Chapter X. WHEN WE HAVE EXCITED CURIOSITY, IT IS BUT AN ACT OF GOOD NATURE TO GRATIFY IT.
Montraville was the younge&longs;t &longs;on of a
gentleman of fortune, who&longs;e family being
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numerous, he was obliged to bring up his &longs;ons to
genteel profe&longs;&longs;ions, by the exerci&longs;e of which they
might hope to rai&longs;e them&longs;elves into notice.
“My daughters,” &longs;aid he, “have been educated
like gentlewomen; and &longs;hould I die before they are
&longs;ettled, they mu&longs;t have &longs;ome provi&longs;ion made, to
place them above the &longs;nares and temptations which
vice ever holds out to the elegant, accompli&longs;hed
female, when oppre&longs;&longs;ed by the frowns of poverty
and the &longs;ting of dependance: my boys, with only
moderate incomes, when placed in the church, at the
bar, or in the field, may exert their talents, make
them&longs;elves friends, and rai&longs;e their fortunes on the
ba&longs;is of merit.”
When Montraville cho&longs;e the pro&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of arms,
his father pre&longs;ented him with a commi&longs;&longs;ion, and
made him a hand&longs;ome provi&longs;ion for his private
pur&longs;e. “Now, my boy,” &longs;aid he, “go! &longs;eek
glory in the field of battle. You have received
from me all I &longs;hall ever have it in my power to
be&longs;tow: it is certain I have intere&longs;t to gain you
promotion; but be a&longs;&longs;ured that intere&longs;t &longs;hall never
be exerted, unle&longs;s by your future conduct you
de&longs;erve it. Remember, therefore, your &longs;ucce&longs;s in
life depends entirely on your&longs;elf. There is one
thing I think it my duty to caution you again&longs;t;
the precipitancy with which young men frequently
ru&longs;h into matrimonial engagements, and by their
thoughtle&longs;&longs;ne&longs;s draw many a de&longs;erving woman
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into &longs;cenes of poverty and di&longs;tre&longs;s. A &longs;oldier has
no bu&longs;ine&longs;s to think of a wife till his rank is &longs;uch
as to place him above the fear of bringing into the
world a train of helple&longs;s innocents, heirs only to
penury and affliction. If, indeed, a woman,
who&longs;e fortune is &longs;ufficient to pre&longs;erve you in that
&longs;tate of independence I would teach you to prize,
&longs;hould generou&longs;ly be&longs;tow her&longs;elf on a young soldier,
who&longs;e chief hope of future pro&longs;perity depended
on his &longs;ucce&longs;s in the field—if &longs;uch a woman
&longs;hould offer—every barrier is removed, and I &longs;hould
rejoice in an union which would promi&longs;e &longs;o much
felicity. But mark me, boy, if, on the contrary, you
ru&longs;h into a precipitate union with a girl of little or
no fortune, take the poor creature from a comfortable
home and kind friends, and plunge her into all
the evils a narrow income and increa&longs;ing family
can inflict, I will leave you to enjoy the ble&longs;&longs;ed
fruits of your ra&longs;hne&longs;s; for by all that is &longs;acred,
neither my intere&longs;t or fortune &longs;hall ever be exerted
in your favour. I am &longs;erious,” continued he,
“therefore imprint this conver&longs;ation on your
memory, and let it influence your future conduct.
Your happine&longs;s will always be dear to me; and I
wi&longs;h to warn you of a rock on which the peace of
many an hone&longs;t fellow has been wrecked; for
believe me, the difficulties and dangers of the
longe&longs;t winter campaign are much ea&longs;ier to be
borne, than the pangs that would &longs;eize your heart,
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when you beheld the woman of your choice, the
children of your affection, involved in penury
and di&longs;tre&longs;s, and reflected that it was your own
folly and precipitancy had been the prime cau&longs;e of
their &longs;ufferings.”
As this conver&longs;ation pa&longs;&longs;ed but a few hours before
Montraville took leave of his father, it was
deeply impre&longs;&longs;ed on his mind: when, therefore,
Belcour came with him to the place of a&longs;&longs;ignation
with Charlotte, he directed him to enquire of the
French woman what were Mi&longs;s Temple's expectations
in regard to fortune.
Mademoi&longs;elle informed him, that though Charlotte's
father po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed a genteel independence, it
was by means probable that he could give his
daughter more than a thou&longs;and pounds; and in
ca&longs;e &longs;he did not marry to his liking, it was po&longs;&longs;ible
he might not give her a &longs;ingle &longs;ous; nor did it appear
the lea&longs;t likely, that Mr. Temple would agree
to her union with a young man on the point of embarking
for the &longs;eat of war.
Montraville therefore concluded it was impo&longs;&longs;ible
he &longs;hould ever marry Charlotte Temple; and what
end he propo&longs;ed to him&longs;elf by continuing the acquaintance
he had commenced with her, he did not
at that moment give him&longs;elf time to enquire.
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Chapter XI. CONFLICT OF LOVE AND DUTY.
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Almost a week was now gone, and Charlotte
continued every evening to meet
Montraville, and in her heart every meeting was
re&longs;olved to be the la&longs;t; but alas! when Montraville
at parting would earne&longs;tly intreat one more
interview, that treacherous heart betrayed her;
and, forgetful of its re&longs;olution, pleaded the cau&longs;e of
the enemy &longs;o powerfully, that Charlotte was unable
to re&longs;i&longs;t. Another and another meeting &longs;ucceeded;
and &longs;o well did Montraville improve each opportunity,
that he heedle&longs;s girl at length confe&longs;&longs;ed no
idea could be &longs;o painful to her as that of never seeing
him again.
“Then we will never be parted,” &longs;aid he.
“Ah, Montraville,” replied Charlotte, forcing
a &longs;mile, “how can it be avoided? My parents
would never con&longs;ent to our union; and even could
they be brought to approve of it, how &longs;hould I bear
to be &longs;eparated from my kind, my beloved mother?”
“Then you love your parents more than you do
me, Charlotte?”
“I hope I do,” &longs;aid &longs;he, blu&longs;hing and looking
down, “I hope my affection for them will ever
keep me from infringing the laws of filial duty.”
“Well, Charlotte,” &longs;aid Montraville gravely,
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and letting go her hand, “&longs;ince that is the ca&longs;e,
I find I have deceived my&longs;elf with fallacious hopes.
