Rowson, Mrs., 1762-1824 [1794], Charlotte: a tale of truth, volume 2 (D. Humphreys, for M. Carey, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf325v2].
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CHARLOTTE. A TALE OF TRUTH.
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And am I indeed fallen &longs;o low,” &longs;aid Charlotte,
“as to be only pitied? Will the
voice of approbation no more meet my ear? and
&longs;hall I never again po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s a friend, who&longs;e face will
wear a &longs;inile of joy whenever I approach? Alas!
how thoughtle&longs;s, how dreadfully imprudent have
I been! I know not which is mo&longs;t painful to endure,
the &longs;neer of contempt, or the glance of compa&longs;&longs;ion,
which is depicted in the various countenances of
my own &longs;ex: they are both equally humiliating.
Ah! my dear parents, could you now &longs;ee the child
of your affections, the daughter whom you &longs;o dearly
loved, a poor &longs;olitary being, without &longs;ociety,
here wearing out her heavy hours in deep regret
and angui&longs;h of heart, no kind friend of her own &longs;ex
to whom &longs;he can unbo&longs;om her griefs, no beloved
mother, no woman of character will appear in my
company, and low as your Charlotte is fallen, &longs;he
cannot a&longs;&longs;ociate with infamy.”
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The&longs;e were the painful reflections which occupied
the mind of Charlotte. Montraville had
placed her in a &longs;mall hou&longs;e a few miles from New-York:
he gave her one female attendant, and
&longs;upplied her with what money &longs;he wanted; but
bu&longs;ine&longs;s and plea&longs;ure &longs;o entirely occupied his time,
that he had little to devote to the woman whom
he had brought from all her connections, and robbed
of innocence. Sometimes, indeed, he would
&longs;teal out at the clo&longs;e of evening, and pa&longs;s a few
hours with her; and then &longs;o much was &longs;he attached
to him, that all her &longs;orrows were forgotten while
ble&longs;t with his &longs;ociety: &longs;he would enjoy a walk by
moonlight, or &longs;it by him in a little arbour at the
bottom of the garden, and play on the harp, accompanying
it with her plaintive, harmonious
voice. But often, very often, did he promi&longs;e
to renew his vi&longs;its, and, forgetful of his promi&longs;e,
leave her to mourn her di&longs;appointment. What
painful hours of expectation would &longs;he pa&longs;s! &longs;he
would &longs;it at a window which looked toward a field
he u&longs;ed to cro&longs;s, counting the minutes, and straining
her eyes to catch the fir&longs;t glimp&longs;e of his per&longs;on,
till blinded with tears of di&longs;appointment, &longs;he would
lean her head on her hands, and give free vent to
her &longs;orrows: then catching at &longs;ome new hope, &longs;he
would again renew her watchful po&longs;ition, till the
&longs;hades of evening enveloped every object in a du&longs;ky
cloud: &longs;he would then renew her complaints, and,
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with a heart bur&longs;ting with di&longs;appointed love and
wounded &longs;en&longs;ibility, retire to a bed which remor&longs;e
had &longs;trewed with thorns, and court in vain that
comforter of weary nature (who &longs;eldom vi&longs;its the
unhappy) to come and &longs;teep her &longs;en&longs;es in oblivion.
Who can form an adequate idea of the &longs;orrow
that preyed upon the mind of Charlotte? The
wife, who&longs;e brea&longs;t glows with affection to her
hu&longs;band, and who in return meets only indifference,
can but faintly conceive her angui&longs;h.
Dreadfully painful is the &longs;ituation of &longs;uch a woman,
but &longs;he has many comforts of which our poor
Charlotte was deprived. The duteous, faithful
wife though treated with indifference, has one
&longs;olid plea&longs;ure within her own bo&longs;om, &longs;he can
reflect that &longs;he has not de&longs;erved neglect—that &longs;he
has ever fulfilled the duties of her &longs;tation with the
&longs;tricte&longs;t exactne&longs;s; &longs;he may hope, by con&longs;tant
a&longs;&longs;iduity and unremitted attention, to recall her
wanderer, and be doubly happy in his returning
affection; &longs;he knows he cannot leave her to unite
him&longs;elf to another: he cannot ca&longs;t her out to poverty
and contempt; &longs;he looks around her, and
&longs;ees the &longs;mile of friendly welcome, or the tear of
affectionate con&longs;olation, on the face of every person
whom &longs;he favours with her e&longs;teem; and from
all the&longs;e circum&longs;tances &longs;he gathers comfort: but
the poor girl by thoughtle&longs;s pa&longs;&longs;ion led a&longs;tray, who,
in parting with her honour, has for&longs;eited the
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e&longs;teem of the very man to whom &longs;he has &longs;acrificed
every thing dear and valuable in life, feels his
indifference in the fruit of her own folly, and laments
her want of power to recall his lo&longs;t affection:
&longs;he knows there is no tie but honour, and that,
in a man who has been guilty of &longs;eduction, is but
very feeble: he may leave her in a moment to
&longs;hame and want; he may marry and for&longs;ake her for
ever; and &longs;hould he, &longs;he has no redre&longs;s, no friendly
&longs;oothing companion to pour into her wounded
mind the balm of con&longs;olation, no benevolent hand
to lead her back to the path of rectitude; &longs;he has
di&longs;graced her friends, forfeited the good opinion of
the world, and undone her&longs;elf; &longs;he feels her&longs;elf a
poor &longs;olitary being in the mid&longs;t of &longs;urrounding multitudes;
&longs;hame bows her to the earth, remor&longs;e tears
her di&longs;tracted mind, and guilt, poverty, and di&longs;ea&longs;e
clo&longs;e the dreadful &longs;cene: &longs;he &longs;inks unnoticed to oblivion.
The finger of contempt may point out to &longs;ome
pa&longs;&longs;ing daughter of youthful mirth, the humble bed
where lies this frail &longs;i&longs;ter of mortality; and will &longs;he,
in the unbounded gaity of her heart, exult in her own
unblemi&longs;hed fame, and triumph over the &longs;ilent a&longs;hes
of the dead? Oh no! has &longs;he a heart of &longs;en&longs;ibility,
&longs;he will &longs;top, and thus addre&longs;s the unhappy victim
of folly—
“Thou had'&longs;t thy faults, but &longs;ure thy sufferings
have expiated them: thy errors brought
thee to an early grave; but thou wert a
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fellowcreature—thou ha&longs;t been unhappy—then be tho&longs;e
errors forgotten.”
Then, as &longs;he &longs;toops to pluck the noxious weed
from off the &longs;od, a tear will fall and con&longs;ecrate the
&longs;pot to Charity.
For ever honoured be the &longs;acred drop of humanity:
the angel of mercy &longs;hall record its &longs;ource, and
the &longs;oul from whence it &longs;prang &longs;hall be immortal.
My dear Madam contract not your brow into a
frown of di&longs;approbation. I mean not to extenuate
the faults of tho&longs;e unhappy women who fall victims
to guilt and folly; but &longs;urely, when we reflect
how many errors we are our&longs;elves &longs;ubject to, how
many &longs;ecret faults lie hid in the rece&longs;&longs;es of our
hearts, which we &longs;hould blu&longs;h to have brought into
open day (and yet tho&longs;e faults require the lenity
and pity of a benevolent judge, or awful would be
our pro&longs;pect of futurity) I &longs;ay my dear Madam,
when we con&longs;ider this, we &longs;urely may pity the faults
of others.
Believe me, many an unfortunate female, who
has once &longs;trayed into the thorny paths of vice,
would gladly return to virtue, was any generous
friend to endeavour to rai&longs;e and re-a&longs;&longs;ure her; but
alas! it cannot be, you &longs;ay; the world would deride
and &longs;coff. Then let me tell you, Madam,
'tis a very unfeeling world, and does not de&longs;erve
half the ble&longs;&longs;ings which a bountiful Providence showers
upon it.
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Oh, thon benevolent giver of all good! how &longs;hall
we erring mortals dare to look up to thy mercy in
the great day of retribution, if we now uncharitably
refu&longs;e to overlook the errors, or alleviate the miseries,
of our fellow-creatures.
Chapter XIX. A MISTAKE DISCOVERED.
Julia Franklin was the only child of a man of
large property, who, at the age of eighteen,
left her independent mi&longs;tre&longs;s of an unincumbered
income of &longs;even hundred a year; &longs;he was a girl of a
lively di&longs;po&longs;ition, and humane, &longs;u&longs;ceptible heart:
&longs;he re&longs;ided in New-York with an uncle, who loved
her too well, and had too high an opinion of her
prudence, to &longs;crutinize her actions &longs;o much as
would have been nece&longs;&longs;ary with many young ladies,
who were not ble&longs;t with her di&longs;cretion: &longs;he was, at
the time Montraville arrived at New-York, the
life of &longs;ociety, and the univer&longs;al toa&longs;t. Montraville
was introduced to her by the following accident.
One night when he was upon guard, a dreadful
fire broke out near Mr. Franklin's hou&longs;e, which,
in a few hours, reduced that and &longs;everal others to
a&longs;hes; fortunately no lives were lo&longs;t, and, by the
a&longs;&longs;iduity of the &longs;oldiers, much valuable property
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was &longs;aved from the flames. In the mid&longs;t of the
confu&longs;ion an old gentleman came up to Montraville,
and, putting a &longs;mall box into his hands, cried—
“Keep it, my good Sir, till I come to you again;”
and then ru&longs;hing again into the thicke&longs;t of the
croud, Montraville &longs;aw him no more. He waited
till the fire was quite extingui&longs;hed and the mob
di&longs;per&longs;ed; but in vain: the old gentleman did not
appear to claim his property; and Montraville,
fearing to make an enquiry, le&longs;t he &longs;hould meet
with impo&longs;tors who might lay claim, without any
legal right, to the box, carried it to his lodgings,
and locked it up: he naturally imagined that the
per&longs;on who committed it to his care knew him,
and would, in a day or two, reclaim it; but several
weeks pa&longs;&longs;ed on, and no enquiry being made,
he began to be unea&longs;y, and re&longs;olved to examine
the contents of the box, and if they were, as he
&longs;uppo&longs;ed, valuable, to &longs;pare no pains to di&longs;cover,
and re&longs;tore them to the owner. Upon opening it,
he found it contained jewels to a large amount,
about two hundred pounds in money, and a miniature
picture &longs;et for a bracelet. On examining the
picture, he thought he had &longs;omewhere &longs;een features
very like it, but could not recollect where. A few
days after, being at a public a&longs;&longs;embly, he &longs;aw Mi&longs;s
Franklin, and the likene&longs;s was too evident to be
mi&longs;taken: he enquired among his brother officers
if any of them knew her, and found one who was
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upon terms of intimacy in the family: “then introduce
me to her immediately,” &longs;aid he, “for
I am certain I can inform her of &longs;omething which
will give her peculiar plea&longs;ure.”
He was immediately introduced, found &longs;he was
the owner of the jewels, and was invited to breakfast
the next morning in order to their re&longs;toration.
This whole evening Montraville was honoured
with Julia's hand; the lively &longs;allies of her wit,
the elegance of her manner, powerfully charmed
him: he forgot Charlotte, and indulged him&longs;elf in
&longs;aying every thing that was polite and tender
to Julia. But on retiring, recollection returned.
“What am I about?” &longs;aid he: “though I cannot
marry Charlotte, I cannot be villain enough to forsake
her, nor mu&longs;t I dare to trifle with the heart of
Julia Franklin. I will return this box,” &longs;aid he,
“which has been the &longs;ource of &longs;o much unea&longs;ine&longs;s
already, and in the evening pay a vi&longs;it to my poor
melancholy Charlotte, and endeavour to forget this
fa&longs;cinating Julia.”
He aro&longs;e, dre&longs;&longs;ed him&longs;elf, and taking the picture
out, “I will re&longs;erve this from the re&longs;t,” &longs;aid he,
“and by pre&longs;enting it to her when &longs;he thinks it is
lo&longs;t, enhance the value of the obligation.” He repared
to Mr. Franklin's, and found Julia in the
breakfa&longs;t parlor alone.
“How happy am I, Madam,” &longs;aid he, that
being the fortunate in&longs;trument of &longs;aving the&longs;e jewels
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has been the means of procuring me the acquaintance
of &longs;o amiable a lady. There are the jewels and
money all &longs;afe.”
“But where is the picture, Sir?” &longs;aid Julia.
“Here, Madam. I would not willingly part
with it.”
“It is the portrait of my mother,” &longs;aid &longs;he,
taking it from him: “'tis all that remains.” She
pre&longs;&longs;ed it to her lips, and a tear trembled in her
eyes. Montraville glanced his eye on her grey
night gown and black ribbon, and his own feelings
prevented a reply.
Julia Franklin was the very rever&longs;e of Charlotte
Temple: &longs;he was tall, elegantly &longs;haped, and po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed
much of the air and manner of a woman of fa&longs;hion;
her complexion was a clear brown, enlivened with
the glow of health, her eyes, full, black, and
&longs;parkling, darted their intelligent glances through
long &longs;ilken la&longs;hes; her hair was &longs;hining brown,
and her features regular and &longs;triking; there
was an air of innocent gaiety that played about
her countenance, where good humour &longs;at triumphant.
“I have been mi&longs;taken,” &longs;aid Montraville. “I
imagined I loved Charlotte: but alas! I am now
too late convinced my attachment to her was merely
the impul&longs;e of the moment. I fear I have not only
entailed la&longs;ting mi&longs;ery on that poor girl, but al&longs;o
thrown a barrier in the way of my own happine&longs;s,
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which it will be impo&longs;&longs;ible to &longs;urmount. I feel I love
Julia Franklin with ardour and &longs;incerity; yet,
when in her pre&longs;ence, I am &longs;en&longs;ible of my own inability
to offer a heart worthy her acceptance, and remain
&longs;ilent.”
Full of the&longs;e painful thoughts, Montraville walkout
to &longs;ee Charlotte: &longs;he &longs;aw him approach, and
ran out to meet him: &longs;he bani&longs;hed from her countenance
the air of di&longs;content which ever appeared
when he was ab&longs;ent, and met him with a &longs;mile of
joy.
“I thought you had forgot me, Montraville,”
&longs;aid &longs;he, “and was very unhappy.”
“I &longs;hall never forget you, Charlotte,” he replied,
pre&longs;&longs;ing her hand.
The uncommon gravity of his countenance, and
the brevity of his reply, alarmed her.
“You are not well,” &longs;aid &longs;he; “your hand is
hot; your eyes are heavy; you are very ill.”
“I am a villain,” &longs;aid he mentally, as he turned
from her to hide his emotions.
“But come,” continued &longs;he tenderly, “you &longs;hall
go to bed, and I will &longs;it by, and watch yon; you will
be better when you have &longs;lept.”
Montraville was glad to retire, and by pretending
&longs;leep, hid the agitation of his mind from her
penetrating eye. Charlotte watched by him till a
late hour, and then, lying &longs;oftly down, by his &longs;ide,
&longs;unk into a profound &longs;leep, from whence &longs;he awoke
not till late the next morning.
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Chapter XX.
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Virtue never appears &longs;o amiable as when reaching
forth her hand to rai&longs;e a fallen &longs;i&longs;ter.
Chapter of Accidents.
