Bazil laughed and said that was a cold answer. Harriot replied that he could not expect her to speak as if she were in love. Sir Bazil answered that he wished she were, since Trueworth deserved it.
　　Trueworth came to dine that day. Harriot tried to behave naturally, but the sight of him made her heart beat fast. She forced herself to speak and smile, yet she felt less at ease than when she was silent. After dinner Sir Bazil and Mrs. Wellair made an excuse to go out, leaving Harriot to make tea and entertain Trueworth. Harriot knew very well what they intended and could not hide her confusion.
　　As soon as they were alone, Trueworth approached her with deep respect. He told her that he had long wished for this chance to speak. He said Sir Bazil had allowed him to hope she would listen kindly. Harriot answered that her brother had told her of his feelings, though she had not expected or deserved them.
　　Trueworth began to praise her beauty and goodness, but Harriot stopped him. She said that if he wished her to believe him sincere, he should not speak as if she were perfect. Men often made women vain by praising them too much, she said. If women then became proud, perhaps men were partly to blame. Trueworth admired her more for this answer, though he had to hide the full warmth of his feeling.
　　He then told her that beauty alone could win a heart only for a short time. Real love, he said, must rest on the mind and the character. In Harriot, he found both outward grace and inward virtue. Harriot was moved, but his warmth made her shy again, and for a moment she could not answer. Trueworth saw that she was not angry, and this gave him courage.
　　He then spoke of marriage, not as a prison, but as a state where two good people help each other’s happiness. Harriot did not pretend to be offended by the word. She knew that honourable courtship must lead there, or nowhere. Her modesty kept her from saying much, but she listened without displeasure. Trueworth left that conversation with more hope than he had known for many days.

Part 14: Truth, Fraud, and Delayed Justice

　　While Trueworth was growing more hopeful with Miss Harriot, Francis tried twice to see him. On the second visit, he left word that he would come again the next morning. Trueworth knew he could not avoid him any longer, so he stayed at home. Their meeting was polite, but it was cold. The old warmth between them was gone, especially on Francis’s side.
　　For a while they spoke of ordinary things. Then Francis could bear it no longer. He said he had been surprised to hear that Trueworth’s strong love for Betsy had suddenly disappeared. He also said that when a gentleman had openly courted a young lady of family and reputation, he ought to give some reason for leaving her. Trueworth answered that such matters were never settled until marriage itself had taken place. Accidents, he said, sometimes divided people who had seemed likely to be joined forever.
　　Francis was angered by this cold answer. Trueworth then spoke more plainly, though still with care. He said Betsy’s temper would not suit his own, and that any fuller explanation must come from Betsy herself. Francis put his hand to his sword for a moment, thinking that his sister’s honour had been touched. Trueworth stopped him at once and said, “No threats. I have fought for your sister, but I will never fight against her.”
　　These words cooled Francis a little. He knew Trueworth’s courage and honour too well to suspect him of cowardice or base feeling. He also remembered enough of Betsy’s light behaviour to fear that she herself had caused the change. Sitting down in deep trouble, he cried that one woman’s careless conduct could bring a whole family into trouble. Trueworth answered more gently that Betsy might one day love a man whose nature suited hers better.
　　Francis soon left, sad and ashamed of his anger. Trueworth was not sorry to end the painful conversation, but he had little time to rest. A letter was brought to him by a porter, who waited for an answer. It came from an unknown person and said that a lady of good fortune and position admired him. The writer asked whether his heart was already engaged, because the lady wished to know before allowing her feelings to grow stronger.
　　Trueworth found the matter strange, but he had no difficulty answering. He wrote that the honour offered to him would have made him happy if he had been free. But his heart, he said, was already given away. He could only wish the unknown lady happiness elsewhere and promise secrecy. He sent back this answer at once.
　　A second letter arrived soon after. This one was from Flora. It was full of wild pain, reproach, and fear. She blamed him for coldness, for not writing, and for leaving her to wait in misery. She said she could not live without him and begged to hear her sentence from his own mouth.
　　Trueworth was deeply troubled. He had never truly loved Flora, and now his heart was fixed on Harriot. Yet he knew Flora’s passion was violent and dangerous. He also knew that he had encouraged her too far, and this made him ashamed. After thinking carefully, he wrote to her with as much honesty as he could.
　　He told Flora that they must never meet again in the old way. He was going to marry, he said, and honour now demanded a complete end to their connection. He returned all her letters and asked her to recover her peace. The letter was firm, but not cruel. Still, he hoped it would close the matter forever.
　　Flora received the packet with terrible emotion. When she saw her own letters returned, she almost fainted. When she read that Trueworth was going to marry, her grief turned wild. She tore her clothes, struck herself, and wept until she had no strength left. Then, after the storm of feeling passed, hope returned in a darker form.
　　“He is not married yet,” she thought. “The words have not yet been spoken. I once broke his courtship with Betsy. Why should I not break this one too?” From that moment she began to plan. She would discover the name and home of her rival. She would watch Trueworth’s visits and learn everything she could.
　　Yet Flora also knew that despair would only drive Trueworth farther away. She therefore wrote back in a calm and artful tone. She said she accepted his reason, that she would not reproach him, and that she wished him happiness with the woman he had chosen. She claimed that her reason had conquered her passion. Trueworth believed her and thought better of her than she deserved.
　　Meanwhile, Francis went directly from Trueworth to Betsy. His temper was heavy, and his words were hard. He told her that by her own poor judgment she had lost a chance of happiness that might never return. Betsy answered with spirit that Trueworth himself could not accuse her of one action against virtue. Francis replied that virtue was not the only thing at stake. Reputation, he said, belonged not only to the woman herself but also to her family.
　　Betsy thought this argument unfair. She asked whether it was worse to be falsely suspected than to do wrong in secret. Francis answered in a way that showed the harsh judgment of the world. He said a woman could bring more public shame on a family by one open indiscretion than by hidden faults. Betsy was hurt, but she still defended the innocent pleasures of town life. Their quarrel might have grown sharper if a letter from Sir Frederick Fineer had not arrived.
　　Sir Frederick’s letter was full of foolish high praise. He called Betsy a goddess and begged to drink tea at her table. Even angry Francis could not help laughing at the absurd words. But after the first laugh, he became serious. He warned Betsy that such extreme foolishness might be natural, but it might also be acted. There were men in London, he said, who trapped young women without parents or strong protection.
　　Betsy laughed at this fear and said Sir Frederick was too foolish to be an impostor. She also said he had rank, fortune, and powerful friends. Francis asked to take the letter to Thomas, and Betsy allowed it. After he left, however, her pride slowly cooled. She began to see that Francis had spoken from care, not cruelty.
　　Soon after, Sir Frederick came to visit her. He asked her to marry him almost at once, even the next day. Betsy laughed outright and told him such speed was impossible. She said she had two brothers and would do nothing without their approval. Sir Frederick looked disturbed and begged her not to mention him or his love until he saw her again. Before she could question him, a servant came from Thomas, asking her to come to his house at once.
　　Betsy was surprised and pleased by the invitation, because Thomas had never before asked her to his house. She learned that the matter concerned Mr. Goodman and Lady Mellasin. The truth was serious. Lady Mellasin, after being turned out of Mr. Goodman’s house, had first believed she would soon be forgiven. Mr. Goodman’s lawyer had encouraged this hope on purpose, so that she would not hide evidence or make new trouble before the case against her was ready.
　　But after Mr. Goodman’s death, Lady Mellasin and a low lawyer formed a bold fraud. They produced a false will in Mr. Goodman’s name. In this false paper, Lady Mellasin was to receive thirty thousand pounds, and Flora was to marry Mr. Goodman’s nephew or receive five thousand pounds. The writing was made to look like Mr. Goodman’s hand, and false witnesses signed it. Lady Mellasin then challenged the true will.
　　Mr. Goodman’s lawyer needed proof that this false will could not have been made in the house. Betsy had lived there during the supposed time, and Thomas had visited the sick man every day. Betsy was therefore asked many questions. She answered clearly that she had never heard of such a will, nor seen any other lawyer come to Mr. Goodman. She also said Mr. Goodman had lately offered only five hundred pounds with Flora in marriage, which made the false gift of five thousand plainly unbelievable.
　　While this legal matter moved on, Flora’s secret misery grew. Trueworth had ceased to be her lover, and she feared both poverty and shame because of her mother’s fall. She learned that Trueworth was attached to another woman, and her calm letter had been only a mask. In truth, she was watching, waiting, and planning to break his happiness if she could. Her love had become almost all jealousy.
　　Trueworth, on the other hand, was now close to happiness with Harriot. She had gently admitted that she preferred him to all other men and that she would be guided by her friends. Sir Bazil’s marriage with Miss Mabel was also moving forward. The two couples spent much time together, and preparations for both weddings began. Trueworth seemed at peace, though one old wrong still lay hidden in his conscience.
　　One morning Sir Bazil and Trueworth called on Miss Mabel. While they were there, a poor-looking woman and a soldier came asking for her. The soldier proved to be the father of the little child at Denham, the same child whom Betsy and Miss Mabel had supported. He had left the army, inherited a small farm, and now wished to take his child home. Miss Mabel gave him directions to Goody Bushman and spoke kindly of his dead wife.
　　This scene struck Trueworth with shame. When Sir Bazil was called away for a few minutes, Trueworth told Miss Mabel the truth. He said he had received a cruel letter accusing Betsy of being the child’s mother, had gone to Denham to test the story, and had secretly wronged Betsy in his heart. Miss Mabel was shocked and angry at such a wicked falsehood. She said Betsy had many faults of vanity and carelessness, but in this matter she was completely innocent.
　　Trueworth now saw clearly that the Denham story had been one of Betsy’s best actions, not one of her worst. Yet Miss Mabel also admitted that Betsy’s love of admiration had caused many other dangers. Trueworth felt both relief and pain. He had misjudged Betsy in one terrible matter, but his new path with Harriot was already chosen. He left Miss Mabel’s house quieter than before, but not wholly at ease.