I had flattered my fond heart, that I was dearer
to Charlotte than any thing in the world be&longs;ide.
I thought that you would for my &longs;ake have braved
the dangers of the ocean, that you would, by
your affection and &longs;miles, have &longs;oftened the hardships
of war, and, had it been my &longs;ate to fall,
that your tenderne&longs;s would chear the hour of
death and &longs;mooth my pa&longs;&longs;age to another world.
But farewel, Charlotte! I &longs;ee you never loved me.
I &longs;hall now welcome the friendly ball that deprives
me of the &longs;en&longs;e of my mi&longs;ery.”
“Oh &longs;tay, unkind Montraville,” cried &longs;he
catching hold of his arm, as he pretended to leave
her, “&longs;tay, and to calm your fears, I will here
prote&longs;t that was it not for the fear of giving pain
to the be&longs;t of parents, and returning their kindne&longs;s
with ingratitude, I would follow you through
every danger, and, in &longs;tudying to promote your
happine&longs;s, in&longs;ure my own. But I cannot break
my mother's heart, Montraville; I mu&longs;t not bring
the grey hairs of my doating grand-father with sorrow
to the grave, or make my beloved father perhaps
cur&longs;e the hour that gave me birth.” She
covered her face with her hands, and bur&longs;t into
tears.
“All the&longs;e di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ing &longs;cenes, my dear Charlotte,”
cried Montraville, “are merely the
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chimeras of a di&longs;turbed fancy. Your parents might
perhaps grieve at fir&longs;t; but when they heard from
your own hand that you was with a man of honour,
and that it was to in&longs;ure your felicity by an
union with him, to which you feared they would
never have given their a&longs;&longs;ent, that you left their
protection, they will, be a&longs;&longs;ured, forgive an error
which love alone occa&longs;ioned, and when we return
from America, receive you with open arms and tears
of joy.”
“Belcour and Mademoi&longs;elle heard this la&longs;t
&longs;peech, and conceiving it a proper time to throw
in their advice and per&longs;ua&longs;ions, approached Charlotte,
and &longs;o well &longs;econded the intreaties of Montraville,
that finding Mademoi&longs;elle intended going
with Belcour, and feeling her own treacherous heart
too much inclined to accompany them, the haple&longs;s
Charlotte, in an evil hour con&longs;ented that the next
evening they &longs;hould bring a chai&longs;e to the end of the
town, and that &longs;he would leave her friends, and
throw her&longs;elf entirely on the protection of Montraville.
“But &longs;hould you,” &longs;aid &longs;he, looking earne&longs;tly
at him, her eyes full of tears, “&longs;hould you, forgetful
of your promi&longs;es, and repenting the engagements
you here voluntarily enter into, for&longs;ake and leave
me on a foreign &longs;hore—”
“Judge not &longs;o meanly of me,” &longs;aid he. “The
moment we reach our place of de&longs;tination, Hymen
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&longs;hall &longs;anctify our love: and when I &longs;hall forget your
goodne&longs;s, may heaven forget me.”
“Ah,” &longs;aid Charlotte, leaning on Mademoi&longs;elle's
arm as they walked up the garden together, “I
have forgot all that I ought to have remembered, in
con&longs;enting to this intended elopement.”
“You are a &longs;trange girl,” &longs;aid Mademoi&longs;elle:
“you never know your own mind two minutes at a
time. Ju&longs;t now you declared Montraville's happine&longs;s
was what you prized mo&longs;t in the world; and now I
&longs;uppo&longs;e you repent having in&longs;ured that happine&longs;s by
agreeing to accompany him abroad.”
“Indeed I do repent,” replied Charlotte, “from
my &longs;oul: but while di&longs;cretion points out the impropriety
of my conduct, inclination urges me on to
ruin.”
“Ruin! fiddle&longs;tick?” &longs;aid Mademoi&longs;elle; “am
not I going with you? and do I feel any of the&longs;e
qualms?”
“You do not renounce a tender father and mother,”
&longs;aid Charlotte.
“But I hazard my dear reputation,” replied
Mademoi&longs;elle, bridling.
“True,” replied Charlotte, “but you do not
&longs;eel what I do.” She then bade her good night: but
&longs;leep was a &longs;tranger to her eyes, and the tear of anguish
watered her pillow.
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Chapter XII.
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Nature's la&longs;t, be&longs;t gift:
Creature in whom excell'd, whatever could
To &longs;ight or thought be nam'd!
Holy, divine! good, amiable, and &longs;weet!
How thou art fall'n!—
When Charlotte left her re&longs;tle&longs;s bed, her languid
eye and pale cheek di&longs;covered to Madame
Du Pont the little repo&longs;e &longs;he had ta&longs;ted.
“My dear child,” &longs;aid the affectionate governess,
“what is the cau&longs;e of the langour &longs;o apparent
in your frame? Are you not well?”
“Yes, my dear Madam, very well,” replied
Charlotte, attempting to &longs;mile, “but I know not
how it was; I could not &longs;leep la&longs;t night, and my spirits
are depre&longs;&longs;ed this morning.”
“Come chear up, my love,” &longs;aid the governe&longs;s;
“I believe I have brought a cordial to revive them.
I have ju&longs;t received a letter from your good mama,
and here is one for your&longs;elf.”
Charlotte ha&longs;tily took the letter: it contained
the&longs;e words—
“As to-morrow is the anniver&longs;ary of the happy
day that gave my beloved girl to the anxious wi&longs;hes
of a maternal heart, I have reque&longs;ted your governe&longs;s
to let you come home and &longs;pend it with us; and as
I know you to be a good affectionate child, and
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make it your &longs;tudy to improve in tho&longs;e branches
of education which you know will give mo&longs;t
plea&longs;ure to your delighted parents, as a reward
for your diligence and attention I have prepared
an agreeable &longs;urpri&longs;e for your reception. Your
grand-father, eager to embrace the darling of his
aged heart, will come in the chai&longs;e for you: &longs;o
hold your&longs;elf in readine&longs;s to attend him by nine
o'clock. Your dear father joins in every tender
wi&longs;h for your health and future felicity, which
warms the heart of my dear Charlotte's affectionate
mother,
L. TEMPLE.”
“Gracious heaven!” cried Charlotte, forgetting
where &longs;he was, and rai&longs;ing her &longs;treaming eyes as in
carne&longs;t &longs;upplication.
