CHARLOTTE. A TALE OF TRUTH.
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“ARE you for a walk,” &longs;aid Montraville to
his companion, as they aro&longs;e from table;
“are you for a walk? or &longs;hall we order the chai&longs;e
and proceed to Port&longs;mouth?” Belcour preferred
the former; and they &longs;auntered out to view the town,
and to make remarks on the inhabitants, as they returned
from church.
Montraville was a Lieutenant in the army:
Belcour was his brother officer: they had been to
take leave of their friends previous to their departure
for America, and were now returning to
Port&longs;mouth, where the troops waited orders for
embarkation. They had &longs;topped at Chiche&longs;ter to
dine; and knowing they had &longs;ufficient time to
reach the place of de&longs;tination before dark, and yet
allow them a walk, had re&longs;olved, it being Sunday
afternoon, to take a &longs;urvey of the Chiche&longs;ter ladies
as they returned from their devotions.
They had gratified their curio&longs;ity, and were
preparing to return to the inn without honouring
any of the belles with particular notice, when
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Madame Du Pont, at the head of her &longs;chool,
de&longs;cended from the church. Such an a&longs;&longs;emblage
of youth and innocence naturally attracted the
young &longs;oldiers: they &longs;topped; and, as the little
cavalcade pa&longs;&longs;ed, almo&longs;t involuntarily pulled off
thir hats. A tall, elegant girl looked at Montraville
and blu&longs;hed: he in&longs;tantly recollected the
features of Charlotte Temple, whom he had once
&longs;een and danced with at a ball at Port&longs;mouth. At
that time he thought on her only as a very lovely
child, &longs;he being then only thirteen; but the improvement
two years had made in her per&longs;on, and
the blu&longs;h of recollection which &longs;uffu&longs;ed her cheeks
as &longs;he pa&longs;&longs;ed, awakened in his bo&longs;om new and pleasing
ideas. Vanity led him to think that plea&longs;ure
at again beholding him might have occa&longs;ioned the
emotion he had witne&longs;&longs;ed, and the &longs;ame vanity led
him to wi&longs;h to &longs;ee her again.
“She is the &longs;weete&longs;t girl in the world,” &longs;aid
he, as he entered the inn. Belcour &longs;tared. “Did
you not notice her?” continued Montraville: &longs;he
had on a blue bonnet, and with a pair of lovely eyes
of the &longs;ame colour, has contrived to make me feel
devili&longs;h odd about the heart.”
“Pho,” &longs;aid Belcour, “a mu&longs;ket ball from our
friends, the Americans, may in le&longs;s than two months
make you feel wor&longs;e.”
“I never think of the future,” replied Montraville;
but am determined to make the mo&longs;t of
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the pre&longs;ent, and would willingly compound with
any kind Familiar who would inform me who the
girl is, and how I might be likely to obtain an
interview.”
But no kind Familiar at that time appearing,
and the chai&longs;e which they had ordered driving
up to the door, Montraville and his companion
were obliged to take leave of Chiche&longs;ter and its
fair inhabitant, and proceed on their journey.
But Charlotte had made too great an impre&longs;&longs;ion
on his mind to be ea&longs;ily eradicated: having therefore
&longs;pent three whole days in thinking on her and
in endeavouring to form &longs;ome plan for &longs;eeing her,
he determined to &longs;et off for Chiche&longs;ter, and tru&longs;t
to chance either to favour or fru&longs;trate his de&longs;igns.
Arriving at the verge of the town, he di&longs;mounted,
and &longs;ending the &longs;ervant forward with the hor&longs;es,
proceeded toward the place, where, in the mid&longs;t
of an exten&longs;ive plea&longs;ure ground, &longs;tood the man&longs;ion
which contained the lovely Charlotte Temple.
Montraville leaned on a broken gate, and looked
earne&longs;tly at the hou&longs;e. The wall which &longs;urrounded
it was high, and perhaps the Argus's who guarded
the He&longs;perian fruit within, were more watchful
than tho&longs;e famed of old.
“'Tis a romantic attempt,” &longs;aid he; “and
&longs;hould I even &longs;ucceed in &longs;eeing and conver&longs;ing
with her, it can be productive of no good: I mu&longs;t
of nece&longs;&longs;ity leave England in a few days, and
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probably may never return; why then &longs;hould I
endeavour to engage the affections of this lovely
girl, only to leave her a prey to a thou&longs;and inquietudes,
of which at pre&longs;ent &longs;he has no idea? I will
return to Port&longs;mouth and think no more about her.”
The evening now was clo&longs;ed; a &longs;erene &longs;tilne&longs;s
reigned; and the cha&longs;te Queen of Night with her
&longs;ilver cre&longs;cent faintly illuminated the hemi&longs;phere.
The mind of Montraville was hu&longs;hed into composure
by the &longs;erenity of the &longs;urrounding objects.
“I will think on her no more,” &longs;aid he, and
turned with an intention to leave the place; but
as he turned, he &longs;aw the gate which led to the
plea&longs;ure grounds open, and two women come
out, who walked arm-in-arm acro&longs;s the field.
“I will at lea&longs;t &longs;ee who the&longs;e are,” &longs;aid he. He
overtook them, and giving them the compliments
of the evening, begged leave to &longs;ee them into the
more frequented parts of the town: but how was
he delighted, when, waiting for an an&longs;wer, he
di&longs;covered, under the concealment of a large bonnet,
the face of Charlotte Temple.
He &longs;oon found means to ingratiathe him&longs;elf with
her companion, who was a French teacher at the
&longs;chool, and, at parting, &longs;lipped a letter he had
purpo&longs;ely written, into Charlotte's hand, and five
guineas into that of Mademoi&longs;elle, who promi&longs;ed
&longs;he would endeavour to bring her young charge
into the field again the next evening.
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Chapter II. DOMESTIC CONCERNS.
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Mr. Temple was the younge&longs;t &longs;on of a nobleman
who&longs;e fortune was by no means
adequate to the antiquity, grandeur, and I may
add, pride of the family. He &longs;aw his elder
brother made completely wretched by marrying a
di&longs;agreeable woman, who&longs;e fortune helped to prop
the &longs;inking dignity of the hou&longs;e; and he beheld
his &longs;i&longs;ters legally pro&longs;tituted to old, decrepid men,
who&longs;e titles gave them con&longs;equence in the eyes of
the world, and who&longs;e affluence rendered them
&longs;plendidly mi&longs;erable. “I will not &longs;acrifice
internal happine&longs;s for outward &longs;hew,” &longs;aid he:
“I will &longs;eek Content; and, if I find her in a
cottage, will embrace her with as much cordiality
as I &longs;hould if &longs;eated on a throne.”
Mr. Temple po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed a &longs;mall e&longs;tate of about five
hundred pounds a year; and with that he re&longs;olved
to pre&longs;erve independence, to marry where the
feelings of his heart &longs;hould direct him, and to
confine his expen&longs;es within the limits of his
income. He had a heart open to every generous
feeling of humanity, and a hand ready to di&longs;pen&longs;e
to tho&longs;e who wanted part of the ble&longs;&longs;ings he
enjoyed him&longs;elf.
As he was univer&longs;ally known to be the friend
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of the unfortunate, his advice and bounty was
frequently &longs;olicited; nor was it &longs;eldom that he
&longs;ought out indigent merit, and rai&longs;ed it from
ob&longs;curity, confining his own expen&longs;es within a
very narrow compa&longs;s.
“You are a benevolent fellow,” &longs;aid a young
officer to him one day; “and I have a great
mind to give you a fine &longs;ubject to exerci&longs;e the
goodne&longs;s of your heart upon.”
“You cannot oblige me more,” &longs;aid Temple,
“than to point out any way by which I can be
&longs;erviceable to my fellow creatures.”
“Come along then,” &longs;aid the young man,
“we will go and vi&longs;it a man who is not in &longs;o
good a lodging as he de&longs;erves; and, were it not
that he has an angel with him, who comforts and
&longs;upports him, he mu&longs;t long &longs;ince have &longs;unk under
his misfortunes.” The young man's heart was
too full to proceed; and Temple, unwilling to
irritate his feeling by making further enquiries,
followed him in &longs;ilence, till they arrived at the
Fleet pri&longs;on.
The officer enquired for Captain Eldridge: a
per&longs;on led them up &longs;everal pair of dirty &longs;tairs,
and pointing to a door which led to a mi&longs;erable,
&longs;mall apartment, &longs;aid that was the Captain's
room, and retired.