Part 15: Betsy Begins to See

　　Sir Frederick’s strange request stayed in Betsy’s mind all night. He had begged her not to tell her brothers about his courtship, and this now seemed deeply insulting. Until then, no man except Mr. Saving had asked for secrecy, and Mr. Saving had at least had a real reason. Sir Frederick had rank and fortune, so why should he hide his love unless some shameful design lay under it?
　　Betsy began to understand the matter more clearly. She thought that perhaps he wanted a secret marriage, or even a marriage that could not be safely made public. Perhaps he already had some tie to another woman, or perhaps he only wished to place Betsy in his power. Whatever the reason, she decided that a woman of family and fortune must not accept secret addresses. Her vanity had been tempted by his title, but her pride now helped her judgment.
　　In the morning Sir Frederick sent another letter. Betsy meant at first to return it unopened, but curiosity was stronger than anger. The letter was full of the same wild praise as before. He said he had made a solemn vow never to marry any woman unless she first proved her love by running away with him privately. He urged Betsy to make him happy at once and marry him secretly the next day.
　　Betsy read the letter more than once, and each reading made her despise him more. The excuse of a vow seemed foolish and false. She saw that he was trying to use high-sounding words to hide a base plan. She could not send back all his letters, because one of them was still with Francis, but she could stop the matter at once. So she sat down and wrote to Mrs. Modely.
　　In her letter, Betsy told Mrs. Modely that Sir Frederick must never visit, write, or send messages to her again. If he did, she would tell her brothers the whole story and let them enjoy the strange joke of his courtship. She thanked Mrs. Modely for meaning well, but warned her not to bring any more lovers into her business. From that time, Betsy said, Mrs. Modely should speak only of dresses and things proper to her trade.
　　Soon after this letter was sent, Francis came in. Betsy showed him Sir Frederick’s letter and told him what answer she had made. Francis was delighted, and for the first time in many days he spoke to her with real tenderness. He told her that if she always acted in this way, she would gain the respect of all sensible people. He warned her again that encouraging every idle admirer made her cheap in the eyes of the world.
　　Betsy did not argue with him. She promised that she would give no man serious hope until both her brothers approved. Francis then gave her some family news. Edward Goodman, the heir of Mr. Goodman, was expected soon from India, and this might help settle the legal quarrel with Lady Mellasin. Sir Ralph Trusty and Lady Trusty were also coming to London, and Francis said Betsy would then have the advice of a woman who loved her like a second mother.
　　Their talk was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Munden. Betsy hesitated, but Francis asked her to admit him. He wanted to see this man who now seemed to stand where Trueworth had once stood. Betsy said Munden did not excel Trueworth in person or mind, but perhaps he had a better opinion of her. Then she asked Francis not to name Trueworth again, because the subject still hurt her pride.
　　Mr. Munden entered and was surprised to find a young gentleman sitting so familiarly near Betsy. Betsy introduced Francis as her brother, and Munden was greatly relieved. Francis and Munden spoke politely for a short time. Then Francis said he had urgent business and left them together. Munden was pleased, because he had come that day resolved to press Betsy for an answer.
　　Betsy soon found she could not escape with light words. Munden said he had followed her long, studied her wishes, spent money to please her, and yet still knew nothing of his fate. Betsy answered that if he wanted a final answer, he must receive it from her brothers. She had promised to make no engagement without their knowledge and approval. Munden then asked if, once her brothers agreed, he might be sure of her.
　　Betsy could not give that promise. She said she esteemed him and allowed him to speak of love, and that this should be enough for the present. If he pressed her for more, she would see him with discomfort and think of him with regret. Munden tried to continue, but Miss Mabel arrived at that moment. Betsy had never been more glad to see her.
　　Miss Mabel had come only on business. She said the little child at Denham no longer needed their support, because the child’s father had returned and claimed her. She also brought her share of the last month’s payment. Betsy received the news kindly, but the two young women did not speak long. They respected and liked each other, yet their tempers were so different that they were never fully close.
　　When Miss Mabel left, Betsy sat alone and thought over the morning. She had dismissed one lover completely, and this pleased her. But she had also given Munden too much ground by sending him to her brothers. If Thomas and Francis found him respectable, they might hurry the marriage. Betsy did not dislike Munden, but she felt no love for him. She even admitted to herself that, if she had to marry to please her family, Trueworth would have been the better choice.
　　These thoughts were soon broken by a letter from Miss Airish, one of the lively ladies at St. James’s. Miss Airish invited Betsy to a party of pleasure that evening. There would be music, company, and entertainment, and two young gentlemen of rank would guide them. Betsy answered that she would be ready at five and began to dress after dinner with great care.
　　Miss Airish came with two young noblemen whom Betsy had seen before. One of them had once treated her with too much freedom, and she had never forgotten it. They came into the room laughing, singing, and behaving wildly. As soon as Betsy saw them, she decided she would not trust herself in their power. She therefore invented an excuse, saying that her elder brother had called her to his house on special business.
　　Miss Airish was angry and ashamed before the gentlemen. One of them said this was no ordinary assembly. Each man was to bring a lady, who would be his partner in dancing, singing, gaming, or whatever else they chose. The other man caught Betsy in his arms and tried to kiss her, begging her to send an excuse to her brother. Betsy broke from him and said firmly that she neither could nor would go.
　　Her face and voice showed such clear anger that they stopped pressing her. Miss Airish then said she knew another young lady who would go with them. The whole party left in the same noisy way in which they had entered. One gentleman turned at the door and mocked Betsy because she now stood alone. Betsy was stung by the insult, but she was far more glad to have escaped the danger.
　　The next morning Betsy went to Miss Airish’s rooms to make peace. Miss Airish had only just returned from the night’s amusement and was going to bed, but she called Betsy in. She was not as angry as Betsy had feared. She said the night had been full of pleasure and that sometimes it was good to play the rake a little. Betsy answered that pleasure was well enough only when it was innocent.
　　Miss Airish laughed and said everything had been harmless. There had been private rooms, she admitted, but no one had to enter them unless she chose. Betsy did not believe this was truly safe, but she did not quarrel. She was satisfied to learn that her refusal had not spoiled the party. She went home with real pleasure in her heart, because she knew she had avoided danger by her own good sense.
　　This peaceful feeling did not last. While Betsy sat near the window, she saw a coach stop at her door and Mrs. Modely get out. Betsy expected an unwelcome message from Sir Frederick, but Mrs. Modely entered in tears and terror. She cried that poor Sir Frederick had killed himself because of Betsy’s cruelty. Then she said he was not quite dead, but lay with a sword in his breast and would not make peace with Heaven until he saw Betsy.
　　Betsy was shocked and troubled. She did not want to go, but Mrs. Modely begged her in the name of charity. She said the surgeon believed Sir Frederick had only a few hours to live. A clergyman was there, but he would not pray or repent until Betsy came. At last Betsy agreed, on the condition that Mrs. Modely would stay in the room with her.
　　When they reached Mrs. Modely’s house, Betsy heard groans from above. She was led into a darkened room, where Sir Frederick lay on a bed with a sword appearing to stand in his breast. A clergyman and a surgeon sat near him. Sir Frederick spoke in a low, weak voice and said he could not die until he had made Betsy happy. He claimed he had settled two thousand pounds a year on her, but she must first become his widow.
　　Betsy was amazed and said he could not mean to marry a dying man. Mrs. Modely, the surgeon, and the clergyman all praised the offer as noble and generous. The clergyman began the marriage ceremony almost before Betsy understood what was happening. In her confusion, she answered once without thinking. Then she cried out that she could not be married in such a way.
　　No one listened. The surgeon seized her hand and forced it into Sir Frederick’s hand while the clergyman continued. A ring was pushed onto her finger. Betsy tore it off and threw it to the floor. She turned to leave, but then saw that Mrs. Modely had slipped away and that the door was locked.
　　The surgeon and clergyman declared that the marriage was already firm. Then they left the room and locked the door behind them. At once the false Sir Frederick sprang from the bed and threw aside the sword. Betsy saw that the whole scene had been a wicked trick. He seized her and said she was his wife now, and that he would use his power whether she consented or not.
　　Terror and anger gave Betsy strength. She broke from him and clung to one of the bedposts with all her force. He tried to tear her away, hurting her arms and almost dragging her down. She screamed again and again for help until her breath nearly failed. At last she fell almost fainting to the floor, just as the door burst open and a man rushed in with a drawn sword.
　　The man cried out against the monster before him. Betsy lifted herself and begged this unknown protector to save her. The false Sir Frederick seized his sword and claimed that Betsy was his wife. Her rescuer answered not with words but with action. He attacked, seized the villain’s sword, threw it down, and broke it under his foot.
　　Then the rescuer drew back the curtain, and light entered the room. Betsy saw, with shock and deep confusion, that her deliverer was Mr. Trueworth. He also recognized the false baronet. The man was no Sir Frederick at all, but a former servant from Paris who had once robbed his master. Trueworth struck him with the flat of his sword and called him fit only for the hangman.
　　Trueworth then turned to Betsy with perfect respect. He did not ask how she had come there. He only asked leave to take her away and see her safely home. Betsy was shaking so much that she could hardly stand. Trueworth supported her down the stairs with great care, while Mrs. Modely tried weakly to pretend she knew nothing. Trueworth said the matter would be examined later, but now all he required was a coach.
　　When Betsy reached her lodgings, Thomas and Francis were just coming out. They saw her pale, trembling, tearful, with torn clothes and disordered hair, leaning on Trueworth’s arm. Francis, full of sudden rage, thought Trueworth had injured her. Trueworth, hurt by such suspicion after saving her, answered coldly that Betsy herself would explain. Then he entered the coach again and drove away.
　　Betsy fainted almost at the door. When she recovered, she first thought Trueworth was still there and cried that she could never thank him enough. Her brothers then learned the truth. She told them everything, from Mrs. Modely’s false story to Trueworth’s rescue. They were deeply moved and did not reproach her while her mind and body were still so shaken.
　　After leaving her to rest, however, the brothers spoke bitterly together. Francis was especially troubled. He said that Betsy was neither foolish nor wicked, and this made her behaviour harder to understand. A girl with wit and virtue, he said, should not place herself in such danger. Both brothers became more certain than ever that marriage was the safest guard for her reputation.
　　Munden had already declared himself to them. Thomas and Francis now agreed that, if his fortune and character proved sound, they should arrange the marriage quickly. Still, gratitude had to come first. The next morning they visited Trueworth and thanked him for saving their sister. Francis also apologized for his angry words at the door, and Trueworth forgave him with warmth and grace.
　　Trueworth then explained how he had happened to be in Mrs. Modely’s house. His steward had broken his leg while leaving a stagecoach and had been taken there, where he had once lodged. Trueworth went to see him and, while upstairs, saw Betsy enter the lower room with Mrs. Modely. A nurse told him the supposed baronet looked like a rogue. Soon after, he heard Betsy scream, broke open the door, and arrived just in time.
　　The three men went together to Mrs. Modely’s house, hoping to punish the villain. But the false Sir Frederick had already fled, along with the false clergyman and surgeon. Mrs. Modely also kept out of sight, pretending illness and fright. Nothing more could be done without exposing Betsy to public shame. So the brothers returned home, while Trueworth went back to the path his heart had now chosen.

Part 16: Lost Hope

　　When Trueworth went again to Sir Bazil’s house, he expected to find the family cheerful. Instead, he found Mrs. Wellair and Miss Harriot in deep grief. Mrs. Wellair’s eyes were full of tears, and Harriot seemed unable to stop weeping. Trueworth was frightened by the sight and asked what had happened. Mrs. Wellair told him that poor Mrs. Blanchfield was dead.
　　Harriot then gave him a letter from the dead woman. Mrs. Blanchfield had loved Trueworth in secret and had known that he loved Harriot. Her last letter did not blame them. Instead, she praised Harriot as a happy friend and wished Trueworth joy with the woman he had chosen. She also left part of her fortune to Trueworth and gifts to Harriot, showing love even at the moment when hope had ended.
　　Trueworth was deeply moved. He had never tried to win Mrs. Blanchfield’s heart, and he had kept her secret with honour. Harriot admired him more for this. Yet she also felt the sadness of a woman dying from love, and for a time she could not think only of her own happiness. Trueworth, Sir Bazil, Mrs. Wellair, and Harriot spoke seriously of false praise, dangerous passion, and the strange power love can have over the mind.
　　While Trueworth’s circle was touched by death and honour, Betsy was alone with shame. When her brothers were with her after the false Sir Frederick’s attack, their kindness had supported her. But when they left, all her fear returned. She remembered that she had received the courtship of a low impostor, had been trapped in a locked room, and had been saved by the very man whose love she had lost.
　　This thought hurt her pride more than anything else. “I have been saved,” she thought, “but by whom? By the man who once loved me, then left me, and now must despise me.” She could not bear to imagine what people would say if the story became public. She wished to hide herself from London forever. For a whole night and much of the next day, she lay on her bed, refusing food and refusing almost every visitor.
　　Francis came to see her and spoke with great tenderness. He told her that the villain would not be publicly prosecuted, because punishing him would also expose her. This comforted her a little, but it also showed her how dangerous her own careless actions had been. Then Thomas arrived and spoke of a painter whose work he had just seen. Among the pictures was a fine miniature of Trueworth, so like him that Thomas said it almost seemed alive.
　　Betsy seemed not to listen, but every word entered her mind. When her brothers began to speak seriously about Mr. Munden and her future settlement, she answered only weakly. Thomas said that Munden offered a good marriage and that, after her recent danger, she must put herself into a safer way of life. Francis agreed. Betsy, wishing only to be alone with her thoughts, at last promised almost whatever they asked.
　　As soon as they were gone, the thought of Trueworth’s picture filled her whole mind. She told herself that she wanted it only as a reminder of the service he had done for her. She said she did not love him, but she ought not to forget him. Yet another feeling was mixed with this one. Thomas had said the picture looked as if it were meant to be worn by a lady, and Betsy guessed that some rival expected to receive it.
　　The next morning she formed a bold little plan. She hired a handsome chaise with strange servants, dressed in a riding habit and cap that Trueworth had never seen, and drove to the painter’s house. She told the painter that Trueworth had gone to Hampstead and had asked her to bring the picture after him. The painter believed her. Betsy paid ten guineas, took the miniature, and returned home so quickly that no one would know she had been out.
　　Her success lifted her spirits at once. The shame of the false Sir Frederick, the advice of her brothers, and even her fear of public blame all became lighter. She hid the picture carefully and looked at it in secret. She was pleased not only because she possessed Trueworth’s likeness, but also because she thought she had kept another woman from receiving it.
　　Betsy had guessed correctly that the picture had been meant for a lady. Trueworth had sat for it because Harriot had shown that such a gift would please her. When he went to fetch it, the painter told him that a lady had already taken it away in his name. Trueworth was amazed and asked many questions about her face, dress, and carriage. Betsy’s disguise saved her from discovery.
　　Trueworth did not suspect Betsy. He suspected Flora, because he knew her passion had once been violent and strange. He even felt a little pity for her, thinking that love had driven her to this harmless trick. But while he was judging her too kindly, Flora was planning a much worse injury. She had learned of Trueworth’s love for Harriot and meant to poison Harriot’s mind against him.
　　Flora wrote an anonymous letter to Harriot. In it she called Trueworth a false and dangerous man. She claimed he had deceived other women and was already bound by promises to someone else. She warned Harriot to leave London before she became another victim. The letter was full of lies, but Flora hoped that a modest country-bred young lady would be frightened by it.
　　As Flora went to post the letter, she saw Trueworth in the street. Her passion overcame her plan, and she crossed to speak to him. She begged him to give her only a few minutes in a private place. Trueworth did not wish to go, but he thought a complete refusal would be cruel. They entered a nearby tavern, where Flora first pleaded, then wept, then threw herself into his arms.
　　Trueworth was moved by her grief, and for a dangerous moment pity almost became weakness. Flora fainted, and as he tried to loosen her stays so that she could breathe, the letter to Harriot fell from her dress. Trueworth saw Harriot’s name on it and opened it. Flora came to herself and tried to snatch it from him, but he had already read enough. When he saw the full wickedness of the letter, his pity turned to rage.
　　Flora first lied, saying she had found the letter in the street. Then she begged, cried, and said her love had caused everything. Trueworth would not listen. He called her a false and poisonous woman and left her fainting in the room, telling the people below to send help. At home, he compared the writing with the earlier false letter about Betsy and the child at Denham. He saw that both letters had come from the same wicked source.
　　This discovery filled Trueworth with shame as well as anger. He understood that Flora had helped make him wrong Betsy in his thoughts. He remembered the pain he had caused Betsy by believing too quickly. Still, his heart did not return to her. His love and honour now belonged to Harriot, and the day of his marriage was near. When Flora later sent him another letter, he did not even open it. He sent it back with only one cold line.
　　Meanwhile Betsy knew none of this. She was visiting again, seeing company again, and beginning to feel safe because the affair with the false Sir Frederick had not become public. Edward Goodman, the late Mr. Goodman’s heir, came to town from Deal, and Betsy met him at Thomas’s house. A lawyer was also present, and by chance he spoke of Mrs. Blanchfield’s will. From his words, Betsy wrongly concluded that Trueworth had loved Mrs. Blanchfield and had been meant to marry her.
　　This mistake filled Betsy with a strange hope. If Mrs. Blanchfield had been her rival, then that rival was dead. Betsy took out Trueworth’s picture and looked at it again and again. She told herself that men were changeable, but then she excused him by saying Mrs. Blanchfield had been rich. Soon her thoughts softened. “If he should return to his first love,” she thought, “I could not treat him as coldly as before.”
　　Thomas soon disturbed these dreams. He told Betsy that he had examined Mr. Munden’s family, fortune, and character and found no serious fault. Since she had allowed Munden to court her for so long, Thomas said, honour now required her to reward him. Betsy was not ready to agree. She said marriage was too serious to hurry, and that she wished to consult Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty when they came to town.
　　Thomas accepted this delay, but not with full satisfaction. After he left, Betsy argued with herself. She knew she had encouraged Munden too far. Yet she also thought she had made no promise. If Trueworth returned, surely no one would blame her for preferring him. She would not call this love. Pride would not allow that word. She called it only a wise preference for a better match.
　　Munden now found Betsy colder than before. He complained that her brothers had approved him and that he had waited long enough. But Munden’s love was not deep. His pride had more part in the courtship than his heart. He wanted to win because people knew he had tried. Betsy’s delays had already cooled much of his desire, though he still wished not to be defeated.
　　Trueworth, in contrast, was preparing for marriage with Harriot. The wedding had been delayed out of respect for Mrs. Blanchfield. Harriot wished to mourn her longer, but Sir Bazil, Mrs. Wellair, and Trueworth urged her not to delay happiness too far. At last Harriot gave her hand to Trueworth and said, with gentle feeling, that he might make it his as soon as he pleased. The second day after this was fixed for the double wedding: Trueworth with Harriot, and Sir Bazil with Miss Mabel.
　　Betsy heard nothing of these preparations. One day, while walking in the Park with the Miss Airishes, she saw Trueworth and Sir Bazil coming toward her. A sudden thought came to her, and she dropped her fan at Trueworth’s feet as if by accident. He picked it up and returned it politely. “Any service in my power,” he said, “will always be a pleasure.” Betsy built a whole hope on these simple words.
　　A little later, she saw Trueworth and Sir Bazil again, this time with Miss Mabel and two ladies in mourning. One of the ladies was Harriot, but Betsy did not know her. Betsy tried to speak to Miss Mabel, but Miss Mabel said it would be improper to ask her to join their party because she was alone. Betsy was stung by this strange coldness. She went home early and spent the evening trying to understand what she had seen.
　　The next morning she went to Miss Mabel’s house to learn the truth. The windows were shut, and only Nanny, the old servant from Mr. Goodman’s house, opened the door. Nanny told her at once that Miss Mabel had married Sir Bazil that morning, and that Trueworth had married Miss Harriot. The news struck Betsy almost like a physical blow. She leaned back in her chair and nearly fainted.
　　Nanny talked on, not understanding how deeply she was hurting her. She explained that Mrs. Blanchfield had never been Trueworth’s promised wife. She had only loved him and had died after learning of his engagement to Harriot. Betsy tried to hide her pain and said she was surprised only that Miss Mabel had kept her marriage secret. Then, confused and shaken, she ordered the chairmen to carry her away.
　　Fate seemed determined to make the wound deeper. Betsy had promised to meet her brothers at a public sale in Golden Square, and the sale-room was near Sir Bazil’s house. As her chair turned into the square, she saw coaches, servants, horses, and a crowd. Then she saw the bridal party leaving. Sir Bazil and his new wife were in one coach; Trueworth and Harriot were in another.
　　Betsy stood for a moment in the hall and watched until the whole bright company had passed. Her heart was full, but pride came to her aid. “All is over,” she thought. “I must think no more of Trueworth. But why am I so shaken? He was lost to me long ago, and I did not love him.” Then she went upstairs to the sale-room, pale but composed, and told Munden she had only been frightened by a black ox in the street.
　　Her brothers may not have believed this excuse, but they said nothing. Munden showed great concern and tried to comfort her. Betsy received his kindness as well as she could, or at least seemed to do so. She gave her opinion on the goods for sale with surprising calm. Yet under that calm, she knew the truth she would not speak aloud: the hope she had secretly built on Trueworth was gone forever.

