Waverley Library (Octavo Edition) (no. 30) (1884 12 16)
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ec] ~GYy gece )AVERL Ae Lakes 5 pyrighted, 1884, by Beapin ; Enter , e Post Offive $2,50 a Year. Vol. IH. = ui i i < V— POOR CHARLOTTE’ CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. BY MRS, ROWSON. CHAPTER IL. 4 BOARDING-SCHOOL. ** ARE you for a walk?” said Montraville to his | ‘are | cempanion, as they arose from the table; PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, No, 98 William Street, New York. it New. York, N. Y., aa Secx No 20. Pri Five Cents. MA PLOT TE TEMPLE, Wi (=A 8S GRAVE IN TRINITY CHURCHYARD. you for a walk, or sball we order a chaise and | proc-ed to Portsmouth?” Beleour preferred the | former; | town, and to make remarks on the inhabitants and they sauntered out to view the aS they returned from church. Montraville was a lieutenant in the army, eat et was his brother officer; they had been to take leave of their friends previous to their departure for America, and were now return- ing to Portsmouth, where the troops awaited
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orders for embarkation. They haa stopped at Chichester to dine; and knowing they had sufficient time to reach the place of destination before dark, ed ty allow them a walk, had resolved, it being D ladies as they returned from their devotions. They had gratified their curiosity, and were pre- to return to the inn without honoring any of les with particular attention, when Madame Du “Pont, at the head of her school, descended from the church. Such an assemblage of youth and innocence ey attracted the young soldiers; they stop- ped; and as the little cavalcade passed, almost in- ees ee off their hats, A tall, elegant girl looked at Montraville, and blushed; he instantly re- collected the features of Charlotte Temple, whom he had once seen and danced with at a ball at Ports- mouth. At the time he thought on her as a very lovely child, she being then only thirteen; but the improvement two yeurs had made in her person, and the blush of recollection which suffused her cheeks as she Roeeee, awakened in his bosom new and Pleasing ideas. Vanity led bim to think that pleasure at again benoliiog him might have occasioned the emotion he had witnessed; and the same vanity led him to wish to see ber again. ‘* She is the sweetest girl in the world,” said he, as he entered the inn. Belcour started. ‘ Did you not notice ber?” continued Montraville. ‘“‘She had ona blue bonnet, and with a pair of lovely eyes of the same color, has contrived to make me feel devilish odd about the heart.” “Poh,” said RBelcour, ‘‘a musket-ball from our friends, the Americans, may in less than two months make you feel worse.” “T never think of the future,” said Montraville, “but am determined to make the most of the pre- sent, and would willingly compound with any kind Familiar who would inform me who the girl is, and how I ht be likely to obtain an interview.” But no kind Familiar at that time appeared, and the chaise, which they had ordered, driving up to the door, Montraville and his companion were obliged to take leave of Chichester and its fair inhabitant, and proceed on their journey. but Charlotte had made too great an impression on bis mind to be casily eradicated; having there- fore spent three whole days in thinking on bar, and endeavoring to form some termined to set off for Chichester, and trust to chance either to favor or ffustrate his designs. Arriving at the verge of the town. he dismounted, and sending | the servant forward with the horses, proceeded to- ward the place, where, in the midst ofan extensive leasure-ground, stood the mansion which contained he lovely Charlotte Temple. Montraville leaned on a broken gate, and looked earnestly at the house, The wall which surrounded it was high, and perhaps the Arguses wh» guarded the Hesperian Fruit, within were more watchful than those famed of old. “Tis a romantic att mpt,”’ said he, “ and should I even succeed in seeing and conversing wiih her, it can be productive of no good. I must of necessity leave England in a few days, and probably may never return; why, then, should ! endeavor to engage the affections of tnis lovely girl, only to leave her a prey to a thousand inquietudes? I will return to ortsmouth, and think no more about her. The evening was now closed; a serene stillness * geigned; and the moon, with her silver crescent, faintly illuminated the hemisphere. Tbe mind of Montraville was calmed by the seren- {ty of surrounding « bjects. ‘‘I will think on her no ” said he, and turned with an intention to leave the place; but as he turned, he saw the gate which led to the pleasure-grounds open, and two ‘women came out, who walked arm-in-arm across the fi “T will at least see who these are.” said he. overtook them, and, after saluting, begged leave to see them into the more frequented parte of the town; but how was he delighted, when, waitin for an answer, be discovered, under the conceal- ay afternoon, to take a survey of the Chichester | lan for seeing her, hede- | ag of a large bonnet, the face of Charlotte Tem- pie. He soon found means to ingratiate himself with her companion, who was @ French teacher at the school, and at parting, slipped a letter he had purposely | written, into Charlotte’s hand, and five guineas into | that of mademoiselle, who promised she would en- | deaver to bring her young charge into the field again the next evening. CHAPTER IL DOMESTIC CONCERNS. Mr. Tempur was the youngest son ofa nobleman, whose fortune was by no means adequate to the an- tiquity, grandeur, and, I may add, pride of the family. He saw his elder brother made completely wretched by marrying a disagreeable woman, whose fortune helped to prop the rare 3 dignity of the house; and he beheld his sisters legally prostituted to old, decrep- it men, whose titles gave them consequence in the eyes of the world, and whose affluence rendered them splendidly miserable, ‘I will not sacrifice internal happiness for outward show,” said he; “I will seek Content; and, if I find her in a cottage, will embrace her with as much cor- | diality as I should if seated on a throne.” Mr. Temple possessed a small estate of about five | hundred pounds a year; and with that he resolved to | preserve independence, to marry where the feelings of his heart should direct him, and to confine his ex- penses within the limits of his income. He had a heart open to every generous feeling of humanity, and a hand ready to dispense to those who wanted, part of the blessings he enjoyed himself. As he was universally known to be the friend of the unfortunate, his advice and bounty were frequently | solicited; nor was it seldom that he sought oui in- digent merit, and raised it from obscurity, confining his own expenses within a very narrow compass. “You are a very benevolent fellow,” said a young officer to him one day; “and I havea great mind to ive you a subject to exercise the goodness of your eart upon.” “ You cannot oblige me more,” said Temple, “than to point out any way by which I can be serviceable to my fellow-creatures.”’ ‘Come along, then,” said the young man. “We | will go and visit a man who is not in so good alodging as he deserves; and, were it not that he has an angel with him, who comforts and supports him. he must long since have sunk under his misfortunes.” The young man’s heart was too full to proveed; and Temple, unwilling to irritate his feelings by making further inquiries, followed him in silence, till ‘hey ar- rived at the Flee Flare The officer inquired for Captain Eldridge. A per- son led them up several pair of dirty stairs, and pointing toa door which led to a misertble, small niche epagey said that was the captain’s room, and retired, The officer, whose name was Blakeney, tap’ at the door, and was bid to enter by a voice melodious! soft. He opened the door, and discovered to Temple a scene which riveted him to the spot with astonish- ment. | The apartment, though small, and hearing strong marks of poverty, was neat in the extreme, In an arm-chair, his head reclined on his hand, his eyes fixed on a book which lay open before him, sat an { aged man in a lieutenant’s uniform, which, though threadbare, should sooner call a blush of shame into the face of those who could neglect real merit, than cause the hectic of confusion to glow on the cheeks of him who wore it, , Beside him sat a lovely creature, busied in painting afan mount. She was fair as the lily; but sorrow had nipped the rose in her cheek, before it was half blown. Her eyes were blue; and her hair, which was under a plain mus- light brown, was sligh Se ere : 4 ib black around lin cap, tied ribbon: a white