The officer, who&longs;e name was Blakeney, tapped
at the door, and was bid to enter by a voice
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melodiou&longs;ly &longs;oft. He opened the door, and discovered
to Temple a &longs;cene which rivetted him to the
&longs;pot with a&longs;toni&longs;hment.
The apartment, though &longs;mall, and bearing &longs;trong
marks of poverty, was neat in the extreme. In an
arm-chair, his head reclined upon his hand, his eyes
fixed on a book which lay open before him, &longs;at an
aged man in a Lieutenant's uniform, which, though
threadbare, would &longs;ooner call a blu&longs;h of &longs;hame into
the face of tho&longs;e who could neglect real merit, than
cau&longs;e the hectic of confu&longs;ion to glow on the cheeks of
him who wore it.
Be&longs;ide him &longs;at a lovely creature bu&longs;ied in painting
a fan mount. She was fair as the lily, but &longs;orrow
had nipped the ro&longs;e in her cheek before it was half
blown. Her eyes were blue; and her hair, which
was light brown, was &longs;lightly confined under a
plain mu&longs;lin cap, tied round with a black ribbon;
a white linnen gown and plain lawn handkerchief
compo&longs;ed the remainder of her dre&longs;s; and in this
&longs;imple attire, &longs;he was more irre&longs;i&longs;tibly charming to
&longs;uch a heart as Temple's, than &longs;he would have
been, if adorned with all the &longs;plendor of a courtly
belle.
When they entered, the old man aro&longs;e from his
&longs;eat, and &longs;haking Blakeney by the hand with great
cordiality, offered Temple his chair; and there
being but three in the room, &longs;eated mim&longs;elf on the
&longs;ide of his little bed, with evident compo&longs;ure.
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“This is a &longs;trange place,” &longs;aid he to Temple,
“to receive vi&longs;itors of di&longs;tinction in; but we mu&longs;t
fit our feelings to our &longs;tation. While I am not
a&longs;hamed to own the cau&longs;e which brought me here,
why &longs;hould I blu&longs;h at my &longs;ituation? Our misfortunes
are not our faults; and where it not for that
poor girl—”
Here the philo&longs;opher was lo&longs;t in the father. He
ro&longs;e ha&longs;tily from his &longs;eat, and walking toward the
window, wiped of a tear which he was afraid would
tarni&longs;h the cheek of a &longs;ailor.
Temple ca&longs;t his eye on Mi&longs;s Eldridge; a pellucid
drop had &longs;tolen from her eyes, and fallen upon a
ro&longs;e &longs;he was painting. It blotted and di&longs;coloured
the flower. “'Tis emblematic,” &longs;aid he mentally:
“the ro&longs;e of youth and health &longs;oon &longs;ades when wa
“tered by the tear of affliction.”
“My friend Blakeney,” &longs;aid he, addre&longs;&longs;ing the
old man, “told me I could be of &longs;ervice to you:
be &longs;o kind then, dear Sir, as to point out &longs;ome way
in which I can relieve the anxiety of your heart and
increa&longs;e the plea&longs;ures of my own.”
“My good young man,” &longs;aid Eldridge, “you
know not what you offer. While deprived of my
liberty I cannot be free from anxiety on my own account;
but that is a trifling concern; my anxious
thoughts extend to one more dear a thou&longs;and times
than life: I am a poor weak old man, and mu&longs;t expect
in a few years to &longs;ink into &longs;ilence and oblivion;
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but when I am gone, who will protect that fair bud
of innocence from the bla&longs;ts of adver&longs;ity, or from
the cruel hand of in&longs;ult and di&longs;honour.”
“Oh, my father!” cried Mi&longs;s Eldridge, tenderly
taking his hand, “be not anxious on that account;
for daily are my prayers offered to heaven
that our lives may terminate at the &longs;ame in&longs;tant, and
one grave receive us both; for why &longs;hould I live
when deprived of my only friend.”
Temple was moved even to tears. You will both
live many years, &longs;aid he, and I hope &longs;ee much happiness.
Cheerly, my friend, cheerly; the&longs;e pa&longs;&longs;ing
clouds of adver&longs;ity will &longs;erve only to make the sunshine
of pro&longs;perity more plea&longs;ing. But we are losing
time: you might ere this have told me who
were your creditors, what were their demands, and
other particulars nece&longs;&longs;ary to your liberation.
“My &longs;tory is &longs;hort,” &longs;aid Mr. Eldridge, “but
there are &longs;ome particulars which will wring my
heart barely to remember; yet to one who&longs;e offers
of friend&longs;hip appear &longs;o open and di&longs;intere&longs;ted, I will
relate every circum&longs;tance that led to my pre&longs;ent,
painful &longs;ituation. But my child, continued he, addressing
his daughter, “let me prevail on you to
take this opportunity, while my friends are with
me, to enjoy the benefit of air and exerci&longs;e. Go, my
love; leave me now; to-morrow at your u&longs;ual hour
I will expect you.”
Mi&longs;s Eldridge impre&longs;&longs;ed on his cheek the ki&longs;s of
filial affection, and obeyed.
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Chapter III. UNEXPECTED MISFORTUNES.
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“My life,” &longs;aid Mr. Eldridge, “till within
the&longs;e few years was marked by no particular
circum&longs;tance de&longs;erving notice. I early embraced
the life of a &longs;ailor, and have &longs;erved my
King with unremitted ardour for many years.
At the age of twenty-five I married an amiable
woman; one &longs;on and the girl who ju&longs;t now left
us, were the fruits of our union. My boy had
genious and &longs;pirit. I &longs;traitened my little income
to give him a liberal education, but the rapid
progre&longs;s he made in his &longs;tudies amply compen&longs;ated
for the inconvenience. At the academy where he
received his education he commenced an acquaintance
with a Mr. Lewis, a young man of affluent
fortune: as they grew up their intimacy ripened
into friend&longs;hip, and they became almo&longs;t in&longs;eparable
companions.
“George cho&longs;e the profe&longs;&longs;ion of a &longs;oldier. I had
neither friends or money to procure him a commission,
and had wi&longs;hed him to embrace a nautical life:
but this was repugnant to his wi&longs;hes, and I cea&longs;ed
to urge him on the &longs;ubject.
“The friend&longs;hip &longs;ub&longs;i&longs;ting between Lewis and
my &longs;on was of &longs;uch a nature as gave him free acce&longs;s
to our family; and &longs;o &longs;pecious was his manner that
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we he&longs;itated not to &longs;tate to him all our little difficulties
in regard to George's future views. He li&longs;tened
to us with attention, and offered to advance any
&longs;um nece&longs;&longs;ary for his fir&longs;t &longs;etting out.
“I embraced the offer, and gave him my note
for the payment of it, but he would not &longs;uffer me
to mention any &longs;tipulated time, as he &longs;aid I might
do it whenever mo&longs;t convenient to my&longs;elf. About
this time my dear Lucy returned from &longs;chool, and
I &longs;oon began to imagine Lewis looked at her with
eyes of affection. I gave my child a caution to beware
of him,and to look on her mother as her friend.
She was unaffectedly artle&longs;s; and when, as I suspected,
Lewis made profe&longs;&longs;ions of love, &longs;he con&longs;ided in
her parents, and a&longs;&longs;ured us her heart was perfectly
unbia&longs;&longs;ed in his favour, and &longs;he would chearfully submit
to our direction.
“I took an early opportunity of que&longs;tioning him
concerning his intentions towards my child: he
gave an equivocal an&longs;wer, and I forbade him the
hou&longs;e.
“The next day lie &longs;ent and demanded payment
of his money. It was not in my power to comply
with the demand. I reque&longs;ted three days to endeavour
to rai&longs;e it, determining in that time to
mortgage my half pay, and live on a &longs;mall annuity
which my wife po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed, rather than be under an
obligation to &longs;o worthle&longs;s a man: but this &longs;hort
time was not allowed me; for that evening, as I
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was &longs;itting down to &longs;upper, un&longs;u&longs;picious of danger,
an officer entered, and tore me from the embraces
of my family.
“My wife had been for &longs;ome time in a declining
&longs;tate of health: ruin at once &longs;o unexpected
and inevitable was a &longs;troke &longs;he was not prepared
to bear, and I &longs;aw her &longs;aint into the arms of our
&longs;ervant, as I left my own habitation for the comfortless
walls of a pri&longs;on. My poor Lucy, distracted
with her fears for us both, &longs;unk on the
floor and endeavoured to detain me by her feeble
efforts; but in vain; they forced open her arms;
&longs;he &longs;hrieked, and fell pro&longs;trate. But pardon me. The
horrors of that night unman me. I cannot proceed.”