When Charlotte awoke, &longs;he mi&longs;&longs;ed Montraville;
but thinking he might have ari&longs;en
early to enjoy the beauties of the morning, &longs;he was
preparing to follow him, when ca&longs;ting her eye on the
table, &longs;he &longs;aw a note, and opening it ha&longs;tily, found
the&longs;e words—
“My dear Charlotte mu&longs;t not be &longs;urpri&longs;ed, if &longs;he
does not &longs;ee me again for &longs;ome time: unavoidable
bu&longs;ine&longs;s will prevent me that plea&longs;ure: be a&longs;&longs;ured I
am quite well this morning; and what your fond
imagination magnified into illne&longs;s, was nothing
more than fatigue, which a few hours re&longs;t has entirely
removed. Make your&longs;elf happy and be certain
of the unalterable friend&longs;hip of
“Montraville.”
“Friend&longs;hip!” &longs;aid Charlotte emphatically, as
&longs;he fini&longs;hed the note, “is it come to this at la&longs;t?
Alas! poor for&longs;aken Charlotte, thy doom is now
but too apparent. Montraville is no longer interested
in thy happine&longs;s; and &longs;hame, remor&longs;e, and
di&longs;appointed love will henceforth be thy only attendents.”
Though the&longs;e were the ideas that involuntarily
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ru&longs;hed upon the mind of Charlotte as &longs;he peru&longs;ed
the fatal note, yet after a few hours had elap&longs;ed,
the &longs;yren hope again took po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of her bo&longs;om,
and &longs;he flattered her&longs;elf &longs;he could, on a &longs;econd perusal,
di&longs;cover an air of tenderne&longs;s in the few lines
he had left, which at fir&longs;t had e&longs;caped her notice.
“He certainly cannot be &longs;o ba&longs;e as to leave me,”
&longs;aid &longs;he, “and in &longs;tiling him&longs;elf my friend does he
not promi&longs;e to protect me. I will not torment myself
with the&longs;e cau&longs;ele&longs;s fears; I will place a confidence
in his honour; and &longs;ure he will not be &longs;o
unju&longs;t as to abu&longs;e it.”
Ju&longs;t as &longs;he had by this manner of rea&longs;oning
brought her mind to &longs;ome tolerable degree of composure,
&longs;he was &longs;urpri&longs;ed by a vi&longs;it from Belcour.
The dejection vi&longs;ible in Charlotte's countenance,
her &longs;woln eyes and neglected attire, at once told
him &longs;he was unhappy: he made no doubt but
Montraville had, by his coldne&longs;s, alarmed her
&longs;u&longs;picions, and was re&longs;olved, if po&longs;&longs;ible, to rou&longs;e
her to jealou&longs;y, urge her to reproach him, and by
that means occa&longs;ion a breach between them. “If
I can once convince her that &longs;he has a rival,” &longs;aid
he, “&longs;he will li&longs;ten to my pa&longs;&longs;ion if it is only to
revenge his &longs;lights.” Belcour knew but little of
the female heart; and what he did know was only
of tho&longs;e of loo&longs;e and di&longs;&longs;olute lives. He had no
idea that a woman might fall a victim to imprudence,
and yet retain &longs;o &longs;trong a &longs;en&longs;e of honour,
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as to reject with horror and contempt every solicitation
to a &longs;econd fault. He never imagined
that a gentle, generous female heart, once tenderly
attached, when treated with unkindne&longs;s
might break, but would never harbour a thought of
revenge.
His vi&longs;it was not long, but before he went he fixed
a &longs;corpion in the heart of Charlotte, who&longs;e venom
embittered every future hour of her life.
We will now return for a moment to Colonel
Crayton. He had been three months married, and
in that little time had di&longs;covered that the conduct of
his lady was not &longs;o prudent as it ought to have been:
but remon&longs;trance was vain; her temper was violent;
and to the Colonel's great misfortune he had
conceived a &longs;incere affection for her: &longs;he &longs;aw her
own power, and, with the art of a Circe, made every
action appear to him in what light &longs;he plea&longs;ed: his
acquaintance laughed at his blindne&longs;s, his friends
pitied his in&longs;atuation, his amiable daughter, Mrs.
Beauchamp, in &longs;ecret deplored the lo&longs;s of her father's
affection, and grieved that he &longs;hould be &longs;o entirely
&longs;wayed by an artful, and, &longs;he much feared, infamous
woman.
Mrs. Beauchamp was mild and engaging; &longs;he
loved not the hurry and bu&longs;tle of a city, and had
prevailed on her hu&longs;band to take a hou&longs;e a few
miles from New-York. Chance led her into the &longs;ame
neighbourhood with Charlotte; their hou&longs;es &longs;tood
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within a &longs;hort &longs;pace of each other, and their gardens
joined: &longs;he had not been long in her new
habitation before the figure of Charlotte &longs;truck
her; &longs;he recollected her intere&longs;ting features; &longs;he
&longs;aw the melancholy &longs;o con&longs;picuous in her countenance,
and her heart bled at the reflection, that
perhaps deprived of honour, friends, all that was
valuable in life, &longs;he was doomed to linger out a
wretched exi&longs;tence in a &longs;trange land, and &longs;ink
broken-hearted into an untimely grave. “Would
to heaven I could &longs;natch her from &longs;o hard a fate,”
&longs;aid &longs;he; “but the mereile&longs;s world has barred the
doors of compa&longs;&longs;ion again&longs;t a poor weak girl, who
perhaps, had &longs;he one kind friend to rai&longs;e and reassure
her, would gladly return to peace and virtue;
nay even the woman who dares to pity, and endeavour
to recall a wandering &longs;i&longs;ter incurs the &longs;neer of
contempt and ridicule, for an action in which even
angels are &longs;aid to rejoice.”
The longer Mrs. Beauchamp was a witne&longs;s to
the &longs;olitary life Charlotte led, the more &longs;he wi&longs;hed
to &longs;peak to her, and often as &longs;he &longs;aw her cheeks wet
with the tears of angui&longs;h, &longs;he would &longs;ay—“Dear
&longs;ufferer, how gladly would I pour into your heart
the balm of con&longs;olation, where it not for the fear of
deri&longs;ion.”
But an accident &longs;oon happened which made her
re&longs;olve to brave even the &longs;coffs of the world, rather
than not enjoy the heavenly &longs;atisfaction of comforting
a de&longs;ponding fellow-creature.
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Mrs. Beauchamp was an early ri&longs;er. She was
one morning walking in the garden, leaning on her
hu&longs;band's arm, when the &longs;ound of a harp attracted
their notice: they li&longs;tened attentively, and heard
a &longs;oft melodious voice di&longs;tinctly &longs;ing the following
&longs;tanzas:
Thou glorious orb, &longs;upremely bright,
Ju&longs;t ri&longs;ing from the &longs;ea,
To chear all nature with thy light,
What are thy beams to me?
In vain thy glories bid me ri&longs;e,
To hail the new-born day,
Alas! my morning &longs;acrifice
Is &longs;till to weep and pray.
For what are nature's charms combin'd,
To one, who&longs;e weary brea&longs;t
Can neither peace nor comfort find,
Nor friend whereon to re&longs;t?
Oh! never! never! whil&longs;t I live
Can my heart's angui&longs;h cea&longs;e:
Come, friendly death, thy mandate give,
And let me be at peace.
“'Tis poor Charlotte!” &longs;aid Mrs. Beauchamp,
the pellucid drop of humanity &longs;tealing down her
cheek.
Captain Beauchamp was alarmed at her emotion.
“What Charlotte?” &longs;aid he; “do you know
her?”
In the accent of a pitying angel did &longs;he di&longs;clo&longs;e
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to her hu&longs;band Charlotte's unhappy &longs;ituation, and
the frequent wi&longs;h &longs;he had formed of being serviceable
to her. “I fear,” continued &longs;he, “the poor
girl has been ba&longs;ely betrayed; and if I thought you
would not blame me, I would pay her a vi&longs;it, offer
her my friend&longs;hip, and endeavour to re&longs;tore to her
heart that peace &longs;he &longs;eems to have lo&longs;t, and &longs;o pathetically
laments. Who knows, my dear,” laying her
hand affectionately on his arm, “who knows but
&longs;he has left &longs;ome kind, affectionate parents to lament
her errors, and would &longs;he return, they might
with rapture receive the poor penitent, and wa&longs;h
away her faults in tears of joy. Oh! what a glorious
reflection would it be for me could I be the happy
in&longs;trument of re&longs;toring her. Her heart may not
be depraved, Beauchamp.”
“Exalted woman!” cried Beauchamp, embracing
her, “how do&longs;t thou ri&longs;e every moment in my
e&longs;teem. Follow the impul&longs;e of thy generous heart,
my Emily. Let prudes and fools cen&longs;ure if they
dare, and blame a &longs;en&longs;ibility they never felt: I will
exultingly tell them that the heart that is truly virtuous
is ever inclined to pity and forgive the errors
of its fellow creatures.”
A beam of exulting joy played round the animated
countenance of Mrs. Beauchamp at the&longs;e encomiums
be&longs;towed on her by a beloved hu&longs;band,
the mo&longs;t delightful &longs;en&longs;ations pervaded her heart,
and, having breakfa&longs;ted, &longs;he prepared to vi&longs;it Charlotte.
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Chapter XXI.
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Teach me to feel another's woe,
To hide the fault I &longs;ee,
That mercy I to other &longs;how,
That mercy &longs;how to me.
Pope.
When Mrs. Beauchamp was dre&longs;&longs;ed, &longs;he began
to feel embarra&longs;&longs;ed at the thought of
beginning an acquaintance with Charlotte, and was
di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed how to make the fir&longs;t vi&longs;it. “I cannot go
without &longs;ome introduction,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “it will look
&longs;o like impertinent curio&longs;ity.” At length recollecting
her&longs;elf, &longs;he &longs;tepped into the garden, and gathering
a few fine cucumbers, took them in her
hand by way of apology for her vi&longs;it.
A glow of con&longs;cious &longs;hame vermillioned Charlotte's
face as Mrs. Beauchamp entered.
“You will pardon me, Madam,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “for
not having before paid my re&longs;pects to &longs;o amiable a
neighbour; but we Engli&longs;h people always keep up
that re&longs;erve which is the characteri&longs;tic of our nation
wherever we go. I have taken the liberty to bring
you a few cucumbers, for I ob&longs;erved you had none
in your garden.”
Charlotte, though naturally polite and well-bred,
was &longs;o confu&longs;ed &longs;he could hardly &longs;peak. Her
kind vi&longs;itor endeavoured to relieve her by not noticing
her embarra&longs;&longs;ment. “I am come, Madam,”
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continued &longs;he, “to reque&longs;t you will &longs;pend the day
with me. I &longs;hall be alone; and, as we are both
&longs;trangers in this country, we may hereafter be extremely
happy in each other's friend&longs;hip.”
“Your friend&longs;hip, Madam,” &longs;aid Charlotte
blu&longs;hing, “is an honour to all who are favoured
with it. Little as I have &longs;een of this part of the
world, I am no &longs;tranger to Mrs. Beauchamp's goodness
of heart and known humanity: but my friendship—”
She pan&longs;ed, glanced her eye upon her
own vi&longs;ible &longs;ituation, and, &longs;pite of her endeavours to
&longs;uppre&longs;s them, bur&longs;t into tears.
Mrs. Beauchamp gue&longs;&longs;ed the &longs;ource from whence
tho&longs;e tears flowed. “You &longs;eem unhappy, Madam,”
&longs;aid &longs;he: &longs;hall I be thought worthy your confidence?
will you entru&longs;t me with the cau&longs;e of your &longs;orrow,
and re&longs;t on my a&longs;&longs;urances to exert my utmo&longs;t power
to &longs;erve you.” Charlotte returned a look of gratitude,
but could not &longs;peak, and Mrs. Bcauchamp continued—
“My heart was intere&longs;ted in your behalf
the fir&longs;t moment I &longs;aw you, and I only lament I had
not made earlier overtures towards an acquaintance;
but I flatter my&longs;elf you will henceforth con&longs;ider
me as your friend.”
“Oh Madam!” cried Charlotte, “I have forfeited
the good opinion of all my friends; I have
for&longs;aken them, and undone my&longs;elf.”
“Come, come, my dear,” &longs;aid Mrs. Beauchamp,
“you mu&longs;t not indulge the&longs;e gloomy
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thoughts: you are not I hope &longs;o mi&longs;erable as you
imagine your&longs;elf: endeavour to be compo&longs;ed,
and let me be favoured with your company at
dinner, when, if you can bring your&longs;elf to think
me your friend, and repo&longs;e a confidence in me,
I am ready to convince you it &longs;hall not be
abu&longs;ed.” She then aro&longs;e and bade her good morning.
At the dining hour Charlotte repaired to Mrs.
Beauchamp's, and during dinner a&longs;&longs;umed as composed
an a&longs;pect as po&longs;&longs;ible; but when the cloth was
removed, &longs;he &longs;ummoned all her re&longs;olution and determined
to make Mrs. Beauchamp acquainted with
every circum&longs;tance preceding her unfortunate elopement,
and the earne&longs;t de&longs;ire &longs;he had to quit a way of
life &longs;o repugnant to her feelings.
With the benignant a&longs;pect of an angel of mercy
did Mrs. Beauchamp li&longs;ten to the artle&longs;s tale: &longs;he
was &longs;hocked to the &longs;oul to find how large a &longs;hare
La Rue had in the &longs;eduction of this amiable girl, and
a tear fell, when &longs;he reflected &longs;o vile a woman was
now the wife of her father. When Charlotte had
fini&longs;hed, &longs;he gave her a little time to collect her
&longs;cattered &longs;pirits, and then a&longs;ked her if &longs;he had never
written to her friends.
“Oh yes, Madam,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “frequently: but
I have broke their hearts; they are either dead or
have ca&longs;t me off for ever, for I have never received
a &longs;ingle line from them.”
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“I rather &longs;u&longs;pect,” &longs;aid Mrs. Beauchamp, “they
have never had your letters: but &longs;uppo&longs;e you were
to hear from them, and they were willing to receive
you, would you then leave this cruel Montraville,
and return to them?”
“Would I!” &longs;aid Charlotte, cla&longs;ping her hands;
“would not the poor &longs;ailor, to&longs;t on a tempe&longs;tuous
ocean, threatened every moment with death, gladly
return to the &longs;hore he had left to tru&longs;t to its
deceitful calmne&longs;s; Oh, my dear Madam, I would
return, though to do it I were obliged to walk
barefooted over a burning de&longs;art, and beg a &longs;canty
pittance of each traveller to &longs;upport my exi&longs;tence.
I would endure it all cheerfully, could I but once
more &longs;ee my dear ble&longs;&longs;ed mother, hear her pronounce
my pardon, and ble&longs;s me before I died; but
alas! I &longs;hall never &longs;ee her more; &longs;he has blotted
the ungrateful Charlotte from her remembrance, and
I &longs;hall &longs;ink to the grave loaded with her's and my
father's cur&longs;e.”
Mrs. Beauchamp endeavoured to &longs;ooth her.
“You &longs;hall write to them again,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “and
I will &longs;ee that the letter is &longs;ent by the fir&longs;t packet
that &longs;ails for England; in the mean time keep up
your &longs;pirits, and hope every thing, by daring to
de&longs;erve it.
She then turned the conver&longs;ation, and Charlotte
having taken a cup of tea, wi&longs;hed her benevolent
friend a good evening.
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Chapter XXII. SORROWS OF THE HEART.