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linen gown and plain lawn handkerchief composed the remainder of her dress; and in this simple attire she was more irresistibly charming to such a heart as Teimple’s than she would have been if adorned with ali the splendor of-a courtly belle. When they entered, the old man arose from his seat, and shaking Blakeney by the hand with great cordiality, offered Temple his chair; and there bein but three in the room, seated himself on the side o his little bed with evident composure. “This is a strange place,” said he to Temple, “to receive visitors of distinction in; but we must fit our feelings to ourstation. While 1 am not as!iamed to own the cause which brought me hers, why should I. blush at my situation? Our misfortunes are not our | faults; and were it not for that poor giri——” Here the philosopher was lost in the father. He arose hastily from his seat, walked towards the win- | dow, and d off a tear which he was afraid would | tarnish the cheek of a sailor. | Temple cast his eye on Miss Eldridge; a pellucid | drop had stolen from her eye, and fallen upor a rose she was painting. It blotted and discolored the | flower, “Tis emblematic,” said he, mentally: “the rose of youth and health soon fades when watered by | the tear of affliction.” . “My friend Blakeney,” said he, addressing the old man, “told me I could be of service to you: be so} kind, then, dear sir, as to point out some way in which I can relieve the anxiety of your heart and in- crease the pleasure of my own.” **My good young man,” said Eldridge, ‘‘ you know not what you offer. While deprived of my liberty, I | cannot be free from anxiety on my own account; but that is a trifling concern; my anxious tliouglits ex- | tend to one more dear a thotisand times than life. I. am a poor, weak old man, and must expect in a few | years to sink in silence and oblivion; but when I am | gone, who will protect that fair bud of innocence from the blasts of «dversity, or from the crue) hand of insult and dishonor?” ““O! my father!” cried Miss Eldridge, tenderly tak- ing his hand, “be not anxious on that account; for daily are my prayers offered to heaven that our lives may terminate at the same instant, and one grave receive us both; for why should I hive when deprived of my only friend?” Temple was moved even to tears. ‘ You will both | live many years!” said he, ‘‘and, I hope, see much happiness. Cheerly, my friend, cheerly; these pass- | ing clouds of adversity will serve only to make the | sunshine of prosperity more ag But we are losing time; you might, ere this, have told me who | were your creditors, what were their demands, and other particulars necessary to your liberation.” “* My story is short,”’ said Mr. Eldridge; ** but there | are some particulars which will wring my heart bare- ly to remember, yet to one whose offers of frieadship ps cha so open and disinterested, I will relate every | circumstance that led to my present painful situa- tion. But, my child,”’ continued he, addressing his daughter, “let me prevail on you to take this op- | portunity, while my friends are with me, to enjoy the benefit of air and exercise. Go, my love; leave , me now; to-morrow, at the usual hour, I will expect | you, Miss Eldridge impressed on his cheek the kiss of filial affection, and obeyed. | ’ CHAPTER II. UNEXPECTED MISFORTUNES. “My life,” said Mr. Eldridge, “ till within these few | years, was marked by no particular circumstance de- serving notice. I early embraced the life of a sailor, | and have served king with unremitted ardor for , many years. At the of twenty-five, I married an amiable woman; oné sonand the girl who oem ! now left us, were the fruits of our union. My boy | hed genius and spirit. Istraitened my little income | CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 8 to give him a liberal education; but the rapid pro- gress he made in his studies amply compensated for the inconvenience, At the academy where he receiv- ed his education, he commenced an ac intance witha Mr, Lewis, a young man of affluent fortune; as they grew up, their intimacy ripened into friendship, and they became almost inseparable com- panions. ** George chose the profession of a soldier. I had neither friends nor money to procure him a commis- sion, and had wished him to embrace a nautical life; but this was repugnant to his wishes, andI ceased to urge him on the subject. “The friendship existing between Lewis and my son was of such a nature as gave him free access to our family; and so specious was his manner, that we hesitated not to state to him all our little difficulties in regard to George's future views. He listened tous with attention, and offered to advance any sum necessary for his first setting out. “lembraced the offer, and gave him my note for the payment of it; but he would not suffer me to mention any stipulated time, as he said I might do it whenever most conve:\ient to myself. About this time my dear Lucy reti.rned from school, and I soon began to imagine Levis looked at her with eyes of affection. I gave my child caution to beware of lim, and to look on her motheras her friend. She was unaffectedly artless; and when, as I suspected, Lewis made professions of love, she confided in her parents, | and assured us that her heart was perfectly unbiased in his favor, and she would cheerfully submit to our direction. “I took an early opportunity of questioning him concerning his intentions towards my child; he gave an equivocal and suspicious answer—some angry words followed—and I forbade him the house, “The next day he sent anddemanded payment of his money. It was notin my power to comply with the demand, . I requested three days to endeavor to | raise it, determining to mortgage my half-pay, and live on a simall annuity which my wife possessed, rather than be under any obligation to so worthless a man; but this shorttime was not allowed me, for that evening, as I was sitting down tosupper, un- suspicious of danger, an officer entered and tore me from the embraces of my family. “My wife had been torsome time ina declining state of heath; ruin at once so unexpected and in- evitable was a stroke she was not prepared to bear; and [ saw her faint in the arms of our servant, as i left my own habitation for the comfortless walis of a prison, My poor Lucy, distracted with her fears for’ us both, sank on the floor, and endeavored to retain |me by her feeble efforts, but in vain: they forced her to open her arms; she shrieked and fell prostrate —but pete me—the horrors of that night unman ime, I cannot proceed.” He arose from his seat, and walked several times across the room; at length, attaining more compos- ure, he cried: “What amere infant I am! why, sir,I never felt thus in the day of battle.” “No,” said “but the truly brave soldier is tremblingly e feelings of ters men “True,” replied the old man, (something like satis- faction darting across his features), “and painful as these feelings are, 1 would not exchange them for that torpor which the stoic mistakes for philosophy. How many hye delights should I have passed by unnoticed, but for these keen sensations, this uick sense of happiness or misery! Then, Jet us,my riend, take the cup of life as it is presented to us, tempered by the hand of a wise Providence; be thankful for the good, be patient under the evil, and - presume not to inquire why the latter predominates.” “This is true philosophy,” said Temple. “"Tis the only way to reconcile ourselves to the cross events of life, replied he, “ But I forgot my- self. I will not longer fntrude on your patience, but proceed to my melancholy tale. “The verv evening that Iwas taken to prison, mv remple; alive th
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son arrived from Ireland, where he had been some time with his regiment. From the distracted expres- sions of his mother and sister, he learned by whom I had been arrested; and, late asit was, flew on the wings of wounded affection to the house of his false friend, and earnestly inquired the cause of this cruel conduct. With ali the calmness of a cool, deliberate villain, he avowed his passion for Lucy; declared her situation in life would not permit him to marry her; but offered to release me immediately, and make any settlement upon her, if George would persuade her to live, as he impiously termed it, a life of honor, “ Fired at the insult offered to a man and a soldier, my boy struck the villain, and a challenge ensued. ‘He then went to a coffee-house in the neighbor. hood, and wrote a long, affectionate letter to me, blaming himself severely for having introduced Lewis into the family, or permitting him to confer an ob- ligation, which had bromekt inevitable ruin on us all, Tie begged me, whatever might be the event of the ensuing morning, not to suffer regret or unavailing sorrew for his fate to increase the anguish of my heart, which, he greatly feared, was already insup- portable, “This letter was delivered to me early in the morn- ing. It would be vain to attempt to describe my feelings on the perusal of it; suffice it to:ay, that a merciful Providence interposed, and I was for three weeks insensible to miseries almost beyond the strength of human nature to support. “A fever and strong delirium seized me, and my life was despaired of. “At length, nature, overpowered with fatizue, gave way to the salutary power of rest, and_a quiet slumber of some hours restored me to reason, though the exiremé weakness of my frame prevented my feeling my distress so acutely as I otherwise should, * The first object that struck me, on awaking, was Lucy sitting by my bedside; her pale countenance and sable dress prevented my inquiries for poor George; for the letter Ihad received from him was the first thing that occurred toms memory. By de- grees the rest returned; I recollected being arrested, but could in no way account for being in this apart- ment, whither they had conveyed me during tiny ill- ness. ‘*T was 60 weak as to be almost unable to speak; I pressed Lucy’s hand, and looked earnestly around the apartment in search of another dear object. *** Where is your mother?’ said I, faint*. “The poor girl could not answer? she shook her head in expressive silence, and throwing herself on the bed folded herarms about me, and burst into tears, “** What, both gone?’ said I. ** Both,’ she replied, endeavoring to restrain her emotions; ‘ but they are happy, no doubt.’ ” Here Mr. Eldridge paused; the recollection of the scene was too painful to permit him to proceed. CHAPTER IV. CHANGE OF FORTUNE. “Tr was some days,’’ continued Mr. Eldridge, re- covering himself, ** before I could venture to inquire the particulars of what had happened during my ill- ness; at last [assumed courage to ask my dear girl CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. — fought. Her poor mother, weakened by illness and the struggles of the preceding night, was not able to support this shock; gasping for breath, her looks wild and haggard, she reached the apartment where they had carried her dying son. She knelt gor, bed- side, and taking his cold hand: ‘My r boy;’ said she, ‘I will not be parted from thee; husband—son— both at once lost! Father of mercies, spare me!’ She fell into a strong convulsion, and expired within two hours. In the meantime a surgeon had dressed George’s wounds; but they were in such a situation as to bar the smallest hopes of recovery. He never was sensible from the time he was brought home, and | died that evening in the arms of his sister. ,man; “but he has left orders with “ Late as it was when this event took place, fectionate Lucy insisted on coming to me. must he feel,’ said she, ‘at our ap how shall Linform him of the a it has pleased heaven to visit us?" “She left the care of the dear departed ones to some neighbors, who had kindly come in to com- fort and assist her, and on entering the house where I sched ines ti found me in the situation I have men- tioned, “How she supported herself in these trying mo- ments, I know not; Heaven no doubt was with her; and her anxiety to preserve the life of one parent in <—- measure aba.ed her affliction for the loss of the other, “My circumstances were greatly embarrassed, my acquaintances few, and those few utterly unable to assist me. When my wife and son were committed to their kindred earth, my creditors seized my house and furniture, which, not being sufficient to satisf. their demands, detainers were lodged against me. ved friend stepped forward to my relief; from the grave of her mother, my beloved Lucy followed an almost dying father to this melancholy place. “Here we have been nearly a year and a half. My balteey. I have given up to satisfy my creditors, and my child supports me by her industry; sometimes by fine needlework, sometimes by painting. She leaves me every hight, and goestoa odipicias near the bridge; but returns in the morning, to cheer me with her smiles, and bless me by her duteous affection. A lady once offered her an asylum in her family, but she would not leave me. ‘Weare all the world to each other,’ said sha ‘I thank God, I have health and spirits to improve the talents nature has endowed me with; I trust, if I employ them in the support of a be- loved parent I shall not be thought an unprofitable servant, While he lives I pray for strength to pursue my employment; and when it pleases Heaven to take one of us, may it. give the survivor fortitude to bear the separation with due resignation; till then, 1 will never leave him.’” , “But where is this inhuman persecutor?” said Temple. ; “He has been abroad ever sinée,”’ Thine arent neglect, and ictions with which _Teplied the old his lawer never to | give up the note till the utmost farthing is paid.” how long her mother and brother had been dead. ° She told me, that the morning after my arrest, George came home early to inquire after his mother's health, staid with them but a few minutes, seemed to be greatly agitated at parting, but gave them strict charge to keep up their spirits, and hope everything would turn out for the best. In.about two hours, as they were sitting at breakfast, and endeavoring to strike out some plan to attain my liberty, they heard a loud rap at the door, which Lucy running to open, she met the bleeding body of her brother, borne in by two men, who lifted it from a litter, on which they had brought him from the place where he had ‘And how much is the amount of your debts fn all?"’ said Temple, “Five hundred pounds,” he replied. ‘Temple started; it was more than he expected. ‘But something must be done,” said he; “that sweet maid must not wear out her life in prison. I will see you again to-morrow, my friend,” said he, shaking Eldridge’s hand. eep up your spirits; light and shade are not more happily Blended thad are the pleasures and pains of life; and the horrors =} the one serve only to increase the splendor of the owner, . You never lost a wife and son,” said Eldridge. abet replied he, “but I can feel for those that Eldridge pressed his hand, as they went toward the door, and they parted in silence. When they got without the walls of the prison, poe thanked his friend Blakeney for introducing him to so worthy a character; and, telling him that
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e had a (rote men engagement tn the city, wished ag a “And what isto be done for this distressed man?” said Temple, ag Le walked up Ludgate-Hill. ‘ Would to heaven I had a fortune that would enable me in- stantly to discharge his debt; what exquisite trans- port, to see the expressive eyes of Lucy beaming at once with pleasure for her father’s deliverance and titude for his deliverer; but is not my fortune ar- uence,”’ continued he, “nay, superfluous wealth, when compared to the extreme indigence of Eld- ridge? And what have I done to deserve ease and enty, while a brave officer starvesin prison? Three undred a year is surely sufficient for all my wants om at any rate, Eldridge must be reliev- When the heart has will, the hands can soon find means to exccute a good action. Temple was a young man, his feelings warm and impetuous; u uainted with the world, his heart had not been rendered callous by being convinced of its fraud and hypocrisy. He pitied their sufferings, overlooked their faults, thought every bosom as gen- erous as his own, and would cheerfully have divided his last guinea with an unfortunate fellow creature. No wonder, then, that such a man (without wait ing a moment forthe interference of Madam Prudence) should resolve to raise money sufficient for the relief of Late ye by mortgaging part of his fortune, We will not inquire too minutely into the motive which might actuate him in this instance: suffice it to say, he immediately put the plan into execution; and in three days from thetime he first saw the un- fortunate lieutenant, he had the superlative felicity of seeing him at liberty, and rice an ample re- ward in the tearful eye and half-articulated thanks of the grateful Lucy. “ And pray, young man,” said his father to him one morning, * What are your designs in visiting thus con- stantly the old man and his daughter?’ Temple was at a lossfor a reply; he had never ask- ed himself the question; he hesitated, and his father continued: “Tt was not till within these few days that I heara | in what manner your acquaintance first commenced, and I cannot suppose anyvhing but attachment to the hter could carry you such imprudent lengths for the father; it must certainly have been her art that drew you in to mortgage part of your fortune.” “ Art, sir!’ cried is as free from art as she is from every other error; she is——”’ emple, eagerly—“ Lucy Eldridge | | more to appear in his presence, ‘Everything that is amiable and lovely,” said his | father, interrupting him, ironically ‘No doubt, in eur opinion, she is a pattern of excellence for ali her sex to follow. But come, sir, pray tell me, what are your designs toward this paragon? I hope you o aot intend to complete your folly by marrying _her?’ “Were my fortune such as would support her ac- cording to her merit, I don’t know a woman more formed to ensure happiness in the marriage state.’ “Then, prithee, my dear lad,” said his father, “since your rank and fortune are so much beneath what your Princess might expect, be so kind as to turn your eyes to Miss Weatherby; who, having only an estate of three thousand a year, is more upon a levei with you, and whose father yesterday solicited the mighty honor of your alliance. I leave you to CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 5 CHAPTER V. SUCH THINGS ARE Miss WeaTHERBY was the only child of a wealthy man, almost idolized by her parents, flattered by her Bependents, and never contradicted, even by those who called themselves her friends. I cannot give a better description than by the following lines: The lovely maid whose form and face Nature has deck’d with every grace, But in whose breast no virtues glow, Whose heart ne’er felt another's wa, Whose hand ne’er smooth'd the bed of pain, Or eas'd the captive’s galling chain: But like the tulip caught the eye, Born just to be admir'd and die; When gone, no one regrets its loss, Or scarce remembers that it was, Such was Miss Weatherby; her form lovely as na- ture could make it, but her mind uncultivated, her passions impetuous, and her brain almost turned with fiattery, dissipation, and pleasure; and such was the girl whom a partial grandfather left independent mistress of the fortune before mentioned. She had seen Temple frequently; and fancying she could never be happy without him, nor once imagin- ing he could refuse a girlof her beauty and fortune, she prevailed on her fond father to offer the alliance tothe Earl of D—, Mr. Temple's father, The earl had received the offer courteously; he thought it a great match for Henry; and was too fashionable a man to suppose a wife could be any im- pediment to the friendship he professed for Eldridge and his daughter. Unfortunately for Temple, he thought quite other- wise; the conversation he had just had with his father discovered to him the situation of his heart; and he found-that the most affluent fortune would bring no increase of happiness unless Lucy Eldridge shared it with him; and the integrity of his own heart made him’ shudder at the idea his father had started, of marrying a woman for no other reason than because the affluence of her fortune would en- able him to injure her by maintaining in splendor the woman to whom his heart was devoted; he therefore resolved to refuse Miss Weatherby, and, be the event as might, offer his heart and hand to Lucy dridge. 2 Full of this determination, he sought his father, - declared his resolution, and was commanded never Temple bowed; his heart was too full to permit him to speak; he left the house precipitately, and hastened to relate the cause of lis sorrow to his good old friend and his amiable daughter, In the meantime, the earl, vexed to the soul that such a fortune should be lost, determined to offer himself a candidate for Miss Weatherby’s favor. What wonderful changes are wrought by that reigning power, Ambition! The love-sick girl, when first she heard of Temple’s refusal, wept, raved, | tore her hair, and vowed to found a Protestant nun- nsider on this offer; and pray remember that your | union with Miss Weatherby will put it in your power to be more liberally the friend of Lucy Eldridge.” The old gentleman walked in a stately manner out astonishment, conteupt and rage, }of Temple when | countess and his mother-in-law, and begged of the room; and Temple stood almost petrified with | consider well before she made any rash vows. nery with her fortune; and, commencing abbess, to shut herself up from the sight of cruel, ungrateful man, for ever. Her father was a man of the world; he suffered this first transport to subside, and then very deliberately unfolded to her the offers of the old earl, expatiating on the many benefits arising from an elevated title; painted in glowing colors the surprise and vexation ne should see her figuring as a er to The distressed fair one dried her tears, listened patiently, and at length declared she believed the surest method to revenge the slight put on her by the sou, would be to accept the father; so said—so done, aud ina few days she became the Countess D “ Temple heard the news with emotion; he had lost his father’s favor by avowing his passion for Lucy, a oe oe.
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6 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. and he saw now there was no hope of regaining it. “But he shall not make me miserable," said he, “ Lucy and I have no ambitious notions; we can live on three hundred a year for some little time, till the mortgage is paid off, and then we sliall have sufficient not only for the comforts, but many of the little ele- gancies of life, We will purchase a little cottage my Lucy,” said he, “and thither, with your reverend father, we will retire; we will forget that there are such things as splendor, profusion and dissipation— we will kave some cows, and re shall be queen of the dairy; in the morning, while I look after my gar den, you shall take a basket on your arm, and sally forth to feed hetend poultry; and as they flutter around you in humble gratitude, your father shall smoke his pipe in a woodbine alcove, and, viewing the serenity of your countenance, feel such real pleasure dilate his heart as shall e him regret that he has ever been unhappy. Lucy smiled, and Temple saw it was the smile of approbation. He sougiit and found a cottage suited te his taste; thither, attended by Love and Hymen, the happy trio retired, where, during many years of uninterrupted felicity, they cast not a wish beyond the little boundaries of their own tenement. Plenty, and her handmaid, Prudence, presided at their board; hospitality stood at their gate, peace smiled on each face, content reigned in each heart, and love and health strewed roses on their pijlows. Such were the parents of Charlotte Temple, who was the only pledge of their mutual love, and who, at the earnest entreaty of a particular friend, was per- yaitted to finish the education her mother had begun, at Madame Du Pont's school, where we first intro duced her to the acquaintance of the reader, CHAPTER VL AN INTRIGUING TEACHER. Mapame Du Pont was a woman every way calcu- lated to take care of young ladies, had that care en- tirely devolved on herself; but it was impossible to attend to the education of a numerous school without proper assistants; and those assistants were not al- ways the kind ot people whose conversation and morals were exactly such as parents of delicacy and refinement would wish a daughter tocopy. Among the teachers at Madame Du Pont's schoo! was Made- moiselle La Lue, who added to a plpasing person and insinuating address a liberal education and the man- ners of a gentlewoman. She was recommended to the school by a 4 whose humanity overstepped the bounds of discretion; for, though she knew Miss La Rue had eloped from a convent with a young officer, and, on coming to England had lived in open deflance of all moral and religious duties, yet, finding her re- duced to the most abject want, and believing tle nitence, which she professed, to be sincere, she took car into her own family, and from thence recom- mended her to Madame Du Pont, as thinking the situation more suitable for 4 woman of her abilities. But mademoiselle possessed too much the spirit of intrigue to remain long without adventures, At church, where she constantly appeared, her person attracted the attention of a young man who was upon a visit at a gentleman's seat in the neighbor- hood; she had met him several] times clandestinely; and being invited to come out that evening, and eat some fruit and pastry in a summer-house belonging to the gentleman he was visiting, and requested to bring some of the ladies with her, Charlotte, being her favorite, was fixed on to mre rent her. The mind of youth easily catches at promised pleasure. Pure and innocent by nature, it thinks not of the dangers lurking beneath those pleasures till too late to avoid them, ¥ When mademoiselle asked Charlotte to go with her, she mentioned the gentleman as 4 relation, and ke such high terms of the elegance of his gardens, sprightliness of his conversation, and the liberal- ly With which he entertained his guests, that Char- lotte thought only of the pleasures she should e in the visit; not on the imprudence of going without her governess’s knowledge, or of the danger to which she exposed herself in visiting the house of agay young man of fashion. 