He ro&longs;e from his &longs;eat, and walked &longs;everal times
acro&longs;s the room: at length, attaining more composure,
he cried—“What a mere infant I am! Why,
Sir, I never felt thus in the day of battle.”
“No,” &longs;aid Temple; “but the truly brave
&longs;oul is tremblingly alive to the feelings of humanity.”
“True,” replied the old man, (&longs;omething
like &longs;atisfaction darting acro&longs;s his features) “and
painful as the&longs;e feelings are, I would not exchange
them for that torpor which the &longs;toic mi&longs;takes for
philo&longs;ophy. How many exqui&longs;it delights &longs;hould
I have pa&longs;&longs;ed by unnoticed, but for the&longs;e keen sensations,
this quick &longs;en&longs;e of happine&longs;s or mi&longs;ery?
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Then let us, my friend, take the cup of life as it is
pre&longs;ented to us, tempered by the hand of a wife
Providence; be thankful for the good, be patient
under the evil, and pre&longs;ume not to enquire why the
latter predominates.”
“This is true philo&longs;ophy,” &longs;aid Temple.
“'Tis the only way to reconcile our&longs;elves to the
cro&longs;s events of life,” replied he. “But I forgot
my&longs;elf. I will not longer intrude on your patience,
but proceed in my melancholy tale.
“The very evening that I was taken to pri&longs;on,
my &longs;on arrived from Irelend, where he had been
&longs;ome time with his regiment. From the di&longs;tracted
expre&longs;&longs;ions of his mother and &longs;i&longs;ter, he learnt by
whom I had been arre&longs;ted; and, late as it was, flew
on the wings of wounded affection, to the hou&longs;e of his
fal&longs;e friend, and earne&longs;tly enquired the cau&longs;e of this
cruel conduct. With all the calmne&longs;s of a cool
deliberate villain, he avowed his pa&longs;&longs;ion for Lucy;
declared her &longs;ituation in life would not permit him
to marry her; but offered to relea&longs;e me immediately,
and make any &longs;ettlement on her, if George would
per&longs;uade her to live, as he impiou&longs;ly termed it, a
life of honour.
“Fired at the in&longs;ult offered to a man and a foldier,
my boy &longs;truck the villain, and a challenge ensued.
He then went to a coffee-hou&longs;e in the neighbourhood
and wrote a long affectionate letter to
me, blaming him&longs;elf &longs;everely for having introduced
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Lewis into the family, or permitted him to confer
an obligation, which had brought inevitable ruin on
us all. He begged me, whatever might be the
event of the en&longs;uing morning, not to &longs;uffer regret
or unavailing &longs;orrow for his fate, to encrea&longs;e the
angui&longs;h of my heart, which he greatly feared was
already in&longs;upportable.
“This letter was delivered to me early in the
morning. It would be in vain to attempt de&longs;cribing
my feelings on the peru&longs;al of it; &longs;uffice it to &longs;ay,
that a merciful Providence interpo&longs;ed, and I was
for three weeks in&longs;en&longs;ible to mi&longs;eries almo&longs;t beyond
the &longs;trength of human nature to &longs;upport.
“A fever and &longs;trong delirium &longs;eized me, and my
life was de&longs;paired of. At length nature, overpowered
with fatigue, gave way to the &longs;alutary power
of re&longs;t, and a quiet &longs;lumber of &longs;ome hours re&longs;tored me
to rea&longs;on, though the extreme weakne&longs;s of my frame
prevented my feeling my di&longs;tre&longs;s &longs;o acutely as I
otherways &longs;hould.
“The fir&longs;t object that &longs;truck me on awaking,
was Lucy &longs;itting by my bed&longs;ide; her pale countenance
and &longs;able dre&longs;s prevented my enquiries for
poor George: for the letter I had received from
him, was the fir&longs;t thing that occurred to my memory.
By degrees the re&longs;t returned: I recollected
being arre&longs;ted, but could no ways account for being
in this apartment, whither they had conveyed
me during my illne&longs;s.
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“I was &longs;o weak as to be almo&longs;t unable to &longs;peak.
pre&longs;&longs;ed Lucy's hand, and looked earne&longs;tly round the
apartment in &longs;earch of another dear object.
“Where is your mother?” &longs;aid I, faintly.
“The poor girl could not an&longs;wer: &longs;he &longs;hook her
head in expre&longs;&longs;ive &longs;ilence; and throwing her&longs;elf on
the bed, folded her arms about me, and bur&longs;t into
tears.
“What! both gone &longs;aid I.
“Both, &longs;he replied, endeavouring to re&longs;train her
emotions: “but they are happy, no doubt.”
Here Mr. Eldridge pau&longs;ed: the recollection of
the &longs;cene was too painful to permit him to proceed.
Chapter IV. CHANGE OF FORTUNE.
“It was &longs;ome days,” continued Mr. Eldridge,
recovering him&longs;elf, “before I could venture
to enquire the particulars of what had happened
during my illne&longs;s: at length I a&longs;&longs;umed courage to
a&longs;k my dear girl how long her mother and brother
had been dead: &longs;he told me, that the morning
after my arre&longs;t, George came home early to enquire
after his mother's health, &longs;taid with them but a few
minutes, &longs;eemed greatly agitated at parting, but
gave them &longs;trict charge to keep up their &longs;pirits,
and hope every thing would turn out for the be&longs;t.
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In about two hours after, as they were &longs;itting at
breakfa&longs;t, and endeavouring to &longs;trike out &longs;ome plan
to attain my liberty, they heard a loud rap at the
door, which Lucy running to open, &longs;he met the
bleeding body of her brother, borne in by two
men who had lifted him from a litter, on which
they had brought him from the place where he
fought. Her poor mother, weakened by illne&longs;s and
the &longs;truggles of the preceding night, was not able
to &longs;upport this &longs;hock: ga&longs;ping for her breath, her
looks wild and haggard, &longs;he reached the apartment
where they had carried her dying &longs;on. She knelt by
the bed &longs;ide; and taking his cold hand, `my poor
boy,' &longs;aid &longs;he, `I will not be parted from thee;
hu&longs;band! &longs;on! both at once lo&longs;t. Father of mercies,
&longs;pare me!' She fell into a &longs;trong convul&longs;ion,
and expired in about two hours. In the mean time,
a &longs;urgeon had dre&longs;&longs;ed George's wounds; but they
were in &longs;uch a &longs;ituation as to bar the &longs;malle&longs;t hopes
of recovery. He never was &longs;en&longs;ible from the time
he was brought home, and died that evening in the
arms of his &longs;i&longs;ster.
“Late as it was when this event took place, my
affectionate Lucy in&longs;i&longs;ted on coming to me. `What
mu&longs;t he feel,' &longs;aid &longs;he, `at our apparent neglect,
and how &longs;hall I inform him of the afflictions with
which it has plea&longs;ed heaven to vi&longs;it us?”
“She left the care of the dear departed ones to
&longs;ome neighbours who had kindly come in to
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comfort and a&longs;&longs;i&longs;t her; and on entering the hou&longs;e where
I was con&longs;ined, found me in the &longs;ituation I have
mentioned.
“How &longs;he &longs;upported her&longs;elf in the&longs;e trying moments,
I know not: heaven, no doubt, was with
her; and her anxiety to pre&longs;erve the life of one parent
in &longs;ome mea&longs;ure abated her affliction for the
lo&longs;s of the other.
“My circum&longs;tances were greatly embarra&longs;&longs;ed,
my acquaintance few, and tho&longs;e few utterly unable
to a&longs;&longs;i&longs;t me. When my wife and &longs;on were committed
to the kindred earth, my creditors &longs;eized
my hou&longs;e and furniture, which not being &longs;ufficient
to di&longs;charge all their demands, detainers were
lodged again&longs;t me. No friend &longs;tepped forward to
my relief; from the grave of her mother, my beloved
Lucy followed an almo&longs;t dying father to this
melancholy place.
“Here we have been nearly a year and a half.
My half-pay I have given up to &longs;atisfy my creditors,
and my child &longs;upports me by her indu&longs;try: sometimes
by fine needlework, &longs;ometimes by painting.