Madame Du Pont was &longs;urpri&longs;ed. “Why the&longs;e
tears, my love?” &longs;aid &longs;he. “Why this &longs;eeming
agitation? I thought the letter would have rejoiced,
in&longs;tead of di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ing you.
“It does rejoice me,” replied Charlotte, endeavouring
at compo&longs;ure, “but I was praying for merit
to de&longs;erve the unremitted attentions of the be&longs;t of
parents.”
“You do right,” &longs;aid Madame Du Pont, “to
a&longs;k the a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance of heaven that you may continue
to de&longs;erve their love. Continue, my dear Charlotte,
in the cour&longs;e you have ever pur&longs;ued, and
you will in&longs;ure at once their happine&longs;s and your
own.”
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“Oh!” cried Charlotte, as her governe&longs;s leftlier,
“I have for&longs;eited both for ever! Yet let me
reflect:—the irrevocable &longs;tep is not yet taken: it is
not too late to recede from the brink of a precipice,
from which I can only behold the dark aby&longs;s of ruin,
&longs;hame, and remor&longs;e!”
She aro&longs;e from her &longs;eat, and flew to the apartment
of La Rue. “Oh Mademoi&longs;elle!” &longs;aid &longs;he,
“I am &longs;natched by a miracle from de&longs;truction!
This letter has &longs;aved me: it has opened my eyes to
the folly I was &longs;o near committing. I will not go,
Mademoi&longs;elle: I will not wound the hearts of tho&longs;e
dear parents who make my happine&longs;s the whole
&longs;tudy of their lives.”
“Well,” &longs;aid Mademoi&longs;elle, “do as you plea&longs;e,
Mi&longs;s; but pray under&longs;tand that my re&longs;olution
is taken, and it is not in your power to alter
it. I &longs;hall meet the gentlemen at the appointed
hour, and &longs;hall not be &longs;urprized at any outrage
which Montraville may commit, when he finds
him&longs;elf di&longs;appointed. Indeed I &longs;hould not be astonished,
was he to come immediately here, and reproach
you for your in&longs;tability in the hearing of
the whole &longs;chool: and what will be the consequence?
you will bear the odium of having formed
the re&longs;olution of eloping, and every girl of &longs;pirit
will laugh at your want of fortitude to put it in
execution, while prudes and fools will load you
with reproach and contempt. You will have lo&longs;t
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the confidence of your parents, incurred their anger,
and the &longs;coffs of the world; and what fruit do
you expect to reap from this piece of heroi&longs;m; (for
&longs;uch no doubt you think it is?) you will have the
plea&longs;ure to reflect, that you have deceived the man
who adores you, and whom in your heart you prefer
to all other men, and that you are &longs;eparated from
him for ever.”
This eloquent harangue was given with &longs;uch
volubility, that Charlotte could not find an opportunity
to interrupt her, or to offer a &longs;ingle word
till the whole was fini&longs;hed, and then found her ideas
&longs;o con&longs;u&longs;ed, that &longs;he knew not what to &longs;ay.
At length &longs;he determined that &longs;he would go with
Mademoi&longs;elle to the place of a&longs;&longs;ignation, convince
Montraville of the nece&longs;&longs;ity of adhering to the resolution
of remaining behind; a&longs;&longs;ure him of her
affection, and bid him adieu.
Charlotte formed this plan in her mind, and exulted
in the certainty of its &longs;ucce&longs;s. “How &longs;hall
I rejoice,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “in this triumph of rea&longs;on
over inclination, and when in the arms of my
affectionate parents, lift up my &longs;oul in gratitude
to heaven as I look back on the dangers I have
e&longs;caped!
The hour of a&longs;&longs;ignation arrived: Mademoi&longs;elle
put what money and valuables &longs;he po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed in her
pocket, and advi&longs;ed Charlotte to do the &longs;ame; but
&longs;he re&longs;u&longs;ed: “my re&longs;olution is fixed,” &longs;aid &longs;he; I
will &longs;acrifice love to duty.”
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Mademoi&longs;elle &longs;miled internally; and they proceeded
&longs;oftly down the back &longs;tairs and out of the
garden gate. Montraville and Belcour was ready
to receive them.
“Now,” &longs;aid Montraville, taking Charlotte in
his arms, “you are mine forever.”
“No,” &longs;aid &longs;he, withdrawing from his embrace
“I am come to take an everla&longs;ting farewel.”
It would be u&longs;ele&longs;s to repeat the conver&longs;ation
that here en&longs;ued; &longs;uffice it to &longs;ay, that Montraville
u&longs;ed every argument that had formerly been
&longs;ucce&longs;sful, Charlotte's re&longs;olution began to waver,
and he drew her almo&longs;t imperceptibly towards the
chai&longs;e.
“I cannot go,” &longs;aid &longs;he: “cea&longs;e, dear Montraville,
to per&longs;uade. I mu&longs;t not: religion, duty,
forbid.”
“Cruel Charlotte,” &longs;aid he, “if you di&longs;appoint
my ardent hopes, by all that is &longs;acred, this hand
&longs;hall put a period to my exi&longs;tence. I cannot—will
not live without you.”
“Alas! my torn heart!” &longs;aid Charlotte, “how
&longs;hall I act?”
“Let me direct you,” &longs;aid Montraville, lifting
her into the chai&longs;e.
“Oh! my dear for&longs;aken parents!” cried
Charlotte.
The chai&longs;e drove off. She &longs;hrieked, and fainted
into the arms of her betrayer.
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Chapter XIII. CRUEL DISAPPOINTMENT.
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“What plea&longs;ure,” cried Mr. Eldridge, as he
&longs;tepped into the chai&longs;e to go for his grand-daughter,
“what plea&longs;ure expands the heart of an
old man when he beholds the progeny of a beloved
child growing up in every virtue that adorned the
minds of her parents. I fooli&longs;hly thought, &longs;ome
few years &longs;ince, that every &longs;en&longs;e, of joy was buried
in the graves of my dear partner and my &longs;on;
but my Lucy, by her &longs;ilial affection, &longs;oothed my
&longs;oul to peace, and this dear Charlotte has twined
her&longs;elf round my heart, and opened &longs;uch new &longs;cenes
of delight to my view, that I almo&longs;t forget I have
ever been unhappy.”
When the chai&longs;e &longs;topped, he alighted with the
alacrity of youth; &longs;o much do the emotions of the
&longs;oul influence the body.