Part 17: Toward Marriage with Munden

　　Betsy returned home from the public sale with a calm face, but her heart was far from calm. She had seen Trueworth leave as a bridegroom with Miss Harriot, and now no hope remained. While she had been with the company, she had forced herself to speak, look, and move as if nothing had happened. But when she was alone, tears came freely. She would not call her feeling love, even now. She told herself that she was only hurt because a heart once devoted to her had turned to another woman.
　　Yet her thoughts accused her more strongly than her words allowed. She saw now that she had treated Trueworth too lightly. She remembered his family, fortune, person, sense, courage, and generosity. All these things had once been offered to her, and she had played with them as if they were nothing. Now they belonged to another woman. This thought was harder to bear because she could not honestly blame anyone but herself.
　　While she sat in this painful state, a letter was brought to her. The address was written in a hand she did not know. When she opened it, she saw that it came from Miss Forward, who was now in the Marshalsea prison. Miss Forward wrote that she had been imprisoned for debts caused by her former wasteful life. The men who had once praised and followed her now refused to help her. She needed only three guineas to pay the prison fees and gain her freedom.
　　At first Betsy was angry. Miss Forward had been one of the causes of her quarrel with Trueworth. Betsy remembered the warning he had given, the danger she had entered, and the shame that had followed. “She deserves no pity from me,” Betsy thought. “There are many poor people in the world who have not brought ruin on themselves.” But this first hardness did not last long.
　　Betsy’s natural kindness soon overcame her anger. She thought that if Miss Forward truly wished to change her life, it would be cruel to refuse the small help that might make change possible. She also saw that her own misery had made her judge too quickly. “Her friendship hurt me,” she thought, “but that was partly because of my own foolishness.” So the next morning she sent four guineas, one more than Miss Forward had asked.
　　With the money Betsy sent a short letter. She said that Miss Forward’s troubles had justly followed her conduct, but that she pitied her sincerely. If Miss Forward’s repentance was true, Betsy hoped she would find some honest way to live. Betsy wished she could do more, but this was all she could send. The act did her own heart some good, because helping another person drew her thoughts away from her own loss.
　　Soon after this, a better comfort came. Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty arrived in London. As soon as Betsy learned where they were staying, she went early the next morning to visit them. She felt real joy in seeing Lady Trusty again, for that good lady had always loved her with a motherly care. Betsy hoped to find kindness there, but she did not yet know how much of her story had already been told.
　　Thomas and Francis came in almost at once. After the first greetings, Thomas spoke to Sir Ralph directly. He said that they had long wished for his arrival, especially because Betsy was going to be married and had waited for him to approve the giving of her hand. Sir Ralph answered that he would gladly do it, if the gentleman was worthy of her. Thomas said that they had examined the matter carefully and believed Mr. Munden to be a proper husband.
　　Betsy blushed and said nothing. Lady Trusty saw her confusion and quietly led her into another room. There she spoke with great tenderness, but also with plain good sense. Betsy quickly understood that Francis had told her everything: the bad company, the foolish freedoms, the false Sir Frederick, and all the dangers since Mr. Goodman’s death. At first this wounded her pride, but then she felt that Lady Trusty’s concern was another proof of friendship.
　　“Madam,” Betsy said, “I see that all my errors have been told to you. I am not sorry, because your correction comes from love. I hope the memory of what has lately happened will help me guide myself better in future.” Lady Trusty embraced her and said that few things would make her happier than seeing Betsy settled safely in life. Then she began to speak of Mr. Munden.
　　Lady Trusty repeated the arguments that Betsy had heard from her brothers. Mr. Munden had courted her for a long time. She had accepted his visits and allowed him to hope. Her brothers had examined his fortune and found no serious objection. Sir Ralph was prepared to approve the match. Lady Trusty did not say that Munden was the finest man Betsy could have married, but she said he seemed a safe and proper choice in her present situation.
　　Betsy listened quietly. She did not feel love for Munden, but she knew she had gone far with him. She also knew that Trueworth was now married and beyond her reach. After a pause, she said that she was convinced, both by reason and by Lady Trusty’s advice, that she could not draw back from Mr. Munden with honour. Since all her friends approved him, she would no longer delay his hopes.
　　Lady Trusty asked directly, “Then you will marry him?” Betsy answered yes, though the word did not come easily. She said that since her marriage was so much desired by those whose judgment she ought to respect, Munden had a right to expect her decision in his favour. She lowered her eyes after saying this. Lady Trusty might have asked whether her heart agreed with her promise, but Sir Ralph entered before she could speak further.
　　Sir Ralph laughed gently and said Lady Trusty had kept his fair charge too long. Lady Trusty answered that if he had come a moment earlier, he might have spoiled everything, because Betsy had only just promised to marry Mr. Munden. Sir Ralph, well pleased, led both ladies back to the dining room. There he told Thomas and Francis that their sister had consented to give them a new brother.
　　The brothers were very happy. Thomas said he hoped Betsy would find her own happiness in the choice. Francis spoke in the same spirit, though he could not help reminding her, lightly, of the offer she had once rejected. Betsy answered that if they all thought marriage so excellent, she hoped to see both of them follow her example soon. This little speech showed that her spirit was not quite broken, even under her promise.
　　Betsy stayed all day with Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty. Lady Trusty wished to keep her in a gentle and settled mood. Sir Ralph’s cheerful talk also helped her. By evening, Betsy almost believed that she was content. The kindness of her friends surrounded her, and for a time she felt that their pleasure might stand in place of her own.
　　Meanwhile, Munden had gone first to Betsy’s lodgings and found her absent. Then he went to Thomas’s house, where he met the two brothers on their return from Sir Ralph’s. Thomas invited him in and told him the news. Sir Ralph had approved the match, and Betsy had consented. Munden showed every sign of joy. He thanked the brothers warmly and agreed to return with them that evening, so that all details might be settled.
　　When Munden entered Sir Ralph’s house that night, Betsy was not angry to see him. She was a little confused, but her manner was sweet. He greeted Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty first, then turned to Betsy with warm expressions of gratitude and love. She received him with more kindness than usual. This pleased all her friends, who thought the marriage was now safely arranged.
　　Thomas then repeated the terms of Munden’s proposal. Sir Ralph approved them openly, as he had already approved them in private. It was agreed that Munden and Thomas would go the next morning to Mr. Markland, the lawyer, and give instructions for the marriage articles. Everyone spoke as if the matter were happily settled. They did not part until late in the evening.
　　While Betsy was still among them, she felt almost easy. Their smiles, kind words, and pleasure supported her. Munden’s joy also touched her vanity, if not her heart. But when she returned to her own rooms and was alone, all these bright feelings vanished. She began to think of marriage not as safety, but as loss.
　　“I am almost married already,” she thought. “I have promised, and now I cannot go back.” Then a darker mood took hold of her. She wondered why so many women desired marriage. To her, it seemed better to be admired by many than to belong to one man. A lover was humble, she thought, but a husband might become a master. These thoughts were not wise, but they were natural to a heart still full of pride and regret.
　　Her sleep that night brought no peace. She dreamed of muddy water, thorny places, and broken houses falling around her. When she woke, the heaviness of those dreams remained. She sat for a long time without moving, as if all feeling had gone from her. At last she remembered that she was to dine at Thomas’s house and forced herself to dress.
　　While opening her small cabinet for ornaments, she saw Trueworth’s picture. She took it up and looked at it with a deep sigh. “If Francis and Lady Trusty had been in town when he first courted me,” she thought, “perhaps I would have been made to marry him. Perhaps I would have yielded then with the same unwilling heart. Yet how blind I was! I did not see half his worth until it was too late.”
　　She studied the face in the picture. The eyes seemed gentle and noble. The whole face seemed full of sense, courage, and generosity. Then she remembered that he now belonged to another woman. She put the picture away with tears and tried to compose herself. At that moment Mr. Munden arrived to take her to her brother’s house.
　　Munden told her he had been with Thomas at the lawyer’s and that the papers were being prepared. Then, full of joy, he embraced her with more warmth than she wished. Betsy drew back at once. “Forbear, Mr. Munden,” she said coldly. “You have no right yet to such freedoms.” Munden complained that love should be allowed something, even before the law had completed everything.
　　Betsy, still disturbed by her morning thoughts, suddenly asked whether he meant to keep a coach. Munden looked grave. He said that his present estate did not allow such an expense. He hoped for an honourable post that would increase his income, and then he would give her every comfort in his power. Betsy answered sharply that she had no wish to marry only to walk on foot.
　　This small matter nearly caused a serious quarrel. Munden reminded her that she had promised to marry him and had said nothing before about a coach. Betsy answered with pride that a promise without a fixed time might not bind her so closely as he thought. Munden’s temper rose, and he said she did not treat him as a woman of honour should treat a man after so much encouragement. This word cut Betsy deeply.
　　She was ready to answer with equal heat when Francis entered. He saw at once that something had happened between them. Munden openly told him the cause. Francis was vexed with Betsy, but he did not wish to shame her before Munden. He treated the quarrel lightly, called for a hired coach, and made them both go with him to Thomas’s house.
　　In the coach, Betsy’s anger began to cool. She knew she had spoken too sharply. To make peace, she looked around and said, with a smile, that the hired coach was good and clean, almost as if her servant had chosen it to make her forget she had no coach of her own. Munden answered that he only wished she could be satisfied with what was in his power until he could give her more. Betsy then said they should speak no more of it and that she did not truly think happiness depended on grandeur.
　　Munden kissed her hand, and she allowed him to hold it until they reached Thomas’s house. This was almost the last open act of Betsy’s unmarried pride. From that time until the wedding, Munden had little cause to complain of her behaviour. Sir Ralph, because of his age and place as guardian, named the wedding day. Betsy made no new excuses and agreed with a readiness that satisfied her future husband.
　　Her friends now worked hard to keep her mind occupied and her temper calm. Munden had taken a handsome house, and Betsy was allowed to choose much of the furniture. She went to shops and warehouses, chose curtains, chairs, dishes, and many other things, and this business filled much of her time. When she was not busy with these preparations, Lady Trusty or one of her brothers kept her company. They did not leave her long alone with her thoughts.
　　At last the wedding day came. Sir Ralph led Betsy to the altar, where Munden met her. Only Sir Ralph, Lady Trusty, Thomas, and Francis were present. Betsy had asked for great privacy, because if she could not be married with the full show she once imagined, she preferred to avoid all public attention. The ceremony was performed, and the knot was tied.
　　After the wedding, they all went to Pontac’s, where Munden had ordered an elegant dinner. Then they went together to lodgings in a small village five or six miles from London. Munden had chosen this place because Betsy had said she wished to be hidden from the world until the first talk of her marriage had passed. Everyone in the little party seemed pleased. Munden rejoiced because he had overcome many difficulties, and Betsy’s brothers rejoiced because their care for her seemed ended.
　　Betsy herself was the only one who looked thoughtful, but this was taken for the modest quiet of a young bride. Lady Trusty watched her carefully and decided to speak before leaving. She drew Betsy into another room and gave her serious advice. She said that Betsy had entered marriage more from respect for her friends than from strong feeling of her own, and for that reason the first days would be very important.
　　Lady Trusty warned her against two opposite faults. She did not fear that Betsy would show foolish and excessive fondness for her husband. She feared the other danger more: coldness, pride, and contempt. A husband who is treated with constant coldness, she said, may lose his tenderness or begin to suspect why it is not returned. Betsy must therefore give Munden all proper respect and kindness.
　　Lady Trusty then spoke of household life. Betsy should keep her own proper place without trying to rule everything that belonged to her husband. If small disputes arose, she should rather yield a little than fight too long. She should not scold him for every fault, because reproach often makes people harder instead of better. Above all, Lady Trusty warned her that the lively freedoms allowed to a single woman would look far worse in a married one.
　　Betsy felt this last warning sharply, and Lady Trusty saw it. She therefore softened her words. She did not ask Betsy to become dull or shut herself away from all pleasure. She only asked her to choose a proper middle way. Betsy answered that she would keep these lessons in her heart and hoped her future conduct would prove that she had not heard them in vain.
　　Soon Betsy’s servants came in with the baggage she needed for the short stay in the village. Lady Trusty then ended her advice and returned with Betsy to the others. Evening was coming on. Sir Ralph, Lady Trusty, Thomas, and Francis took leave of the bride and bridegroom and returned to London. Betsy was now left alone with the husband whom all her friends had chosen for her.