She leaves me every night, and goes to a lodging
near the bridge: but returns in the morning, to
chear me with her &longs;miles, and ble&longs;s me by her duteous
affection. A lady once offered her an a&longs;ylum
in her family; but &longs;he would not leave me. `We
are all the world to each other,' &longs;aid &longs;he. `I
thank God, I have health and &longs;pirits to improve
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the talents with which nature has endowed me;
and I tru&longs;t if I employ them in the &longs;upport of a
beloved parent, I &longs;hall not be thought an unprofitable
&longs;ervant. While he lives, I pray for &longs;trength
to pur&longs;ue my employment; and when it plea&longs;es
heaven to take one of us, may it give the &longs;urvivor
re&longs;ignation to bear the &longs;eparation as we ought:
till then I will never leave him.'
“But where is this inhuman per&longs;ecutor?” &longs;aid
'Temple.
“He has been abroad ever &longs;ince,” replied the
old man; but he has left orders with his lawyer
never to give up the note till the utmo&longs;t farthing is
paid.”
“And how much is the amount of your debts in
all?” &longs;aid Temple.
“Five hundred pounds,” he replied.
Temple &longs;tarted: it was more than he expected.
“But &longs;omething mu&longs;t be done,” &longs;aid he: “that
&longs;weet maid mu&longs;t not wear out her life in a pri&longs;on.
I will &longs;ee you again to-morrow, my friend,” &longs;aid
he, &longs;haking Eldridge's hand: “keep up your
&longs;pirits: light and &longs;hade are not more happily blended
than are the plea&longs;ures and pains of life; and the
horrors of the one &longs;erve only to increa&longs;e the splendor
of the other.”
“You never lo&longs;t a wife and &longs;on,” &longs;aid Eldridge.
“No.” replied he, “but I can feel for tho&longs;e
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that have.” Eldridge pre&longs;&longs;ed his hand as they went
toward the door, and they parted in &longs;ilence.
When they got without the walls of the pri&longs;on,
Temple thanked his friend Blakeney for introducing
him to &longs;o worthy a character; and telling him he
had a particular engagement in the city, wi&longs;hed
him a good evening.
“And what is to be done for this di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed man,”
&longs;aid Temple, as he walked up Ludgate Hill.
“Would to heaven I had a fortune that would
enable me in&longs;tantly to di&longs;charge his debt; what
exqui&longs;ite tran&longs;port, to &longs;ee the expre&longs;&longs;ive eyes of Lucy
beaming at once with plea&longs;ure for her father's deliverance,
and gratitude for her deliverer: but is
not my fortune affluence,” continued he, “nay
&longs;uperfluous wealth, when compared to the extreme
indigence of Eldridge; and what have I done to deserve
ea&longs;e and plenty, while a brave worthy officer
&longs;tarves in a pri&longs;on? Three hundred a year is &longs;urely
&longs;ufficient for all my wants and wi&longs;hes: at any rate
Eldridge mu&longs;t be relieved.”
When the heart has will, the hands can &longs;oon find
means to execute a good action.
Temple was a young man, his feelings warm and
impetuous; unacquainted with the world, his heart
had not been rendered callous by being convinced
of its fraud and hypocri&longs;y. He pitied their sufferings,
overlooked their faults, thought every bosom
as generous as his own, and would chearfully
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have divided his la&longs;t guinea with an unfortunate fellow
creature.
No wonder then that &longs;uch a man (without waiting
a moment for the interference of Madam Prudence)
&longs;hould re&longs;olve to rai&longs;e money &longs;ufficient for
the relief of Eldridge, by mortgaging part of his
fortune.
We will not enquire too minutely into the cau&longs;e
which might actuate him in this in&longs;tance: &longs;uffice it
to &longs;ay, he immediately put the plan in execution;
and in three days from the time he fir&longs;t &longs;aw the unfortunate
Lieutenant, he had the &longs;uperlative felicity
of &longs;eeing him at liberty, and receiving an ample reward
in the tearful eye and half articulated thanks
of the grateful Lucy.
“And pray, young man,” &longs;aid his father to
him one morning, “what are your de&longs;igns in
vi&longs;iting thus con&longs;tantly that old man and his
daughter?”
Temple was at a lo&longs;s for a reply: he had never
a&longs;ked him&longs;elf the que&longs;tion: he he&longs;itated and his father
continued—
“It was not till within the&longs;e few days that I
heard in what manner your acquaintance fir&longs;t
commenced, and cannot &longs;uppo&longs;e any thing but
attachment to the daughter could carry you &longs;uch
imprudent lengths for the father: it certainly mu&longs;t
be her art that drew you in to mortgage part of
your fortune.”
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“Art, Sir!” cried Temple eagerly. “Lucy
Eldridge is as free from art as &longs;he is from every
other error: &longs;he is —”
“Every thing that is amiable and lovely,” &longs;aid his
father, interrupting him ironically: “no doubt
in your opinion &longs;he is a pattern of excellence
for all her &longs;ex to follow; but come, Sir, pray tell
me what are your de&longs;igns toward this paragon.
I hope you do not intend to complete your folly by
marrying her.”
“Were my fortune &longs;uch as would &longs;upport her
according to her merit, I don't know a woman
more formed to en&longs;ure happine&longs;s in the married
&longs;tate.”
“Then prithee, my dear lad,” &longs;aid his father,
&longs;ince your rank and fortune are &longs;o much beneath
what your Prince&longs;s might expect, be &longs;o kind as to
turn your eyes to Mi&longs;s Weatherby; who having
only an e&longs;tate of three thou&longs;and a year, is more
upon a level with you, and who&longs;e father ye&longs;terday
&longs;olicited the mighty honour of your alliance. I &longs;hall
leave you to con&longs;ider on this offer; and pray remember,
that your union with Mi&longs;s Weatherby will
put it in your power to be more liberally the friend
of Lucy El dridge.”
The old gentleman walked in a &longs;tately manner
out of the room; and Temple &longs;tood almo&longs;t petrified
with a&longs;toni&longs;hment, contempt, and rage.
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Chapter V. SUCH THINGS ARE.
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
Miss Weatherby was the only child of a wealthy
man, almo&longs;t idolized by her parents,
flattered by her dependants,and never contradicted
even by tho&longs;e who called them&longs;elves her friends: I
cannot give a better de&longs;cription than by the following
lines.
The lovely maid who&longs;e form and face
Nature has deck'd with ev'ry grace,
But in who&longs;e brea&longs;t no virtues glow,
Who&longs;e heart ne'er felt another's woe,
Who&longs;e hand ne'er &longs;mooth'd the bed of pain,
Or eas'd the captive's galling chain:
But like the tulip caught the eye,
Born ju&longs;t to be admir'd and die;
When gone, no one regrets it's lo&longs;s,
Or &longs;carce remembers that it was.
Such was Mi&longs;s Weatherby: her form lovely as
nature could make it, but her mind uncultivated,
her heart unfeeling, her pa&longs;&longs;ions impetuous, and her
brain almo&longs;t turned with flattery, di&longs;&longs;ipation, and
plea&longs;ure; and &longs;uch was the girl, whom a partial
grandfather left independent mi&longs;tre&longs;s of the fortune
before mentioned.
She had &longs;een Temple frequently; and fancying
&longs;he could never be happy without him, nor once
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[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
imagining he could refu&longs;e a girl of her beauty and
fortune, &longs;he prevailed on her fond father to offer
the alliance to the old Earl of D—, Mr. Temple's
father.
The Earl had received the offer courteou&longs;ly: he
thought it a great match for Henry; and was too
fa&longs;hionable a man to &longs;uppo&longs;e a wife could be any
impediment to the friend&longs;hip he profe&longs;&longs;ed for Eldridge
and his daughter.
Unfortunately for Temple, he thought quite
otherwi&longs;e: the conver&longs;ation he had ju&longs;t had with
his father, di&longs;covered to him the &longs;ituation of his
heart; and he found that the mo&longs;t affluent fortune
would bring no increa&longs;e of happine&longs;s unle&longs;s Lucy
Eldridge &longs;hared it with him; and the knowledge
of the purity of her &longs;entiments, and the integrity
of his own heart, made him &longs;hudder at the idea
his father had &longs;tarted, of marrying a woman for no
other rea&longs;on than becau&longs;e the affluence of her fortune
would enable him to injure her by maintaining
in &longs;plendour the woman to whom his heart was
devoted: he therefore re&longs;olved to refu&longs;e Mi&longs;s Weatherby,
and be the event what it might, offer his
heart and hand to Lucy Eldridge.