1 Madame Du Pont had gone out for the evening, and the rest of the ladies had retired to rest, when Char. lotte and the teacher stole out of the back gate, and, in momen | the field, were accosted by Montraville, as mentioned in the first chapter. Charlotte was disappointed at the pleasure she had promised herself from this visit. é levity of the gentlemen, and the freedom of thelr conversation disgusted her. She was astonished at the liberties mademoiselle permitted them totake; grew thought- ful and uneasy, and heartily wished herself at home ain, in her own chamber, “Sperhaps one cause of that wish might be an earnest desire to see the contents of the letter which had beea put into her band af Montraville. Any reader, who has the least knowledge of the world, will easily imagine the letter was made up o? encomiums on her beauty, and vows of everlasting love and constancy; nor will he be surprised that aheart open to every gentle, generous sentiment, should feel itself warmed by gratitude for a mars, who professed to feel so much for her; nor is it im- probable that her mind might revertto the able person and martial appearance of Montraville.” In affairs of love, a young heart is never in more danger than when attacked by a handsome young soldier, A man of indifferent appearance will, when arrayed ina military habit, show to advantage; but when beauty of person, elegance of manner, and an easy method of paying compliments are united to the scarlet coat, smart cockade, and military sash, ah! | well-a-day for the poor girl who gazes upon him; she | Is in imminent danger; ut if she listéns to him with | pleasure, ‘tis all over with her, and from that mo- pen she has neither eyes nor cares for any other object. ow, my dear, sober matron—if a sober matron should deign to turn over these pages before she trusts them to the eye of adarling daughter—let me entreat you not to put on a grave face and throw down the kin a passion, and declare ‘tis enough to turn the heads of half the girls in England. I do solemnly protest, my dearmadame, 1 wean no more by what | have here advanced, than to ridicule those girls who amg imagine a red coat anda silver epaulet constitute the fine gentleman; and should that fine gentleman make half a dozen fine speeches to them, they will imagine themselves s0 much in love as to fancy it a meritorious act ved ep out of a two-pair- stairs window, abandon their friends, and t @L- tirely to the honor of a man who, Verges hardl knows the meaning of the word, and if he does, be too much the modern man of refinement, to prae tice it in their favor. Gracious Heaven! when I think on the miseries that must rend the heart of a doting parent, when he sees the darling of his age at first seduced from his protection, and afterwards abandoned by the very wretch whose promises of love decoyed her from the pee roof —when he sees her poor and wretch jer bosom torn between remorse for her crime love for her foul betrayer—when fancy paints to me the good old man stooping to raise the weeping peni- tent, while every tear from her eye is numbered by drops from his bleeding heart, my bosom glows wit honest indignation, and I wish for power to extirpate these monsters of seduction from the earth. Oh, my dear girls—for to such only Lam writing— listen not to the voice of love, unless sanctioned by ternal approbation; be assured, it is now past the ays of romance; no woman can be run away with contrary toher own inclination; then kneel down each morning, and request kind heaven to keep you free from temptation; or, should it please to suffer you to be trie ray for fortitude to resist the im- — of navural iectination when it runs counter to e precepts of religion and virtue. / ’
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wT egeron atime Ses eo . ” - o CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. a CHAPTER VII. able girl. Haye you no curtosity to sea the inside - now’ For my part, I could no more let a letter ad- NATURAL SENSE OF magi pagccna INTHE FEMALB dregsed to me if unopened so long than I could work “I cannot think we have done exactly right in go- ing out this evening, mademoiselle,’’ said Charlotte, seating herself, when she entered her apartment; “nay, I am sureit was not right; forI expected to be very happy, but was sadly disappointed.” “It was your own fault, then,” replied mademoi- selle; ‘for 1 am sure my cousin omitted nothing that could serve to render the oe agreeable.” “ True," said Charlotte, ** but ee the gentle- men were very free in their manner; 1 wonder you would suffer them to behave as they did.” * Prithee, don’t be such a foolish little prnde,”’ said the artful woman, affecting anger. “I invited you to go, in hopes it would divert you, and be an agree- ee e change of scene; however, if your delicacy was urt by the behavior of the gentlemen, you need not go again; so there let it rest.” “Ido notintend to go again,” said Charlotte, gravely, taking off her bonnet, and beginning to pre- pare for bed. ‘‘lamsure, if ame Du Pont knew we had been out to-night, she would be very angry; and it is ten to one but she hears of it by some means or other.” “ Nay, miss,” said La Rue, “perhaps your might pense of propriety may lead you to tell her yourself, and, in order to avoidthe censure you would incur should she hear of it by accident, throw the blame on me; but I confess I deserve it; it will bea very kind return for that inte 4 which led me to pre- fer you before any of the rest of the ladies, but per- a it will give you pleasure,” continued she, oe fail some hypocritical tears, to see me deprived o bread, and, for an action whichby the most rigid could be esteemed but an inadvertency, lose my place and character, and be driven again into the world, where I have already suffered all the evils at- tendant on poverty.” This was touching Charlotte in the most vulnerable part; she arose from her seat, and taking mademoi- selle’s hand—** You know, my dear la Rue,” said Bhe, “I love you too well todo anything that would injure youin my governess’s opinion;I am only af we went out this evening.” *] don’t believe it, Charlotte,”’ said she, assuming alittle vivacity, “for, if you had not gone out, you would not have seen the gentleman who met us cross- ing the field, and Irather think you were pleased with his conversation."’ “] had seen him once before,’® replied Charlotte, “and thought him an agreeable man, and you know one is always pleased to see a person with whom one has several cheerful hours. But,” said she, pausing, and drawing the letterfrom her pocket, while a gentile suffusion of vermillion tinged her neck and face, “he gave me this letter; what shall 1 do with it?” “ Read it, to be sure,” returned mademoiselle. “Tam afraid I ought not,” said Charlotte. “My mother has often told me I should never read a letter ven me by a young man without first giving it to er, smiling, “‘have you a mind to be in leading strings all a lifetime? Prithee, open the letter, read it, and judge for yourself. you sbow it to your mother, the consequence will be, you will be taken from school, and a strict guard kept over you, so you will stand no chance of ever seeing the smart young officer again.” “TI should not like to leave school yet,”’ replied Charlotte, “till I have attained a greater proficiency in my Italian ard music, But you can, if you please, mademoiselle, take the letter back to Montraville, and tell him I wish him well, but cannot, with any Le com 4 hamme into a clandestine correspondence him.” She laid the letter on the table, and began to un- erse! “Well.” said La Rue, **I vow you are an unaccount- miracles; he writes a good hand," continued she, turning the letter to look at the superscription, “Tis well enough,” said Charlotte, drawing it to- wards her. ** He is a genteel young fellow,” said La Rue, care- lessly, folding up her apron at the same time; “but I think he is marked with the smallpox.” “Oh, you are greatly mistaken,’ said Charlotte, eagerly; “he has a remarkable clear skin and a fine complexion.”’ * His eyes, if I should judg by what I saw," sald | La Rue, * are grey, and want expression.” 4 “Lord bless you, my dear girl!” cried the teacher, “By no means,” replied Charlotte; “they are the most expressive eyes I ever saw.” “ Well, child, whether they are grey or black is of no consequence; you have determined not to read his letter, so it is likely you will never either see or hear from him again.” = a took up the letter, and mademoiselle con- inued: “He is most probably going to America; and if ever you should hear any account of him it om | pos- sibly be that he is killed; and though he lo ou ever so fervently, though his last breath should be spent in a prayer for your happiness, it can be noth- ing to you; you can feel nothing for thedate of the man whose letters you will not open, and whose suf- ferings you will not alleviate, by permitting him to think you would remember him when absent, and pray for his safety.” Charlotte still held the letter in her hand; her heart swelled at the conclusion of mademolselle’s speech, and a tear dropped on the wafer that closed it “The wafer is not dry yet,” said she, “and sure there can be no great harm ——" She hesitated. La Rue was silent. ‘I may read it, mademoiselle, and return it afterwards?” “Certainly.” replied mademoiselle. “Atany rate, lam determined not to answer it,” continued Charlotte, as she opened the letter. Here let me stop to make one remark, and trust me, my very heart aches while I write it; but certain lam, that when once a woman has stifled the sense of shame in her own bosom—when once she has lost sight of the basis on which reputation, honor, every- thing that should be dear to the female heart, rests— she grows hardened in guilt, and will spare no pains to bring down innocence and beauty to the shocking level with herself; and this proceeds from that dia- bolical spirit o. envy, which repines at seeing another in the full possession of that respect and esteem which she can no longer hope to enjoy. Mademoiselle eyed the unsuspecting permis Es she perused the letter, with malignant pleasure. She saw that the contents had awakened new emotions in her youthful bosom. She encouraged her hopes, calmed her fears; and before they parted for the night, it was determined that she should meet Mon- traville on the ensuing evening. CHAPTER VIL DOMESTIC PLEASURES PLANNED, “ I ruin, my dear,” said Mrs. Temple, mate her hand on her husband’s arm, as they were walking to- ther in the garden, “I think next Wednesday is harlotte’s birthday. Now, lLhaveformed a little scheme in my own mind to give her an ble surprise; and if you have no objection, we will send for her home on that day.’’ Temple pressed his wife's hand, in token of approbation, and she proceeded: “You know the little alcove in the bottom the garden, of which Charlotte isso fond? Ihave an in- clination to deck it out in a fanciful manner, and in- vite all her little friends to partake of a collation of fruit, sweetmeats, and other things suitable to the general taste of young guests; and to makeit more - —