Part 18: The Husband Revealed

　　Betsy was now no longer Miss Betsy Thoughtless. She was Mrs. Munden, and she tried seriously to remember what that name meant. At the altar she had promised nothing that she did not mean to perform. She knew that a wife’s honour, peace, and good name depended much on her conduct. She had not married from love, but she had enough sense and goodness to wish to do right.
　　She also thought of Munden’s long courtship. He had followed her patiently, borne many of her changes of humour, and seemed ready to do anything to please her. She believed his love was warm and sincere. This belief helped her accept a marriage that her heart had not chosen. Gratitude, good nature, and duty began to do what passion had not done.
　　In the first weeks after marriage, Munden seemed very pleased with her. He looked at her with pride, and he often said that no man could have a finer wife. Mrs. Munden, seeing this, became more gentle toward him than she had expected. She tried to make his home cheerful. She dressed with care, received company well, and behaved to him with proper respect.
　　Their first two months passed in a bright round of pleasure. They gave dinners, received visits, went out to entertainments, and were invited everywhere. Munden had many friends, and Mrs. Munden still had many of her own. Each day seemed to bring some new amusement. People who saw them together might have thought them a happy young married couple.
　　But this pleasant beginning could not last. Munden’s fortune was not large enough to support such constant expense. He was willing to spend money on the pleasures he enjoyed outside the house, but he did not wish to spend enough within it. So he began to save money at home. The sum he gave his wife for housekeeping was too small to keep a table proper for people of their rank.
　　This hurt Mrs. Munden deeply. She was generous, and she was also proud. She could not bear to sit at the head of a house where guests might be poorly served. At first, when the money was not enough, she added from her own small purse. But this could not continue. At last she spoke to Munden about it as gently as she could.
　　Munden did not receive her words as a loving husband should. He looked displeased and said he feared she was a bad manager. A wife, he said, ought to know how to save her husband’s money. She should be content with things suitable to his condition. His voice and face showed her, more clearly than his words, that the lover had already begun to disappear.
　　Mrs. Munden kept her temper as well as she could. She said she did not wish to hurt his fortune or waste his money. But she knew enough of his estate to be sure that he could keep a better table if he chose. Munden answered coldly that he was the best judge of that. If his affairs did not improve, he said, she must not expect any increase.
　　Then Mrs. Munden spoke with more warmth. She said that if he would not allow enough money, he had better order the food himself. She could not keep such a family properly on so mean a sum. Munden answered roughly that he had not married in order to learn the price of beef and mutton. That, he said, was a wife’s business.
　　He then went farther. He said the table was poor because women wasted money on useless things. Mrs. Munden asked what he meant. Munden leaned back carelessly and said he thought the custom of pin-money was foolish. A wife, in his opinion, should have nothing apart from her husband. Since he had allowed pin-money in the marriage articles, she ought at least to use part of it to help the family expenses.
　　Mrs. Munden listened in shock. Her pin-money was meant for clothes and private needs, not for the daily cost of the house. Munden continued as if his demand were perfectly reasonable. Tea, coffee, chocolate, and all such things, he said, should not be paid from the housekeeping money. He also said that the manservant who attended her should be paid from her own allowance.
　　This was the first clear sign of the man she had married. Mrs. Munden’s anger could no longer be held in. She cried that marriage seemed not like happiness, but like slavery. She asked if this was the love and tenderness he had promised. Tears broke from her, and she walked about the room, full of grief and rage.
　　Munden sat silent for a while. Then he tried to speak more softly, but his manner was still cold. He told her not to give way to feelings so unbecoming. He said that when he had gained the point he wanted, he would behave with all proper tenderness. For the present, he only wished her to show a little prudence.
　　These words did not comfort her. She saw that his kindness depended on her giving up what was rightfully hers. When he took her hand, she drew back proudly. “No, Mr. Munden,” she said. “After what you have said, I expect nothing from you but ill usage.” Munden answered that he had said nothing he needed to regret, and then left the room.
　　Mrs. Munden did not call him back. She went to her own chamber and gave way to feelings stronger than any she had ever known. What had made her marriage bearable was the belief that Munden loved her deeply. Now that belief was broken. She felt not only anger, but terror, because the tie between them could be broken only by death.
　　In this troubled state Lady Trusty came to visit her. Mrs. Munden tried to hide her distress, but Lady Trusty saw it at once. At first Mrs. Munden remembered that the troubles of marriage should be kept private. But Lady Trusty was almost a mother to her, and at last Mrs. Munden told her the whole story.
　　Lady Trusty was deeply alarmed. She asked many questions to make sure she understood every detail. Then she gave careful advice. She said Munden had thrown off the lover far too soon and was beginning to act like a harsh husband. But because he was now her husband, Mrs. Munden must be wise as well as spirited.
　　Lady Trusty did not tell her to give up her rights. She said that if Mrs. Munden once allowed Munden to take even a small part of her private money, he might later try to take all of it. But she advised her not to fight openly. She should spend only the money he gave for housekeeping, keep exact accounts, and remain calm. When the table was poor, she should let the facts speak for themselves.
　　Mrs. Munden promised to try, though it was hard for her nature. For several days she followed Lady Trusty’s plan. She did not add her own money to the household expenses. She gave no angry words and showed no open complaint. Munden, however, looked sullen whenever he sat at table and saw that things were plainer than before.
　　At last an unexpected guest came to dinner, a gentleman of some importance. Munden was ashamed that the meal was not better. “What, my dear,” he said before the guest, “have you nothing else to give us?” Mrs. Munden answered with great presence of mind. She said they had meant to dine out that day, so she had ordered only a small dinner, and the guest had arrived too late for any addition.
　　The guest politely said everything was very good. But Munden’s pride was hurt. As soon as the man left, he blamed his wife cruelly for exposing him to shame. Mrs. Munden answered that she was just as sorry as he was. Then she brought out the accounts, just as Lady Trusty had advised, and showed how every shilling had been spent.
　　Munden would not even read them. He tore the papers into pieces and said he would not be troubled with such things. Then he repeated that she must reduce her expenses. He insisted again that she should dismiss the manservant who attended her, or pay his wages, clothing, and board from her own pin-money. Mrs. Munden answered with controlled anger that she would never give up what belonged to her by contract.
　　Munden’s anger grew dark and mean. He saw the little squirrel that Trueworth had once given Betsy. The animal was sitting quietly in its cage, cracking nuts. Mrs. Munden had always loved it, partly because of its pretty ways and partly because of the hand from which it had come. Munden knew it gave her pleasure, and therefore he chose to hurt it.
　　With a cruel sneer, he said that here was one servant who could be spared. Before Mrs. Munden could move, he seized the harmless creature by the neck. He threw it with all his force against the carved marble of the chimney. The poor little animal was killed at once.
　　Mrs. Munden stared in horror. The act was so sudden that she had not been able to prevent it. Then grief and anger broke out together. “Monster,” she cried, “you did not need this cruel act to show me what kind of man I have married.” Munden answered with scorn that her words showed him what kind of wife he had married.
　　More bitter words passed between them. At last Mrs. Munden could not keep back her tears and would not let him see her weakness. She left the room, saying she would never eat or sleep with him again. That night she ordered another bed to be prepared for her in a separate room. Munden came home late, heard what she had done, and said nothing.
　　The next morning they met on the stairs. Munden accused her of disobedience. She answered that a husband who forgot the respect due to a wife could not expect love or obedience unless his wife had no sense. Then she went at once to Lady Trusty and told her everything that had happened. Lady Trusty was shocked by the murder of the squirrel and by the meanness behind it.
　　Still, Lady Trusty did not wish to widen the break. She said that however wrong Munden had been, Mrs. Munden had gone too far in leaving his bed. Such a step might give him something to complain of and make the world judge her harshly. Mrs. Munden cried that she could never feel anything but contempt for such a husband. Lady Trusty answered that contempt would not solve her situation.
　　Lady Trusty said a reconciliation must be attempted, not because Munden deserved easy pardon, but because open separation would bring pain, talk, and danger. She did not want Thomas and Francis to know the whole matter, for their anger might make everything worse. Instead, she proposed that Sir Ralph should speak to Munden. As Betsy’s former guardian and an older gentleman, Sir Ralph might have some weight with him.
　　Mrs. Munden thanked Lady Trusty, but her heart did not truly welcome the plan. She would rather have been separated forever from a man who had shown neither love nor respect. Even if he came back with soft words, she felt she could never trust him again. While they were still speaking, a message arrived from Edward Goodman, inviting Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty to an entertainment the next day. This invitation would soon lead to news that concerned more people than Mrs. Munden alone.

Part 19: Mellasin and Flora Fall

　　While Mrs. Munden was trying to bear the first bitterness of married life, Lady Mellasin’s own story was moving toward its end in England. For many months she had kept up her courage because the dishonest people who helped her false claim kept promising success. They had delayed the case again and again. They took more money from her and told her that the forged will might still win. But when the day of trial truly came near, their courage failed.
　　The lawyer who had drawn up the false will and the men who had signed as witnesses all disappeared. They gave Lady Mellasin no warning. Until the very morning when she expected victory, she did not know she was ruined. Then she sent for them and learned that they had fled from their homes. In one moment she saw that she had been used, robbed, and left alone to face the danger of forgery.
　　She hardly had time to escape from the court before an officer was ordered to take her. She did not dare return to her lodgings, and she had no friend to whom she could safely go. In terror, she ran through the streets until she reached one of the gates of St. James’s Park. There she found a porter and sent him to call Flora and Mrs. Prinks to her at once.
　　Mrs. Prinks came immediately, but Flora was not so ready. She was dressing to visit a new admirer and thought her own affair more important than her mother’s danger. This showed how far Flora had fallen in feeling as well as fortune. She had once been proud, jealous, and full of secret hopes. Now, after losing Trueworth, she had tried to forget him by turning to another man.
　　This new attachment had begun in a tavern, after Trueworth had left her in anger and contempt. Flora had been almost wild with grief. The woman of the house tried to comfort her, and a young gentleman who came in by chance saw her crying. Her beauty, even in distress, touched him at once. He offered help, spoke kindly, and later took her home in a coach.
　　Flora understood very well that his kindness was not only pity. He visited her again, and in a short time they understood each other too clearly. He was fond of her for a while, carried her to public places, treated her, and gave her rich presents. Flora accepted all this because she had lost Trueworth and saw no other way to support her pride and pleasure. But such love, without honour or respect, could not last.
　　The gentleman was good-natured, but light and changeable. He liked every new face that pleased him. Flora knew this and was wise enough not to trouble him with complaints, because complaints would only make him leave her sooner. She tried instead to remain gay and easy, and by this art she kept his gifts for some time after his heart had gone elsewhere. Yet when he planned a pleasure journey to the south of France, he refused to take her with him.
　　It was to visit this man and take leave of him that Flora had been dressing when her mother sent for her. His cold answer had already made her angry and miserable. Then she found Mrs. Prinks’s note telling her that Lady Mellasin was ruined, hiding, and in immediate danger. Flora could no longer think only of love. She had to join the little household of disgrace.
　　Lady Mellasin, Flora, and Mrs. Prinks hid in a poor part of the town under a false name. All three tried to think of some way to save Lady Mellasin from the result of her own fraud. But every plan failed before it was fully formed. The false witnesses were gone, the lawyer was gone, the will could not stand, and Lady Mellasin had no money left. Pride, which had once made her so bold, now gave way to fear and need.
　　At last she wrote to Edward Goodman, the man whom she had tried to rob. Her letter was full of humility, excuse, and tears. She said she had been misled by bad advisers and had never meant to do him real wrong. She begged him to remember that she had once been the wife of his relation. She asked for mercy, not because she deserved it, but because her condition was miserable.
　　Edward Goodman was not deceived by her words. He knew very well that she had acted wickedly. Still, he had more prudence than revenge in his temper. He did not want to chase a ruined woman through the law if she would leave England and trouble him no more. So he answered that he would allow her money to live on, but only on strict conditions. She must leave London, give up all claim to Mr. Goodman’s estate, and never disturb him again.
　　Lady Mellasin was overjoyed not to be left wholly without support. To quit London did not trouble her as much as it might once have done, because she could no longer appear there with safety or honour. But when she thought of living quietly in some part of England, the whole country seemed like a desert to her. She had lived for court, cards, visits, fashion, and public pleasure. Without these, England itself seemed empty.
　　Then she thought of Jamaica. She had heard that it was rich, lively, and not strict in questions of reputation. If her story followed her there, perhaps it would do her less harm. She therefore wrote again to Edward Goodman and asked whether, instead of a yearly allowance, he would give her a fixed sum for the journey and settlement. Edward Goodman was pleased with this plan, because it would carry her far away.
　　After several letters, they agreed on the terms. He would give her two hundred pounds for immediate needs and eight hundred more to be paid when she reached Jamaica. Lady Mellasin promised solemnly never to trouble him again. Flora was almost mad at the thought of leaving London. But she had no reputation, no money, and no true friend who could protect her. Mrs. Prinks also had no character left with which to seek a new service. So all three went aboard a ship ready to sail.
　　Edward Goodman’s friends congratulated him on being freed from them. They said he had done the country a service by sending away three people who had used their abilities for dishonest purposes. To celebrate the end of this painful affair, Edward Goodman gave an entertainment for his friends. Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty were invited, as were Thomas and Francis Thoughtless, and Mrs. Munden also came.
　　Mr. Munden had been invited too, but he did not come. He sent a polite excuse, saying that a previous engagement kept him away. Most of the company believed this. Only Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty suspected the real reason. They knew of the quarrel between husband and wife, and Munden’s absence made them fear that the breach had not healed.
　　During the entertainment, Lady Trusty saw Mrs. Munden standing apart near a window. She went to her quietly and said that she understood too well why Mr. Munden was absent. She told her that the matter must not be allowed to grow worse. The servants might already know more than they should, and gossip could soon make a private quarrel into public shame. Mrs. Munden answered that she would follow Lady Trusty’s advice, but that Munden must greatly change before she could change toward him.
　　The next morning Sir Ralph wrote to Munden and asked him to come at once on business important to his happiness. Munden guessed the reason and disliked the summons, but he cared too much for polite appearance to refuse. When he arrived, Sir Ralph received him with careful courtesy. He did not begin with blame, but with praise and friendly concern, because he knew Munden’s pride must be managed if any good was to be done.
　　Lady Trusty entered as if by chance and joined the conversation. She said that in quarrels between husband and wife, one person may begin the wrong, but the other often adds something to it. This pleased Munden, because it allowed him to admit a little fault while blaming Mrs. Munden too. He said perhaps he had acted too suddenly, but his wife had been too passionate and too commanding. Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty did not openly contradict him, though they knew he was softening his own faults.
　　By mixing praise with advice, they brought him at last to agree to a reconciliation. He consented to add one guinea a week to the money for the table. He also promised not to demand any harsh submission from his wife. Lady Trusty then sent for Mrs. Munden immediately. Before taking her to Munden, she spoke to her alone and urged her not to stand too much on pride at this moment.
　　Mrs. Munden sighed deeply. She did not love Munden, and she did not believe that his heart had truly changed. Still, she saw that Lady Trusty was right about the danger of public talk. “Since I am a wife,” she said, “I will try to make the yoke as light as I can.” Lady Trusty comforted her, then led her into the room where Sir Ralph and Munden waited.
　　Sir Ralph took her hand and led her toward her husband. “I once gave you to this gentleman,” he said kindly. “Allow me to do so a second time.” Munden came forward quickly and embraced her. He said that if she would forget what had passed, the pain he had suffered would teach him never again to make himself so unhappy. His voice was tender, and for a moment even Mrs. Munden was moved.
　　She answered with sweetness that she too had suffered and would do all in her power to make peace last. Munden knew how to show more feeling than he truly possessed, and the people present believed him deeply touched. Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty were delighted. They kept the reunited pair to dinner, then all went to Kensington Gardens, and in the evening visitors came. Everything helped to keep up good humour for that day.
　　For some time afterward, the house seemed peaceful. Munden was not fully sincere, but he had made his promises before Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty, and this held him back from open cruelty. Mrs. Munden did her part exactly. She did not feel strong love, but good sense and good nature supplied what love could not. She gave him no just cause to complain.
　　During this quiet time she lost two of her best supports. Francis had stayed in London longer than his military duty allowed and now had to join his regiment at Leeds. Sir Ralph also finished his town business and returned with Lady Trusty to the country. Mrs. Munden felt the loss deeply. Thomas was her brother, but his own pleasures filled his mind, and she could not speak to him with the same freedom.
　　Munden and Mrs. Munden now lived in a kind of easy distance. He was often abroad late, and letters and messages came to him that might have troubled a jealous wife. She, on the other hand, still liked visits, shops, and variety of conversation. She took care not to stain her virtue or her reputation, but she also enjoyed a freedom that a more loving husband might not have borne easily. Since neither of them loved deeply, neither asked too many questions.
　　One day, while walking among the shops, Mrs. Munden entered a mercer’s shop to look at silks. While she waited for some new pieces to be brought, she heard music from a back parlour. A woman was playing the harpsichord and singing beautifully in Italian. Mrs. Munden listened with great pleasure. The mercer, seeing this, invited her into the parlour, where she met his wife and the foreign lady who had been singing.
　　This lady was young, beautiful, graceful, and clearly well bred. Her English was broken, but her manner was noble and free. Mrs. Munden admired her at once and wished to know her better. When she hinted at this wish, the stranger looked troubled and said that a cruel part of her fate kept her from many blessings she would otherwise desire. Mrs. Munden was curious, but the lady said no more.
　　Soon the new silks arrived, and Mrs. Munden bought one though she had no need of it. After returning home, she tried to learn the stranger’s name from the shopman who brought the silk, but he knew nothing. She meant to return and ask the mercer himself, but other business soon drove the matter from her mind. For the moment, the beautiful foreigner remained only a mystery.
　　That other business concerned a noble lord on whom Munden depended for future advancement. The lord had heard that Munden’s wife was unusually beautiful and accomplished. When Munden visited him, the lord said he wished to judge for himself and would come to dine the next day. Munden returned home full of joy and threw a parcel of guineas into his wife’s lap. He told her to spare no expense in entertaining his powerful patron.
　　This command pleased Mrs. Munden more than any other he could have given. She loved feasting, company, and the honour of receiving important guests. She began the preparations at once, ordering everything with energy and taste. For a while she forgot all past anger. She was again the lively, capable, admired woman she loved to be, and the house seemed ready for a day of outward honour and inward danger.