It was half pa&longs;t eight o'clock: the ladies were assembled
in the &longs;chool room, and Madame Du Pont
was preparing to offer the morning &longs;acrifice of
prayer and prai&longs;e, when it was di&longs;covered, that Mademoiselle
and Charlotte were mi&longs;&longs;ing.
“She is bu&longs;y, no doubt,” &longs;aid the governe&longs;s,
“in preparing Charlotte for her little excur&longs;ion;
but plea&longs;ure &longs;hall never make us forget our duty
to our Creator. Go, one of you, and bid them both
attend prayers.”
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The lady who went to &longs;ummen them, &longs;oon returned,
and informed the governe&longs;s, that the room
was locked, and that &longs;he had knocked repeatedly,
but obtained no an&longs;wer.
“Good heaven!” cried Madame Du Pont,
“this is very &longs;trange:” and turning pale with
terror, &longs;he went ha&longs;tily to the door and ordered it
to be forced open. The apartment in&longs;tantly discovered,
that no per&longs;on had been in it the preceding
night, the beds appearing as though ju&longs;t made. The
hou&longs;e was in&longs;tantly a &longs;cene of con&longs;u&longs;ion: the garden,
the plea&longs;ure grounds were &longs;earched to no purpose,
every apartment rung with the names of Mi&longs;s
Temple and Mademoi&longs;elle; but they were too
di&longs;tant to hear; and every face wore the marks of
di&longs;appointment.
Mr. Eldridge was &longs;itting in the parlour, eagerly
expecting his grand-daughter to de&longs;cend, ready
equipped for her journey: he heard the con&longs;u&longs;ion
that reigned in the hou&longs;e; he heard the name of
Charlotte frequently repeated. “What can be
the matter?” &longs;aid he, ri&longs;ing and opening the
door: “I fear &longs;ome accident has befallen my dear
girl.”
The governe&longs;s entered. The vi&longs;ible agitation of
her countenance di&longs;covered that &longs;omething extraordinary
had happened.
“Where is Charlotte?” &longs;aid he, “Why
does not my child come to welcome her doating
parent?”
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“Be compo&longs;ed, my dear Sir,” &longs;aid Madame
Du Pont, “do not frighten your&longs;elf unnecessarily.
She is not in the hou&longs;e at pre&longs;ent; but
as Mademoi&longs;elle is undoubtedly with her, &longs;he will
&longs;peedily return in &longs;afety; and I hope they will
both be able to account for this un&longs;ea&longs;onable absence
in &longs;uch a manner as &longs;hall remove our pre&longs;ent
unea&longs;ine&longs;s.
“Madam,” cried the old man, with an angry
look, “has my child been accu&longs;tomed to go out
without leave, with no other company or protector
than that French woman. Pardon me, Madam,
I mean no reflections on your country, but
I never did like Mademoi&longs;elle La Rue; I think &longs;he
was a very improper per&longs;on to be entru&longs;ted with
the care of &longs;uch a girl as Charlotte Temple, or to
be &longs;uffered to take her from under your immediate
protection.”
“You wrong me, Mr. Eldridge,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “If
you &longs;uppo&longs;e I have ever permitted your grand-daughter
to go out unle&longs;s with the other ladies. I
would to heaven I could form any probable conjecture
concerning her ab&longs;ence this morning, but it is
a my&longs;tery which her return can alone unravel.”
Servants were now di&longs;patched to every place
where there was the lea&longs;t hope of hearing any tidings
of the fugitives, but in vain. Dreadful were
the hours of horrid &longs;u&longs;pen&longs;e which Mr. Eldridge
pa&longs;&longs;ed till twelve o'clock, when that &longs;u&longs;pen&longs;e was
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reduced to a &longs;hocking certainty, and every &longs;park of
hope which till then they had indulged, was in a
moment extingui&longs;hed.
Mr. Eldridge was preparing with a heavy heart,
to return to his anxiou&longs;ly-expecting children, when
Madame Du Pont received the following note without
either name or date.
“Mi&longs;s Temple is well and wi&longs;hes to relieve the
anxiety of her parents, by letting them know &longs;he
has voluntarily put her&longs;elf under the protection of
a man who&longs;e future &longs;tudy &longs;hall be to make her happy.
Pur&longs;uit is needle&longs;s; the mea&longs;ures taken to
avoid di&longs;covery are too effectual to be eluded.
When &longs;he thinks her friends are reconciled to this
precipitate &longs;tep, they may perhaps be informed of
her place of re&longs;idence. Mademoi&longs;elle is with her.”
As Madame Du Pont read the&longs;e cruel lines, &longs;he
turned pale as a&longs;hes, her limbs trembled, and &longs;he
was forced to call for a gla&longs;s of water. She loved
Charlotte truly: and when &longs;he reflected on the
innocence and gentlene&longs;s of her di&longs;po&longs;ition, &longs;he
concluded that it mu&longs;t have been the advice and
machinations of La Rue, which led her to this imprudent
action; &longs;he recollected her agitation at the
receipt of her mother's letter, and &longs;aw in it the conflict
of her mind.
“Does that letter relate to Charlotte?” &longs;aid Mr.
Eldridge, having waited &longs;ome time in expectation
of Madame Du Pont's &longs;peaking.
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“It does,” &longs;aid &longs;he. “Charlotte is well, but
cannot return to-day.”
“Not return, Madam? where is &longs;he? who will
detain her from her fond expecting parents?”
“You di&longs;tract me with the&longs;e que&longs;tions, Mr. Eldridge.
Indeed I know not where &longs;he is, or who has
&longs;educed her from her duty.”
The whole truth now ru&longs;hed at once upon Mr.
Eldridge's mind. “She has eloped then,” &longs;aid he
“My child is betrayed; the darling, the comfort
of my aged heart, is lo&longs;t. Oh would to heaven I
had died but ye&longs;terday.”
A violent gu&longs;h of grief in &longs;ome mea&longs;ure relieved
him, and, after &longs;everal vain attempts, he at length
a&longs;&longs;umed &longs;ufficient compo&longs;ure to read the note.
“And how &longs;hall I return to my children?” &longs;aid
he: “how approach that man&longs;ion, &longs;o late the habitation
of peace? Alas! my dear Lucy, how will
you &longs;upport the&longs;e heart-rending tidings? or how
&longs;hall I be enabled to con&longs;ole you, who need &longs;o much
con&longs;olation my&longs;elf?”