Full of this determination, he &longs;ought his father,
declared his re&longs;olution, and was commanded never
more to appear in his pre&longs;ence. Temple bowed: his
heart was too full to permit him to &longs;peak; he left
the hou&longs;e precipitately, and ha&longs;tened to relate the
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cau&longs;e of his &longs;orrows to his good old friend and his
amiable daughter.
In the mean time, the Earl, vexed to the &longs;oul
that &longs;uch a fortune &longs;hould be lo&longs;t, determined to
offer him&longs;elf a candidate for Mi&longs;s Weatherby's fafour.
What wonderful changes are wrought by that
reiguing power, ambition! the love-&longs;ick girl, when
fir&longs;t &longs;he heard of Temple's refu&longs;al, wept, raved, tore
her hair, and vowed to found a prote&longs;tant nunnery
with her fortune; and by commencing abbe&longs;s, &longs;hut
her&longs;elf up from the &longs;ight of cruel ungrateful man for
ever.
Her father was a man of the world: he &longs;uffered
this fir&longs;t tran&longs;port to &longs;ub&longs;ide, and then very deliberately
un&longs;olded to her the offers of the old Earl,
expatiated on the many benefits ari&longs;ing from an
elevated title, painted in glowing colours the surprise
and vexation of Temple when he &longs;hould &longs;ee
her figuring as a Counte&longs;s and his mother-in-law,
and begged her to con&longs;ider well before &longs;he made any
ra&longs;h vows.
The di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed fair one dried her tears, li&longs;tened
patiently, and at length declared &longs;he believed the
&longs;ure&longs;t method to revenge the &longs;light put on her by
the &longs;on would be to accept the father: &longs;o &longs;aid &longs;o
done, and in a few days &longs;he became the Counte&longs;s
D—.
Temple heard the news with emotion: he had
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lo&longs;t his father's favour by avowing his pa&longs;&longs;ion for
Lucy, and he &longs;aw now there was no hope of regaining
it: “but he &longs;hall not make me miserable,”
&longs;aid he, “Lucy and I have no ambitious
notions: we can live on three hundred a year for
&longs;ome little time, till the mortgage is paid off, and
then we &longs;hall have &longs;ufficient not only for the comforts
but many of the little elegancies of life. We
will purcha&longs;e a little cottage, my Lucy,” &longs;aid he,
“and thither with your reverend father we will
retire; we will forget there are &longs;uch things as
&longs;plendor profu&longs;ion, and di&longs;&longs;ipation: we will have
&longs;ome cows, and you &longs;hall be queen of the dairy;
in a morning, while I look after my garden, you
&longs;hall take a ba&longs;ket on your arm, and &longs;ally forth to
feed your poultry; and as they flutter round you
in token of humble gratitude, your father &longs;hall
&longs;moke his pipe in a woodbine alcove, and viewing
the &longs;erenity of your countenance, feel &longs;uch real pleasure
dilate his own heart, as &longs;hall make him forget
he had ever been unhappy.”
Lucy &longs;miled; and Temple &longs;aw it was a &longs;mile
of approbation. He &longs;ought and &longs;ound a cottage
&longs;uited to his ta&longs;te; thither, attended my Love and
Hymen, the happy trio retired; where, during
many years of uninterrupted felicity, they ca&longs;t not
a wi&longs;h beyond the little boundaries of their own tenement.
Plenty, and her handmaid, Prudence,
pre&longs;ided at their board, Ho&longs;pitality &longs;tood at their
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gate, Peace &longs;miled on each face, Content reigned in
each heart, and Love and Health &longs;trewed ro&longs;es on
their pillows.
Such were the parents of Charlotte Temple, who
was the only pledge of their mutual love, and
who, at the earne&longs;t entreaty of a particular friend,
was permitted to fini&longs;h the education her mother
had begun, at Madame Du Pont's &longs;chool, where we
fir&longs;t introduced her to the acquaintance of the
reader.
Chapter VI. AN INTRIGUING TEACHER.
Madame Du Pont was a woman every way
calculated to take the care of young ladies,
had that care entirely devolved on her&longs;elf: but it
was impo&longs;&longs;ible to attend the education of a numerous
&longs;chool without proper a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tants: and tho&longs;e
a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tants were not always the kind of people who&longs;e
conver&longs;ation and morals were exactly &longs;uch as parents
of delicacy and refinement would wi&longs;h a
daughter to copy. Among the teachers at Madame
Du Pont's &longs;chool, was Mademoi&longs;elle La
Rue, who added to a plea&longs;ing per&longs;on and in&longs;inuating
addre&longs;s, a liberal education and the manners of a
gentlewoman. She was recommended to the &longs;chool
by a lady who&longs;e humanity over&longs;tepped the bounds
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of di&longs;cretion: for though &longs;he knew Mi&longs;s La Rue
had eloped from a convent with a young officer,
and on coming to England had lived with &longs;everal
different men in open defiance of all moral and religious
duties; yet, finding her reduced to the
mo&longs;t abject want, and believing the penitence
which &longs;he profe&longs;&longs;ed to be &longs;incere, &longs;he took her
into her own family, and from thence recommended
her to Madame Du Pont, as thinking the
&longs;ituation more &longs;uitable for a woman of her abilities.
But Mademoi&longs;elle po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed too much of the
&longs;pirit of intrigue to remain long without adventures.
At church, where &longs;he con&longs;tantly appeared,
her per&longs;on attracted the attention of a
young man who was upon a vi&longs;it at a gentleman's
&longs;eat in the neighbourhood: &longs;he had met him &longs;everal
times clande&longs;tinely; and being invited to come out
that evening, and eat &longs;ome fruit and pa&longs;try in a
&longs;ummer-hou&longs;e belonging to the gentleman he was
vi&longs;iting, and reque&longs;ted to bring &longs;ome of the ladies
with her, Charlotte being her favourite, was fixed
on to accompany her.
The mind of youth eagerly catches at promi&longs;ed
plea&longs;ure: pure and innocent by nature, it thinks
not of the dangers lurking beneath tho&longs;e plea&longs;ures,
till too late to avoid them: when Mademoi&longs;elle
a&longs;ked Charlotte to go with her, &longs;he mentioned the
gentleman as a relation, and &longs;poke in &longs;uch high
terms of the elegance of his gardens, the
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sprightliness of his conver&longs;ation, and the liberality with which
he ever entertained his gue&longs;ts, that Charlotte
thought only of the plea&longs;ure &longs;he &longs;hould enjoy in the
vi&longs;it,—not on the imprudence of going without
her governe&longs;s's knowledge, or of the danger to
which &longs;he expo&longs;ed her&longs;elf in vi&longs;iting the hou&longs;e of a
gay young man of fa&longs;hion.
Madame Du Pont was gone out for the evening,
and the re&longs;t of the ladies retired to re&longs;t, when Charlotte
and the teacher &longs;tole out at the back gate, and
in cro&longs;&longs;ing the field, were acco&longs;ted by Montraville,
as mentioned in the fir&longs;t chapter.
Charlotte was di&longs;appointed in the plea&longs;ure &longs;he
had promi&longs;ed her&longs;elf from this vi&longs;it. The levity of
the gentlemen and the freedom of their conversation
di&longs;gu&longs;ted her. She was a&longs;toni&longs;hed at the liberties
Mademoi&longs;elle permitted them to take; grew
thoughtful and unea&longs;y, and heartily wi&longs;hed her&longs;elf
at home again in her own chamber.
Perhaps one cau&longs;e of that wi&longs;h might be, an earnest
de&longs;ire to &longs;ee the contents of the letter which had
been put into her hand by Montraville.
Any reader who has the lea&longs;t knowledge of the
world, will ea&longs;ily imagine the letter was made up
of encomiums on her beauty, and vows of everlasting
love and con&longs;tancy; nor will he be &longs;urpri&longs;ed
that a heart open to every gentle, generous sentiment,
&longs;hould feel it&longs;elf warmed by gratitude for a
man who profe&longs;&longs;ed to feel &longs;o much for her; nor is
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[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
it improbable but her mind might revert to the
agreeable per&longs;on and martial appearance of Montraville.