Part 20: A Wife Tested

　　The dinner for Lord ---- was prepared with great care. Mrs. Munden chose the dishes, ordered the servants, and watched over every small part of the table. Everything was elegant, but not wasteful. The noble guest seemed highly pleased. He praised the food, the order of the house, and even more, the beauty and taste of the woman who had managed it.
　　Mr. Munden was delighted by this praise. He saw his powerful patron pleased, and this filled him with hope for his own future. Mrs. Munden also felt secret pleasure when she heard such fine words about herself. Her eyes grew brighter, and her manner became even more lively. She had begun to reform, but vanity was not yet fully dead in her heart.
　　Lord ---- was no longer very young, but he was still handsome, graceful, and charming in conversation. He had long been admired by women, and he knew how to use soft words and fine manners. He saw Mrs. Munden’s beauty at once and wished to possess what he admired. His looks told her more than he said aloud. She understood them, and the understanding made her both pleased and uneasy.
　　Once, when Mr. Munden stepped away to give orders to a servant, Lord ---- took Mrs. Munden’s hand and kissed it warmly. He told her that fortune had been unfair to place such beauty in a private station. Mrs. Munden had no time to answer, because her husband returned almost at once. For the rest of the visit, Lord ---- said nothing openly improper. But his eyes continued the speech that his lips could not finish.
　　When the nobleman left, he said he had never passed a more agreeable day. Mr. Munden was so pleased that he became kinder to his wife than he had been for a long time. He embraced her and told her that she had behaved like an angel. He praised the dinner and said he could not have expected such a fine entertainment for the money he had given her. Mrs. Munden smiled and said he would praise her economy even more when he knew the full truth.
　　She then placed three guineas on the table and said this money remained from the sum he had allowed for the dinner. She expected him to leave it with her as a small reward for her care. Instead, Munden took it up at once and put it into his own pocket. Mrs. Munden looked at him with surprise and said this was not quite fair. Munden laughed and said that doing him a service should be reward enough.
　　The words were spoken almost as a joke, but they showed his small and greedy nature. Mrs. Munden did not quarrel. She answered lightly that he was very fashionable, since he allowed virtue to reward itself. Then she turned the conversation and remained cheerful for the rest of the evening. Still, this little action did not increase either her love or her respect for him.
　　The next morning Mrs. Munden sat near a window and noticed a man walking up and down across the street. He looked again and again toward the house, as if waiting for someone. She watched him for some time, then went to breakfast and forgot him for a while. Soon after Mr. Munden went out, a servant came to say that a man had a letter for her and would give it only into her own hands.
　　Mrs. Munden went downstairs and found the same man she had seen from the window. She asked who had sent the letter, but he said he did not know. He had only been told to place it in her own hand. Then he hurried away. A married woman should not have opened such a letter without knowing its source, but curiosity overcame her judgment.
　　The letter was from a hidden admirer. He praised her beauty, called himself her servant, and said he would soon find a way to explain his passion. He hinted that her marriage need not prevent him from loving her. He also said that his power could bring her many advantages. Mrs. Munden read the letter several times and felt sure it came from Lord ----.
　　Her feelings were mixed and painful. Her vanity was pleased that such a great man admired her. Her pride was hurt because he dared to hope she might listen. Her virtue was alarmed because his rank and power could make him bold. At first she decided to show the letter to her husband at once and ask him to protect her from any further attempt.
　　After thinking longer, she changed her mind. Munden was in better humour with her than usual, and she wished to keep peace if possible. She feared that if she told him, he might become jealous, angry, and suspicious of every man who visited her. She also feared that his hopes from Lord ---- would make the matter difficult. So she burned the letter and decided that if the writer ever declared himself openly, she would answer him with contempt.
　　Three days later, Munden received a note from Lord ----. The nobleman invited him and Mrs. Munden to dine at his house the next day. He added that a female relation would be present and would be happy to know Mrs. Munden. Munden accepted at once and was proud of the honour. Mrs. Munden now felt even more certain that Lord ---- had written the secret letter.
　　At first she decided not to go. She thought she would pretend to be suddenly ill and so avoid the danger without explaining everything to her husband. This would have been wise. But the next morning her vanity began to speak again. She told herself that she was going with her husband and that a lady would be present. Surely, she thought, no open danger could exist in such company.
　　She dressed with unusual care. She wanted Lord ---- to see that his admiration was not foolish. This was the old fault returning in a new and more dangerous form. She imagined herself like something beautiful that could be looked at but not touched. She did not understand that to enjoy such looks from a man who desired evil was already a step toward danger.
　　Lord ---- received them with great warmth. The lady he had mentioned was already there. She was about thirty, still handsome, and very polite, though a sadness in her face showed that she was not truly at ease. During dinner, the company was lively and agreeable. Mrs. Munden tried to seem calm, but she watched everything carefully.
　　After dinner, Lord ---- told Munden that he had a private matter of honour to discuss. He took him into another room and showed him a letter addressed to a gentleman named Mr. W----. The letter was a challenge. Lord ---- said the man had insulted him and must meet him in the Green Park the next morning. He asked Munden to carry the letter and act as a witness if needed.
　　Munden was flattered by this trust. He bowed low and said the nobleman did him great honour. Lord ---- urged him to go at once, saying Mr. W---- could likely be found at the Cocoa Tree. Munden left in a hired coach, proud to be employed in such a serious matter. Lord ---- then returned to the room where the ladies sat.
　　The cards had hardly been placed on the table when a servant came in with urgent news for the lady. He said her mother had suddenly been struck by a dangerous illness and that she must return home at once. The lady seemed greatly frightened and left immediately. Mrs. Munden now found herself alone with Lord ----, exactly as he had planned.
　　She understood the danger at once. Still, she tried to keep her face calm. She took up the cards and suggested a simple game for two people. Lord ---- looked at her with eyes that increased her fear. He said he could not waste such precious time on cards when he had the chance to tell her how much he adored her.
　　He took her hand and kissed it with force. Mrs. Munden drew herself up proudly and told him that such words were not proper for the wife of his friend. Lord ---- answered that friendship for the husband did not make him blind to the wife’s beauty. He even said that if she rewarded his love, he would serve Munden more warmly than before. In this way he tried to make shame look like kindness.
　　Mrs. Munden trembled when she heard this. For one terrible moment she wondered whether Munden might know more than she had thought. Could he have been sent away on purpose? Could he be willing to gain his patron’s favour at such a price? She asked whether Lord ---- truly believed her husband capable of so low an act. The nobleman answered that he needed no such agreement. He had sent Munden away under a safe excuse and had brought the lady only to make the plan look proper.
　　Then he came nearer and tried to take her in his arms. Mrs. Munden stepped back quickly and told him to stop. She said she despised his offers and valued her virtue above all the power and wealth in the world. Lord ---- then changed his manner. He grew soft, humble, and full of false tears. He knelt before her, kissed her hands, and begged her to save him from despair.
　　At another time, the sight of a great man on his knees might have fed Mrs. Munden’s vanity. But now fear was stronger than pride. She was alone in his house and did not know how far he would go. She looked again and again toward the door, hoping for Munden’s return. Lord ---- saw that her first anger had become fear, and this made him bolder.
　　He tried to force her toward another room. Mrs. Munden struggled and cried out for help. No one came. Lord ---- paused and told her not to expose them both to his servants. She answered that she would expose herself to anything rather than lose her honour. When he tried again to seize her, her eyes suddenly fell on a bell handle near the door.
　　She caught it and rang with all her strength. The sound went through the house. Lord ---- let her go, shocked and angry. A servant came at once. Mrs. Munden told him that her servant was below and ordered him to call a chair immediately. Before Lord ---- could recover himself, she opened the door and said that he had used her in a manner unworthy of both of them.
　　She then ran downstairs into the hall. A chair was brought, and she threw herself into it, shaken in body and mind. Her dress was in disorder, and her heart beat violently. She had escaped, but only by courage and one lucky moment. The danger had been real, and she knew it.
　　Meanwhile, Munden was still searching for Mr. W----. He first went to the Cocoa Tree, but the man was not there. Then he went to Mark Lane, only to learn that Mr. W---- had just left. He returned to the Cocoa Tree and was told that the gentleman would soon come back. Munden waited impatiently, because he did not wish to return to Lord ---- without completing his task.
　　When Mr. W---- finally arrived, Munden gave him Lord ----’s letter. Mr. W---- read it calmly and said the matter was based on a mistake. He promised to visit Lord ---- that evening and explain himself. If the explanation did not satisfy the nobleman, he would meet him anywhere he chose. Munden was glad to hear this, for he hoped the affair would end peacefully.
　　Munden returned to Lord ---- in a better temper, expecting to find the company still together. Instead, he found the nobleman alone, walking angrily up and down the room. Lord ---- scarcely looked at him. When Munden said he had not expected to find him alone, Lord ---- answered coldly that an accident had called away his “cousin,” and that Mrs. Munden apparently had not thought herself safe with him.
　　These words threw Munden into confusion. He asked if his wife had behaved with any lack of respect. Lord ---- replied that fine women had their strange moods and that no more need be said. Munden tried to report Mr. W----’s answer, but Lord ---- hardly listened. He dismissed him shortly and said there was no need for him to come in the morning.
　　Munden went home deeply disturbed. He had lost the good humour of the man from whom he expected advancement. He also feared that some scene had taken place between Lord ---- and his wife. When he reached home, Mrs. Munden was sitting in serious thought. He asked, in a sharp voice, why she had left Lord ---- so suddenly.
　　Mrs. Munden answered that when he left the care of her honour, she had to defend it herself. Munden cried that Lord ---- was too much his friend to offer her any rudeness. She replied that he should not be so sure of that great man’s friendship. She began to tell him what had happened, but he interrupted with a sneer. He said she had surely mistaken polite gallantry for serious design and had perhaps ruined his hopes by her pride.
　　This was a cruel answer to a wife who had just defended herself so bravely. Mrs. Munden then told him the whole story plainly: the false relation, the private room, the offers, the force, the struggle, and the bell. Munden listened with strong emotion. He could no longer deny that Lord ---- had acted dishonourably. But even then he did not comfort his wife.
　　Instead, he blamed her for not managing the matter more softly. He said she ought to have remembered how much he depended on Lord ----. Perhaps, he said, she could have escaped without giving such open offence. He admitted that Lord ---- was wrong, but declared that her pride had cost him all his hopes. Then he left the room in anger.
　　Mrs. Munden was left alone with this bitter return for her courage. She had resisted temptation, force, flattery, and fear. Yet her husband reproached her as if she had injured him. At another time this would have filled her with rage. Now it filled her more with shame before herself, because she knew that she should never have gone to Lord ----’s house after receiving the secret letter.
　　This adventure changed her more deeply than any earlier danger had done. She remembered all the times when she had enjoyed admiration without asking what kind of desire lay behind it. She remembered how often she had been pleased to see men suffer or grow bold because of her beauty. Now, as a married woman, she saw the matter in a clearer and more serious light. No man could tell her he loved her honourably, because she already belonged to her husband.
　　She spoke to herself with a new severity. “What have I been doing?” she thought. “I wished to be admired by all, yet I wanted to be respected too. I tried to make men feel awe, but my own light behaviour often made them take freedoms. I had enough sense to know real worth, yet I treated the best men badly and encouraged the worst for amusement.”
　　Then she thought of marriage. She had refused Trueworth because she believed she did not love him enough. Yet she had married Munden, whom she had not loved at all. She could not change that choice now. But she could change herself. She resolved to kill the vanity that had brought her into so much danger and to guard her conduct with far greater care.
　　This change did not pass away after one night. Each day confirmed it. If someone praised her beauty too warmly, she checked her own pleasure at once. If a man spoke to her with too much softness, she became reserved and serious. Her liveliness did not disappear, but it was now ruled by judgment more often than before. The careless Betsy Thoughtless was not wholly gone, but Mrs. Munden had begun at last to understand the cost of being admired.