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When Charlotte got home &longs;he endeavoured
to collect her thoughts, and took up a pen
in order to addre&longs;s tho&longs;e dear parents, whom, &longs;pite
of her errors, &longs;he &longs;till loved with the utmo&longs;t tenderness,
but vain was every effort to write with the lea&longs;t
coherence; her tears &longs;ell &longs;o fa&longs;t they almo&longs;t blinded
her: and as &longs;he proceeded to de&longs;cribe her unhappy
&longs;ituation, &longs;he became &longs;o agitated that &longs;he was obliged
to give over the attempt and retire to bed, where,
overcome with the fatigue her mind had undergone,
&longs;he fell into a &longs;lumber which greatly refre&longs;hed her,
and &longs;he aro&longs;e in the morning with &longs;pirits more adequate
to the painful ta&longs;k &longs;he had to perform, and,
after &longs;everal attempts, at length concluded the following
letter to her mother—
To Mrs. Temple.
New-York.
“Will my once kind, my ever beloved mother,
deign to receive a letter from her guilty, but
repentant child? or has &longs;he, ju&longs;tly incen&longs;ed at my
ingratitude, driven the unhappy Charlotte from her
remembrance? Alas! thou much injured mother!
&longs;hould&longs;t thou even di&longs;own me, I dare not complain,
becau&longs;e I know I have de&longs;erved it: but yet, believe
me, guilty as I am, and cruelly as I have
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disappointed the hopes of the fonde&longs;t parents, that ever
girl had, even in the moment when, forgetful of
my duty, I fled from you and happine&longs;s, even
then I loved you mo&longs;t, and my heart bled at the
thought of what you would &longs;uffer. Oh! never,
never! whil&longs;t I have exi&longs;tence, will the agony of
that moment be era&longs;ed from my memory. It
&longs;eemed like the &longs;eparation of &longs;oul and body. What
can I plead in excu&longs;e for my conduct? alas! nothing!
That I loved my &longs;educer is but too true!
yet powerful as that pa&longs;&longs;ion is when operating in a
young heart glowing with &longs;en&longs;ibility, it never
would have conquered my affection to you, my
beloved parents, had I not been encouraged, nay,
urged to take the fatally imprudent &longs;tep, by one of
my own &longs;ex, who, under the ma&longs;k of friend&longs;hip,
drew me on to ruin. Yet think not your Charlotte
was &longs;o lo&longs;t as to voluntarily ru&longs;h into a life
of infamy; no, my dear mother, deceived by the
&longs;pecious appearance of my betrayer, and every
&longs;u&longs;picion lulled a&longs;leep by the mo&longs;t &longs;olemn promi&longs;es
of marriage, I thought not tho&longs;e promi&longs;es would
&longs;o ea&longs;ily be forgotten. I never once reflected that
the man who could &longs;toop to &longs;eduction, would not
he&longs;itate to for&longs;ake the wretched object of his passion,
whenever his capricious heart grew weary of
her tenderne&longs;s. When we arrived at this place,
I vainly expected him to fulfil his engagements,
but was at la&longs;t fatally convinced he had never
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intended to make me his wife, or if he had once
thought of it, his mind was now altered. I &longs;corned
to claim from his humanity what I could not obtain
from his love: I was con&longs;cious of having forfeited
the only gem that could render me respectable
in the eye of the world. I locked my sorrows
in my own bo&longs;om, and bore my injuries in
&longs;ilence. But how &longs;hall I proceed? This man,
this cruel Montraville, for whom I &longs;acrificed honour,
happine&longs;s, and the love of my friends, no
longer looks on me with affection, but &longs;corns the
credulous girl whom his art has made mi&longs;erable.
Could you &longs;ee me, my dear parents, without
&longs;ociety, without friends, &longs;tung with remor&longs;e, and
(I feel the burning blu&longs;h of &longs;hame die my cheeks
while I write it) tortured with the pangs of disappointed
love; cut to the &longs;oul by the indifference
of him, who, having deprived me of every other
comfort, no longer thinks it worth his while to
&longs;ooth the heart where he has planted the thorn of
never-cea&longs;ing regret. My daily employment is to
think of you and weep, to pray for your happine&longs;s
and deplore my own folly: my nights are &longs;carce
more happy, for if by chance I clo&longs;e my weary
eyes, and hope &longs;ome &longs;mall forgetfulne&longs;s of &longs;orrow,
&longs;ome little time to pa&longs;s in &longs;weet oblivion, fancy,
&longs;till waking, wafts me home to you: I &longs;ee your
beloved forms, I kneel and hear the ble&longs;&longs;ed words
of peace and pardon. Extatic joy pervades my
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&longs;oul; I reach my arms to catch your dear embraces;
the motion cha&longs;es the illu&longs;ive dream; I
wake to real mi&longs;ery. At other times I &longs;ee my father
angry and frowning, point to horrid caves,
where, on the cold damp ground, in the agonies
of death, I &longs;ee my dear mother and my revered
grand-father. I &longs;trive to rai&longs;e you; you pu&longs;h me
from you, and &longs;hrieking cry—“Charlotte, thou
ha&longs;t murdered me!” Horror and de&longs;pair tear
exery tortured nerve; I &longs;tart, and leave my restless
bed, weary and unrefre&longs;hed.
“Shocking as the&longs;e reflexious are, I have yet
one more dreadful than the re&longs;t. Mother, my
dear mother! do not let me quite break your heart
when I tell you, in a few months I &longs;hall bring into
the world an innocent witne&longs;s of my guilt. Oh
my bleeding heart, I &longs;hall bring a poor little helpless
creature, heir to infamy and &longs;hame.
“This alone has urged me once more to addre&longs;s
you, to intere&longs;t you in behalf of this poor unborn,
and beg you to extend your protection to the child
of your lo&longs;t Charlotte: for my own part I have
wrote &longs;o often, &longs;o frequently have pleaded for forgiveness,
and entreated to be received once more beneath
the paternal roof, that having received no
an&longs;wer, not even one line, I much fear you have
ca&longs;t me from you for ever.
“But &longs;ure you cannot refu&longs;e to protect my innocent
in&longs;ant; it partakes not of its mother's guilt.
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Oh my father, oh beloved mother, now do I feel the
angui&longs;h I inflicted on your hearts recoiling with double
force upon my own.
“If my child &longs;hould be a girl (which heaven
forbid) tell her the unhappy fate of her mother,
and teach her to avoid my errors; if a boy, teach
him to lament my mi&longs;eries, but tell him not who
inflicted them, le&longs;t in wi&longs;hing to revenge his mother's
injuries, he &longs;hould wound the peace of his
father.
“And now, dear friends of my &longs;oul, kind
guardians of my infancy, farewell. I feel I never
more mu&longs;t hope to &longs;ee you; the angui&longs;h of
my heart &longs;trikes at the &longs;trings of life, and in a &longs;hort
time I &longs;hall be at re&longs;t. Oh could I but receive your
ble&longs;&longs;ing and forgivene&longs;s before I died, it would
&longs;mooth my pa&longs;&longs;age to the peaceful grave, and be
a ble&longs;&longs;ed foreta&longs;te of a happy eternity. I be&longs;eech
you, cur&longs;e me not, my adored parents, but let a
tear of pity and pardon fall to the memory of your
lo&longs;t
Charlotte.”
Chapter XXIII. A MAN MAY SMILE, AND SMILE, AND BE A VILLAIN.
While Charlotte was enjoying &longs;ome &longs;mall
degree of comfort in the con&longs;oling
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friendship of Mrs. Beauchamp, Montraville was advancing
rapidly in his affection towards Mi&longs;s Franklin.
Julia was an amiable girl; &longs;he &longs;aw only the fair &longs;ide
of his character; &longs;he po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed an independant fortune,
and re&longs;olved to be happy with the man of her
heart, though his rank and fortune were by no
means &longs;o exalted as &longs;he had a right to expect; &longs;he
&longs;aw the pa&longs;&longs;ion which Montraville &longs;truggled to conceal;
&longs;he wondered at his timidity, but imagined
the di&longs;tance fortune had placed between them occasioned
his backwardne&longs;s, and made every advance
which &longs;trict prudence and a becoming modesty
would permit. Montraville &longs;aw with plea&longs;ure
he was not indifferent to her, but a &longs;park of honour
which animated his bo&longs;om would not &longs;uffer
him to take advantage of her partiality. He was
well acquainted with Charlotte's &longs;ituation, and he
thought there would be a double cruelty in for&longs;aking
her at &longs;uch a time: and to marry Mi&longs;s Franklin,
while honour, humanity, every &longs;acred law, obliged
him &longs;till to protect and &longs;upport Charlotte, was a
ba&longs;en&longs;s which his &longs;oul &longs;huddered at.
He communicated his unea&longs;ine&longs;s to Belcour: it
was the very thing this pretended friend had
wi&longs;hed. “And do you really.” &longs;aid he, laughing,
“he&longs;itate at marrying the lovely Julia, and
becoming ma&longs;ter of her fortune, becau&longs;e a little
fooli&longs;h, fond girl cho&longs;e to leave her friends, and
run away with you to America. Dear
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Montraville, act more like a man of &longs;en&longs;e; this whining,
pining Charlotte, who occa&longs;ions you &longs;o much uneasiness,
would have eloped with &longs;omebody el&longs;e if &longs;he
had not with you.”
“Would to heaven,” &longs;aid Montraville, “I had
never &longs;een her; my regard for her was but the momentary
pa&longs;&longs;ion of de&longs;ire, but I feel I &longs;hall love and
revere Julia Franklin as long as I live; yet to leave
poor Charlotte in her pre&longs;ent &longs;ituation would be
cruel beyond de&longs;cription.”
“Oh my good &longs;entimental friend,” &longs;aid Belcour,
“do you imagine no body has a right to provide
for the brat but your&longs;elf.”
Montraville &longs;tarted. “Sure,” &longs;aid he, “you
cannot mean to in&longs;inuate that Charlotte is fal&longs;e.”
“I don't in&longs;inuate it,” &longs;aid Belcour, “I
know it.”
Montraville turned pale as a&longs;hes. “Then there
is no faith in woman,” &longs;aid he.
“While I thought you attached to her,” &longs;aid
Belcour with an air of indifference, “I never wished
to make you unea&longs;y by mentioning her perfidy,
but as I know you love and are beloved by Mi&longs;s
Franklin, I was determined not to let the&longs;e fooli&longs;h
&longs;cruples of honour &longs;tep between you and happiness,
or your tenderne&longs;s for the peace of a perfidious
girl prevent your uniting your&longs;elf to a woman of
honour.”
“Good heavens!” &longs;aid Montraville, “what
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poignant reflections does a man endure who &longs;ees a
lovely woman plunged in infamy, and is con&longs;cious
he was her fir&longs;t &longs;educer; but are you certain of
what you &longs;ay, Belcour?”
“So far,” replied he, “that I my&longs;elf have received
advances from her which I would not take
advantage of out of regard to you: but hang it,
think no more about her. I dined at Franklin's today,
and Julia bid me &longs;eek and bring you to tea: &longs;o
come along, my lad, make good u&longs;e of opportunity,
and &longs;eize the gifts of fortune while they are within
your reach.”
Montraville was too much agitated to pa&longs;s a
happy evening even in the company of Julia
Franklin: he determined to vi&longs;it Charlotte early
the next morning, tax her with her fal&longs;ehood, and
take an everla&longs;ting leave of her; but when the
morning came, he was commanded on duty, and
for &longs;ix weeks was prevented from putting his de&longs;ign
in execution. At length he found an hour to &longs;pare,
and walked out to &longs;pend it with Charlotte: it was
near four o'clock in the afternoon when he arrived
at her cottage: &longs;he was not in the parlour, and
without calling the &longs;ervant he walked up &longs;tairs,
thinking to find her in her bed room. He opened
the door, and the fir&longs;t object that met his eyes was
Charlotte a&longs;leep on the bed, and Belcour by her
&longs;ide.
“Death and di&longs;traction,” &longs;aid he, &longs;tamping,
“this is too much. Ri&longs;e, villain, and defend
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yourself.” Belcour &longs;prang from the bed. The noi&longs;e awoke
Charlotte: terrified at the furious appearance
of Montraville, and &longs;eeing Belcour with him in the
chamber, &longs;he caught hold of his arm as he &longs;tood
by the bed &longs;ide, and eagerly a&longs;ked what was the
matter.
“Treacherous infamous girl,” &longs;aid he, “can
you a&longs;k? How came he here?” pointing to
Belcour.
“As heaven is my witne&longs;s,” replied &longs;he weeping,
“I do not know. I have not &longs;een him for the&longs;e
three weeks.”
“Then you confe&longs;s he &longs;ometimes vi&longs;its you?”
“He came &longs;ometimes by your de&longs;ire.”
“'Tis fal&longs;e; I never de&longs;ired him to come, and
you know I did not: but mark me, Charlotte, from
this in&longs;tant our connexion is at an end. Let Belcour,
or any other of your favoured lovers, take you
and provide for you: I have done with you for
ever.”
He was then going to leave her: but &longs;tarting
wildly from the bed, &longs;he threw her&longs;elf on her knees
before him, prote&longs;ting her innocence and entreating
him not to leave her. “Oh Montraville,”
&longs;aid &longs;he, “kill me, for pity's &longs;ake kill me, but
do not doubt my fidelity. Do not leave me in this
horrid &longs;ituation; for the &longs;ake of your unborn child,
oh! &longs;purn not the wretched mother from you.”
“Charlotte,” &longs;aid he, with a firm voice, “I
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&longs;hall take care that neither you nor your child want
any thing in the approaching painful hour; but we
meet no more.” He then endeavoured to rai&longs;e her
from the ground: but in vain: &longs;he clung about
his knees, entreating him to believe her innocent,
and conjuring Belcour to clear up the dreadful
my&longs;tery.
Belcour ca&longs;t on Montraville a &longs;mile of contempt:
it irritated him almo&longs;t to madne&longs;s; he broke from the
feeble arms of the di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed girl; &longs;he &longs;hricked and
&longs;ell pro&longs;trate on the floor.
Montraville in&longs;tantly left the hou&longs;e and returned
ha&longs;tily to the city.
Chapter XXIV. MYSTERY DEVELOPED.
Unfortunately for Charlotte, about
three weeks before this unhappy rencontre,
Captain Beauchamp, being ordered to Rhodelsland,
his lady had accompanied him, &longs;o that
Charlotte was deprived of her friendly advice and
con&longs;oling &longs;ociety. The afternoon on which Montraville
had vi&longs;ited her &longs;he had found her&longs;elf languid
and fatigued, and after making a very &longs;light
dinner had lain down to endeavour to recruit her
exhau&longs;ted &longs;pirits, and, contrary to her expectations,
had fallen a&longs;leep. She had not long been
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lain down, when Belcour arrived, for he took every
opportunity of vi&longs;iting her, and &longs;triving to
awaken her re&longs;entment again&longs;t Montraville. He
enquired of the &longs;ervant where her mi&longs;tre&longs;s was, and
being told &longs;he was a&longs;leep, took up a book to amu&longs;e
him&longs;elf: having &longs;at a few minutes, he by chance
ca&longs;t his eyes towards the road, and &longs;aw Montraville
approaching; he in&longs;tantly conceived the diabolical
&longs;cheme of ruining the unhappy Charlotte in his
opinion for ever; he therefore &longs;tole &longs;oftly up &longs;tairs,
and laying him&longs;elf by her &longs;ide with the greate&longs;t
precaution, for fear &longs;he &longs;hould awake, was in that
&longs;ituation di&longs;covered by his credulous friend.