The old man returned to the chai&longs;e, but the light
&longs;tep and chearful countenance were no more; sorrow
filled his heart, and guided his motions; he
&longs;eated him&longs;elf in the chai&longs;e, his venerable head reclined
upon his bo&longs;om, his hands were folded, his
eye fixed on vacancy, and the large drops of &longs;orrow
rolled &longs;ilently down his cheeks. There was a
mixture of angui&longs;h and re&longs;ignation depicted in
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his countenance, as if he would &longs;ay, henceforth who
&longs;hall dare to boa&longs;t his happine&longs;s, or even in idea
contemplate his trea&longs;ure, left, in the very moment
his heart is exulting in its own felicity, the object
which con&longs;titutes that felicity &longs;hould be torn from
him.
Chapter XIV. MATERNAL SORROW.
Slow and heavy pa&longs;&longs;ed the time while the carriage
was conveying Mr. Eldridge home;
and yet when he came in &longs;ight of the hou&longs;e, he
wi&longs;hed a longer reprieve from the dreadful ta&longs;k of
informing Mr. and Mrs. Temple of their daughter's
clopement.
It is ea&longs;y to judge the anxiety of the&longs;e affectionate
parents, when they found the return of their
father delayed &longs;o much beyond the expected time.
They were now met in the dining parlour, and
&longs;everal of the young people who had been invited
were already arrived. Each different part of the
company was employed in the &longs;ame manner, looking
out at the windows which faced the road. At
length the long-expected chai&longs;e appeared. Mrs.
Temple ran out to receive and welcome her darling:
her young companions flocked round the door,
each one eager to give her joy on the return of her
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birth-day. The door of the chai&longs;e was opened:
Charlotte was not there. “Where is my child?”
cried Mrs. Temple, in breathle&longs;s agitation.
Mr. Eldridge could not an&longs;wer: he took hold of
his daughter's hand and led her into the hou&longs;e; and
&longs;inking on the fir&longs;t chair he came to, bur&longs;t into tears,
and &longs;obbed aloud.
“She is dead,” cried Mrs. Temple. “Oh my
dear Charlotte!” and cla&longs;ping her hands in an agony
of di&longs;tre&longs;s, fell into &longs;trong hy&longs;terics.
Mr. Temple who had &longs;tood &longs;peechle&longs;s with &longs;urprize
and fear, now ventured to enquire if indeed his Charlotte
was no more. Mr. Eldridge led him into
another apartment; and putting the fatal note into
his hand, cried—“Bear it like a Chri&longs;tian, and turned
from him, endeavouring to &longs;uppre&longs;s his own too
vi&longs;ible emotions.
It would be vain to attempt de&longs;cribing what Mr.
Temple felt whil&longs;t he ha&longs;tily ran over the dreadful
lines: when he had fini&longs;hed, the paper dropt from
his unnerved hand. “Gracious heaven!” &longs;aid he,
“could Charlotte act thus?” Neither tear nor &longs;igh
e&longs;caped him; and he &longs;at the image of mute &longs;orrow,
till rou&longs;ed from his &longs;tupor by the repeated &longs;hrieks of
Mrs. Temple. He ro&longs;e ha&longs;tily, and ru&longs;hing into the
apartment where &longs;he was, folded his arms about her
and &longs;aying—“Let us be patient, my dear Lucy,”
nature relieved his almo&longs;t bur&longs;ting heart by a friendly
gu&longs;h of tears.
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Should any one, pre&longs;uming on his own philo&longs;ophic
temper, look with an eye of contempt on the man
who could indulge a woman's weakne&longs;s, let him remember
that man was a father, and he will then pity
the mi&longs;ery which wrung tho&longs;e drops from a noble,
generous heart.
Mrs. Temple beginning to be a little more composed,
but &longs;till imagining her child was dead, her
hu&longs;band, gently taking her hand, cried—“You are
mi&longs;taken, my love. Charlotte is not dead.”
“Then &longs;he is very ill, el&longs;e why did &longs;he not
come? But I will go to her: the chai&longs;e is &longs;till at
the door: let me go in&longs;tantly to the dear girl. If
I was ill, &longs;he would fly to attend me, to alleviate
my &longs;ufferings, and chear me with her love.”
“Be calm, my deare&longs;t Lucy, and I will tell you
all,” &longs;aid Mr. Temple. “You mu&longs;t not go, indeed
you mu&longs;t not: it will be of no u&longs;e.”
“Temple,” &longs;aid &longs;he, a&longs;&longs;uming a look of firmne&longs;s
and compo&longs;ure, “tell me the truth I be&longs;eech you.
I cannot bear this dreadful &longs;u&longs;pen&longs;e. What misfortune
has befallen my child? Let me know the wor&longs;t,
and I will endeavour to bear it as I ought.”
“Lucy,” replied Mr. Temple, “imagine your
daughter alive, and in no danger of death: what
misfortune would you then dread?”
“There is one misfortune which is wor&longs;e than
death. But I know my child too well to &longs;u&longs;pect—”
“Be not too confident, Lucy.”
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“Oh heavens!” &longs;aid &longs;he, “what horrid
images do you &longs;tart: is it po&longs;&longs;ible &longs;he &longs;hould forget—”
“She has forgot us all, my love; &longs;he has preferred
the love of a &longs;tranger to the affectionate protection
of her friends.”
“Not cloped?” cried &longs;he eagerly.
Mr. Temple was &longs;ilent.
“You cannot contradict it,” &longs;aid &longs;he. “I &longs;ee
my fate in tho&longs;e tearful eyes. Oh Charlotte! Charlotte!
how ill have you requited our tenderne&longs;s!
But, Father of Mercies,” continued &longs;he, &longs;inking on
her knees, and rai&longs;ing her &longs;treaming eyes and
cla&longs;ped hands to heaven, “this once vouch&longs;a&longs;e
to hear a fond, a di&longs;tracted mother's prayer.
Oh let thy bounteous Providence watch over
and protect the dear thoughtle&longs;s girl, &longs;ave her
from the mi&longs;eries which I fear will be her portion,
and oh! of thine infinite mercy, make her not
a mother, le&longs;t &longs;he &longs;hould one day feel what I now
&longs;uffer.”
The la&longs;t words faultered on her tongue, and &longs;he
fell fainting into the arms of her hu&longs;band, who had
involuntarily dropped on his knees be&longs;ide her.
A mother's angui&longs;h, when di&longs;appointed in her
tendere&longs;t hopes none but a mother can conceive.