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Pty A CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. leasing to Charlotte, she shall be mistress of the east,and entertain her visitors in this alcove. I know she will be delighted; and, to complete all, they shall have some music, and finish witha dance.” “ A very fine plan, indeed,” said Temple, smiling; “and you really suppose I will wink at your indulg- ing the girl in this manner? You will spoil her, Lucy —ind you will.” * She is the only child we have,” said Mrs. Temple, the whole tenderness of a mother adding animation to her fine countenance; but it was withal tempered so vibe 4 with the meek affection and kind compli- ance of the wife, that asshe paused, expecting her husband's answer, he gazed at her tenderly, and found he was unable to refuse her request. * She is a good girl,” said Temple. “ She is, indeed,” replied the fond mother, exult- | ingly, “a grateful, affectionate girl; and I ain sure will never lose sight of the duty she owes her pa-| rents.” “If she does,” said he, “she must forget the ex- ample set her by the best of mothers.” rs, Temple could not reply; but the delightfnl sensation that dilated her heart sparkled in her intel- x pore eye, and hightened the vermillion on her cheek eeks. Of all the pleasures of which the human mind Is sensible, there is none equal to that which warms and expands the bosom, when we are listening to commendation bestowed upon us by a beloved ob- ject, and we are conscious of having deserved them, | Ye giddy flutterers in the fantastic round of dissi- | pation, who eagerly seek pleasure in the lofty dome, | rich treat, and midnight revel—tell me, thoughtless daughters of folly, have you ever found the phantom ave solong sought with unremitting assidu- ty? Has she not always eluded your grasp, and when you have reached your hand to take the cup she extends to the deluded votaries, have you not found the long expected draught strongly tinctured with the bitter dregs of disappointment? I know you have. Iseeitin the wan cheek, sunkeye, and air of chagrin, which ever mark the children of dissipation. Pleasure isa vain illusion; she draws you on to a thousand follies, errors, and I may say vices, and then leaves you to deplore your thoughtless credul- ity. com, my dear friends, at yonder lovely virgin, ar- rayed in a white robe, devoid of ornament; behold the meekness of her countenance, the modesty of her t: her liandmaids are Humility, Filial Piety, Con- al Affection, Industry and Benevolence; her name is Content; she holdsin her hand the cup of true felicity, and when once you have formed an intimate acquaintance with these her attendants—nay, you must admit them as your bosom friends and chief connsellors—then whatever may be your situation in life, the meek-eyed virgin will immediately take up her abode with you. paporerty your portion? she will lighten your la- bors, preside at your frugal board, and watch your quiet slumbers., Is your state mediocrity? she will highten every blessing you enjoy, by informing you how grateful you should be to that bountiful Providence, who pore have placed you in the most abject situation, and by teaching you to weigh your blessings against your deserts, show you how much more you receive n you havea right to expect. Are you possessed of affluence’—what an inex- haustible fund of happiness she will lay before yout To relieve the distressed, redress the injured—in short, to perform all the good works of peace and merey. Content, py ene friends, will blunt even the ar- rows of an adversary, 50 that they cannot materially harm you. She will dwell in the humblest cottage; she will attend you even to a prison; her parent is Religion; her sisters, Patience and Hope. She will pass with you through life, smoothing the rough paths, and treading to earth those thorns which every . ee 5 A — -; one must meet with as they journey onward to the appointed goal. She will soften the pains of sick- ness, continue with you even in the cold, gloomy hour of death, and cheering you with the smiles of her heaven-born sister, ope, will lead you tri- umphantly to a blissful eternity. I confess I have rambled strangely from my story. But what of that? If I have been so lucky as to find the road to happiness, why should I be euch a nig- gard as to omit so good an opportunity of pointing out the way to others? The very basis of true peace of mind is a benevolent wish to see all the world as happy as one’s self; and from my soul do I pity the selfish churl, who, remembering the little bicker: r, envy, and fifty other disacreeables to ) po of an which frail mortality is subject, would wish toavenge the affront which pride whispers him he has received, For my own part, I can safely declare, there is not a@ human being in the universe whose prosperity I | should not rejoice in, and to whose happiness I would not contribute to the utmost lim‘t of my power, And may my offences be no more remembered in the day of general retribution, than as from my soul I forgive every offence or injury received from a fellow-crea- ture, Merciful heaven! who would exchange the rapture of such a reflection for all the gaudy tinsel wh the world calls pleasure! But to return, Content dwelt in Mrs. Temple's bosom, and spread a charming animation over her countenance, as her husband led her in, to lay the plau she had formed (for the celebration of Char otte’s birthday) before Mr. Eldridge. CHAPTER IX, WE KNOW NOT WHAT A DAY MAY BRING FORTH. Various were the sensations which agitated the mind of Charlotte, during the day preceding the evening in which she was to meet Montraville, Several times did she almost resolve to go to her gove erness, show her his letter, and be guided by her ad vice; but Charlotte had taken one step in the ways of imprudence, and when that is once done, there are always iunumerable obstacles to prevent the erring person returning to the path of rectitude; yet these obstacles, however forcible they may appear in gen. eral, exist chiefly in the imagination. Charlotte feared the anger of her governess; she loved her mother, and the very idea of incurring her displeasure gave the greatest uneasiness; but there was & more forcible reason still remaining. Should she show the letter to Madame Du Pont, she must confess the means by which it came into her posses: sion; and what would be the consequence? Made: moiselle would be turned out of doors, “IT must not be ungrateful,” said she, * La Rue ia very kind to me; besides, I can, when I see Montra. Keay Pps him of eae impropriety of our continu ng to see or correspond with each other, and requ him to come no more to Chichester.”’ 21 However prudent Charlotte might be in these reso. ge = she certainly didnot take a pro method to confirm herself in them. Several times in the course of the day, she indulged herself in reading over the letter, and each time she read it, the con. tents sunk Soret in her heart. As evening drew peer, ane caught herself frequently consulting her “I wish this foolish meeting was over,” sald she, by bmg of apology to her own heart. “I wish it wag over; for when ave seen him, and convinced him that my resolutionis not to be shaken, I shall fee] my mind much easier,” he appointed hour arrived. Charlotte and made moiselle eluded the eye of vigilance; and Montraville, who had waited their coming with im tience, re- ceived them with rapturous and unbounded acknowl. edgement for their condescension. He had wisely brought Belcour with him to entertain mademoisello,