When Montraville &longs;purned the weeping Charlotte
from him, and left her almo&longs;t di&longs;tracted with
terror and de&longs;pair, Belcour rai&longs;ed her from the floor,
and leading her down &longs;tairs, a&longs;&longs;umed the part of
a tender, con&longs;oling friend; &longs;he li&longs;tened to the
arguments he advanced with apparent compo&longs;ure;
but this was only the calm of a moment: the remembrance
of Montraville's recent cruelty again
ru&longs;hed upon her mind: &longs;he pu&longs;hed him from her
with &longs;ome violence, and crying—“Leave me,
Sir, I be&longs;eech you leave me, for much I fear you
have been the cau&longs;e of my fidelity being &longs;u&longs;pected;
go, leave me to the accumulated mi&longs;eries my own
imprudence has brought upon me.”
She then left him with precipitation, and retiring
to her own apartment, threw her&longs;elf on the
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bed, and gave vent to an agony of grief, which it
is impo&longs;&longs;ible to de&longs;cribe.
It now occurred to Belcour that &longs;he might possibly
write to Montraville, and endeavour to convince
him of her innocence: he was well aware of
her pathetic remon&longs;trances, and, &longs;en&longs;ible of the
tenderne&longs;s of Montraville's heart, re&longs;olved to prevent
any letters ever reaching him: he therefore
called the &longs;ervant, and, by the powerful per&longs;ua&longs;ion
of a bribe, prevailed with her to promi&longs;e whatever
letters her mi&longs;tre&longs;s might write &longs;hould be &longs;ent to
him. He then left a polite, tender note for Charlotte,
and returned to New-York. His fir&longs;t business
was to &longs;eek Montraville, and endeavour to
convince him that what had happened would ultimately
tend to his happine&longs;s: he found him in his
apartment, &longs;olitary, pen&longs;ive, and wrapped in disagreeable
reflexions.
“Why how now, whining, pining lover?”
&longs;aid he, clapping him on the &longs;houlder. Montraville
&longs;tarted; a momentary flu&longs;h of re&longs;entment crossed
his cheek, but in&longs;tantly gave place to a death-like
palene&longs;s, occa&longs;ioned by painful remembrance—
remembrance awakened by that monitor, whom,
though we may in vain endeavour, we can never
entirely &longs;ilence.
“Belcour,” &longs;aid he, “you have injured me
in a tender point.”
“Prithee, Jack,” replied Belcour, “do not
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make a &longs;erious matter of it: how could I refu&longs;e the
girl's advances? and thank heaven &longs;he is not your
wife.”
“True,” &longs;aid Montraville; “but &longs;he was
innocent when I fir&longs;t knew her. It was I &longs;educed
her, Belcour. Had it not been for me, &longs;he had
&longs;till been virtuous and happy in the affection and
protection of her family.”
“P&longs;haw,” replied Belcour, laughing, “if you
had not taken advantage of her ea&longs;y nature, &longs;ome
other would, and where is the difference, pray?”
“I wi&longs;h I had never &longs;een her,” cried he passionately,
and &longs;tarting from his &longs;eat. “Oh that
cur&longs;ed French woman,” added he with vehemence,
“had it not been for her, I might have been happy—”
He pau&longs;ed.
“With Julia Franklin,” &longs;aid Belcour. The
name, like a &longs;udden &longs;park of electric fire, &longs;eemed
for a moment to &longs;u&longs;pend his faculties—for a moment
he was transfixed; but recovering, he caught
Belcour's hand, and cried—“ Stop! &longs;top! I
be&longs;eech you, name not the lovely Julia and the
wretched Montraville in the &longs;ame breath. I am a
&longs;educer, a mean, ungenerous &longs;educer of unsuspecting
innocence. I dare not hope that purity
like her's would &longs;toop to unite it&longs;elf with black,
premeditated guilt: yet by heavens I &longs;wear, Belcour,
I thought I loved the lo&longs;t, abandoned Charlotte
till I &longs;aw Julia—I thought I never could
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forsake her; but the heart is deceitful, and I now
can plainly di&longs;criminate between the impul&longs;e of a
youthful pa&longs;&longs;ion, and the pure flame of disinterested
affection.”
At that in&longs;tant Julia Franklin pa&longs;&longs;ed the window,
leaning on her uncle's arm. She curt&longs;ied
as &longs;he pa&longs;&longs;ed, and, with the bewitching &longs;mile of
mode&longs;t chearfulne&longs;s, cried—“ Do you bury yourselves
in the hou&longs;e this fine evening, gents?”
There was &longs;omething in the voice! the manner!
the look! that was altogether irre&longs;i&longs;tible. “Perhaps
&longs;he wi&longs;hes my company,” &longs;aid Montraville
mentally, as he &longs;natched up his hat: “if I
thought &longs;he loved me, I would con&longs;e&longs;s my errors,
and tru&longs;t to her genero&longs;ity to pity and pardon
me.” He &longs;oon overtook her, and offering her
his arm, they &longs;auntered to plea&longs;ant but unfrequented
walks. Belcour drew Mr. Franklin on
one &longs;ide and entered into a political di&longs;cour&longs;e:
they walked fa&longs;ter than the young people, and
Belcour by &longs;ome means contrived entirely to lo&longs;e
&longs;ight of them. It was a fine evening in the beginning
of autumn; the la&longs;t remains of day-light
faintly &longs;treaked the we&longs;tern &longs;ky, while the moon,
with pale and virgin lu&longs;tre, in the room of gorgeous
gold and purple, ornamented the canopy of
heaven with &longs;ilver, fleecy clouds, which now and
then half hid her lovely face, and, by partly concealing,
heightened every beauty; the zephyrs
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whi&longs;pered &longs;oftly through the trees, which now began
to &longs;hed their leafy honours; a &longs;olemn &longs;ilence
reigned: and to a happy mind an evening &longs;uch as
this would give &longs;erenity, and calm, unru&longs;fled pleasure;
but to Montraville, while it &longs;oothed the turbulence
of his pa&longs;&longs;ions, it brought increa&longs;e of melancholy
reflections. Julia was leaning on his
arm: he took her hand in his, and pre&longs;&longs;ing it
tenderly, &longs;ighed deeply, but continued &longs;ilent.
Julia was embarra&longs;&longs;ed; &longs;he wi&longs;hed to break a &longs;ilence
&longs;o unaccountable, but was unable; &longs;he loved Montraville,
&longs;he &longs;aw he was unhappy, and wi&longs;hed
to know the cau&longs;e of his uneafine&longs;s, but that innate
mode&longs;ty which nature has implanted in the
female brea&longs;t, prevented her enquiring. “I am
bad company, Mi&longs;s Franklin,” &longs;aid he, at la&longs;t
recollecting him&longs;elf; but I have met with &longs;omething
to-day that has greatly di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed me, and I cannot
&longs;hake off the di&longs;agreeable impre&longs;&longs;ion it has made on
my mind.”
“I am &longs;orry,” &longs;he replied, “that you have any
cau&longs;e of inquietude. I am &longs;ure if you were as happy
as you de&longs;erve, and as all your friends wi&longs;h you—”
She he&longs;itated. “And might I,” replied he with &longs;ome
animation, “pre&longs;ume to rank the amiable Julia in
that number?”
“Certainly,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “the &longs;ervice you have
rendered me, the knowledge of your worth, all combine
to make me e&longs;teem you.”
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“E&longs;teem, my lovely Julia,” &longs;aid he pa&longs;&longs;ionately,
“is but a poor cold word. I would if I dared, if
I thought I merited your attention—but no, I
mu&longs;t not—honour forbids. I am beneath your notice,
Julia, I am mi&longs;erable and cannot hope to be
otherwi&longs;e.”
“Alas!” &longs;aid Julia, “I pity you.”
“Oh thou conde&longs;cending charmer,” &longs;aid he,
“how that &longs;weet word chears my &longs;ad heart. Indeed
if you knew all, you would pity; but at the
&longs;ame time I fear you would de&longs;pi&longs;e me.”
Ju&longs;t then they were again joined by Mr. Franklin
and Belcour. It had interrupted an intere&longs;ting discourse.
They found it impo&longs;&longs;ible to conver&longs;e on
indifferent &longs;ubjects, and proceeded home in &longs;ilence.
At Mr. Franklin's door Montraville again preffed
Julia's hand, and faintly articulating “good night,”
retired to his lodgings di&longs;pirited and wretched, from
a con&longs;ciou&longs;ne&longs;s that he de&longs;erved not the affection,
with which he plainly &longs;aw he was honoured.
Chapter XXV. RECEPTION OF A LETTER.
“And where now is our poor Charlotte?”
&longs;aid Mr. Temple one evening, as the
cold bla&longs;ts of autumn whi&longs;tled rudely over the heath,
and the yellow appearance of the di&longs;tant wood,
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&longs;poke the near approach of winter. In vain the
chearful fire blazled on the hearth, in vain was he
&longs;urrounded by all the comforts of life; the parent
was &longs;till alive in his heart, and when he thought
that perhaps his once darling child was ere this
expo&longs;ed to all the mi&longs;eries of want in a di&longs;tant land,
without a friend to &longs;ooth and comfort her, without
the benignant look of compa&longs;&longs;ion to chear, or the
angelic voice of pity to pour the balm of con&longs;olation
on her wounded heart, when he thought of this,
his whole &longs;oul di&longs;&longs;olved in tenderne&longs;s; and while
he wiped the tear of angui&longs;h from the eye of his patient,
uncomplaining Lucy, he &longs;truggled to suppress
the &longs;ympathizing drop that &longs;tarted in his own.
“Oh, my poor girl,” &longs;aid Mrs. Temple, “how
mu&longs;t &longs;he be altered, el&longs;e &longs;urely &longs;he would have relieved
our agonizing minds by one line to &longs;ay &longs;he
lived—to &longs;ay &longs;he had not quite forgot the parents
who almo&longs;t idolized her.”
“Gracious heaven,” &longs;aid Mr. Temple, starting
from his &longs;eat, “who would wi&longs;h to be a father,
to experience the agonizing pangs inflicted
on a parent's heart by the ingratitude of a child?”
Mrs. Temple wept; her father took her hand; he
would have &longs;aid, “be comforted my child,” but
the words died on his tongue. The &longs;ad &longs;ilence that
en&longs;ued was interrupted by a loud rap at the door. In
a moment a &longs;ervant entered with a letter in his
hand.
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Mrs. Temple took it from him: &longs;he ca&longs;t her eyes
upon the &longs;uper&longs;cription; &longs;he knew the writing.
“'Tis Charlotte,” &longs;aid &longs;he, eagerly breaking the
&longs;eal, “&longs;he has not quite forgot us.” But before &longs;he
had half gone through the contents, a &longs;udden sickness
&longs;eized her; &longs;he grew cold and giddy, and putting
it into her hu&longs;band's hand, &longs;he cried—“Read
it: I cannot.” Mr. Temple attempted to read it
aloud, but frequently pau&longs;ed to give vent to his tears.
“My poor deluded child,” &longs;aid he, when he had
fini&longs;hed.
“Oh, &longs;hall we not forgive the dear penitent?”
&longs;aid Mrs. Temple. “We mu&longs;t, we will my
love; &longs;he is willing to return, and 'tis our duty to
receive her.”
“Father of mercy,” &longs;aid Mr. Eldridge, rai&longs;ing
his cla&longs;ped hands, “let me but live once more to
&longs;ee the dear wanderer re&longs;tored to her afflicted parents,
and take me from this world of &longs;orrow whenever
it &longs;eemeth be&longs;t to thy wi&longs;dom.”
“Yes, we will receive her,” &longs;aid Mr. Temple;
“we will endeavour to heal her wounded &longs;pirit, and
&longs;peak peace and comfort to her agitated &longs;oul. I will
write to her to return immediately.”
“Oh!” &longs;aid Mrs. Temple, “I would if possible
fly to her, &longs;upport and chear the dear &longs;ufferer
in the approaching hour of di&longs;tre&longs;s, and tell her
how nearly penitence is allied to virtue. Cannot
we go and conduct her home, my love?”
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continued &longs;he, laying her hand on his arm. “My father
will &longs;urely forgive our ab&longs;ence if we go to
bring home his darling.”
“You cannot go, my Lucy,” &longs;aid Mr. Temple:
“the delicacy of your frame would but poorly sustain
the fatigue of a long voyage; but I will go and
bring the gentle penitent to your arms; we may
&longs;till &longs;ee many years of happine&longs;s.”
The &longs;truggle in the bo&longs;om of Mrs. Temple between
maternal and conjugal tenderne&longs;s was long
and painful. At length the former triumphed, and
&longs;he con&longs;ented that her hu&longs;band &longs;hould &longs;et forwad to
New-York by the fir&longs;t opportunity: &longs;he wrote to
her Charlotte in the tendere&longs;t, mo&longs;t con&longs;oling manner,
and looked forward to the happy hour, when
&longs;he &longs;hould again embrace her, with the mo&longs;t animated
hope.
Chapter XXVI. WHAT MIGHT BE EXPECTED.
In the mean time the pa&longs;&longs;ion Montraville had
conceived for Julia Franklin daily increa&longs;ed, and
he &longs;aw evidently how much he was beloved by that
amiable girl: he was likewi&longs;e &longs;trongly prepo&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed
with an idea of Charlotte's per&longs;idy. What wonder
then if he gave him&longs;elf up to the delightful &longs;en&longs;ation
which pervaded his bo&longs;om; and finding no ob&longs;tacle
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ari&longs;e to oppo&longs;e his happine&longs;s, he &longs;olicited and obtained
the hand of Julia. A few days before his marriage
he thus addre&longs;&longs;ed Belcour:
“Though Charlotte, by her abandoned conduct,
has thrown her&longs;elf from my protection, I
&longs;till hold my&longs;elf bound to &longs;upport her till relieved
from her pre&longs;ent condition, and al&longs;o to provide for
the child. I do not intend to &longs;ee her again, but I
will place a &longs;um of money in your liands, which will
amply &longs;upply her with every convenience; but
&longs;hould &longs;he require more, let her have it, and I will
&longs;ee it repaid. I wi&longs;h I could prevail on the poor
deluded girl to return to her friends: &longs;he was an
only child, and I make no doubt but that they
would joyfully receive her; it would &longs;hock me
greatly to &longs;ee her henceforth leading a life of infamy,
as I &longs;hould always accu&longs;e my&longs;elf of being the
primary cau&longs;e of all her errors. If &longs;he &longs;hould chu&longs;e
to remain under your protection, be kind to her,
Belcour, I conjure you. Let not &longs;atiety prompt
you to treat her in &longs;uch a manner, as may drive
her to actions which nece&longs;&longs;ity might urge her to,
while her better rea&longs;on di&longs;approved them: &longs;he
&longs;hall never want a friend while I live, but I never
more de&longs;ire to behold her; her pre&longs;ence would be
always painful to me, and a glance from her eye
would call the blu&longs;h of con&longs;cious guilt into my
cheek.
“I will write a letter to her, which you may
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deliver when I am gone, as I &longs;hall go to St. Eustatia
the day after my union with Julia, who will
accompany me.”
Belcour promi&longs;ed to fulfil the reque&longs;t of his friend,
though nothing was farther from his intentions,
than the lea&longs;t de&longs;ign of delivering the letter, or
making Charlotte acquainted with the provi&longs;ion
Montraville had made for her; he was bent on the
complete ruin of the unhappy girl, and &longs;uppo&longs;ed,
by reducing her to an entire dependance on him,
to bring her by degrees to con&longs;ent to gratify his ungenerous
pa&longs;&longs;ion.
The evening before the day appointed for the
nuptials of Montraville and Julia, the former retired
early to his apartment; and ruminating on the
pa&longs;t &longs;cenes of his life, &longs;uffered the keene&longs;t remor&longs;e
in the remembrance of Charlotte's &longs;eduction.