In affairs of love, a young heart is never in more
danger than when attempted by a hand&longs;ome young
&longs;oldier. A man of an indifferent appearance, will,
when arrayed in a military habit, &longs;hew to advantage;
but when beauty of per&longs;on, elegance of manner,
and an ea&longs;y method of paying compliments, are
united to the &longs;carlet coat, &longs;mart cockade, and military
&longs;a&longs;h, ah! well-a-day for the poor girl who
gazes on him: &longs;he is in imminent danger; but if &longs;he
li&longs;tens to him with plea&longs;ure, 'tis all over with her,
and from that moment &longs;he has neither eyes nor ears
for any other object.
Now, my dear &longs;ober matron, (if a &longs;ober matron
&longs;hould de&longs;ign to turn over the&longs;e pages, before &longs;he
tru&longs;ts them to the eye of a darling daughter,) let
me intreat you not to put on a grave face, and
throw down the book in a pa&longs;&longs;ion and declare 'tis
enough to turn the heads of half the girls in England;
I do &longs;olemnly prote&longs;t, my dear madam, I
mean no more by what I have here advanced, than
to ridicule tho&longs;e romantic girls who fooli&longs;hly imagine
a red coat and &longs;ilver epaulet con&longs;titute the fine
gentleman; and &longs;hould that fine gentleman make
half a dozen fine &longs;peeches to them, they will imagine
them&longs;elves &longs;o much in love as to fancy it a meritorious
action to jump out of a two pair of &longs;tairs
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[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
window, abandon their friends, and tru&longs;t entirely
to the honour of a man, who perhaps hardly knows
the meaning of the word, and if he does, will be too
much the modern man of refinement, to practi&longs;e it
in their favour.
Gracious heaven! when I think on the mi&longs;eries
that mu&longs;t rend the heart of a doating parent, when
he &longs;ees the darling of his age at fir&longs;t &longs;educed from
his protection, and afterwards abandoned, by the
very wretch who&longs;e promi&longs;es of love decoyed her
from the paternal roof—when he &longs;ees her poor and
wretched, her bo&longs;om torn between remor&longs;e for her
crime and love for her vile betrayer—when fancy
paints to me the good old man &longs;tooping to rai&longs;e the
weeping penitent, while every tear from her eye is
numbered by drops from his bleeding heart, my
bo&longs;om glows with hone&longs;t indignation, and I wi&longs;h
for power to extirpate tho&longs;e mon&longs;ters of &longs;eduction
from the earth.
Oh my dear girls—for to &longs;uch only am I writing—
li&longs;ten not to the voice of love, unle&longs;s &longs;anctioned
by paternal approbation: be a&longs;&longs;ured, it is now pa&longs;t
the days of romance: no woman can be run away
with contrary to her own inclination: then kneel
down each morning, and reque&longs;t kind heaven to keep
you free from temptation, or, &longs;hould it plea&longs;e to
&longs;uffer you to be tried, pray for fortitude to re&longs;i&longs;t
the impul&longs;e of inclination when it runs counter to
the precepts of religion and virtue.
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Chapter VII. NATURAL SENSE OF PROPRIETY INHERENT IN THE FEMALE BOSOM.
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
“I Cannot think we have done exactly right in
going out this evening, Mademoi&longs;elle,”
&longs;aid Charlotte, &longs;eating her&longs;elf when &longs;he entered
her apartment: “nay, I am &longs;ure it was not right;
for I expected to be very happy, but was &longs;adly disappointed.”
“It was your own fault, then,” replied Mademoiselle:
“for I am &longs;ure my cou&longs;in omitted nothing
that could &longs;erve to render the evening agreeable.”
“True,” &longs;aid Charlotte: “but I thought the
gentlemen were very free in their manner: I wonder
you would &longs;uffer them to behave as they did.”
“Prithee, don't be &longs;uch a fooli&longs;h little prude,”
&longs;aid the artful woman, affecting anger: “I invited
you to go in hopes it would divert you, and be an
agreeable change of &longs;cene; however, if your delicacy
was hurt by the behaviour of the gentlemen, you
need not go again; &longs;o there let it re&longs;t.”
“I do not intend to go again,” &longs;aid Charlotte,
gravely taking off her bonnet, and beginning to
prepare for bed: “I am &longs;ure, if Madame Du Pont
knew we had been out to-night, &longs;he would be very
angry; and it is ten to one but &longs;he hears of it by
&longs;ome means or other.”
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“Nay, Mi&longs;s,” &longs;aid La Rue, “perhaps your
mighty &longs;en&longs;e of propriety may lead you to tell her
your&longs;elf: and in order to avoid the cen&longs;ure you
would incur, &longs;hould &longs;he hear of it by accident,
throw the blame on me: but I confe&longs;s I de&longs;erve it:
it will be a very kind return for that partiality
which led me to prefer you before any of the re&longs;t of
the ladies; but perhaps it will give you plea&longs;ure,”
continued &longs;he, letting fall &longs;ome hypocritical tears,
“to &longs;ee me deprived of bread, and for an action
which by the mo&longs;t rigid could only be e&longs;teemed an
inadvertency, lo&longs;e my place and character, and be
driven again into the world, where I have already
&longs;uffered all the evils attendant on poverty.”
This was touching Charlotte in the mo&longs;t vulnerable
part: &longs;he ro&longs;e from her &longs;eat, and taking Mademoiselle's
hand—“You know, my dear La Rue,”
&longs;aid &longs;he, “I love you too well, to do any
thing that would injure you in my governe&longs;s's
opinion: I am only &longs;orry we went out this evening.”
“I don't believe it, Charlotte,” &longs;aid &longs;he, assuming
a little vivacity; “for if you had not gone
out, you would not have &longs;een the gentleman who
met us cro&longs;&longs;ing the field; and I rather think you
were plea&longs;ed with his conver&longs;ation.”
“I had &longs;een him once before,” replied Charlotte,
“and thought him an agreeable man;
and you know one is always plea&longs;ed to &longs;ee a per&longs;on
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with whom one has pa&longs;&longs;ed &longs;everal chearful hours.
But,” &longs;aid &longs;he pau&longs;ing, and drawing the letter from
her pocket, while a gentle &longs;uffu&longs;ion of vermillion
tinged her neck and face, “he gave me this letter;
what &longs;hall I do with it?
“Read it, to be &longs;ure,” returned Mademoi&longs;elle.
“I am afraid I ought not,” &longs;aid Charlotte:
“my mother has often told me, I &longs;hould never
read a letter given me by a young man, without
fir&longs;t giving it to her.”
“Lord ble&longs;s you, my dear girl,” cried the
teacher &longs;miling, “have you a mind to be in leading
&longs;trings all your life time. Prithee open the letter,
read it and judge for your&longs;elf; if you &longs;how it
your mother, the con&longs;equence will be, you will be
taken from &longs;chool, and a &longs;trict guard kept over
you: &longs;o you will &longs;tand no chance of ever &longs;eeing the
&longs;mart young officer again.”
“I &longs;hould not like to leave &longs;chool yet,” replied
Charlotte, “till I have attained a greater proficiency
in my Italian and mu&longs;ic. But you can, if
you plea&longs;e, Mademoi&longs;elle, take the letter back to
Montraville, and tell him I wi&longs;h him well, but
cannot, with any propriety, enter into a clandestine
corre&longs;pondence with him.” She laid the
letter on the table, and began to undre&longs;s her&longs;elf.
“Well,” &longs;aid La Rue, “I vow you are an unaccountable
girl: have you no curio&longs;ity to &longs;ee the
in&longs;ide now? for my part I could no more let a
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letter addre&longs;&longs;ed to me lie unopened &longs;o long, than I
could work miracles: he writes a good hand,”
continued &longs;he, turning the letter, to look at the
&longs;uper&longs;cription.
“'Tis well enough,” &longs;aid Charlotte, drawing it
towards her.
“He is a genteel young fellow,” &longs;aid La Rue
carele&longs;sly, folding up her apron at the &longs;ame time;
“but I think he is marked with the &longs;mall pox.”
“Oh you are greatly mi&longs;taken,” &longs;aid Charlotte
eagerly; “he has a remarkable clear &longs;kin and fine
complexion.”
“His eyes, if I could judge by what I &longs;aw,”
&longs;aid La Rue, “are gray and want expre&longs;&longs;ion.”
“By no means,” replied Charlotte; “they are
the mo&longs;t expre&longs;&longs;ive eyes I ever &longs;aw.”
“Well, child, whether they are gray or black is
of no con&longs;equence: you have determined not to
read his letter; &longs;o it is likely you will never either
&longs;ee or hear from him again.”