Part 21: News of Trueworth

　　Mrs. Munden’s new care for her conduct was soon tested. One of Mr. Munden’s companions had often seen her at Miss Airish’s rooms. He was a gay young man, used to loose company, and he knew many of Munden’s private faults. Because he saw that Munden did not value his wife as he should, he believed she might be willing to listen to another man. He had often whispered foolish praises in her ear, saying she was beautiful and that he adored her, but she had taken little notice.
　　This man thought her former lively manners meant more than they did. He did not understand that a woman may be cheerful and yet virtuous. He also did not understand that Mrs. Munden had lately changed. The danger with Lord ---- had taught her to hate the very kind of praise she had once enjoyed. But this man still judged her by the old appearance and wrote her a bold letter.
　　In the letter, he said that a beautiful woman should not be tied to one cold husband. He said marriage made men grow tired of the women they possessed. Then he asked her to walk the next morning in the Privy Garden near the water, where he could speak more freely. He did not sign his name, but he thought his eyes had already told her who he was.
　　Mrs. Munden read the letter with anger, but also with a kind of sad understanding. A short time before, she might have gone to the place only to discover the writer and laugh at him. Now she saw that even such curiosity would be dangerous and wrong. She wanted to stop the matter at once. She folded the letter again and enclosed it in another paper with an answer of her own.
　　Her answer was calm, sharp, and clever. She wrote that no man could be foolish enough to send such a letter to the wife of Mr. Munden on purpose. Therefore, she must suppose that he had made a mistake and had sent her a letter meant for some other woman, whose character might suit it better. She warned him that if such an insult came again, she would show it to her husband, who would surely know how to find and punish the writer.
　　This answer had exactly the effect she wished. The young man was ashamed of his failed attempt. He wrote no more and avoided her as much as possible. When chance brought him into the same company, he behaved with great distance and respect. Mrs. Munden was pleased, not because she had gained power over him, but because she had protected herself without noise or scandal.
　　She now saw clearly that being admired for beauty could be dangerous. She no longer wished every eye to turn toward her. Instead, she tried to improve the qualities of her mind that could earn real respect. This was a deep change in her. She was still naturally lively, but she no longer wished liveliness to make men bold.
　　Mr. Munden did not notice this change. He had not been troubled by her old carelessness, and he was not pleased by her new judgment. His thoughts were fixed on Lord ---- and on the hope of gaining back that great man’s favour. He continued to attend the nobleman’s morning meetings and tried to behave more humbly than ever. But Lord ---- received him coldly.
　　Munden understood enough to feel that his hopes were almost gone. Lord ---- knew that Mrs. Munden must have told her husband about his shameful attempt. The nobleman did not blame himself for the wrong he had tried to do. Instead, he was angry because Munden knew of it. Munden, who should have been angry for his wife’s sake, was angry because his own hopes of advancement had been damaged.
　　This made him rougher and colder at home. He looked on Mrs. Munden as the cause of his disappointment. Her beauty, which should have made him proud in a good way, now made him bitter. Her virtue, which should have honoured him, seemed to him only the reason his patron was lost. Nothing she did pleased him, and she needed all her courage to bear his treatment with patience.
　　Her trouble was made worse by loneliness. In her unmarried life she had known many people, but most of them were not true friends. She had laughed and visited with many young women, yet few had calm judgment or deep kindness. Now that she needed someone to whom she could speak honestly, she found how poor such empty acquaintance was. She had changed, but her former way of living had left her almost without a suitable companion.
　　Soon, however, help came from a place she had not expected. Lady Loveit, who had once been Miss Mabel, had returned to London after many months in the country with Sir Bazil. A French milliner had lately arrived from Paris with many fine things, and Lady Loveit went to see them. Mrs. Munden, drawn by the same curiosity, went there too. The two women met in the shop after a long separation.
　　Mrs. Munden felt confused when she first saw her. Lady Loveit’s marriage brought back memories of Trueworth, Sir Bazil, and the lost hopes of the past. Yet the confusion lasted only a moment. The two women embraced with real affection and spoke kindly of each other’s changed condition. Lady Loveit had heard of Mrs. Munden’s marriage, and Mrs. Munden congratulated her on her own.
　　They had gone to the shop to look at small French goods, but they were more interested in each other than in the goods. Still, neither wished to leave without buying something. When they came out, Lady Loveit saw that Mrs. Munden had no coach or chair waiting. She asked where she lived and then offered to take her home in her chariot. Mrs. Munden accepted with pleasure.
　　At Mrs. Munden’s door, she begged Lady Loveit to come in. Lady Loveit excused herself because she expected company at home, but she warmly invited Mrs. Munden to visit her soon. Mrs. Munden promised to come within a day or two. When the chariot drove away, she felt happier than she had felt for many weeks. She believed she had recovered a friend who could be both pleasant and wise.
　　The promised visit was not delayed. Lady Loveit received her with open affection, and they soon talked with the ease of old friends. Mrs. Munden had decided not to mention Trueworth’s name. She still felt too much when she thought of him, though she would not call that feeling love. Yet she longed to hear something about him and guided the conversation toward Lady Loveit’s long stay in the country.
　　Lady Loveit began to explain. After her marriage, many neighbours had visited Sir Bazil’s house. Then she and Sir Bazil had visited Mr. and Mrs. Wellair. After that, they had gone to Mr. Trueworth’s seat in Oxfordshire, where Trueworth and his new wife were received with great honour. There were dinners, visits, and balls, and the whole country seemed to rejoice in their return.
　　Then Lady Loveit’s face changed. She said that in the middle of all this joy, death had suddenly entered the house. Mrs. Munden started so violently that she could not hide it. “Death?” she cried. “Is Mr. Trueworth dead?” Lady Loveit answered quickly that Mr. Trueworth lived, and she hoped he would long remain an honour and blessing to all who knew him.
　　“It was his wife,” Lady Loveit said with tears. “His poor young wife died.” Mrs. Munden could scarcely speak. “His wife?” she repeated. “Is he already a widower?” Lady Loveit said yes, and then told the sad story. Mrs. Trueworth had been married only about three months when she was taken ill while they were all together in a high room that looked over the country.
　　At first the illness seemed not very serious. Because Mrs. Trueworth was thought to be with child, some people even made gentle jokes about it. But she soon grew worse and was carried to bed. By the next morning, signs of fever appeared. Then it became smallpox, and she died before anyone truly understood how great the danger was.
　　Mrs. Munden said she pitied both the dead wife and the living husband. Lady Loveit answered that Trueworth’s grief had been terrible. Sir Bazil, though he had lost a dear sister, had to hide much of his own sorrow so that he could comfort his friend. They stayed for two months after the funeral because Trueworth could hardly bear the blow. They had meant to bring him back to London, but another accident delayed them.
　　Lady Loveit then told how she herself had fallen into a pond while fishing. Sir Bazil and Trueworth both jumped into the water and saved her. The fright made her dangerously ill, and she had to stay in her room for weeks. Later she went first to Bristol and then to Bath to recover her health. Only after all this did she and Sir Bazil return to London.
　　Trueworth had not come with them on the last part of the journey. A seat in Parliament had become open in his county, and many gentlemen had asked him to stand for election. Lady Loveit said they had since heard that he had succeeded. Mrs. Munden listened with a heart full of feelings she could not fully understand. Trueworth was alive, a widower, and now raised higher in public life.
　　Lady Loveit did not see what was passing in her friend’s mind. She thought Mrs. Munden’s interest came only from old acquaintance and pity. Soon other ladies came in, and the private conversation ended. Mrs. Munden took leave soon after, but she carried home enough matter for a sleepless night. She could not forget the words: Trueworth lives, and his wife is dead.
　　Mrs. Munden tried to be just. She knew it was sad that a young, good, and lovely woman had been taken from life so soon. She also knew that Trueworth must have suffered deeply. Her good nature made her pity them both. Yet beneath this pity was another feeling that frightened her when she noticed it.
　　Since her own marriage, she had sometimes compared her fate with Mrs. Trueworth’s. She had thought of Trueworth’s generosity and Munden’s coldness, of Harriot’s happy marriage and her own hard one. She knew the blame was mostly her own, because she had lost Trueworth through vanity and poor judgment. Still, she had often felt as if fate itself had treated the two women very differently.
　　Now the woman she had once envied was dead. Mrs. Munden could not rejoice in such a thing, and she reproached herself whenever any secret pleasure rose in her heart. Yet she could not wholly silence that pleasure. The thought that Trueworth was free again came again and again, even though she herself was not free. She would not name the feeling, but it disturbed her deeply.
　　Lady Loveit and Mrs. Munden now visited each other often. Lady Loveit soon understood that Mrs. Munden was not happy in marriage. Sir Bazil had known enough of Munden’s character to expect it. Lady Loveit pitied her friend sincerely and advised patience, as Lady Trusty had done before. She did not encourage complaint or bitterness, but she tried to save Mrs. Munden from too much solitude.
　　Sir Bazil also treated Mrs. Munden with great kindness. He now saw her real merit and wished to raise her spirits. He and Lady Loveit asked her to join their parties whenever she could do so without angering Munden. This friendship was very useful to her. It showed her that pleasure did not have to be careless or dangerous when shared with honourable people.
　　One evening Mrs. Munden stayed late at Lady Loveit’s house. The conversation was so pleasant, and her friends pressed her so warmly to remain, that she did not leave until the night was far advanced. She felt no great fear of Munden’s displeasure, because he rarely came home before morning. When she reached her own house, she began to undress and prepare for bed. Then a loud knocking sounded at the street door.
　　Her footman came up and said a woman below insisted on speaking with her at once. Mrs. Munden refused. It was too late, and she had no wish to receive unknown visitors at such an hour. The man went down, but returned almost immediately. The visitor would not leave and would take no answer except from Mrs. Munden herself.
　　Mrs. Munden sent her maid to ask the woman’s name and business. The maid came back in surprise. She said the visitor was no common woman, but a fine lady in rich night clothing, with her hair loose and her head dress in disorder. She looked like someone who had rushed out in great distress. Still, she would give her name to no one but Mrs. Munden.
　　Mrs. Munden began to feel that some strange and serious event lay behind this visit. She ordered the footmen to stay near in case she called for them, then went down to the dining room. The visitor was brought in. As soon as Mrs. Munden saw her face, she felt she had seen it before. A moment later the woman threw herself at her feet, weeping.
　　“You once offered me your friendship,” the stranger said. “I was not worthy of it then, but now I come to beg for your pity and protection.” Mrs. Munden recognized her voice. She was the beautiful foreign lady she had once seen singing in the mercer’s back room. Mrs. Munden lifted her gently and told her to sit. She did not yet understand her story, but she promised to help if she could.
　　The lady said her name was Mademoiselle de Roquelair. She was from Paris, the daughter of a respected man who had spent much money on her education. When she was only fifteen, a powerful duke saw her walking in the Tuileries and began to court her. His rank, praise, and fine promises filled her young heart with vanity. She left her father’s house and became the duke’s mistress.
　　For almost two years she lived in splendour. Then enemies accused her falsely, or perhaps partly falsely, of betraying the duke. He cast her off without support. Her father agreed to forgive her only if she left Paris and entered a convent. She was ready to go, miserable and desperate, when she met Mr. Thoughtless.
　　Mrs. Munden started at the name. Mademoiselle saw it and told her plainly that she was the very woman Thomas Thoughtless had brought from Paris and kept in his house like a wife, though without the name. She had lived with him in England for fifteen months. But his jealousy had grown cruel. He shut her away from company and public pleasures, though she lived in the middle of London.
　　That very night, a mercer had come to bring a piece of silk she had ordered. Thomas came home soon after and was told that a man was with her. The door of her room was locked by accident, and Thomas, mad with jealousy, burst in with a drawn sword. The poor mercer jumped from the window into the yard. Thomas ran after him, and Mademoiselle, fearing for her life, escaped into the street with no plan and no friend.
　　In that terrible moment, she remembered Mrs. Munden’s former kindness. She had heard of her goodness and had seen enough to trust it. So she came to her house, begging shelter for one night. Mrs. Munden was deeply disturbed. She suspected that Mademoiselle’s story might not be wholly honest, but she could not turn away a woman in such distress.
　　She ordered a bed to be prepared at once. Then she led Mademoiselle to the room where she would sleep and told her they would speak further in the morning. It was very late, and Mrs. Munden expected her husband to return before long. After wishing her strange guest rest, she went back to her own room. There she sat for some time in silence, thinking of Trueworth, of Munden, of her brother Thomas, and of the unhappy woman now sleeping under her roof.