“Poor girl,” &longs;aid he, “I will at lea&longs;t write and
bid her adieu; I will too endeavour to awaken that
love of virtue in her bo&longs;om which her unfortunate
attachment to me has extingui&longs;hed.” He took up
the pen and began to write, but words were denied
him. How could he addre&longs;s the woman whom he
had &longs;educed, and whom, though he thought unworthy
his tenderne&longs;s, he was about to bid adieu for
ever? How &longs;hould he tell her that he was going to
abjure her, to enter into the mo&longs;t indi&longs;&longs;oluble ties
with another, and that he could not even own the
infant which &longs;he bore as his child? Several letters
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were begun and de&longs;troyed: at length he completed
the following:
To Charlotte.
“Though I have taken up my pen to addre&longs;s
you, my poor injured girl, I feel I am inadequate to
the ta&longs;k; yet, however painful the endeavour, I could
not re&longs;olve upon leaving you for ever without
one kind line to bid you adieu, to tell you how my
heart bleeds at the remembrance of what you was, before
you &longs;aw the hated Montraville. Even now imagination
paints the &longs;cene, when, torn by contending
pa&longs;&longs;ions, when, &longs;truggling between love and duty,
you &longs;ainted in my arms, and I lifted you into
the chai&longs;e: I &longs;ee the agony of your mind, when,
recovering, you &longs;ound your&longs;elf on the road to
Port&longs;mouth: but how, my gentle girl, how could
you, when &longs;o ju&longs;tly impre&longs;&longs;ed with the value of
virtue, how could you, when loving as I thought
you loved me, yield to the &longs;olicitations of Belcour?
“Oh Charlotte, con&longs;cience tells me it was I,
villain that I am, who fir&longs;t taught you the allurements
of guilty plea&longs;ure; it was I who dragged you
from the calm repo&longs;e which innocence and virtue
ever enjoy; and can I, dare I tell you, it was not
love prompted to the horrid deed? No, thou dear,
f&longs;allen angel, believe your repentant Montraville,
when he tells you the man who truly loves will never
betray the object of his affection. Adieu,
Charlotte: could you &longs;till find charms in a life of
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unoffending innocence, return to your parents;
you &longs;hall never want the means of &longs;upport both for
your&longs;elf and child. Oh! gracious heaven! may
that child be entirely free from the vices of its father
and the weakne&longs;s of its mother.
“To-morrow— but no, I cannot tell you
what to-morrow will produce; Belcour will inform
you: he al&longs;o has ca&longs;h for you, which I beg you
will a&longs;k for whenever you may want it. Once
more adieu: believe me, could I hear you was returned
to your friends, and enjoying that tranquillity
of which I have robbed you, I &longs;hould be
as completely happy as even you, in your fonde&longs;t
hours, could wi&longs;h me, but till then a gloom will
ob&longs;cure the brighte&longs;t pro&longs;pects of
Montraville.”
After he had &longs;ealed this letter he threw him&longs;elf
on the bed, and enjoyed a few hours repo&longs;e. Early
in the morning Belcour tapped at his door: he
aro&longs;e ha&longs;tily, and prepared to meet his Julia at the
altar.
“This is the letter to Charlotte,” &longs;aid he,
giving it to Belcour: “take it to her when we are
gone to Eu&longs;tatia; and I conjure you, my dear
friend, not to u&longs;e any &longs;ophi&longs;tical arguments to prevent
her return to virtue; but &longs;hould &longs;he incline
that way, encourage her in the thought, and a&longs;&longs;i&longs;t
her to put her de&longs;ign in execution.
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Chapter XXVII.
[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]
Pen&longs;ive &longs;he mourn'd, and hung her languid head,
Like a fair lily overcharg'd with dew.
Charlotte had now been left almo&longs;t three
months a prey to her own melancholy reflexions—
&longs;ad companions indeed; nor did any one
break in upon her &longs;olitude but Belcour, who once
or twice called to enquire after her health, and tell
her he had in vain endeavoured to bring Montraville
to hear rea&longs;on; and once, but only once, was
her mind cheared by the receipt of an affectionate
letter from Mrs. Beauchamp. Often had &longs;he wrote
to her per&longs;idious &longs;educer, and with the mo&longs;t persuasive
eloquence endeavoured to convince him of
her innocence; but the&longs;e letters were never &longs;uffered
to reach the hands of Montraville, or they mu&longs;t,
though on the very eve of marriage, have prevented
his de&longs;erting the wretched girl. Real angui&longs;h
of heart had in a great mea&longs;ure faded her charms,
her cheeks were pale from want of re&longs;t, and her
eyes, by frequent, indeed almo&longs;t continued weeping,
were &longs;unk and heavy. Sometimes a gleam of
hope would play about her heart when &longs;he thought
of her parents—“They cannot &longs;urely,” &longs;he
would &longs;ay, “refu&longs;e to forgive me; or &longs;hould they
deny their pardon to me, they will not hate my
innocent infant on account of its mother's errors.”
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How often did the poor mourner wi&longs;h for the consoling
pre&longs;ence of the benevolent Mrs. Beauchamp.
“If &longs;he were here,” &longs;he would cry, “&longs;he would
certainly comfort me, and &longs;ooth the di&longs;traction of
my &longs;oul.”
She was &longs;itting one afternoon, wrapped in the&longs;e
melancholy reflexions, when &longs;he was interrupted
by the entrance of Belcour. Great as the alteration
was which ince&longs;&longs;ant &longs;orrow had made on her per&longs;on
&longs;he was &longs;till intere&longs;ting, &longs;till charming; and the
unhallowed &longs;lame, which had urged Belcour to
plant diffen&longs;ion between her and Montraville, &longs;till
raged in his bo&longs;om: he was determined if poffible,
to make her his mi&longs;tre&longs;s; nay, he had even
conceived the diabolical &longs;cheme of taking her to
New-York, and making her appear in every public
place where it was likely &longs;he &longs;hould meet Montraville,
that he might be a witne&longs;s to his unmanly
triumph.
When he entered the room where Charlotte was
&longs;itting, he a&longs;&longs;umed the look of tender, con&longs;olatory
friend&longs;hip. “And how does my lovely Charlotte?”
&longs;aid he, taking her hand: “I fear you are not &longs;o
well as I could wi&longs;h.”
“I am not well, Mr. Belcour,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “very
far from it; but the pains and infirmities of the body
I could ea&longs;ily bear, nay, &longs;ubmit to them with patience,
were they not aggravated by the mo&longs;t insupportable
angui&longs;h of my mind.”
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“You are not happy, Charlotte,” &longs;aid he, with
a look of well-di&longs;&longs;embled &longs;orrow.
“Alas!” replied &longs;he mournfully, &longs;haking her
head, “how can I be happy, de&longs;erted and for&longs;aken
as I am, without a friend of my own &longs;ex to whom
I can unburthen my full heart, nay, my fidelity
&longs;u&longs;pected by the very man for whom I have sacrificed
every thing valuable in life, for whom I
have made my&longs;elf a poor de&longs;pi&longs;ed creature, an out-cast
from &longs;ociety, an object only of contempt and
pity.”
“You think too meanly of your&longs;elf, Mi&longs;s
Temple: there is no one who would dare to treat
you with contempt: all who have the plea&longs;ure of
knowing you mu&longs;t admire and e&longs;teem. You are
lonely here, my dear girl; give me leave to conduct
you to New-York, where the agreeable
&longs;ociety of &longs;ome ladies, to whom I will introduce
you, will di&longs;pel the&longs;e &longs;ad thoughts, and I &longs;hall again
&longs;ee returning chearfulne&longs;s animate tho&longs;e lovely features.”
“Oh never! never!” cried Charlotte emphatically:
“the virtuous part of my &longs;ex will
&longs;corn me, and I will never a&longs;&longs;ociate with infamy.
No, Belcour, here let me hide my &longs;hame and
&longs;orrow, here let me &longs;pend my few remaining days
in ob&longs;curity, unknown and unpitied, here let me
die unlamented, and my name &longs;ink to oblivion.”
Here her tears &longs;topped her utterance.
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Belcour was awed to &longs;ilence: he dared not interrupt
her; and after a moment's pau&longs;e &longs;he proceeded—
“I once had conceived the thought of
going to New-York to &longs;eek out the &longs;till dear,
though cruel, ungenerous Montraville, to throw
my&longs;elf at his feet, and entreat his compa&longs;&longs;ion;
heaven knows, not for my&longs;elf; if I am no longer
beloved, I will not be indebted to his pity to
redre&longs;s my injuries, but I would have knelt and entreated
him not to for&longs;ake my poor unborn—” She
could &longs;ay no more; a crim&longs;on glow ru&longs;hed over her
cheeks, and covering her face with her hands, &longs;he
&longs;obbed aloud.
Something like humanity was awakened in Belcour's
brea&longs;t by this pathetic &longs;peech: he aro&longs;e and
walked towards the window; but the &longs;elfi&longs;h pa&longs;&longs;ion
which had taken po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of his heart &longs;oon
&longs;tifled the&longs;e finer emotions; and he thought if
Charlotte was once convinced &longs;he had no longer
any dependance on Montraville, &longs;he would more
readily throw her&longs;elf on his protection. Determined,
therefore, to inform her of all that
had happened, he again re&longs;umed his &longs;eat; and
finding &longs;he began to be more compo&longs;ed, enquired
if &longs;he had ever heard from Montraville
&longs;ince the unfortunate rencontre in her bed chamber.
“Ah no,” &longs;aid &longs;he. “I fear I &longs;hall never hear
from him again.”
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“I am greatly of your opinion,” &longs;aid Belcour,
“for he has been for &longs;ome time pa&longs;t greatly
attached—”
At the word “attached” a death-like palene&longs;s
over&longs;pread the countenance of Charlotte, but &longs;he
applied to &longs;ome hart&longs;horn which &longs;tood be&longs;ide her,
and Belcour proceeded.
“He has been for &longs;ome time pa&longs;t greatly attached
to one Mi&longs;s Franklin, a plea&longs;ing lively girl, with a
large fortune.”
“She may be richer, may be hand&longs;omer,” cried
Charlotte, “but cannot love him &longs;o well. Oh may
&longs;he beware of his art, and not tru&longs;t him too far as I
have done.”
“He addre&longs;&longs;es her publicly,” &longs;aid he, “and
it was rumoured they were to be married before he
&longs;ailed for Eu&longs;tatia, whither his company is ordered.”
“Belcour,” &longs;aid Charlotte, &longs;eizing his hand, and
gazing at him earne&longs;tly, while her pale lips trembled
with convul&longs;ive agony, “tell me, and tell me truly,
I be&longs;eech you, do you think he can be &longs;uch a villain
as to marry another woman, and leave me to die
with want and mi&longs;ery in a &longs;trange land: tell me
what you think; I can bear it very well; I will not
&longs;hrink from this heavie&longs;t &longs;troke of fate; I have deserved
my afflictions, and I will endeavour to bear
them as I ought.”
“I fear,” &longs;aid Belcour, “he can be that villain.”
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“Perhaps,” cried &longs;he, eagerly interrupting
him, “perhaps he is married already: come, let
me know the wor&longs;t,” continued &longs;he with an affected
look of compo&longs;ure: “you need not be afraid,
I &longs;hall not &longs;end the unfortunate lady a bowl of
poi&longs;on.”
“Well then, my dear girl,” &longs;aid he, deceived
by her appearance, “they were married on
Thur&longs;day, and ye&longs;terday morning they &longs;ailed for
Eu&longs;tatia.”
“Married—gone—&longs;ay you?” cried &longs;he in a distracted
accent, “what without a la&longs;t farewell, without
one thought on my unhappy &longs;ituation! Oh Montraville,
may God forgive your perfidy.” She shrieked,
and Belcour &longs;prang forward ju&longs;t in time to prevent
her falling to the floor.
Alarming faintings now &longs;ucceeded each other,
and &longs;he was conveyed to her bed, from whence &longs;he
earne&longs;tly prayed &longs;he might never more ari&longs;e. Belcour
&longs;taid with her that night, and in the morning
found her in a high fever. The fits &longs;he had been
&longs;eized with had greatly terrified him; and confined
as &longs;he now was to a bed of &longs;ickne&longs;s, &longs;he was no
longer an object of de&longs;ire: it is true for &longs;everal days
he went con&longs;tantly to &longs;ee her, but her pale, emaciated
appearance di&longs;gu&longs;ted him: his vi&longs;its became
le&longs;s frequent; he forgot the &longs;olemn charge given
him by Montraville; he even forgot the money entrusted
to his care; and, the burning blu&longs;h of
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indignation and &longs;hame tinges my cheek while I write it,
this di&longs;grace to humanity and manhood at length forgot
even the injured Charlotte; and, attracted by
the blooming health of a farmer's daughter, whom
he had &longs;een in his frequent excur&longs;ions to the country,
he left the unhappy girl to &longs;ink unnoticed to the
grave, a prey to &longs;ickne&longs;s, grief and penury; while
he, having triumphed over the virtue of the artle&longs;s
cottager, rioted in all the intemperance of luxury
and lawle&longs;s plea&longs;ure.
Chapter XXVIII. A TRIFLING RETROSPECT.
“Bless my heart,” cries my young volatile
reader, “I &longs;hall never have patience to
get through the&longs;e volumes, there are &longs;o many ahs!
and ohs! &longs;o much fainting, tears, and di&longs;tre&longs;s, I
am &longs;ick to death of the &longs;ubject.” My dear, chearful,
innocent girl, for innocent I will &longs;uppo&longs;e you
to be, or you would acutely feel the woes of Charlotte,
did con&longs;cience &longs;ay, thus might it have been
with me, had not Providence interpo&longs;ed to &longs;natch
me from de&longs;truction: therefore, my lively, innocent
girl, I mu&longs;t reque&longs;t your patience; I am writing
a tale of truth: I mean to write it to the heart:
but if perchance the heart is rendered impenetrable
by unbounded pro&longs;perity, or a continuance in vice,
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I expect not my tale to plea&longs;e, nay, I even expect
it will be thrown by with di&longs;gu&longs;t. But &longs;oftly, gentle
fair one; I pray you throw it not a&longs;ide till you
have peru&longs;ed the whole; mayhap you may find
&longs;omething therein to repay you for the trouble.
Methinks I &longs;ee a &longs;arca&longs;tic &longs;mile &longs;it on your countenance.—
“And what,” cry you, “does the conceited
author &longs;uppo&longs;e we can glean from the&longs;e pages,
if Charlotte is held up as an object of terror, to prevent
us from falling into guilty errors? does not
La Rue triumph in her &longs;hame, and by adding art
to guilt, obtain the affection of a worthy man, and
ri&longs;e to a &longs;tation where &longs;he is beheld with re&longs;pect, and
chearfully received into all companies. What
then is the moral you would inculcate? Would you
wi&longs;h us to think that a deviation from virtue, if
covered by art and hypocri&longs;y, is not an object of
dete&longs;tation, but on the contrary &longs;hall rai&longs;e us to
fame and honour? while the haple&longs;s girl who falls
a victim to her too great &longs;en&longs;ibility, &longs;hall be loaded
with ignominy and &longs;hame?” No, my fair queri&longs;t,
I mean no &longs;uch thing. Remember the endeavours
of the wicked are often &longs;uffered to pro&longs;per, that in
the end their fall may be attended with more bitterness
of heart; while the cup of affliction is poured
out for wife and &longs;alutary ends, and they who are
compelled to drain it even to the bitter dregs, often
find comfort at the bottom; the tear of penitence
blots their offences from the book of fate, and they
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ri&longs;e from the heavy, painful trial, purified and fit
for a man&longs;ion in the kingdom of eternity.