Charlotte took up the letter, and Mademoi&longs;elle
continued—
“He is mo&longs;t probably going to America: and
if ever you &longs;hould hear any account of him, it may
po&longs;&longs;ibly be that he is killed; and though he loved
you ever &longs;o fervently, though his la&longs;t breath &longs;hould
be &longs;pent in a prayer for your happine&longs;s, it can be
nothing to you: you can feel nothing for the fate
of the man, who&longs;e letters you will not open, and
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who&longs;e &longs;ufferings you will not alleviate, by permitting
him to think you would remember him when
ab&longs;ent, and pray for his &longs;afety.”
Charlotte &longs;till held the letter in her hand: her
heart &longs;welled at the conclu&longs;ion of Mademoi&longs;elle's
&longs;peech, and a tear dropped upon the wafer that
clo&longs;ed it.
“The wafer is not dry yet,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “and
&longs;ure there can be no great harm—” She hesitated.
La Rue was &longs;ilent. “I may read it, Mademoiselle,
and return it afterwards.”
“Certainly,” replied Mademoi&longs;elle.
“At any rate I am determined not to an&longs;wer it,”
continued Charlotte, as &longs;he opened the letter.
Here let me &longs;top to make one remark, and tru&longs;t
me my very heart aches while I write it; but certain
I am, that when once a woman has &longs;tifled
the &longs;en&longs;e of &longs;hame in her own bo&longs;om, when once
&longs;he has lo&longs;t &longs;ight of the ba&longs;is on which reputation,
honour, every thing that &longs;hould be dear to the
female heart, re&longs;ts, &longs;he grows hardened in guilt,
and will &longs;pare no pains to bring down innocence
and beauty to the &longs;hocking level with her&longs;elf: and
this proceeds from that diabolical &longs;pirit of envy,
which repines at &longs;eeing another in the full possession
of that re&longs;pect and e&longs;teem which &longs;he can no
longer hope to enjoy.
Mademoi&longs;elle eyed the un&longs;u&longs;pecting Charlotte,
as &longs;he peru&longs;ed the letter, with a malignant plea&longs;ure.
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She &longs;aw, that the contents had awakened new emotions
in her youthful bo&longs;om: &longs;he encouraged her
hopes, calmed her fears, and before they parted for
the night, it was determined that &longs;he &longs;hould meet
Montraville the en&longs;uing evening.
Chapter VIII. DOMESTIC PLEASURE PLANNED.
“I Think, my dear,” &longs;aid Mrs. Temple, laying
her hand on her hu&longs;band's arm as they
were walking together in the garden, “I think
next Wedne&longs;day is Charlotte's birth day: now I
have formed a little &longs;cheme in my own mind, to
give her an agreeable &longs;urpri&longs;e; and if you have no
objection, we will &longs;end for her home on that day.”
Temple pre&longs;&longs;ed his wife's hand in token of approbation,
and &longs;he proceeded.—“You know the little
alcove at the bottom of the garden, of which Charlotte
is &longs;o fond? I have an inclination to deck this
out in a fanciful manner, and invite all her little
friends to partake of a collation of fruit, sweetmeats,
and other things &longs;uitable to the general
ta&longs;te of young gue&longs;ts; and to make it more plea&longs;ing
to Charlotte, &longs;he &longs;hall be mi&longs;tre&longs;s of the fea&longs;t, and
entertain her vi&longs;itors in this alcove. I know &longs;he
will be delighted; and to complete all, they &longs;hall
have &longs;ome mu&longs;ic, and fini&longs;h with a dance.”
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“A very fine plan indeed,” &longs;aid Temple, smiling;
“and you really &longs;uppo&longs;e I will wink at your
indulging the girl in this manner? You will quite
&longs;poil her, Lucy; indeed you will.”
“She is the only child we have,” &longs;aid Mrs.
Temple, the whole tenderne&longs;s of a mother adding
animation to her fine countenance; but it was
withal tempered &longs;o &longs;weetly with the meek affection
and &longs;ubmi&longs;&longs;ive duty of the wife, that as &longs;he
pau&longs;ed expecting her hu&longs;band's an&longs;wer, he gazed
at her tenderly, and found he was unable to refu&longs;e
her reque&longs;t.
“She is a good girl,” &longs;aid Temple.
“She is, indeed,” replied the fond mother exultingly,
“a grateful, affectionate girl; and I am
&longs;ure will never lo&longs;e &longs;ight of the duty &longs;he owes her
parents.”
“If &longs;he does,” &longs;aid he, “&longs;he mu&longs;t forget the example
&longs;et her by the be&longs;t of mothers.”
Mrs. Temple could not reply; but the delightful
&longs;en&longs;ation that dilated her heart &longs;parkled in her
intelligent eyes, and heightened the vermillion on
her cheeks.
Of all the plea&longs;ures of which the human mind is
&longs;en&longs;ible, there is none equal to that which warms
and expands the bo&longs;om, when li&longs;tening to commendations
be&longs;towed on us by a beloved object,
and are con&longs;cious of having de&longs;erved them.
Ye giddy flutterers in the fanta&longs;tic round of
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diffipation, who eagerly &longs;eek plea&longs;ure in the lo&longs;ty
dome, rich treat, and midnight revel—tell me,
ye thoughtle&longs;s daughters of folly, have ye ever
found the phantom you have &longs;o long &longs;ought with
&longs;uch unremitted a&longs;&longs;iduity? Has &longs;he not always
eluded your gra&longs;p, and when you have reached
your hand to take the cup &longs;he extends to her deluded
votaries, have you not found the long-expected
draught &longs;trongly tinctured with the
bitter dregs of di&longs;appointment? I know you have:
I &longs;ee it in the wan cheek, &longs;unk eye, and air of
chagrin, which ever mark the children of dissipation.
Plea&longs;ure is a vain illu&longs;ion; &longs;he draws you on
to a thou&longs;and follies, errors, and I may &longs;ay vices,
and then leaves you to deplore your thoughtle&longs;s
credulity.
Look, my dear friends, at yonder lovely Virgin
arrayed in a white robe devoid of ornament;
behold the meekne&longs;s of her countenance, the modesty
of her gait; her handmaids are Humility,
Filial Piety, Conjugal Affection, Indu&longs;try and
Benevolence; her name is Content; &longs;he holds in her
hand the cup of true felicity, and when once you
have formed an intimate acquaintance with the&longs;e
her attendants, nay, you mu&longs;t admit them as your
bo&longs;om friends and chief coun&longs;ellors, then, whatever
may be your &longs;ituation in life, the meek eyed
Virgin will immediately take up her abode with
you.
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Is poverty your portion?—&longs;he will lighten your
labours, pre&longs;ide at your frugal board, and watch
your quiet &longs;lumbers.
Is your &longs;tate mediocrity?—&longs;he will heighten every
ble&longs;&longs;ing you enjoy, by informing you how grateful
you &longs;hould be to that bountiful Providence who
might have placed you in the mo&longs;t abject &longs;ituation;
and, by teaching you to weigh your ble&longs;&longs;ings again&longs;t
your de&longs;erts, &longs;how you how much more you receive
than you have a right to expect.
Are you po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of affluence?—what an inexhaustible
fund of happine&longs;s will &longs;he lay before you!
To relieve the di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed, redre&longs;s the injured, in
&longs;hort, to perform all the good works of peace and
mercy.
Content, my dear friends, will blunt even the
arrows of adver&longs;ity, &longs;o that they cannot materially
harm you. She will dwell in the humble&longs;t cottage:
&longs;he will attend you even to a pri&longs;on. Her parent
is religion; her &longs;i&longs;ters, Patience and Hope. She
will pa&longs;s with you through life, &longs;moothing the
rough paths and tread to earth tho&longs;e thorns which
every one mu&longs;t meet with as they journey onward
to the appointed goal. She will &longs;often the pains
of &longs;ickne&longs;s, continue with you even in the cold
gloomy hour of death, and, chearing you with the
&longs;miles of her heaven-born &longs;i&longs;ter, Hope, lead you triumphant
to a bli&longs;sful eternity.