Part 22: Betrayal at Home

　　Mrs. Munden had only just gone to bed before her husband returned. She was glad of this, because he could not ask why she had stayed up so late. She did not wish to tell him yet about Mademoiselle de Roquelair. First she wanted to learn more about the lady’s story and decide whether it was true. She also wished to know how far her own brother Thomas had been injured by the strange event.
　　As she lay awake, many doubts came to her. Mademoiselle’s story had moved her pity, but it did not fully satisfy her judgment. She could hardly believe that a great duke had cast off a woman he had loved only because of a weak report. She could also hardly believe that Thomas, who was not naturally violent, had drawn his sword without strong cause. The late visit of the mercer, and the locked door, looked very bad.
　　Still, Mrs. Munden’s greatest fear was for Thomas. If he had been mad with jealousy, he might have done something that could destroy both his peace and his name. Early in the morning she sent a servant to his house, pretending only to ask after his health. The servant soon returned and said Thomas was well, though not yet out of bed. This news gave her great relief. Whatever had happened, no blood seemed to have been shed in a way that would ruin him.
　　Then Mrs. Munden went to Mademoiselle’s room. The French lady lay in bed, looking pale, weak, and full of sorrow. Mrs. Munden sat beside her and spoke with kindness, but also with care. She said she pitied her misfortunes, but must know what help she wanted and what could be done without harming Mrs. Munden’s own character or her peace with her brother.
　　Mademoiselle wept and answered that she would ask nothing improper. She did not hope, and did not wish, to return to Thomas. She said she had long been ashamed of her way of life, but had not had strength to change it. Now she wished only to go back to France and enter a convent. “There,” she said, “I may hide myself from the world and try to become better.”
　　These words touched Mrs. Munden deeply. She did not fully believe everything Mademoiselle said, but she believed in the possibility of repentance. She thought Thomas had taken the woman from the path to a convent and was therefore bound in honour to help her reach one now. So she promised to speak to him. She told Mademoiselle to rest, take some food, and ring if she needed anything.
　　The truth of the previous night was worse than Mademoiselle had confessed. Thomas had returned early because he had lost heavily at play. He entered by chance without knocking and heard a man’s laugh upstairs. When a servant told him that the mercer had been with Mademoiselle for several hours, his jealousy became terrible. He ran upstairs with his sword and burst into the locked room.
　　The mercer, in fear, jumped from the window into the yard and broke both his legs. Mademoiselle ran screaming into a corner. Thomas followed the man, but when he saw him lying helpless and begging for mercy, his anger gave way to disgust. He ordered the servants to carry the injured man away in a chair. While the house was in confusion, Mademoiselle escaped into the street and finally came to Mrs. Munden for shelter.
　　Later that morning Mrs. Munden went to Thomas. He was surprised to see her so early, for she seldom visited him without invitation. She told him plainly how Mademoiselle had come to her and how she herself had once offered the woman friendship after meeting her by chance. Thomas answered angrily that this showed the danger of making sudden friendships. He said Mademoiselle could not expect reconciliation from him.
　　Mrs. Munden said she had not come to ask for that. She was concerned for Thomas’s honour, not for his love. If Mademoiselle truly wished to enter a convent, Thomas ought to help her. He had taken her from the chance of doing so before, and now he should send her back to that safer life. Thomas said her wish was likely false, but Mrs. Munden spoke with such force and feeling that he could not refuse at once.
　　At last Thomas said he would think of it and give his answer the next day. In the meantime, Mademoiselle must send for her baggage, for he would have nothing in his house that reminded him of her. Mrs. Munden was satisfied with this much. She returned home and told Mademoiselle what had passed. The French lady thanked her with many words, but Mrs. Munden stopped the flow of praise and told her to write a list of everything she wished brought from Thomas’s house.
　　Mrs. Munden sent her own servant with the list and ordered him to bring Mademoiselle’s things. Until the lady could dress properly, Mrs. Munden thought it best that she should not appear at the family table. She therefore had food sent to her room. Then she began to consider what she should tell Mr. Munden. Since Mademoiselle was now in the house, it would be impossible to hide the matter from him.
　　Munden already knew something. Mademoiselle had rung for a servant while Mrs. Munden was away, and Munden had asked who was upstairs. His man told him what he knew of the night’s events. Munden was surprised, but not enough to change his ordinary habits. He went out to the Park before dinner, and when he returned, he asked his wife about her guest.
　　Mrs. Munden told him everything openly. Munden listened closely and showed neither approval nor strong dislike. He asked a few questions, then seemed to accept the matter. Mrs. Munden, thinking he had no concern in it, spent most of that day with Mademoiselle. She comforted her, strengthened her supposed wish for a better life, and waited for Thomas’s answer.
　　The next morning Thomas wrote that he would help. He said he would pay money to a merchant at Boulogne, so that Mademoiselle could receive enough to enter a convent. Mrs. Munden was pleased and showed the letter to Mademoiselle, who seemed grateful. Mademoiselle came down to dinner that day. Munden treated her with great politeness, and Mrs. Munden had no suspicion of danger.
　　But Munden had seen Mademoiselle only once, and once was enough. Her beauty pleased him, and her bad reputation encouraged him. He believed that if he tried and failed, he could pretend he had only wished to test her repentance. The next morning, while Mrs. Munden was away at Thomas’s house about the Boulogne money, Munden went quietly upstairs to Mademoiselle’s room.
　　He found her sitting sadly, with her head resting on her hand. At first she rose respectfully, because he was the husband of the woman protecting her. Munden soon changed the tone of the meeting. He spoke of her youth and beauty, and asked how such charms could be shut forever in a convent. She listened, surprised but not displeased. Her first show of repentance began to fade almost at once.
　　Munden’s words were soft, flattering, and bold. He said she was made for love and pleasure, not for a dark cell. He kissed her hands and then her lips. Mademoiselle had enough art to seem modest for a short time, but not enough virtue to resist him. Before Mrs. Munden returned, the two had begun a secret connection under the very roof that had given Mademoiselle shelter.
　　From that day, one secret meeting led to another. Mrs. Munden believed she was helping a penitent woman go safely back to France. In truth, Mademoiselle and Munden were laughing at her kindness. When Thomas’s friend was out of town, the payment was delayed for a few days, and this gave them time. Then, when the bill for three hundred louis-d’ors was finally ready, Mademoiselle delayed her departure again with new excuses.
　　Mrs. Munden was patient at first. She thought illness, fear, or some honest difficulty might be the cause. But after more than a week, Thomas sent twice to ask whether his wishes had been obeyed. Mrs. Munden also noticed that Mademoiselle’s eagerness for the convent had become much cooler. At last she went to the lady’s room with more severity than she had ever shown her before.
　　Mademoiselle had stayed out very late the night before. Mrs. Munden said this was a strange hour for a woman who claimed to be a penitent. She asked whether Mademoiselle was now ready to leave and free her from all further concern. Mademoiselle answered insolently that she would trouble her no longer when the young lady she had mentioned was ready to travel with her. Mrs. Munden stared at her in amazement and asked what she meant.
　　Then the truth came out, though not clearly. Mademoiselle said Mr. Munden had promised that she should remain until a proper companion could be found for the journey. Mrs. Munden could hardly speak. She went at once to her husband’s dressing room, her face pale with anger and shock. She told him how Mademoiselle had treated her and asked him to make that ungrateful woman leave the house at once.
　　Munden answered with cold irritation. He said Mademoiselle was Mrs. Munden’s guest, not his, and that he had no concern in women’s quarrels. This answer showed more than he intended. Mrs. Munden saw that no innocent reason could make both the husband and the guest act toward her in such a manner. She returned to her own room, shut herself in, and gave way to tears and passionate grief.
　　After the first storm passed, she began to think more calmly. She had never been jealous by nature, but now she could not explain Munden’s behaviour except by guilt. She had tried to be a good wife, even without love. She had borne coldness, greed, insult, and neglect. This last betrayal, made with a woman whom she herself had sheltered, seemed to break every bond that could still hold her in that house.
　　She decided not to act in a wild or secret way. She wished to be justified not only to herself, but also before her friends. She called Jenny, the maid who attended her, and ordered her to help pack the things that belonged to her personally. She locked up her jewels and small valuables, prepared necessary linen and clothes, and left the rest in proper order.
　　Jenny wept while she worked. At last she could not keep silent. She told Mrs. Munden that a few days before, while going to see her sister in St. Martin’s Lane, she had seen Munden and Mademoiselle step from a hired coach and go together into a bagnio. This proof was terrible, but Mrs. Munden was not surprised as much as she might have been earlier. It only confirmed what her heart had already understood.
　　Mrs. Munden told Jenny to say nothing to Munden. She was going to her brother’s house and would take her own footman Tom with her. If she did not return that night, Tom would send instructions about what should be brought afterward. Then she entered her chair. She could not help crying as she left the house that was legally hers, but where she had become almost a stranger.
　　The servants loved her and were grieved to see her go. Jenny cried so loudly that the others ran out to ask what had happened. When they heard, they sorrowed for the loss of so good a mistress. Mrs. Munden went straight to Thomas, who received her with more affection than he had ever shown before. He approved her conduct and invited her to stay in his house as long as she pleased.
　　At the same time Munden began to think of his own safety. He did not regret hurting his wife. He did not pity her. He only saw that the affair might make trouble for him. He also began to feel tired of Mademoiselle, especially because she seemed likely to become expensive. The money at Boulogne gave him a way to remove her, and he quickly took it.
　　Munden persuaded Mademoiselle to go at once to Boulogne and receive the money before Thomas could stop payment. He promised to prepare private lodgings for her in London and write when they were ready. Mademoiselle believed him. She packed a few things, met him at a place he named, and set off in a post-chaise for Dover. Munden had in fact cast her off, though she did not yet know it.
　　That evening Munden found a letter from his wife. She wrote that she had kept the duties of marriage, while he had broken them almost in every way. Since neither of them could make the other happy, she had left his house forever and placed herself under her friends’ protection. Her friends, she said, would arrange the terms of their separation. She added that she had taken nothing except what had belonged to her before marriage.
　　Munden now saw that she was serious. He learned that she had removed her own chest, bureau, dressing table, cabinet, and other personal things, and that her man and maid had followed her. He did not feel love or repentance, but he feared public noise and trouble. Therefore he began to plan another reconciliation, not because he wanted her happiness, but because he wanted to escape shame and inconvenience.
　　Mrs. Munden, meanwhile, was calmer than he expected. Thomas gave her the best rooms in his house and asked her to take charge of his household. He spoke as a brother should speak and promised protection. They agreed to consult Mr. Markland, the lawyer, about a separate maintenance. A servant was sent to ask him to come the next day.
　　Still, Mrs. Munden wanted the judgment of Lady Loveit. She visited her the next morning and told the whole story without hiding anything. Lady Loveit was grieved by the cause, but approved the decision. She said that to endure such treatment would be wrong not only to herself, but to wives in general. This comforted Mrs. Munden, who then wrote to Lady Trusty and Francis, giving them a full account of what she had done.
　　When Mrs. Munden returned from Lady Loveit’s, a letter from Munden was waiting. He wrote as if she had left him for a small matter and said Mademoiselle was already on her way to Boulogne. He ordered her, under the name of duty, to return to him quickly. In a postscript he added that a wife who left her husband could claim nothing from him. He mixed threats with false tenderness, but she understood both too well.
　　The letter did not weaken her. It reminded her of all his coldness, deceit, and cruelty. She saw that he had not learned regret, only caution. His words made her resolution stronger. Whatever law or custom might say, she knew that she could not return to live with a man who had turned her kindness into shame and her home into a place of betrayal.

Part 23: Love Refused, Death Approaches

　　Mr. Markland did not flatter Mrs. Munden with easy hopes. He told her plainly that the law might not force Munden to give her a separate income, even after all the wrongs she had suffered. “Honour may move him,” he said, “but I fear the law may not.” These words struck Mrs. Munden very hard. She had trusted that justice would protect her, but now she saw that justice and law were not always the same thing.
　　Thomas tried to comfort her at once. He told her that while she had a brother able to support her, she would not be left helpless. Mrs. Munden thanked him with real feeling, but her heart remained heavy. She did not want to live as a burden on her brother. She wanted the right to live apart from a husband who had made married life shameful and unsafe.
　　Mr. Markland, seeing her distress, promised to do everything in his power. He would go to Munden himself and speak as both lawyer and friend. He could not promise success, but he believed that fear of public talk might move Munden where justice did not. Thomas and Mrs. Munden both begged him to use all his skill. He answered kindly that no begging was needed, because injured innocence always deserved help.
　　The next morning Mr. Markland went to Munden’s house. Munden guessed the reason for the visit before the lawyer entered, but he received him with the politeness he usually showed to strangers. Mr. Markland began calmly. He said he was sorry to come on such business, because he had once prepared the marriage papers and had never expected to prepare papers for separation.
　　Munden tried at first to laugh the matter away. He said his wife’s complaint was only a whim, a caprice, and a piece of womanly spite. Mr. Markland answered that if the matter were so light, he would not have come. He warned Munden that Mrs. Munden’s complaints would carry weight, even if the law did not give her everything she deserved.
　　Munden then spoke more sharply. He said she had no right to leave his house and that he could force her home by law. Mr. Markland answered with quiet sense. “You may bring her home,” he said, “but can you keep her there? If she leaves again the same day, must you spend your life chasing her from one house to another?” This question made Munden pause.
　　The lawyer then showed him how ugly the whole affair would look if it became public. Every quarrel, every servant’s story, every wrong word, and every shameful act might be discussed. Munden’s conduct with Mademoiselle de Roquelair could be spoken of openly. His treatment of his wife might become the talk of the town. Munden cared little for virtue, but he cared very much for appearance.
　　At last Munden said that if his wife insisted on living apart, she might do so, but he would not give her one penny. Mr. Markland then pressed him harder. He reminded him that Mrs. Munden’s fortune was in his hands and that to leave her without support would be cruel and dishonourable. Munden answered that she had left by her own choice and should suffer for it. After long argument, he promised only to think about the matter for one week.
　　Munden was, in truth, deeply confused. He had lost hope of gaining Lord ----’s favour again. His wife had left him. The Frenchwoman had become a danger and an expense. Public talk might injure him, and a separate allowance would cost money. All these troubles made him angry, not humble.
　　He blamed Mademoiselle for his new trouble and decided to free himself from her at once. He sent her remaining baggage to Boulogne and wrote that, for his future peace, they must never meet or write again. This was the end of his love for her, if such selfish desire could be called love. He had used her, tired of her, and cast her away as easily as he had betrayed his wife.
　　Mrs. Munden, meanwhile, was not at peace. The first heat of anger had cooled, and now another trouble rose in her mind. She remembered the vows she had made at the altar. She asked herself whether even a bad husband could release a wife from such a solemn promise. Her conscience was delicate, and she feared doing wrong even after she had been deeply wronged.
　　She opened these doubts to Lady Loveit. Lady Loveit listened with deep respect and saw more clearly than ever how much Mrs. Munden had changed. While they were speaking, Sir Bazil came in with a letter. He said that Trueworth was on the road to London and would be with them that evening. The name struck Mrs. Munden like a sudden blow.
　　She rose at once and said she must go. Lady Loveit tried to keep her, saying that only a few small preparations were needed. Sir Bazil laughed and said that perhaps she wished to avoid Trueworth. He added that old love was hard to forget and that Trueworth had often spoken tenderly of Miss Betsy Thoughtless even after his marriage. Mrs. Munden answered as steadily as she could that she had letters and urgent business at home.
　　When she returned to Thomas’s house, she gave way to all the feeling she had hidden. She told herself that Trueworth was too generous to triumph over her misery. Yet his very presence would reproach her, because she had refused gold and chosen dust. She looked back on her own past blindness with bitter wonder. Happiness had once stood before her, and she had turned away from it.
　　The next morning brought a new alarm. Munden sent a threatening letter. He said he would never give up the rights marriage gave him. If she did not return within twenty-four hours, he would use the law to force her back. He warned that if she came by force, she must expect very different treatment from what she might receive if she came willingly.
　　Mrs. Munden trembled at the thought of officers coming to seize her in her brother’s house. Thomas was also disturbed, because such a public scene would dishonour them all. Just then Mr. Markland came by chance, and they showed him the letter. He believed Munden wrote more to frighten than to act. Still, to avoid any insult, he advised Mrs. Munden to hide for a time in a place unknown to her husband.
　　Mr. Markland had a sister-in-law who lived in a pleasant house on the Surrey side of the river. She sometimes received lodgers, and at that moment her rooms were empty. The place was near enough to London for news to reach it quickly, but private enough to keep Mrs. Munden safe. Thomas approved the plan. Mrs. Munden agreed, and they crossed the river together.
　　The house was more beautiful than Mr. Markland had described. Its owner received Mrs. Munden with kindness and respect. They dined together, and it was agreed that Mrs. Munden’s servant should go to town every morning for news. After Thomas and Mr. Markland left, the lady of the house showed her guest the garden. It was quiet, green, and full of flowers.
　　At the end of the garden there was a small wicker gate. Beyond it lay a grassy walk bordered by old trees. A little arbour stood there, covered with sweet flowers. Mrs. Munden was charmed by the place. It seemed made for peace, thought, and rest, and she wondered at herself for once having laughed at a quiet country life.
　　That night she slept better than she had slept for many nights. Early in the morning she woke to the sound of birds and rose before the rest of the house. She went down into the garden and passed through the little gate to the arbour. The fresh air, the flowers, and the silence filled her with a gentle sadness. She thought of Trueworth and remembered how he had once praised such peaceful scenes.
　　She took his picture from her pocket and looked at it tenderly. She told herself that she might at least feel gratitude toward the image of the man who had served her so faithfully. Then memory brought back all his former kindness, his courage, his patience, and his love. Tears came into her eyes. She did not know that the real Trueworth was near enough to see everything.
　　He had come the night before to visit a friend who lived next door. Rising early, he had entered the common garden walk. At first he saw only a graceful woman at a distance. Then he recognized Mrs. Munden and stopped. When she sat in the arbour and took out the picture, he saw that it was his own likeness, the very picture once taken from the painter.
　　Mrs. Munden heard a sound behind her and turned. When she saw Trueworth himself, she gave a cry, dropped the picture, and almost fainted. He sprang over the low hedge and caught her before she fell. “Madam,” he cried, “what has unhappy Trueworth done to frighten you so?” His voice was full of love, surprise, and pain.
　　Mrs. Munden soon recovered herself. She moved away a little and tried to speak calmly. She said she had not feared him, but had only been surprised. Trueworth then picked up the picture and asked how it had come into her hands. She could not invent a false answer. At last she said that the sight of it in her hand told him all he needed to know.
　　Trueworth was overcome. He kissed her hand and said that if he had known this earlier, everything might have been different. He confessed that her power over his heart had never been wholly destroyed. Mrs. Munden tried to call her feeling gratitude, not love. But Trueworth now understood too much. In a moment of passion, he put his arms around her and begged for the same kindness she had given to his picture.
　　Mrs. Munden struggled and commanded him to release her. Her voice was so firm that he obeyed at once. Then she spoke with all the strength honour could give her. She said she would think of him with all the tenderness that duty allowed, but she was a wife. Because of that, they must never meet again. For her peace and reputation, he must avoid her as carefully as she would avoid him.
　　Trueworth submitted. He knew she was right, though the command almost broke his heart. They said farewell with deep pain on both sides. Mrs. Munden turned away quickly so that he would not see her tears. Yet at the gate she looked back once and saw him walking slowly away with folded arms. “Poor Trueworth,” she whispered, and watched him until he was gone.
　　Later, a maid found the picture near the arbour and brought it to Mrs. Munden. She quickly said it was the picture of her youngest brother and rewarded the maid for returning it. She was glad to have it again, but she also saw how dangerous it was to keep such an object near her heart. Trueworth, faithful to his promise, left the place that very day and returned to London. Mrs. Munden stayed indoors until he was gone.
　　For several days she heard nothing from Munden. Mr. Markland tried again and again to see him, but was told each time that he was ill. At first everyone believed this was only another excuse. In truth, Munden had fallen into a violent fever. His body had been weakened by disorder and excess, and his mind had been shaken by fear, anger, and shame.
　　As death came nearer, Munden began to see his life differently. His pride and unbelief could not protect him then. He remembered his cruelty, his selfishness, and above all his treatment of a wife who had deserved better. He sent again and again to Thomas, begging that Mrs. Munden might be told he wished to see her before he died. At last Thomas sent her a letter, saying that the danger was real and that she must decide quickly.
　　Mrs. Munden did not hesitate. Her anger, her dislike, and her fear all gave way to compassion and duty. She went at once to Munden’s house. As she entered his room, he heard her voice and asked if his wife had come. She opened the curtain gently and told him that she was there and ready to give any help in her power.
　　Munden took her hand with great weakness. He said he had wronged her deeply and begged her to forgive him. If he lived, he promised to try to deserve that forgiveness. Mrs. Munden was truly moved. She told him she hoped Heaven would restore his health and that they might yet live together in a proper and peaceful way.
　　“Then you will not leave me?” he asked. She answered, “Never, unless your own behaviour tells me that you do not wish me to stay.” These words gave him comfort. He tried to say more, but his voice failed. She promised to remain in the room day and night and asked him to rest. He pressed his face to hers in silent gratitude.
　　For a short time he seemed calmer. Mrs. Munden wrote quickly to Lady Loveit, explaining the sudden change in her affairs. Before long, Munden woke in great pain. The doctor and apothecary were sent for, but they came too late. Before either arrived, Mr. Munden breathed his last.
　　Mrs. Munden’s grief was real. She had not loved him as a wife loves a good husband, but she had pitied him deeply in his last suffering. His repentance and his tenderness at the end touched her heart. She withdrew into another room and shut herself in for several hours. There she thought of life, death, duty, and the world to come.