Yes, my young friends, the tear of compa&longs;&longs;ion
&longs;hall fall for the fate of Charlotte, while the name of
La Rue &longs;hall be dete&longs;ted and de&longs;pi&longs;ed. For Charlotte,
the &longs;oul melts with &longs;ympathy; for La Rue,
it feels nothing but horror and contempt. But perhaps
your gay hearts would rather follow the fortunate
Mrs. Crayton through the &longs;cenes of plea&longs;ure
and di&longs;&longs;ipation in which &longs;he was engaged, than
li&longs;ten to the complaints and mi&longs;eries of Charlotte.
I will for once oblige you: I will for once follow
her to midnight revels, balls, and &longs;cenes of gaiety,
for in &longs;uch was &longs;he con&longs;tantly engaged.
I have &longs;aid her per&longs;on was lovely; let us add
that &longs;he was &longs;urrounded by &longs;plendor and affluence,
and he mu&longs;t know but little of the world who can
wonder, (however faulty &longs;uch a woman's conduct,)
at her being followed by the men, and her company
courted by the women: in &longs;hort, Mrs. Crayton
was the univer&longs;al favourite: &longs;he &longs;et the fa&longs;hions,
&longs;he was toa&longs;ted by all the gentlemen, and copied
by all the ladies.
Colonel Crayton was a dome&longs;tic man. Could
he be happy with &longs;uch a woman? impo&longs;&longs;ible!
Remon&longs;trance was vain: he might as well have
preached to the winds, as endeavour to per&longs;uade
her from any action, however ridiculous, on
which &longs;he had &longs;et her mind: in &longs;hort, after a little
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ineffectual &longs;truggle, he gave up the attempt, and
left her to follow the bent of her own inclinations:
what tho&longs;e were, I think the reader mu&longs;t have &longs;een
enough of her character to form a ju&longs;t idea. Among
the number who paid their devotions at her &longs;hrine,
&longs;he &longs;ingled one, a young En&longs;ign of mean birth,
indifferent education, and weak intellects. How
&longs;uch a man came into the army, we hardly know
to account for, and how he afterwards ro&longs;e to po&longs;ts
of honour is likewi&longs;e &longs;trange and wonderful. But
fortune is blind, and &longs;o are tho&longs;e too frequently
who have the power of di&longs;pen&longs;ing her favours:
el&longs;e why do we &longs;ee fools and knaves at the very
top of the wheel, while patient merit &longs;inks to the
extreme of the oppo&longs;ite aby&longs;s. But we may form
a thou&longs;and conjectures on this &longs;ubject, and yet never
hit on the right. Let us therefore endeavour
to de&longs;erve her &longs;miles, and whether we &longs;ucceed or
not, we &longs;hall feel more innate &longs;atisfaction, than
thou&longs;ands of tho&longs;e who ba&longs;k in the &longs;un&longs;hine of her
favour unworthily. But to return to Mrs. Crayton;
this young man, whom I &longs;hall di&longs;tingui&longs;h by the
name of Corydon, was the reigning favourite of her
heart. He e&longs;corted her to the play, danced with
her at every ball, and when indi&longs;po&longs;ition prevented
her going out, it was he alone who was permitted
to chear the gloomy &longs;olitude to which &longs;he was
obliged to confine her&longs;elf. Did &longs;he ever think of
poor Charlotte?—if &longs;he did, my dear Mi&longs;s, it
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was only to laugh at the poor girl's want of &longs;pirit in
con&longs;enting to be moped up in the country, while
Montraville was enjoying all the plea&longs;ures of a gay,
di&longs;&longs;ipated city. When &longs;he heard of his marriage,
&longs;he &longs;miling &longs;aid, &longs;o there's an end of Madam
Charlotte's hopes. I wonder who will take her
now, or what will become of the little affected
prude?
But as you have led to the &longs;ubject, I think we
may as well return to the di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed Charlotte, and
not, like the unfeeling Mrs. Crayton, &longs;hut our hearts
to the call of humanity.
Chapter XXIX. WE GO FORWARD AGAIN.
The &longs;trength of Charlotte's con&longs;titution combated
again&longs;t her di&longs;order, and &longs;he began &longs;lowly
to recover, though &longs;he &longs;till laboured under a violent
depre&longs;&longs;ion of &longs;pirits: how mu&longs;t that depre&longs;&longs;ion
be encrea&longs;ed, when, upon examining her little
&longs;tore, &longs;he found her&longs;elf reduced to one &longs;olitary
guinea, and that during her illne&longs;s the attendance
of an apothecary and nur&longs;e, together with many
other unavoidable expences, had involved her in
debt, from which &longs;he &longs;aw no method of extricating
her&longs;elf. As to the faint hope which &longs;he had entertained
of hearing from and being relieved by her parents;
it now entirely for&longs;ook her, for it was above
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four months &longs;ince her letter was di&longs;patched, and &longs;he
had received no an&longs;wer: &longs;he therefore imagined
that her conduct had either entirely alienated their
affection from her, or broken their hearts, and &longs;he
mu&longs;t never more hope to receive their ble&longs;&longs;ing.
Never did any human being wi&longs;h for death
with greater fervency or with ju&longs;ter cau&longs;e; yet
&longs;he had too ju&longs;t a &longs;en&longs;e of the duties of the christian
religion to attempt to put a period to her
own exi&longs;tence. “I have but to be patient a
little longer,” &longs;he would cry, “and nature, fatigued
and fainting, will throw off this heavy load
of mortality, and I &longs;hall be relea&longs;ed from all my sufferings.”
It was one cold &longs;tormy day in the latter end of
December, as Charlotte &longs;at by a handful of fire, the
low &longs;tate of her finances not allowing her to replenish
her &longs;tock of fuel, and prudence teaching her
to be careful of what &longs;he had, when &longs;he was surprised
by the entrance of a farmer's wife, who, without
much ceremony, &longs;eated her&longs;elf, and began this curious
harangue.
“I'm come to &longs;ee if as how you can pay your
rent, becau&longs;e as how we hear Captain Montable is
gone away, and it's fifty to one if he b'ant killed
afore he comes back again; and then, Mi&longs;s, or
Ma'am, or whatever you may be, as I was &longs;aying
to my hu&longs;band, where are we to look for our
money.”
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This was a &longs;troke altogether unexpected by
Charlotte: &longs;he knew &longs;o little of the ways of the
world that &longs;he had never be&longs;towed a thought on
the payment for the rent of the hou&longs;e; &longs;he knew
indeed that &longs;he owed a good deal, but this was
never reckoned among the others: &longs;he was thunderstruck;
&longs;he hardly knew what an&longs;wer to make, yet
it was ab&longs;olutely nece&longs;&longs;ary that &longs;he &longs;hould &longs;ay something:
and judging of the gentlene&longs;s of every female
di&longs;po&longs;ition by her own, &longs;he thought the be&longs;t
way to intere&longs;t the woman in her favour would be
to tell her candidly to what a &longs;ituation &longs;he was reduced,
and how little probability there was of her
ever paying any body.
Alas poor Charlotte, how confined was her
knowledge of human nature, or &longs;he would have
been convinced that the only way to en&longs;ure the
friend&longs;hip and a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance of your &longs;urrounding acquaintance
is to convince them you do not require
it, for when once the petrifying a&longs;pect of di&longs;tre&longs;s
and penury appears, who&longs;e qualities, like Medusa's
head, can change to &longs;tone all that look upon
it; when once this Gorgon claims acquaintance
with us, the phantom of friend&longs;hip, that
before courted our notice, will vani&longs;h into unsubstantial
air, and the whole world before us appear
a barren wa&longs;te. Pardon me, ye dear &longs;pirits of
benevolence, who&longs;e benign &longs;miles and chearfulgiving
hand have &longs;trewed &longs;weet flowers on many a
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thorny path through which my wayward fate
forced me to pa&longs;s; think not, that, in condemning
the unfeeling texture of the human heart,
I forget the &longs;pring from whence flow all the comforts
I enjoy: oh no! I look up to you as to
bright con&longs;tellations, gathering new &longs;plendours
from the &longs;urrounding darkne&longs;s: but ah! whil&longs;t I
adore the benignant rays that cheared and illumined
my heart, I mourn that their influence
cannot extend to all the &longs;ons and daughters of
affliction.
“Indeed, Madam,” &longs;aid poor Charlotte in a
tremulous accent, “I am at a lo&longs;s what to do.
Montraville placed me here, and promi&longs;ed to defray
all my expen&longs;es: but he has forgot his promise,
he has for&longs;aken me, and I have no friend
who has either power or will to relieve me. Let
me hope, as you &longs;ee my unhappy &longs;ituation, your
charity—”
“Charity,” cried the woman impatiently interrupting
her, “charity indeed: why, Mi&longs;tre&longs;s,
charity begins at home, and I have &longs;even children
at home, bone&longs;t, lawful children, and it is my
duty to keep them; and do you think I will give
away my property to a na&longs;ty, impudent hu&longs;&longs;ey,
to maintain her and her ba&longs;tard; an I was &longs;aying
to my hu&longs;band the other day what will this world
come to; hone&longs;t women are nothing now-a-days,
while the harlotings are &longs;et up for fine ladies, and
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look upon us no more nor the dirt they walk upon:
but let me tell you, my fine &longs;poken Ma'am, I mu&longs;t
have my money; &longs;o &longs;eeing as how you can't pay it,
why you mu&longs;t troop, and leave all your fine gimcracks
and fal der ralls behind you. I don't a&longs;k for
no more nor my right, and nobody &longs;hall dare for to
go for to hinder me of it.”
“Oh heavens,” cried Charlotte, cla&longs;ping her
hands, “what will become of me?”
“Come on ye!” retorted the unfeeling wretch:
“why go to the barracks and work for a mor&longs;el of
bread; wa&longs;h and mend the &longs;oldiers cloaths, an cook
their victuals, and not expect to live in idlene&longs;s on
hone&longs;t people's means. Oh I wi&longs;h I could &longs;ee the
day when all &longs;uch cattle were obliged to work hard
and eat little: it's only what they de&longs;erve.”
“Father of mercy,” cried Charlotte, “I acknowledge
thy correction ju&longs;t: but prepare me, I
be&longs;eech thee, for the portion of mi&longs;ery thou may'&longs;t
plea&longs;e to lay upon me.”
“Well,” &longs;aid the woman, “I &longs;hall go an tell
my hu&longs;band as how you can't pay; and &longs;o d'ye &longs;ee,
Ma'am, get ready to be packing away this very
night, for you &longs;hould not &longs;tay another night in this
hou&longs;e, though I was &longs;ure you would lay in the
&longs;treet.”
Charlotte bowed her head in &longs;ilence; but the anguish
of her heart was too great to permit her to
articulate a &longs;ingle word.
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Chapter XXX.
[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]
And what is friend&longs;hip but a name,
A charm that lulls to &longs;leep,
A &longs;hade that follows wealth and fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep.
When Charlotte was left to her&longs;elf, &longs;he began
to think what cour&longs;e &longs;he mu&longs;t take, or
to whom &longs;he could apply, to prevent her peri&longs;hing
for want, or perhaps that very night falling a victim
to the inclemency of the &longs;ea&longs;on. After many
perplexed thoughts, &longs;he at la&longs;t determined to &longs;et out
for New-York, and enquire out Mrs. Crayton,
from whom &longs;he had no doubt but &longs;he &longs;hould obtain
immediate relief as &longs;oon as her di&longs;tre&longs;s was made
known; &longs;he had no &longs;ooner formed this re&longs;olution
than &longs;he re&longs;olved immediately to put it in execution:
&longs;he therefore wrote the following little billet to
Mrs. Crayton, thinking if &longs;he &longs;hould have company
with her it would be better to &longs;end it in than to request
to &longs;ee her.
To Mrs. Crayton.
“Madam,
“When we left our native land, that dear
happy land which now contains all that is dear to
the wretched Charlotte, our pro&longs;pects were the
&longs;ame; we both, pardon me, Madam, if I &longs;ay, we
both too ea&longs;ily followed the impul&longs;e of our
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treacherous hearts, and tru&longs;ted our happine&longs;s on a tempestuous
ocean, where mine has been wrecked and lo&longs;t
for ever; you have been more fortunate—you are
united to a man of honour and humanity, united
by the mo&longs;t &longs;acred ties, re&longs;pected, e&longs;teemed, and
admired, and &longs;urrounded by innumerable ble&longs;&longs;ings
of which I am bereaved, enjoying tho&longs;e plea&longs;ures
which have fled my bo&longs;om never to return; alas!
&longs;orrow and deep regret have taken their place. Behold
me, Madam, a poor for&longs;aken wanderer, who
has not where to lay her weary head, wherewith to
&longs;upply the wants of nature, or to &longs;hield her from
the inclemency of the weather. To you I &longs;ue, to
you I look for pity and relief. I a&longs;k not to be received
as an intimate or an equal; only for charity's
&longs;weet &longs;ake receive me into your ho&longs;pitable man&longs;ion,
allot me the meane&longs;t apartment in it, and let me
breath out my &longs;oul in prayers for your happine&longs;s;
I cannot, I feel I cannot long bear up under the
accumulated woes that pour in upon me; but oh!
my dear Madam, for the love of heaven &longs;uffer me
not to expire in the &longs;treet; and when I am at peace,
as &longs;oon I &longs;hall be, extend your compa&longs;&longs;ion to my
helple&longs;s offspring, &longs;hould it plea&longs;e heaven that it
&longs;hould &longs;urvive its unhappy mother. A gleam of joy
breaks in on my benighted &longs;oul while I reflect that
you cannot, will not refu&longs;e your protection to the
heart-broken
“Charlotte.”
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When Charlotte had fini&longs;hed this letter, late as it
was in the afternoon, and though the &longs;now began
to fall very fa&longs;t, &longs;he tied up a few nece&longs;&longs;aries which
&longs;he had prepared again&longs;t her expected confinement,
and terrified le&longs;t &longs;he &longs;hould be again expo&longs;ed to the
in&longs;ults of her barbarous landlady, more dreadful to
her wounded &longs;pirit than either &longs;torm or darkne&longs;s, &longs;he
&longs;et forward for New-York.
It may be a&longs;ked by tho&longs;e, who, in a work of this
kind, love to cavil at every trifling omi&longs;&longs;ion, whether
Charlotte did not po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s any valuable of which
&longs;he could have di&longs;po&longs;ed, and by that means have
&longs;upported her&longs;elf till Mrs. Beauchamp's return,
when &longs;he would have been certain of receiving
every tender attention which compa&longs;&longs;ion and friendship
could dictate: but let me entreat the&longs;e wi&longs;e,
penetrating gentlemen to reflect, that when Charlotte
left England, it was in &longs;uch ha&longs;te that there
was no time to purcha&longs;e any thing more than what
was wanted for immediate u&longs;e on the voyage, and
after her arrival at New-York, Montraville's affection
&longs;oon began to decline, &longs;o that her whole wardrobe
con&longs;i&longs;ted of only nece&longs;&longs;aries, and as to baubles,
with which fond lovers often load their mi&longs;tre&longs;&longs;es,
&longs;he po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed not one, except a plain gold locket of
&longs;mall value, which contained a lock of her mother's
hair, and which the greate&longs;t extremity of want could
not have forced her to part with.
I hope, Sir, your prejudices are now removed
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in regard to the probability of my &longs;tory? Oh they
are. Well then, with your leave, I will proceed.