Yet, my dear young readers, I would have you
read this &longs;cene with attention, and reflect that
you may your&longs;elves one day be mothers. Oh my
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friends, as you value your eternal happine&longs;s,
wound not, by thoughtle&longs;s ingratitude, the peace
of the mother who bore you: remember the tenderness,
the care the unremitting anxiety with
which &longs;he has attended to all your wants and
wi&longs;hes from earlie&longs;t infancy to the pre&longs;ent day;
behold the mild ray of affectionate applau&longs;e that
beams from her eye on the performance of your
duty: li&longs;ten to her reproofs with &longs;ilent attention;
they proceed from a heart anxious for your future
felicity: you mu&longs;t love her; nature, all-powerful
nature, has planted the &longs;eeds of filial affection in
your bo&longs;oms.
Then once more read over the &longs;orrows of poor
Mrs. Temple, and remember the mother whom
you &longs;o dearly love and venerate will feel the &longs;ame,
when you, forgetful of the re&longs;pect due to your
maker and your&longs;elf, for&longs;ake the paths of virtue for
tho&longs;e of vice and folly.
Chapter XV. EMBARKATION.
It was with the utmo&longs;t difficulty that the united
efforts of Mademoi&longs;elle and Montraville could
&longs;upport Charlotte's &longs;pirits during their &longs;hort ride
from Chiche&longs;ter to Port&longs;mouth, where a boat waited
to take them immediately on board the &longs;hip in
which they were to embark for America.
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As &longs;oon as &longs;he became tolerably compo&longs;ed, &longs;he
entreated pen and ink to write to her parents. This
&longs;he did in the mo&longs;t affecting, artle&longs;s manner, entreating
their pardon and ble&longs;&longs;ing, and de&longs;cribing
the dreadful &longs;ituation of her mind, the conflict &longs;he
&longs;uffered in endeavouring to conquer this unfortunate
attachment, and concluded with &longs;aying, her only
hope of future comfort con&longs;i&longs;ted in the (perhaps delusive)
idea &longs;he indulged, of being once more folded
in their protecting arms, and hearing the words of
peace and pardon from their lips.
The tears &longs;treamed ince&longs;&longs;antly while &longs;he was
writing, and &longs;he was frequently obliged to lay down
her pen: but when the ta&longs;k was completed, and &longs;he
had committed the letter to the care of Montraville
to be &longs;ent to the po&longs;t office, &longs;he became more calm,
and indulging the delightful hope of &longs;oon receiving
an an&longs;wer that would &longs;eal her pardon, &longs;he in &longs;ome
mea&longs;ure a&longs;&longs;umed her u&longs;ual chearfulne&longs;s.
But Montraville knew too well the con&longs;equences
that mu&longs;t unavoidably en&longs;ue, &longs;hould this letter
reach Mr. Temple: he therefore wi&longs;ely re&longs;olved to
walk on the deck, tear it in pieces, and commit
the fragments to the care of Neptune, who might
or might not, as it &longs;uited his convenience, convey
them on &longs;hore.
All Charlotte's hopes and wi&longs;hes were now
centered in one, namely that the fleet might be detained
at Spithead till &longs;he could receive a letter
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from her friends: but in this &longs;he was di&longs;appointed,
for the &longs;econd morning after &longs;he went on board,
the &longs;ignal was made, the fleet weighed anchor,
and in a few hours (the wind being favourable)
they bid adieu to the white cliffs of Albion.
In the mean time every enquiry that could be
thought of was made by Mr. and Mrs. Temple:
for many days did they indulge the fond hope that
&longs;he was merely gone off to be married, and that
when the indi&longs;&longs;oluble knot was once tied, &longs;he
would return with the partner &longs;he had cho&longs;en, and
entreat their ble&longs;&longs;ing and forgivene&longs;s.
“And &longs;hall we not forgive her?” &longs;aid Mr. Temple.
“Forgive her!” exclaimed the mother. “Oh
yes, whatever be our errors, is &longs;he not our child?
and though bowed to the earth even with &longs;hame
and remor&longs;e, is it not our duty to rai&longs;e the poor
penitent, and whi&longs;per peace and comfort to her
de&longs;ponding &longs;oul? would &longs;he but return, with rapture
would I fold her to my heart, and bury every
remembrance of her faults in the dear embrace.”
But &longs;till day after day pa&longs;&longs;ed on, and Charlotte
did not appear, nor were any tidings to be heard
of her: yet each ri&longs;ing morning was welcomed by
&longs;ome new hope—the evening brought with it disappointment.
At length hope was no more; despair
u&longs;urped her place; and the man&longs;ion which was
once the man&longs;ion of peace, became the habitation
of pale, dejected melancholy.
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The chearful &longs;mile that was wont to adorn the
face of Mrs. Temple was &longs;led, and had it not been
for the &longs;upport of unaffected piety, and a consciousness
of having ever &longs;et before her child the fairest
example, &longs;he mu&longs;t have &longs;unk under this heavy
affliction.
“Since,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “the &longs;evere&longs;t &longs;crutiny cannot
charge me with any breach of duty to have
de&longs;erved this &longs;evere cha&longs;tizement, I will bow before
the power who inflicts it with humble resignation
to his will; nor &longs;hall the duty of a wife be
totally ab&longs;orbed in the feelings of the mother; I
will endeavour to appear more chearful, and by
appearing in &longs;ome mea&longs;ure to have conquered my
own &longs;orrow, alleviate the &longs;ufferings of my hu&longs;band,
and rou&longs;e him from that torpor into which this
misfortune has plunged him. My father too demands
my care and attention: I mu&longs;t not, by a
&longs;el&longs;i&longs;h indulgence of my own grief, forget the interest
tho&longs;e two dear objects take in my happine&longs;s
or mi&longs;ery: I will wear a &longs;mile on my face, though
the thorn rankles in my heart: and if by &longs;o doing,
I in the &longs;malle&longs;t degree contribute to re&longs;tore their
peace of mind, I &longs;hall be amply rewarded for the pain
the concealment of my own feelings may occa&longs;ion.
Thus argued this excellent woman: and in the
execution of &longs;o laudable a re&longs;olution we &longs;hall leave
her, to follow the fortunes of the haple&longs;s victim of
imprudence and evil coun&longs;ellors.
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Chapter XVI. NECESSARY DIGRESSION.