I confe&longs;s I have rambled &longs;trangely from my
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&longs;tory: but what of that? if I have been &longs;o lucky
as to find the road to happine&longs;s, why &longs;hould I be
&longs;uch a niggard as to omit &longs;o good an opportunity
of pointing out the way to others. The very ba&longs;is
of true peace of mind is a benevolent wi&longs;h to &longs;ee
all the world as happy as one's &longs;elf; and from my
&longs;oul do I pity the &longs;elfi&longs;h churl, who, remembering
the little bickerings of anger, envy, and fifty
other di&longs;agreeables to which frail mortality is subject,
would wi&longs;h to revenge the affront which
pride whi&longs;pers him he has received. For my own
part, I can &longs;afely declare, there is not a human
being in the univer&longs;e, who&longs;e pro&longs;perity I &longs;hould
not rejoice in, and to who&longs;e happine&longs;s I would not
contribute to the utmo&longs;t limit of my power: and
may my offences be no more remembered in the
day of general retribution, than as from my &longs;oul
I forgive every offence or injury received from a
fellow creature.
Merciful heaven! who would exchange the rapture
of &longs;uch a reflexion for all the gaudy tin&longs;el which
the world calls plea&longs;ure!
But to return.—Content dwelt in Mrs. Temple's
bo&longs;om, and &longs;pread a charming animation over her
countenance, as her hu&longs;band led her in, to lay the
plan &longs;he had formed (for the celebration of Charlotte's
birth day,) before Mr. Eldridge.
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Chapter IX. WE KNOW NOT WHAT A DAY MAY BRING FORTH.
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
Various were the &longs;en&longs;ations which agitated
the mind of Charlotte, during the day preceding
the evening in which &longs;he was to meet Montraville.
Several times did &longs;he almo&longs;t re&longs;olve to
go to her governe&longs;s, &longs;how her letter, and be
guided by her advice: but Charlotte had taken one
&longs;tep in the ways of imprudence; and when that is
once done, there are always innumerable ob&longs;tacles
to prevent the erring per&longs;on returning to the path
of rectitude: yet the&longs;e ob&longs;tacles, however forcible
they may appear in general, exi&longs;t chiefly in imagination.
Charlotte feared the anger of her governe&longs;s: &longs;he
loved her mother, and the very idea of incurring
her di&longs;plea&longs;ure, gave her the greate&longs;t unea&longs;ine&longs;s; but
there was a more forcible rea&longs;on &longs;till remaining:
&longs;hould &longs;he &longs;how the letter to Madame Du Pont,
&longs;he mu&longs;t confe&longs;s the means by which it came into
her po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion; and what would be the con&longs;equence?
Mademoi&longs;elle would be turned out of doors.
“I mu&longs;t not be ungrateful,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “La Rue
is very kind to me; be&longs;ides I can, when I &longs;ee Montraville
inform him of the impropriety of our continuing
to &longs;ee or corre&longs;pond with each other,
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and reque&longs;t him to come no more to Chiche&longs;ter.”
However prudent Charlotte might be in the&longs;e
re&longs;olutions, &longs;he certainly did not take a proper
method to confirm her&longs;elf in them. Several times
in the cour&longs;e of the day &longs;he indulged her&longs;elf in reading
over the letter, and each time &longs;he read it, the
contents funk deeper in her heart. As evening
drew near, &longs;he caught her&longs;elf frequently con&longs;ulting
her watch. “I wi&longs;h this fooli&longs;h meeting was over,”
&longs;aid &longs;he, by way of apology to her own heart, “I
wi&longs;h it was over; for when I have &longs;een him, and
convinced him my re&longs;olution is not to be &longs;haken, I
&longs;hall feel my mind much ea&longs;ier.
The appointed hour arrived. Charlotte and Mademoiselle
eluded the eye of vigilance; and Montraville
who had waited their coming with impatience,
received them with rapturous and unbounded
acknowledgments for their conde&longs;cen&longs;ion: he had
wi&longs;ely brought Belcour with him to entertain Mademoiselle
while he enjoyed an uninterrupted conversation
with Charlotte.
Belcour was a man who&longs;e character might be
compri&longs;ed in a few words; and as he will make
&longs;ome figure in the en&longs;uing pages, I &longs;hall here describe
him. He po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed a genteel fortune, and had a
liberal education; di&longs;&longs;ipated, thoughtle&longs;s, and capricious,
he paid little regard to the moral duties, and
le&longs;s to religious ones: eager in the pur&longs;uit of pleasure,
he minded not the mi&longs;eries he inflicted on
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others, provided his own wi&longs;hes, however extravagant,
were gratified. Self, darling &longs;elf, was the idol
he wor&longs;hipped, and to that he would have &longs;acrificed
the intere&longs;t and happine&longs;s of all mankind. Such was
the friend of Montraville: will not the reader be
ready to imagine, that the man who could regard
&longs;uch a character, mu&longs;t be actuated by the &longs;ame feelings,
follow the &longs;ame pur&longs;uits, and be equally unworthy
with the per&longs;on to whom he thus gave his
confidence?
But Montraville was a different character: generous
in his di&longs;po&longs;ition, liberal in his opinions,
and good-natured almo&longs;t to a fault; yet eager and
impetuous in the pur&longs;uit of a favourite object, he
&longs;taid not to reflect on the con&longs;equence which might
follow the attainment of his wi&longs;hes; with a mind
ever open to conviction, had he been &longs;o fortunate
as to po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s a friend who would have pointed out
the cruelty of endeavouring to gain the heart of an
innocent artle&longs;s girl, when he knew it was utterly
impo&longs;&longs;ible for him to marry her, and when the gratification
of his pa&longs;&longs;ion would be unavoidable infamy
and mi&longs;ery to her, and a cau&longs;e of neverceasing
remor&longs;e to him&longs;elf: had the&longs;e dreadful consequences
been placed before him in a proper light,
the humanity of his nature would have urged him
to give up the pur&longs;uit: but Belcour was not this
friend; he rather encouraged the growing pa&longs;&longs;ion
of Montraville; and being plea&longs;ed with the
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vivacity of Mademoi&longs;elle, re&longs;olved to leave no argument
untried, which he thought might prevail on her to
be the companion of their intended voyage: and
he made no doubt but her example, added to the
rhetoric of Montraville, would per&longs;uade Charlotte
to go with them.
Charlotte had, when &longs;he went out to meet
Montraville, flattered her&longs;elf that her re&longs;olution was
not to be &longs;haken, and that, con&longs;cious of the impropriety
of her conduct in having a clande&longs;tine intercourse
with a &longs;tranger, &longs;he would never repeat
the indi&longs;cretion.
But alas! poor Charlotte, &longs;he knew not the deceitfulness
of her own heart, or &longs;he would have
avoided the trial of her &longs;tability.
Montraville was tender, eloquent, ardent, and
yet re&longs;pectful. “Shall I not &longs;ee you once more,”'
&longs;aid he, “before I leave England? will you not
ble&longs;s me by an a&longs;&longs;urance, that when we are divided
by a va&longs;t expan&longs;e of &longs;ea I &longs;hall not be forgotten?”
Charlotte &longs;ighed.
“Why that &longs;igh, my dear Charlotte? could I
flatter my&longs;elf that a fear for my &longs;afety, or a wi&longs;h for
my welfare occa&longs;ioned it, how happy would it make
me.”
“I &longs;hall ever wi&longs;h you well, Montraville,”
&longs;aid &longs;he; “but we mu&longs;t meet no more.”
“Oh &longs;ay not &longs;o, my lovely girl: reflect, that
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[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
when I leave my native land, perhaps a few &longs;hort
weeks may terminate my exi&longs;tence; the perils of
the ocean—the dangers of war—”
“I can hear no more,” &longs;aid Charlotte in a tremulous
voice, “I mu&longs;t leave you.”
“Say you will &longs;ee me once again.”
“I dare not,” &longs;aid &longs;he.
“Only for one half hour to-morrow evening:
'tis my la&longs;t reque&longs;t. I &longs;hall never trouble you again,
Charlotte.”
“I know not what to &longs;ay,” cried Charlotte,
&longs;truggling to draw her hands from him: “let me
leave you now.”
“And you will come to-morrow,” &longs;aid Montraville.
“Perhaps I may,” &longs;aid &longs;he.
“Adieu then. I will live upon that hope till we
meet again.”
He ki&longs;&longs;ed her hand. She &longs;ighed an adieu, and
catching hold of Mademoi&longs;elle's arm, ha&longs;tily entered
the garden gate.
Rowson, Mrs., 1762-1824 [1794], Charlotte: a tale of truth, volume 1 (D. Humphreys, for M. Carey, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf325v1].