The di&longs;tance from the hou&longs;e which our &longs;uffering
heroine occupied, to New-York, was not very
great, yet the &longs;now fell &longs;o fa&longs;t, and the cold &longs;o intense,
that, being unable from her &longs;ituation to
walk quick, &longs;he found her&longs;elf almo&longs;t &longs;inking with
cold and fatigue before &longs;he reached the town, her
garments, which were merely &longs;uitable to the summer
&longs;ea&longs;on, being an undre&longs;s robe of plain white
mu&longs;lin, were wet through, and a thin black cloak
and bonnet, very improper habiliments for &longs;uch a
climate, but poorly defended her from the cold.
In this &longs;ituation &longs;he reached the city, and enquired
of a foot &longs;oldier whom &longs;he met, the way to Colonel
Crayton's.
“Ble&longs;s you, my &longs;weet lady,” &longs;aid the &longs;oldier with
a voice and look of compa&longs;&longs;ion, “I will &longs;hew you
the way with all my heart; but if you are going to
make a petition to Madam Crayton it is all to no
purpo&longs;e I a&longs;&longs;ure you: if you plea&longs;e I will conduct
you to Mr. Franklin's; though Mi&longs;s Julia is married
and gone now, yet the old gentleman is very
good.”
“Julia Franklin,” &longs;aid Charlotte; “is &longs;he
not married to Montraville?”
“Yes,” replied the &longs;oldier,“and may God ble&longs;s
them, for a better officer never lived, he is &longs;o good
to us all; and as to Mi&longs;s Julia, all the poor folk
almo&longs;t wor&longs;hipped her.”
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“Gracious heaven,” cried Charlotte, “is Montraville
then unju&longs;t to none but me.”
The &longs;oldier now &longs;hewed her Colonel Crayton's
door, and with a beating heart, &longs;he knocked for admission.
Chapter XXXI. SUBJECT CONTINUED.
When the door was opened, Charlotte, in a
voice rendered &longs;carcely articulate, through
cold and the extreme agitation of her mind, demanded
whether Mrs. Crayton was at home. The
&longs;ervant he&longs;itated: he knew that his lady was engaged
at a game of picquet with her dear Corydon,
nor could he think &longs;he would like to be di&longs;turbed
by a per&longs;on who&longs;e appearance &longs;poke her of &longs;o little
con&longs;equence as Charlotte; yet there was &longs;omething
in her countenance that rather intere&longs;ted him in her
favour, and he &longs;aid his lady was engaged, but if &longs;he
had any particular me&longs;&longs;age he would deliver it.
“Take up this letter,” &longs;aid Charlotte: “tell
her the unhappy writer of it waits in her hall for an
an&longs;wer.”
The tremulous accent, the tearful eye, mu&longs;t have
moved any heart not compo&longs;ed of adamant. The man
took the letter from the poor &longs;uppliant, and ha&longs;tily
a&longs;cended the &longs;tair ca&longs;e.
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“A letter, Madam,” &longs;aid he, pre&longs;enting it to his
lady: “an immediate an&longs;wer is required.”
Mrs. Crayton glanced her eye carele&longs;sly over the
contents. “What &longs;tuff is this;” cried &longs;he haughtily;
“have not I told you a thou&longs;and times that I
will not be plagued with beggars, and petitions
from people one knows nothing about? Go tell the
woman I can't do any thing in it. I'm &longs;orry, but
one can't relieve every body.”
The &longs;ervant bowed, and heavily returned with
this chilling me&longs;&longs;age to Charlotte.
“Surely,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “Mrs. Crayton has not
read my letter. Go, my good friend, pray go back
to her; tell her it is Charlotte Temple who reque&longs;t
beneath her ho&longs;pitable roof to find &longs;helter from the
inclemency of the &longs;ea&longs;on.”
“Prithee, don't plague me, man,” cried Mrs.
Crayton impatiently, as the &longs;ervant advanced something
in behalf of the unhappy girl. I tell you I
don't know her.”
“Not know me,” cried Charlotte, ru&longs;hing into
the room, (for &longs;he had followed the man up &longs;tairs)
“not know me, not remember the ruined Charlotte
Temple, who, but for you, perhaps might &longs;till
have been innocent, &longs;till have been happy. Oh! La
Rue, this is beyond every thing I could have believed
po&longs;&longs;ible.”
“Upon my honour, Mi&longs;s,” replied the unfeeling
woman with the utmo&longs;t effrontery, “this is a
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mo&longs;t unaccountable addre&longs;s: it is beyond my comprehension.
John,” continued &longs;he, turning to the
&longs;ervant, “the young woman is certainly out of her
&longs;en&longs;es: do pray take her away, &longs;he terrifies me to
death.”
“Oh God,” cried Charlotte, cla&longs;ping her
hands in an agony, “this is too much; what
will become of me? but I will not leave you; they
&longs;hall not tear me from you; here on my knees I
conjure you to &longs;ave me from peri&longs;hing in the &longs;treets:
if you really have forgot me, oh for charity's &longs;weet
&longs;ake this night let me be &longs;heltered from the winter's
piercing cold.”
The kneeling figure of Charlotte in her affecting
&longs;ituation might have moved the heart of a &longs;toic
to compa&longs;&longs;ion: but Mrs, Crayton remained inflexible.
In vain did Charlotte recount the time
they had known each other at Chiche&longs;ter, in vain
mention their being in the &longs;ame &longs;hip, in vain were
the names of Montraville and Belcour mentioned.
Mrs. Crayton could only &longs;ay &longs;he was &longs;orry for her
imprudence, but could not think of having her
own reputation endangered by encouraging a woman
of that kind in her own hou&longs;e, be&longs;ides &longs;he did
not know what trouble and expen&longs;e &longs;he might bring
upon her hu&longs;band by giving &longs;helter to a woman in
her &longs;ituation.
“I can at lea&longs;t die here,” &longs;aid Charlotte, “I
feel I cannot long &longs;urvive this dreadful conflict.
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Father of mercy, here let me fini&longs;h my exi&longs;tence.”
Her agonizing &longs;en&longs;ations overpowered her, and &longs;he
fell &longs;en&longs;ele&longs;s on the floor.
“Take her away,” &longs;aid Mrs. Crayton, “&longs;he will
really frighten me into hy&longs;terics; take her away I
&longs;ay this in&longs;tant.”
“And where mu&longs;t I take the poor creature?”
&longs;aid the &longs;ervant with a voice and look of compa&longs;&longs;io
“Any where,” cried &longs;he ha&longs;tily, only don't let
me ever &longs;ee her again. I declare &longs;he has flurried
me &longs;o, I &longs;han't be my&longs;elf again this fortnight.”
John, a&longs;&longs;i&longs;ted by his fellow-&longs;ervant, rai&longs;ed and carried
her down &longs;tairs. “Poor &longs;oul,” &longs;aid he, “you
&longs;hall not lay in the &longs;treet this night. I have a bed
and a poor little hovel, where my wife and her
little ones re&longs;t them, but they &longs;hall watch to night,
and you &longs;hall be &longs;heltered from danger.” They
placed her in a chair; and the benevolent man,
a&longs;&longs;i&longs;ted by one of his comrades, carried her to
the place where his wife and children lived. A
&longs;urgeon was &longs;ent for: he bled her, &longs;he gave &longs;igns of
returning life, and before the dawn, gave birth to
a female infant. After this event &longs;he lay for &longs;ome
hours in a kind of &longs;tupor; and if at any time &longs;he
&longs;poke, it was with a quickne&longs;s and incoherence
that plainly evinced the total deprivation of her
rea&longs;on.
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Chapter XXXII. REASONS WHY AND WHEREFORE.
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The reader of &longs;en&longs;ibility may perhaps be
a&longs;toni&longs;hed to find Mrs. Crayton could &longs;o positively
deny any knowledge of Charlotte; it is
therefore but ju&longs;t that her conduct &longs;hould in &longs;ome
mea&longs;ure be accounted for. She had ever been
fully &longs;en&longs;ible of the &longs;uperiority of Charlotte's &longs;en&longs;e
and virtue; &longs;he was con&longs;cious that &longs;he had never
&longs;werved from rectitude, had it not been for her
bad precepts and wor&longs;e example. The&longs;e were
things as yet unknown to her hu&longs;band, and &longs;he
wi&longs;hed not to have that part of her conduct expo&longs;ed
to him, as &longs;he had great rea&longs;on to fear &longs;he had
already lo&longs;t con&longs;iderable part of that power &longs;he
once maintained over him. She trembled whil&longs;t
Charlotte was in the hou&longs;e, le&longs;t the Colonel &longs;hould
return; &longs;he perfectly well remembered how much
he &longs;eemed intere&longs;ted in her favour whil&longs;t on their
pa&longs;&longs;age from England, and made no doubt, but,
&longs;hould he &longs;ee her in her pre&longs;ent di&longs;tre&longs;s, he would
offer her an a&longs;ylum, and protect her to the utmo&longs;t of
his power. In that ca&longs;e &longs;he feared the unguarded
nature of Charlotte might di&longs;cover to the Colonel
the part &longs;he had taken in the unhappy girl's elopement,
and &longs;he well knew the contra&longs;t between
her own and Charlotte's conduct would make the
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former appear in no very re&longs;pectable light. Had
&longs;he reflected properly, &longs;he would have afforded the
poor girl protection; and by enjoining her &longs;ilence,
en&longs;ured it by acts of repeated kindne&longs;s; but vice
in general blinds its votaries, and they di&longs;cover
their real characters to the world when they are
mo&longs;t &longs;tudious to pre&longs;erve appearances.
Ju&longs;t &longs;o it happened with Mrs. Crayton: her
&longs;ervants made no &longs;cruple of mentioning the cruel
conduct of their lady to a poor di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed lunatic
who claimed her protection; every one joined in
reprobating her inhumanity; nay, even Corydon
thought &longs;he might at lea&longs;t have ordered her to be
taken care of, but he dare not even hint it to her,
for he lived but in her &longs;miles, and drew from her
lavi&longs;h fondne&longs;s large &longs;ums to &longs;upport an extravagance
to which the &longs;tate of his own finances was
very inadequate; it cannot therefore be &longs;uppo&longs;ed
that he wi&longs;hed Mrs. Crayton to be very liberal in
her bounty to the afflicted &longs;uppliant; yet vice had
not &longs;o entirely &longs;eared over his heart, but the sorrows
of Charlotte could find a vulnerable part.
Charlotte had now been three days with her humane
pre&longs;ervers, but &longs;he was totally in&longs;en&longs;ible of
every thing: &longs;he raved ince&longs;&longs;antly for Montraville
and her father: &longs;he was not con&longs;cious of being a
mother, nor took the lea&longs;t notice of her child, except
to a&longs;k who&longs;e it was, and why it was not carried
to its parents.
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“Oh,” &longs;aid &longs;he one day, &longs;tarting up on hearing
the infant cry, “why, why will you keep
that child here; I am &longs;ure you would not if you
knew how hard it was for a mother to be parted
from her infant: it is like tearing the cords of life
a&longs;under. Oh could you &longs;ee the horrid &longs;ight which
I now behold—there—there &longs;tands my dear mother,
her poor bo&longs;om bleeding at every vein, her
gentle, affectionate heart torn in a thou&longs;and pieces,
and all for the lo&longs;s of a ruined, ungrateful child.
Save me—&longs;ave me—from her frown. I dare not—
indeed I dare not &longs;peak to her.”
Such were the dreadful images that haunted her
di&longs;tracted mind, and nature was &longs;inking fa&longs;t under
the dreadful malady which medicine had no power
to remove. The &longs;urgeon who attended her was a
humane man; he exerted his utmo&longs;t abilities to &longs;ave
her, but he &longs;aw &longs;he was in want of many nece&longs;&longs;aries
and comforts, which the poverty of her ho&longs;pitable
ho&longs;t rendered him unable to provide: he therefore
determined to make her &longs;ituation known to &longs;ome of
the officers' ladies, and endeavour to make a collection
for her relief.
When he returned home, after making this
re&longs;olution, he found a me&longs;&longs;age from Mrs. Beauchamp,
who had ju&longs;t arrived from Rhode-I&longs;land,
reque&longs;ting he would call and &longs;ee one of her children,
who was very unwell. “I do not know,”
&longs;aid he, as he was ha&longs;tening to obey the &longs;ummons,
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“I do not know a woman to whom I could apply
with more hope of &longs;ucce&longs;s than Mrs. Beauchamp.
I will endeavour to intere&longs;t her in this poor girl's
behalf; &longs;he wants the &longs;oothing balm of friendly
con&longs;olation: we may perhaps &longs;ave her; we will try
at lea&longs;t.”
“And where is &longs;he,” cried Mrs. Beauchamp,
when he had pre&longs;cribed &longs;omething for the child, and
told his little pathetic tale, “where is &longs;he, Sir?
we will go to her immediately. Heaven forbid that
I &longs;hould be deaf to the calls of humanity. Come,
we will go this in&longs;tant.” Then &longs;eizing the doctor's
arm, they &longs;ought the habitation that contained the
dying Charlotte.
Chapter XXXIII. WHICH PEOPLE VOID OF FEELING NEED NOT READ.
When Mrs. Beauchamp entered the apartment
of the poor &longs;ufferer, &longs;he &longs;tarted back
with horror. On a wretched bed, without hangings,
and but poorly &longs;upplied with covering, lay
the emaciated figure of what &longs;till retained the semblance
of a lovely woman, though &longs;ickne&longs;s had &longs;o
altered her features that Mrs. Beauchamp had not
the lea&longs;t recollection of her per&longs;on. In one corner
of the room &longs;tood a woman wa&longs;hing, and,
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shivering over a &longs;mall fire, two healthy but half naked
children; the infant was a&longs;leep be&longs;ide its mother,
and, on a chair by the bed &longs;ide, &longs;tood a porrenger
and wooden &longs;poon, containing a little gruel, and
a tea-cup with about two &longs;poonfulls of wine in it.
Mrs. Beauehamp had never before beheld &longs;uch a
&longs;cene of poverty; &longs;he &longs;huddered involuntarily, and
exclaiming—“heaven pre&longs;erve us!” leaned on
the back of a chair ready to &longs;ink to the earth. The
doctor repented having &longs;o precipitately brought
her into this affecting &longs;cene; but there was no time
for apologies: Charlotte caught the &longs;ound of her
voice, and &longs;tarting almo&longs;t out of bed, exclaimed—
“Angel of peace and mercy, art thou come to
deliver me? Oh, I know you are, for whenever
you was near me I felt ea&longs;ed of half my &longs;orrows;
but you don't know me, nor can I, with all the
recollection I am mi&longs;tre&longs;s of, remember your name
ju&longs;t now, but I know that benevolent countenance,
and the &longs;oftne&longs;s of that voice which has &longs;o often
comforted the wretched Charlotte.”
Mrs. Beauchamp had, during the time Charlotte
was &longs;peaking, &longs;eated her&longs;elf on the bed and taken
one of her hands; &longs;he looked at her attentively,
and at the name of Charlotte &longs;he perfectly conceived
the whole &longs;hocking affair. A faint &longs;ickne&longs;s
came over her. “Gracious heaven,” &longs;aid &longs;he,
“is this po&longs;&longs;ible?” and bur&longs;ting into tears, &longs;he
reclined the burning head of Charlotte on her own
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bo&longs;om; and folding her arms about her, wept over
her in &longs;ilence. “Oh,” &longs;aid Charlotte “you are
very good to weep thus for me: it is a long time
&longs;ince I &longs;hed a tear for my&longs;elf: my head and heart are
both on fire, but the&longs;e tears of your's &longs;eem to cool
and refre&longs;h it. Oh now I remember you &longs;aid you
would &longs;end a letter to my poor father: do you think
he ever received it? or perhaps you have brought
me an an&longs;wer: why don't you &longs;peak, Madam?