Part 24: The Corrected Heart

　　After Munden’s death, Mrs. Munden did not behave like a woman suddenly freed from trouble. She remembered his cruelty, but she also remembered his last repentance. In his final hour he had asked forgiveness with a broken heart, and she could not think of that without tears. She ordered everything proper for his funeral and showed all the respect that his place as her husband required. Those who saw her conduct could not say that she had failed in any duty.
　　Her friends soon heard the news. Thomas came to her at once and gave her all the comfort a brother could give. Lady Loveit also came and stayed with her as much as she could. Trueworth heard of Munden’s death, but he did not rush to her with selfish hope. He knew her mind was serious and delicate, and he knew that even freedom gained by death must be treated with quiet respect.
　　Mrs. Munden herself was changed by all that had happened. She had once loved public pleasure, quick praise, and the power of being admired. Now she looked back on those things almost with shame. They had brought her into danger, caused pain to others, and helped lead her into a marriage without love. She did not hate cheerfulness, but she no longer confused it with happiness.
　　During the first weeks of widowhood, she stayed mostly in private. She read, thought, prayed, and examined her own past life. She did not excuse herself by blaming Munden alone. His faults had been many and heavy, but her own earlier vanity had placed her where such misery could reach her. This honest self-knowledge was painful, but it made her stronger.
　　Trueworth came once to Lady Loveit’s house while Mrs. Munden was there. She had prepared herself for such a meeting, yet her heart trembled when he entered. He spoke to her with deep respect and did not say one word that could trouble her honour. She answered with calmness, though her face changed more than she wished. Both understood each other too well to need many words.
　　The conversation turned chiefly on Mrs. Munden’s plan to leave London. She had decided to go to L----e and live for a time with Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty. Lady Loveit was very sorry to lose her, but approved the decision. London had too many memories, too many eyes, and too many temptations. In the quiet country, Mrs. Munden could mourn properly and give her mind time to become fully settled.
　　When she took leave of Lady Loveit and Sir Bazil, the parting was very tender. They embraced again and again and promised to write often. Sir Bazil, usually so lively, was moved and spoke with real feeling. Trueworth also took leave of her. His words were polite and few, but his voice shook, and she could not stop a deep sigh. Their feelings were clear to each other, though no one else fully understood them.
　　That night Mrs. Munden slept little. She knew that leaving London was wise, but wisdom did not make it easy. The next morning she began her journey to L----e. Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty received her with open joy and treated her not as a guest, but almost as a daughter. In that peaceful house she found the safety that she had needed for many years.
　　The country, which she had once mocked as dull, now seemed full of comfort. The quiet walks, the fresh air, and the steady kindness of good people pleased her more than the loud pleasures of town. She remembered how she had once laughed at Trueworth’s praise of such a life. Now she understood him better. The change in her own heart made the same fields and trees look different.
　　She kept her mourning with care. She did not shut herself away in a gloomy manner, but she avoided all light and improper amusement. She helped Lady Trusty in household matters, visited poor families, read useful books, and learned to be happy without constant noise. Sometimes she walked alone and thought of the road by which she had come to this quieter self. Those thoughts were not always sweet, but they were healthy.
　　Trueworth did not forget her. He also did not press her before the proper time. Through Lady Loveit and Sir Bazil he heard of her conduct in L----e, and every report increased his respect. The woman he had once loved for beauty and spirit had become more worthy of love through judgment and self-command. His own affection, which had survived so many changes, now became calmer and deeper.
　　A full year passed after Munden’s death. During that year Mrs. Munden paid every outward respect to her husband’s memory. No one could accuse her of haste, lightness, or want of feeling. Her friends saw that she had done enough, even for a better husband than Munden had been. Lady Trusty therefore thought it was time to speak to her about marriage again.
　　One day, when Mrs. Munden seemed more cheerful than usual, Lady Trusty began carefully. She said that Mr. Munden had been dead a year and that no one could blame Mrs. Munden if she listened to a proper offer. Mrs. Munden looked surprised and asked what kind of offer she meant. Lady Trusty answered that two gentlemen in the neighbourhood had asked Sir Ralph and herself to speak for them.
　　One was Mr. Woodland, a gentleman with a good estate and rich expectations. The other was the vicar, who had good church livings and had lately gained a large fortune by his elder brother’s death. Lady Trusty said that neither was unworthy of thought. Mrs. Munden answered with more spirit than she had shown for some time. Of the vicar, she said that if he became a bishop, he would have little time for a wife. Of Mr. Woodland, she had one strong objection: she did not like him and was sure she never could.
　　Lady Trusty was a little hurt by the sharpness of this answer. She said that in L----e, unlike London, men were known for what they really were. No one there would offer himself unless he believed he could receive the approval of a woman’s friends. Mrs. Munden softened at once. She said she did not mean to despise the country or Lady Trusty’s judgment. But she had not come to L----e to seek a husband, and she begged that these gentlemen should be discouraged.
　　In truth, another hope already filled her heart. News had lately come that Lady Loveit had safely given birth to a son. News had also come that Thomas Thoughtless had married a young lady of good family and large fortune. Francis had obtained leave from his regiment and would soon visit L----e after attending Thomas’s wedding. All this should have delighted Mrs. Munden greatly.
　　Yet even these happy family events took second place in her mind. She had reason to expect Trueworth soon, and every sound at the door made her heart move. She tried to hide this from Lady Trusty, because she had never fully told her what had passed between Trueworth and herself. But joy is hard to hide. Her eyes had a light in them that no ordinary news could explain.
　　At last Trueworth came. A fine equipage stopped before Sir Ralph’s house, and a servant brought in his name. Mrs. Munden heard it and could hardly remain still. She went down with a beating heart, but with all the dignity she could command. Trueworth stood before her, respectful, moved, and full of hope.
　　For a moment neither could speak freely. Then he told her that a year of silence had not changed him. He had waited because he honoured her mourning and her character. Now, if she would allow it, he came to ask for the happiness that had been lost once through misunderstanding, pride, and ill fortune. He did not speak as a young lover making a light request. He spoke as a man who knew the value of what he asked.
　　Mrs. Munden listened with tears in her eyes. She no longer needed to hide her heart behind pride. “You know that you have my heart,” she said at last. “You cannot doubt my hand.” These few words gave Trueworth more joy than all the praises he had ever received. He kissed her hand with deep tenderness, and both felt that years of pain had ended in one quiet moment.
　　They stayed together for some time, speaking of the past with sorrow and of the future with hope. Mrs. Munden did not pretend that she had always been wise. Trueworth did not accuse her. He said that both had suffered, and perhaps suffering had prepared them to value happiness more rightly. Their love was now no longer the restless feeling of youth. It was joined to respect, experience, and trust.
　　Mrs. Munden then remembered Lady Trusty, who had been left in great wonder upstairs. She led Trueworth to her and said, with a blush, that she wished to present a gentleman whose name and character Lady Trusty already knew. Lady Trusty received him warmly. She had long respected him and now saw, from both faces, more than words had yet told her. Trueworth said he feared he had come to rob her of a dear companion.
　　Lady Trusty answered that if he succeeded in that robbery, he would repay her fully by placing Mrs. Munden in such good hands. Sir Ralph came in soon after and was surprised to find the visitor, but when he heard the name, he welcomed Trueworth with equal kindness. Trueworth then explained his purpose openly. Sir Ralph and Lady Trusty gave their approval with pleasure.
　　The good old couple were delighted by this event. They had once helped lead Betsy into marriage with Munden because they thought it safe. Now they saw a far better union, one based on affection as well as reason. Lady Trusty looked at Mrs. Munden with tears of joy. Sir Ralph shook Trueworth’s hand and said that no man could be more welcome in his house.
　　Soon Francis arrived in L----e. Lady Trusty, who wished to surprise him, told him only that a matter of great joy waited for him. When he entered and learned that his sister was to marry Trueworth, his happiness broke out at once. He ran first to Mrs. Munden and then to Trueworth, hardly able to speak for joy. He said he had once hoped for this honour, then had lost all hope, and now could scarcely believe it had come true.
　　Trueworth then gave Mrs. Munden a legal paper. She asked what it was. Sir Ralph answered for him, saying it was a settlement of eight hundred pounds a year for her, in case any future accident should leave her alone. Mrs. Munden accepted it as a proof of Trueworth’s affection, but said she hoped never to live to receive any advantage from it. Trueworth was deeply touched by this answer.
　　The whole company spent that evening in sincere happiness. There was no noisy display, no vain show, and no empty flattery. Each person rejoiced in a way that suited the heart. Lady Trusty rejoiced like a mother. Sir Ralph rejoiced like an old friend. Francis rejoiced like a loving brother. Trueworth and Mrs. Munden rejoiced quietly, as people who know that happiness has come after many trials.
　　The next morning their wishes were completed. Mrs. Munden became Mrs. Trueworth. This marriage was very different from her first one. There was no inward doubt, no cold submission to family pressure, and no secret regret. She gave her hand freely, because her heart, her judgment, and her friends all agreed.
　　Letters were sent at once to those who cared for them. Thomas, though busy with his own new happiness, rejoiced in his sister’s good fortune. Sir Bazil was sincerely glad, for he now knew and respected her true character. Lady Loveit’s joy was even warmer. She had seen Mrs. Munden’s suffering and change, and she could now rejoice without fear.
　　Many others who knew her shared in her happiness. Some had once judged her lightly, and perhaps not always without cause. But those who understood the full course of her life saw a better truth. Her faults had been real, but they had been corrected. Her good qualities, once clouded by vanity, now shone more clearly.
　　Thus the woman once called thoughtless found the happiness she had delayed by her own folly. She was not rewarded while she remained careless, vain, and proud. She was rewarded only after experience had taught her judgment, humility, and self-command. Her story ended not only in marriage, but in a corrected heart. In that correction lay the true promise of her future peace.