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
On board of the &longs;hip in which Charlotte and
Mademoi&longs;elle were embarked, was an officer
of large unincumbered fortune and elevated rank,
and whom I &longs;hall call Crayton.
He was one of tho&longs;e men, who having travelled
in their youth, pretend to have contracted a
peculiar fondne&longs;s for every thing foreign, and to
hold in contempt the productions of their own
country; and this affected partiality extended even
to the women.
With him therefore the blu&longs;hing, mode&longs;ty and unaffected
&longs;implicity of Charlotte pa&longs;&longs;ed unnoticed; but
the forward pertne&longs;s of La Rue, the freedom of her
conver&longs;ation, the elegance of her per&longs;on, mixed
with a certain engaging je ne &longs;ais quoi, perfectly enchanted
him.
The reader no doubt has already developed the
character of La Rue; de&longs;igning, artful, and &longs;el&longs;i&longs;h,
&longs;he had accepted the devoirs of Belcour becau&longs;e
&longs;he was heartily weary of the retired life &longs;he led
at the &longs;chool, wi&longs;hed to be relea&longs;ed from what &longs;he
deemed a &longs;lavery, and to return to that vortex of
folly and di&longs;&longs;ipation which had once plunged her
into the deepe&longs;t mi&longs;ery; but her plan &longs;he flattered
her&longs;elf was now better formed: &longs;he re&longs;olved to
put her&longs;elf under the protection of no man till &longs;he
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[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
had fir&longs;t &longs;ecured a &longs;ettlement; but the clande&longs;tine
manner in which &longs;he left Madame Du Pont's
prevented her putting this plan in execution,
though Belcour &longs;olemnly prote&longs;ted he would make
her a hand&longs;ome &longs;ettlement the moment they arrived
at Port&longs;mouth. This he afterwards contrived
to evade by a pretended hurry of bu&longs;ine&longs;s; La
Rue readily conceiving he never meant to fulfil
his promi&longs;e, determined to change her battery, and
attack the heart of Colonel Crayton, She &longs;oon discovered
the partiality he entertained for her nation;
and having impo&longs;ed on him a feigned tale of
di&longs;tre&longs;s, repre&longs;enting Belcour as a villain who had
&longs;educed her from her friends under promi&longs;e of marriage,
and afterwards betrayed her, pretending
great remor&longs;e for the errors &longs;he had committed,
and declaring whatever her affection for Belcour
might have been, it was now entirely extingui&longs;hed,
and &longs;he wi&longs;hed for nothing more than an opportunity
to leave a cour&longs;e of life which her &longs;oul abhorred;
but &longs;he had no friends to apply to, they had
all renounced her, and guilt and mi&longs;ery would undoubtedly
be her future portion through life.
Crayton was po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of many amiable qualities,
though the peculiar trait in his character, which
we have already mentioned, in a great mea&longs;ure
threw a &longs;hade over them. He was beloved for his
humanity and benevolence by all who knew him,
but he was ea&longs;y and un&longs;u&longs;picious him&longs;elf, and became
a dupe to the artifice of others.
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He was, when very young, united to an amiable
Pari&longs;ian lady, and perhaps it was his affection
for her that laid the foundation for the partiality he
ever retained for the whole nation. He had by her
one daughter, who entered into the world but a few
hours before her mother left it. This lady was universally
beloved and admired, being endowed with
all the virtues of her mother, without the weakne&longs;s
of the father: &longs;he was married to Major Beauchamp,
and was at this time in the &longs;ame fleet with her father,
attending her hu&longs;band to New-York.
Crayton was melted by the affected contrition
and di&longs;tre&longs;s of La Rue: he would conver&longs;e with her
for hours, read to her, play cards with her, li&longs;ten
to all her complaints, and promi&longs;e to protect her
to the utmo&longs;t of his power. La Rue ea&longs;ily &longs;aw his
character; her &longs;ole aim was to awaken a pa&longs;&longs;ion in
his bo&longs;om that might turn out to her advantage, and
in this aim &longs;he was but too &longs;ucce&longs;sful, for before the
voyage was fini&longs;hed the infatuated Colonel gave her
from under his hand a promi&longs;e of marriage on their
arrival at New-York, under forfeiture of five thousand
pounds.
And how did our poor Charlotte pa&longs;s her time
during a tedious and tempe&longs;tuous pa&longs;&longs;age? naturally
delicate, the fatigue and &longs;ickne&longs;s which &longs;he endured
rendered her &longs;o weak as to be almo&longs;t entirely
confined to her bed: yet the kindne&longs;s and attention
of Montraville in &longs;ome mea&longs;ure contributed
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[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
to alleviate her &longs;ufferings, and the hope of hearing
from her friends &longs;oon after her arrival,
kept up her &longs;pirits, and cheered many a gloomy hour.
But during the voyage a great revolution took
place not only in the fortune of La Rue but in
the bo&longs;om of Belcour: whil&longs;t in pur&longs;uit of his
amour with Mademoi&longs;elle, he had attended little
to the intere&longs;ting, inobtru&longs;ive charms of Charlotte,
but when, cloyed by po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion, and di&longs;gu&longs;ted with the
art and di&longs;&longs;imulation of one, he beheld the simplicity
and gentlene&longs;s of the other, the contra&longs;t
became too &longs;triking not to fill him at once with
&longs;urpri&longs;e and admiration. He frequently conver&longs;ed
with Charlotte; he found her &longs;en&longs;ible, well informed,
but diffident and una&longs;&longs;uming. The languor
which the fatigue of her body and perturbation of
her mind &longs;pread over her delicate features, &longs;erved
only in his opinion to render her more lovely:
he knew that Montraville did not de&longs;ign to marry
her, and he formed a re&longs;olution to endeavour to
gain her him&longs;elf whenever Montraville &longs;hould leave
her.
Let not the reader imagine Belcour's de&longs;igns
were honourable. Alas! when once a woman has
forgot the re&longs;pect due to her&longs;elf, by yielding to the
&longs;olicitations of illieit love, they lo&longs;e all their consequence,
even in the eyes of the man who&longs;e art has betrayed
them, and for who&longs;e &longs;ake they have &longs;acrificed
every valuable con&longs;ideration.
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The heedle&longs;s Fair, who &longs;toops to guilty joys,
A man may pity—but he mu&longs;t de&longs;pi&longs;e.