Does he &longs;ay I may go home? Well he is very good?
I &longs;hall &longs;oon be ready.”
She then made an effort to get out of bed; but
being prevented, her frenzy again returned, and
&longs;he raved with the greate&longs;t wildne&longs;s and incoherence.
Mrs. Beauchamp, finding it was impo&longs;&longs;ible for
her to be removed, contented her&longs;elf with ordering
the apartment to be made more comfortable, and procuring
a proper nur&longs;e for both mother and child?
and having learnt the particulars of Charlotte's
fruitle&longs;s application to Mrs. Crayton from hone&longs;t
John, &longs;he amply rewarded him for his benevolence,
and returned home with a heart oppre&longs;&longs;ed with many
painful &longs;en&longs;ations, but yet rendered ea&longs;y by the
reflexion that &longs;he had performed her duty towards
a di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed fellow-creature.
Early the next morning &longs;he again vi&longs;ited Charlotte,
and found her tolerably compo&longs;ed; &longs;he
called her by name, thanked her for her goodne&longs;s,
and when her child was brought to her, pre&longs;&longs;ed it
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in her arms, wept over it, and called it the offspring
of di&longs;obedience. Mrs. Beauchamp was delighted
to &longs;ee her &longs;o much amended, and began
to hope &longs;he might recover, and, &longs;pite of her
former errors, become an u&longs;eful and re&longs;pectable
member of &longs;ociety; but the arrival of the doctor
put an end to the&longs;e delu&longs;ive hopes: he &longs;aid nature
was making her la&longs;t effort, and a few hours would
mo&longs;t probably con&longs;ign the unhappy girl to her kindred
du&longs;t.
Being a&longs;ked how &longs;he found her&longs;elf, &longs;he replied—
“Why better, much better, doctor. I hope
now I have but little more to &longs;uffer. I had la&longs;t
night a few hours &longs;leep, and when I awoke recovered
the full power of recollection. I am quite
&longs;en&longs;ible of my weakne&longs;s; I feel I have but little
longer to combat with the &longs;hafts of affliction. I
have an humble confidence in the mercy of him
who died to &longs;ave the world, and tru&longs;t that my
&longs;ufferings in this &longs;tate of mortality, joined to my
unfeigned repentance, through his mercy, have
blotted my offences from the &longs;ight of my offended
maker. I have but one care—my poor infant!
Father of mercy,” continued &longs;he, rai&longs;ing her eyes,
“of thy infinite goodne&longs;s, grant that the &longs;ins of
the parent be not vi&longs;ited on the unoffending child.
May tho&longs;e who taught me to de&longs;pi&longs;e thy laws be
forgiven; lay not my offences to their charge, I
be&longs;eech thee; and oh! &longs;hower the choice&longs;t of thy
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ble&longs;&longs;ings on tho&longs;e who&longs;e pity has &longs;oothed the afflicted
heart, and made ea&longs;y even the bed of pain and
&longs;ickne&longs;s.”
She was exhau&longs;ted by this fervent addre&longs;s to the
throne of mercy, and though her lips &longs;till moved
her voice became inarticulate: &longs;he lay for &longs;ome
time as it were in a do&longs;e, and then recovering,
faintly pre&longs;&longs;ed Mrs. Beauchamp's hand, and requested
that a clergyman might be &longs;ent for.
On his arrival &longs;he joined fervently in the pious
office, frequently mentioning her ingratitude to
her parents as what lay mo&longs;t heavy at her heart.
When &longs;he had performed the la&longs;t &longs;olemn duty,
and was preparing to lie down, a little bu&longs;tle on
the out&longs;ide door occa&longs;ioned Mrs. Beauchamp to
open it, and enquire the cau&longs;e. A man in appearance
about forty, pre&longs;ented him&longs;elf, and a&longs;ked
for Mrs. Beauchamp.
“That is my name, Sir,” &longs;aid &longs;he.
“Oh then, my dear Madam,” cried he, tell
“me where I may find my poor, ruined, but repentant
child.”
Mrs. Beauchamp was &longs;urpri&longs;ed and affected; &longs;he
knew not what to &longs;ay; &longs;he fore&longs;aw the agony this
interview would occa&longs;ion Mr. Temple, who had
ju&longs;t arrived in &longs;earch of his Charlotte, and yet was
&longs;en&longs;ible that the pardon and ble&longs;&longs;ing of her father
would &longs;often even the agonies of death to the
daughter.
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She he&longs;itated. “Tell me, Madam,” cried he
wildly, “tell me, I be&longs;eech thee, does &longs;he live?
&longs;hall I &longs;ee my darling once again? Perhaps &longs;he is
in this hou&longs;e. Lead, lead me to her, that I may
ble&longs;s her, and then lie down and die.”
The ardent manner in which he uttered the&longs;e
words occa&longs;ioned him to rai&longs;e his voice. It caught
the ear of Charlotte: &longs;he knew the beloved &longs;ound:
and uttering a lond &longs;hriek, &longs;he &longs;prang forward as
Mr. Temple entered the room. “My adored father.”
“My long lo&longs;t child.” Nature could support
no more, and they both &longs;unk lifele&longs;s into the
arms of the attendants.
Charlotte was again put into bed, and a few
moments re&longs;tored Mr. Temple: but to de&longs;cribe the
agony of his &longs;ufferings is pa&longs;t the power of any one,
who, though they may readily conceive, cannot
delineate the dreadful &longs;cene. Every eye gave
te&longs;timony of what each heart felt—but all were
&longs;ilent.
When Charlotte recovered, &longs;he found her&longs;elf
&longs;upported in her father's arms. She ca&longs;t on him a
mo&longs;t expre&longs;&longs;ive look, but was unable to &longs;peak. A
reviving cordial was admini&longs;tered. She then a&longs;ked,
in a low voice, for her child: it was brought to
her: &longs;he put it in her father's arms. “Protect
her,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “and ble&longs;s your dying—”
Unable to fini&longs;h the &longs;entence, &longs;he &longs;unk back on her
pillow: her countenance was &longs;erenely compo&longs;ed;
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&longs;he regarded her father as he pre&longs;&longs;ed the infant to his
brea&longs;t with a &longs;teadfa&longs;t look; a &longs;udden beam of joy
pa&longs;&longs;ed acro&longs;s her languid features, &longs;he rai&longs;ed her
eyes to heaven—and then clo&longs;ed them for ever.
Chapter XXXIV. RETRIBUTION.
In the mean time Montraville having received
orders to return to New-York, arrived, and
having &longs;till &longs;ome remains of compa&longs;&longs;ionate tenderness
for the woman whom he regarded as brought
to &longs;hame by him&longs;elf, he went out in &longs;earch of Belcour,
to enquire whether &longs;he was &longs;afe, and whether
the child lived. He found him immer&longs;ed in dissipation,
and could gain no other intelligence than
that Charlotte had le&longs;t him, and that he knew not
what was become of her.
“I cannot believe it po&longs;&longs;ible” &longs;aid Montraville,
“that a mind once &longs;o pure as Charlotte
Temple's, &longs;hould &longs;o &longs;uddenly become the man&longs;ion
of vice. Beware, Belcour,” continued he, “beware
if you have dared to behave either unju&longs;t or
di&longs;honourably to that poor girl, your life &longs;hall pay
the forfeit:—I will revenge her cau&longs;e.”
He immediately went into the country, to the
hou&longs;e where he had left Charlotte. It was desolate.
After much enquiry he at length found the
&longs;ervant girl who had lived with her. From her he
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learnt the mi&longs;ery Charlotte had endured from the
complicated evils of illne&longs;s, poverty and a broken
heart, and that &longs;he had &longs;et out on &longs;oot for New-York,
on a cold winter's evening; but &longs;he could
inform him no further.
Tortured almo&longs;t to madne&longs;s by this &longs;hocking
account, he returned to the city but, before he
reached it, the evening was drawing to a clo&longs;e.
In entering the town he was obliged to pa&longs;s &longs;everal
little huts, the re&longs;idence of poor women who supported
them&longs;elves by wa&longs;hing the cloaths of the
officers and &longs;oldiers. It was nearly dark: he
heard from a neighbouring &longs;teeple a &longs;olemn toll
that &longs;eemed to &longs;ay &longs;ome poor mortal was going to
their la&longs;t man&longs;ion; the &longs;ound &longs;truck on the heart of
Montraville, and he involuntarily &longs;topped, when,
from one of the hou&longs;es he &longs;aw the appearance of
a funeral. Almo&longs;t unknowing what he did, he
followed at a &longs;mall di&longs;tance; and as they let the
coffin into the grave, he enquired of a &longs;oldier who
&longs;tood by, and had ju&longs;t bru&longs;hed off a tear that did
honour to his heart, who it was that was ju&longs;t buried.
“An plea&longs;e your honour,” &longs;aid the man,
“ 'tis a poor girl that was brought from her
friends by a cruel man, who left her when &longs;he was
big with child and married another.” Montraville
&longs;tood motionle&longs;s, and the man proceeded—
“I met her my&longs;elf not a fortnight &longs;ince one night
ll wet and cold in the &longs;treet; &longs;he went to Madam
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Crayton's, but &longs;he would not take her in, and &longs;o
the poor thing went raving mad.” Montraville
could bear no more; he &longs;truck his hands again&longs;t
his forehead with violence; and exclaiming “poor
murdered Charlotte!” ran with precipitation towards
the place where they were heaping the earth
on her remains. “Hold, hold, one moment,”
&longs;aid he. “Clo&longs;e not the grave of the injured
Charlotte Temple till I have taken vengeance on
her murderer.”
“Ra&longs;h young man,” &longs;aid Mr. Temple,” who
“art thou that thus di&longs;turbe&longs;t the la&longs;t mournful
rites of the dead, and rudely breake&longs;t in upon the
grief of an afflicted father.”
“If thou art the father of Charlotte Temple,”
&longs;aid he, gazing at him with mingled horror and
amazement—“if thou art her father—I am
Montraville.” Then falling on his knees, he continued—
“Here is my bo&longs;om. I bare it to receive
the &longs;troke I merit. Strike—&longs;trike now, and &longs;ave me
from the mi&longs;ery of reflection.”
“Alas!” &longs;aid Mr. Temple,” if thou wert the
&longs;educer of my child, thy own reflections be thy punishment.
I wre&longs;t not the power from the hand of
omnipotence. Look on that little heap of earth,
there ha&longs;t thou buried the only joy of a fond father.
Look at it often; and may thy heart feel &longs;uch true
&longs;orrow as &longs;hall merit the mercy of heaven.” He
turned from him; and Montraville &longs;tarting up from
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the ground, where he had thrown him&longs;elf, and at
that in&longs;tant remembering the perfidy of Belcour,
flew like lightning to his lodgings. Belcour was
intoxicated; Montraville impetuous: they fought,
and the &longs;word of the latter entered the heart of his
adver&longs;ary. He fell, and expired almo&longs;t in&longs;tantly.
Montraville had received a &longs;light wound; and overcome
with the agitation of his mind and lo&longs;s of
blood, was carried in a &longs;tate of in&longs;en&longs;ibility to his
di&longs;tracted wife. A dangerous illne&longs;s and ob&longs;tinate
delirium en&longs;ued, during which he raved ince&longs;&longs;antly
for Charlotte: but a &longs;trong con&longs;titution, and the
tender a&longs;&longs;iduities of Julia, in time overcome the
di&longs;order. He recovered but to the end of his life
was &longs;ubject to &longs;evere fits of melancholy, and while
he remained at New-York frequently retired to the
church-yard, where he would weep over the grave,
and regret the untimely fate of the lovely Charlotte
Temple.
Chapter XXXV. CONCLUSION.
Shortly after the interment of his daughter,
Mr. Temple, with his dear little charge and her
nur&longs;e, &longs;et forward for England. It would be impossible
to do ju&longs;tice to the meeting &longs;cene between
him, his Lucy, and her aged father. Every heart
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of &longs;en&longs;ibility can ea&longs;ily conceive their feelings. After
the fir&longs;t tumult of grief was &longs;ub&longs;ided, Mrs.
Temple gave up the chief of her time to her grandchild,
and as &longs;he grew up and improved, began to
almo&longs;t fancy &longs;he again po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed her Charlotte.
It was about ten years after the&longs;e painful events,
that Mr. and Mrs. Temple, having buried their
father, were obliged to come to London on particular
bu&longs;ine&longs;s, and brought the little Lucy with
them. They had been walking one evening, when
on their return they found a poor wretch &longs;itting on
the &longs;teps of the door. She attempted to ri&longs;e as they
approached, but from extreme weakne&longs;s was unable,
and after &longs;everal fruitle&longs;s efforts fell back in a fit.
Mr. Temple was not one of tho&longs;e men who &longs;tand
to con&longs;ider whether by a&longs;&longs;i&longs;ting an object in di&longs;tre&longs;s
they &longs;hall not inconvenience them&longs;elves, but instigated
by the impul&longs;e of a noble feeling heart, immediately
ordered her to be carried into the hou&longs;e,
and proper re&longs;toratives applied.
She &longs;oon recovered; and fixing her eyes on
Mrs. Temple, cried—” You know not, Madam,
what you do; you know not whom you are relieving,
or you would cur&longs;e me in the bitterne&longs;s
of your heart. Come not near me, Madam, I
&longs;hall contaminate you. I am the viper that &longs;tung
your peace. I am the woman who turned the
poor Charlotte out to peri&longs;h in the &longs;treet. Heaven
have mercy! I &longs;ee her now,” continued &longs;he
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looking at Lucy; “&longs;uch, &longs;uch was the fair bud
of innocence that my vile arts bla&longs;ted ere it was
half blown.”
It was in vain that Mr. and Mrs. Temple intreated
her to be compo&longs;ed and to take &longs;ome refreshment.
She only drank half a gla&longs;s of wine;
and then told them that &longs;he had been &longs;eparated
from her hu&longs;band &longs;even years, the chief of which
&longs;he had pa&longs;&longs;ed in riot, di&longs;&longs;ipation, and vice, till,
overtaken by poverty and &longs;ickne&longs;s, &longs;he had been
reduced to part with every valuable, and thought
only of ending her life in a pri&longs;on; when a benevolent
friend paid her debts and relea&longs;ed her; but
that her illne&longs;s encrea&longs;ing, &longs;he had no po&longs;&longs;ible
means of &longs;upporting her&longs;elf, and her friends were
weary of relieving her. “I have fa&longs;ted,” &longs;aid
&longs;he, “two days, and la&longs;t night lay my aching
head on the cold pavement: indeed it was but
ju&longs;t that I &longs;hould experience tho&longs;e mi&longs;eries my&longs;elf
which I had unfeelingly inflicted on others.”
Greatly as Mr. Temple had rea&longs;on to dete&longs;t
Mrs. Crayton, he could not behold her in this
di&longs;tre&longs;s without &longs;ome emotions of pity. He gave
her &longs;helter that night beneath his ho&longs;pitable roof,
and the next day got her admi&longs;&longs;ion into an hospital;
where having lingered a few weeks, &longs;he died,
a &longs;triking example that vice, however pro&longs;perous
in the beginning, in the end leads only to mi&longs;ery and
&longs;hame.
FINIS.
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