Nay, ever libertine will think he has a right to in&longs;ult
her with his licentious pa&longs;&longs;ion; and &longs;hould the unhappy
creature &longs;hrink from the in&longs;olent overture, he
will &longs;neeringly taunt her with pretence of mode&longs;ty.
Chapter XVII. A WEDDING.
On the day before their arrival at New-York,
after dinner, Crayton aro&longs;e from his &longs;eat,
and placing him&longs;elf by Mademoi&longs;elle, thus addre&longs;&longs;ed
the company—
“As we are now nearly arrived at our de&longs;tined
port, I think it but my duty to inform you, my
friends, that this lady,” (taking her hand,) “has
placed her&longs;elf under my protection. I have &longs;een
and &longs;everely felt the angui&longs;h of her heart, and
through every &longs;hade which cruelty or malice may
throw over her, can di&longs;cover the mo&longs;t amiable
qualities. I thought it but nece&longs;&longs;ary to mention
my e&longs;teem for her before our di&longs;embarkation,
as it is my fixed re&longs;olution, the morning after we
land, to give her an undoubted title to my favour
and protection by honourably uniting my fate to
hers. I would wi&longs;h every gentleman here therefore
to remember that her honour henceforth is
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[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
mine, and,” continued he, looking at Belcour,
“&longs;hould any man pre&longs;ume to &longs;peak in the lea&longs;t, disrespectful
of her, I &longs;hall not he&longs;itate to pronounce
him a &longs;coundrel.”
Belcour ca&longs;t at him a &longs;mile of contempt, and bowing
profoundly low, wi&longs;hed Mademoi&longs;elle much joy
in the propo&longs;ed union; and a&longs;&longs;uring the Colonel
that he need not be in the lea&longs;t apprehen&longs;ive of any
one throwing the lea&longs;t odium on the character of his
lady, &longs;hook him by the hand with ridiculous gravity,
and left the cabin.
The truth was he was glad to be rid of La Rue,
and &longs;o he was but freed from her, he cared not who
fell a victim to her infamous arts.
The inexperienced Charlotte was a&longs;toni&longs;hed at
what &longs;he heard. She thought La Rue had, like
her&longs;elf, only been urged by the force of her attachment
to Belcour, to quit her friends, and follow
him to the &longs;eat of war: how wonderful then, that
&longs;he &longs;hould re&longs;olve to marry another man. It was
certainly extremely wrong. It was indelicate. She
mentioned her thoughts to Montraville. He laughed
at her &longs;implicity, called her a little ideot, and
patting her on the cheek, &longs;aid &longs;he knew nothing of
the world. “If the world &longs;anctifies &longs;uch things, 'tis
a very bad world I think,” &longs;aid Charlotte. “Why I
always under&longs;tood that they were to have been married
when they arrived at New-York. I am &longs;ure
Mademoi&longs;elle told me Belcour promi&longs;ed to marry
her.”
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“Well, and &longs;uppo&longs;e he did?”
“Why, he &longs;hould be obliged to keep his word I
think.”
“Well, but I &longs;uppo&longs;e he has changed his mind,”
&longs;aid Montraville, “and then you know the ca&longs;e is
altered.”
Charlotte looked at him attentively for a moment.
A full &longs;en&longs;e of her own &longs;ituation ru&longs;hed upon her
mind. She bur&longs;t into tears, and remained &longs;ilent.
Montraville too well under&longs;tood the cau&longs;e of her
tears. He ki&longs;&longs;ed her cheek, and bidding her not
make her&longs;elf unea&longs;y, unable to bear the &longs;ilent but
keen remon&longs;trance, ha&longs;tily left her.
The next morning by &longs;un-ri&longs;e they found themselves
at anchor before the city of New-York. A
boat was ordered to convey the ladies on &longs;hore.
Crayton accompanied them; and they were &longs;hewn
to a hou&longs;e of public entertainment. Scarcely were
they &longs;eated when the door opened, and the Colonel
found him&longs;elf in the arms of his daughter, who had
landed a few minutes before him. The fir&longs;t transport
of meeting &longs;ub&longs;ided, Crayton introduced his
daughter to Mademoi&longs;elle La Rue, as an old friend
of her mother's, (for the artful French woman had
really made it appear to the credulous Colonel that
&longs;he was in the &longs;ame convent with his fir&longs;t wife, and,
though much younger, had received many tokens of
her e&longs;teem and regard.)
“If, Mademoi&longs;elle,” &longs;aid Mrs. Beauchamp,
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“you were the friend of my mother, you mu&longs;t
be worthy the e&longs;teem of all good hearts.”
“Mademoi&longs;elle will &longs;oon honour our family,”
&longs;aid Crayton, “by &longs;upplying the place that valuable
woman filled: and as you are married, my dear,
I think you will not blame—”
“Hu&longs;h, my dear Sir,” replied Mrs. Beauchamp:
“I know my duty too well to &longs;crutinize
your conduct. Be a&longs;&longs;ured, my dear father, your
happine&longs;s is mine. I &longs;hall rejoice in it, and sincerely
love the per&longs;on who contributes to it. But
tell me,” continued &longs;he, turning to Charlotte,
who is this lovely girl? Is &longs;he your &longs;i&longs;ter, MadeMoiselle?”
A blu&longs;h, deep as the glow of the carnation, suffused
the cheeks of Charlotte.
“It is a young lady,” replied the Colonel,
“who came in the &longs;ame ve&longs;&longs;el with us from England.”
He then drew his daughter a&longs;ide, and told her
in a whi&longs;per, Charlotte was the mi&longs;tre&longs;s of Montraville.
“What a pity!” &longs;aid Mrs. Beauchamp &longs;oftly,
(ca&longs;ting a mo&longs;t compa&longs;&longs;ionate glance at her.)
“But &longs;urely her mind is not depraved. The goodness
of her heart is depicted in her ingenuous countenance.”
“Charlotte caught the word pity. “And am
I already fallen &longs;o low?” &longs;aid &longs;he. A &longs;igh e&longs;caped
her, and a tear was ready to &longs;tart, but
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Montraville appeared, and &longs;he checked the ri&longs;ing emotion.
Mademoi&longs;elle went with the Colonel and his
daughter to another apartment. Charlotte remained
with Montraville and Belcour. The next morning
the Colonel performed his promi&longs;e, and La Rue
became in due form Mrs. Crayton, exulted in her
own good fortune, and dared to look with an eye
of contempt on the unfortunate but far le&longs;s guilty
Charlotte.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