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CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 9 while he enjoyed an uninterrupted conversation with Charlotte. Belcour was a man whose character might be com- in afew words; and as he will make some fig- uré in the ensuing pages, I shall here describe him. He ssed a genteel fortune, and had had a lib- | e education; dissipated, thoughtless, and capri- | cious, he paid little regard to the moral duties, and less to religious ones; eager in the pursuit of pleas- ure, he minded not the miseries he inflicted on others, provided his own wishes, however extravagant, were gratified. Self, darling self, was the idal he worshipped, and to that he would have sacrificed the interest and happiness of all mankind. Such was the friend of Montraville. Will not the reader be ready to imagine, that the man who could regard such a character must be actuated by the samé feel- ings, follow the same pursuits, and be equally un- worthy with the person to whom he thus gave his confidence? But Montraville was a different character; gener- ‘ous in his disposition, liberal in his opinions, and good-natured almost to a fauit, yet eager and impet- uous in the pursuit of a favorite object, he stayed not to reflect on the consequences which might follow the attainment of his wishes; with a mind ever open to conviction, had he been so fortunate as to possess a friend who would have pointed out the cruelty of endeavoring to gain the heart of an innocent, artless girl, when he knew it was utterly impossible for him to marry her, and when the gratification of his pas- sion would be unavoidable infamy and misery to her, and a cause of never-ceasing remorse to himself, Had these dreadful consequences been placed before him in a proper light, the humanity of his nature would have urged him to give up the pursuit, But Belcour was not his friend; he rather encouraged the growing passion of Montraville, and being pleased with the vivacity of mademoiselle, resolved to leave no argument untried which he thought might prevail on her to be the companion of their intended voyage and he had no doubt but their example, added to the rhetorie of Montraville, would persuade Charlotte to go with them. Charlotte had, when she went out to meet Montra- ville, flattered herself that her resolution was not to shaken, and that, conscious of the impropriety of her conduct in having a clandestine intercourse with a stranger, she would never repeat the indiscretion. But alas, poor Charlotte! she knew not the deceit- fulness of her own heart, or she would have avoided the trial of her stability. Montraville was tender, eloquent, ardent, and yet respectful. “Shall I not see you once more,” said he, * before Tleave England? Will you not bless me by an as- surance that, when we are divided by a vast expanse of sea, I shall not be forgotten?” Charlotte sighed. “Why that sigh, my dear Charlotte? Could I flat- ter myself that a fear for my safety, or a wish for rang occasioned it, how happy it would make me ; ‘I shall ever wish you well, Montraville,” said she, “hut we must meet no more.” “Oh, say not so, my lovely girl! Reflect that when I leave my native land, perhaps a few short weeks may terminate my existence; the perils of the ocean —the dangers of war——" “Tcan hear no mors,” said Charlotte, in a tremu-,! fous voice. ‘I must leave you.” } Ne ay you will see me once again.” ; “1 dare not,” said she. “Only for one half hour to-morrow evening; ‘tis my last request. I shall never trouble you again, Charlotte.” “IT know not what to say,” cried Charlotte, strug- sling, to draw her hands from him; “let me leave you Ow, winand will you come to-morrow?” gaid Montra- | 6. ' “Perhaps I may,” said she. } i “ Adieu, then. I willlive upon that hope until we meet again.” ie rated ip hand. she sighed an adieu, and caiching hold of made. moiselle's arm, hastily entered the atten gate. CHAPTER X. WHEN WE HAVE EXCITED CURIOSITY, rT IS BUT AN ACT OF GOOD NATURE TO GRATIFY IT. MONTRAVILLE was the youngest son of a gentleman of fortune, whose family being numerous, he was obliged to bring up his sons to genteel professions, by the exercise of which they might hope to raise themselves into notice, ** My daughters,” said he, “have been educated like gentlewomen; and should I die before they are set- tled, they must have some provision made to place them above the snares and temptations which vice ever holds out to the elegant, accomplished female, when rene by the frowns of etn? and the sting of dependence; my boys, with only moderate incomes, when placed in the church, at the bar, or in the field, may exert their talents,make themselves ‘friends, and raise their fortunes on the basis of merit.” When Montraville chose the profession of arms, his father presented him with a commission, and made him a handsome provision for his private purse. ** Now, my boy,” said he, “yo! seek glory on the field of battle. You have received from meall I shall ever have it in my power to bestow; it is certain I have interest to gain your promotion; but be assured that that interest shall never be exerted unless by your future conduct you. deserve it. Remember, cae your success in fife depends entirely upon yoursell, “There is one thing I think it my duty to caution you against: the precipitancy with which young men frequently rush jnto matrimonial engagements, and by their thoughtlessness draw many deserving wo- men into scenes of poverty and distress. A soldier has no business to think of a wife till his rank is such as to place him above the fear of bringing into the world a train of helpless innocents, heirs only to nury and affliction. Lf, indeed, a woman, whose ortune is sufficient to preserve you in that state of independence which I would teach you to prize, should generously bestow herself ona young soldier, whose chief hope of future Pes depended on_ his suc- cesses in the field—if such a woman should offer— every barrier is removed, and I should reioice in a union which would promise so much felicity. But mark me, boy, if, on the contrary, you rneh into a precipitate union with a girl of little or no fortune, take the poor creature from a comfortable home and kind friends, and plunge her into all the evils.that a narrow income and increasing family can inflict, I will leave you to enjoy the blessed fruit of your rasi- ness; for, by all that is sacred, neither my interest nor my fortune shall ever be exerted in your favor. “TI am serious,” continued he; “ therefore imprint this conversation on your memory, and let it influ- | ence your future conduct. Your happiness will al- ways be dear to me; and I wisk to warn you of a rock | on which the peace of many an honest fellow has been wrecked; for, believe me, the difficulties and | dangers of the longest winter campaign are much easier to be bornethan the pangs that would seize your heart, when you beheld the woman of your choice, the children of your affection, involved in penury and distress, and reflected that it was'your own folly and precipitancy that bad been the prime cause of their suffering.” As this conversation passed but a few hours before Montraville took leave of his father, it was deeply impressed on his mind; when, therefore, Beleour came with him to the place of assignation with Char- lotte, he directed him to inquire of the Frenchwoman hoon were Miss Temple’s expectations in regard to ‘ortune, a oe eer a
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Mademoiselle informed him, that though Char- lotte's father possessed a genteel independence, it was by no means probable that he could give his daughter more than a thousand pounds; and in case she did not marry to his liking, it was possible he might not give her a single sous; nor did it appear the least likely that Mr. Temple would agree to her union with a young man on the point of embarking for the seat of war. Montravillé therefore concluded it was impossible heshould ever marry Charlotte Temple; and what end he proposed to himself by continuing the acquaint- ance he had commenced with her, he did notat that moment give himself time to inquire. CHAPTER XL CONFLICT OF LOVE AND DUTY. ALmost a week wags now gone, and Charlotte con- tinued every evening to meet Montraville, and in her heart every meeting was resolved to be the last; but alas! when Montraville, at parting, would earnestly entreat one more interview, that treacherous heart betrayed her, and forgetful of its resolution, pleaded the cause of the enemy so powerfully, that Charlotte was unable to resist. Another and another sanoting succeeded; and so well did Montraville improve each opportunity, that the heedless girl at length confess- ed no idea could be so painful to her, as that of never seeing him again. “Then we will never be parted,” said he. “ Ah, smile, ‘how can it be avoided? My parents would 10 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. a ne RT and concetving it a proper time to throw in their advice ; ! Montraville!” replied Charlotte, forcing a! never consent to our union; and even could they be) brought to approve of it, how should I bear to be sep- arated from my kind, my beloved mother?” “Then you love your parents more than you do me, Charlotte?’ “T hope I do,” said she, blushing and looking down; “*L hope my affection for them will ever keep me from infringing the laws of filial duty.” “Well, Charlotte,”’ said Montraville, gravely, and letting go her hand, “‘since that is the case, I find I have deceived myself with fallacious hopes. I had flattered my fond heart that Iwas dearer to Char- lotte than anything in tne world besides. I thought that you would for my sake have braved the dangers of the ocean—that you would, by your affection and smiles, have softened the hardships of war; and had it been my fate to fall, that your tenderness would cheer the hour of death, and smooth my passage to another world. But farewell, Charlotte! I see you never loved me, I shall now welcome the friendly ball that deprives me of the sense of my misery.” “Oh, pry unkind Montraville,” cried she, catch- ing hold of his arm, as he pretended to leave her— “stay; and to calm your fears, I will here protest, that were it not for the fear of giving pain to the best | of parents, and returning their itude, I would follow you through every danger, and in studying to promote your happiness, insure my indness with ingrat- | own, ButI cannot break my mother’s heart, Mon- | traville; I must not bring the grey hairs of my doting randfather with sorrow to the grave, or make my ew Shy father perhaps curse the liour that gave me rth. She covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears. * All these distressing scenes, my dear Charlotte,” cried Montraville, “ are merely the chimeras of a dis- turbed fancy. Yourparen’s might perhaps grieve at first, but when they heard from your own hand that you was with a man of honor, and that it was to in- | sure"your felicity by a union with him, to which you feared the would never have given their assent, | that you left their protection, they will, be assured, | forgive an error which love alone occasioned, and when we return from America, receive you with open | arms and tears of joy.” / Relcour and Mademoiselle heard this last speech. | your reception, and persuasions. approached Charlotte, and so well seconded the entreaties of Moutraville, that findin; mademoiselle intended going with Belcour, and. feel- ing her own treacherous heart too much inclined to accompany them, the hapless Charlotte consented in an evil hour that the next evening they would bring a chaise to the end of the town,and that she would leave her friends, and throw herself entirely on the protec- tion of Montraville. “But should you,” said she, looking earnestly at him, her eyes full of tears, “should you, forgetful of your promises, and repent- ing the engagements you here voluntarily enter into, forsake and leave me on a foreign shore——” * Judge not so meanly of me,” said he. “‘The mo- ment we reach our place of destination, Hymen shall sanction our love, and when I shall forget your good- ness, may Heaven forget me!” “Ah,” said Charlotte, leaning on mademoiselle’s arm, as they walked up the garden together, ‘I have forgot all that I ought to have remembered, in con- senting to this intended elopement.” “You are a strange girl,” said mademoiselle; “ you never know your own mind two minutes at a time. Just now you declared Montraville’s happiness was what you prized most in the world; and now I sup- pose you repent having insured that happiness by agreeing to accompany him abroad.” “Indeed, I do repent,” replied Charlotte, “ from my soul; but while discretion points out the impropriety of my conduct, inclination unges me on to ruin.” “Ruin! fiddlesticks!” said mademoiselle, ** Am not I going with you? and do I feel any of these qualms?” ‘You do not renounce a tender father and mother,” said Charlotte. ** But I hazard my reputation,” replied madeimois- elle, bridling. “True,” replied Charlotte, “but you do not feel what I do.”’ She then bade her good-night; but slee was a Stranger to her eyes, and the tear of angu watered her pillow. CHAPTER XII. Nature's last, best gift. Creature in whom excell'd whatever could To sight or thought be named Holy, divine! good, amiable and sweet, How art thou fall'n!———————— Wuen Charlotte left her restless bed, her languid eye and pale cheek discovered to Madame Du Pont the little repose she had tasted. “My dearchild,’’ said the affectionate governess, “what is the cause of the languor so apparent in your frame? Are you not well?” “ Yes, dear madame, very well,”’ replied Charlotte. attempting to smile; ‘“‘but [ know not how it. was; I could not sleep last night, and my spirits are.depress- ed this niorning.” “Come, cheer up, my love,” said the governess; “‘I believe I have brought acordial to revive them. 7 have just received a letter from your good Mama, and here is one for yourself.” earowe hastily took the letter; it contained these words: “As to-morrow is the anniversary of the happy day that gave my beloved girl to the anxious wishes of 4 maternal heart, I have requested your governess to let youcome home and spend it with us, and asI know you to be a good, affectionate child, and make it your aay to improve in those branches of education which you know will give most pleasure to your de- lighted parents, asa reward for your diligence and attention, I have pre an agreeable surprise for ‘our grandfather, eager to the darling of his aged heart, will come in the chaise for you; so hold yourself in readiness to ouges him by rine o'clock. Your dear father joins whi tender wish for your health ont Saree heme warms the heart of my dear Chario " mother, L, TEMPLE.
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CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 8 “Gracious heaven!” cried Charlotte, forgetting Tt would be useless to repeat the conversation that where she was, and raising her streaming eyes as in earnest su an. me Du Pont was surprised. “Why these tears, my love?” said she. “Why this seeming agitation? I thought the letter would have rejoiced, instead of distressing you.” “It does rejoice me,” replied Charlotte, endeavor | ing at composure; “but I was eaying for merit to deserve the unremitted attentions o: pa “You are right,” said Madame Du Pont, “to ask the assistance of heaven that you may continue to deserve their love. Continue, my dear Charlotte, in| the course you have ever pursued, and you will insure at once their happiness and your own.” “Oh!” cried Charlotte, as her governess left her, | “T have forfeited both rorever. Yet let me reflect; the irrevocable step is not yet taken; it isnot yet toc late to recede frcm the brink of a precipice from which I can only behold the dark abyss of ruin, shame, and remorse.” She arose from her seat, and flew to the apartment | of La Rue. : “Oh, mademoiselle,” said she, “Iam snatched by & miracle from destruction! This letter has saved | me; it has opened my eyes to the foliy I was so near committing. Iwill not go, mademoiselle; I will not | wound the hearts of those dear parents who make my Agar the whole study of their lives.” Well,” said Mademoiselle, “do as you please, miss, but pray understand that re resolution fs taken, and itis not in your power to alterit. I shall meet the gentleman at the appointed hour, and shel! not be surprised at any outrage which ‘Montraville ma pases when he finds himself disappointed, taheod, Ishould not be astonished were he to come immedi: | ately here and reproach you for your instability in the hearing of the whole school; and what will be the consequence? You will bear the odium of havin formed the resolution of eloping, and every girl o spirit will laugh at your want of fortitude to put it into execution, while prudes and fools will load you | with reproach and contempt. You will have Jost the | confidence of your parents, incurred their anger and the scoffs of the world; and what fruit do you expect to reap from this piece of heroism, forsuch. no doubt u think itis? You will have the pleasure to reflect at you have deceived the man who adores you, and whom, in your heart, you prefer to all other men, and that you are separated from him forever.” This eloquent harangue was given with such volv- | bility that Charlotte did not find an opportunity to interrupt her or to offer a single word until the whole was finished, and then found her ideas so confused that she knew not what to say. At length she determined that she would go with mademoiselle to the place of assignation, convince Montraville of the necessity of adhering to the reso- fp of remaining behind, assure him of her affec- tich, and bid him adieu. Charlotte formed this plan in her mind, and exult- ed at the certainty of its success. - “ How shall I rejoice,” sail she, ‘in this triumph of reason over inclination; and when in the arms of my affectionate parents, I liftup my soul in gratitude to heaven as I look back on the dungers I have escaped!” The houroft pe green ON gery mademotselle pes what money and valuablés she possessed in her pocket, and advised Charlotte to do the same; but she refused. ‘‘ My resolution is fixed,” said she; *I) will sacrifice love to duty.” Mademoiselle smiled internally; and they pro- ceeded softly down the back stairs and out of the | garden gate. Montraville and Belcour were ready to | receive them, “Now,” said Montraville, taking Charlotte in his arms, ‘you are mine for ever.” “No,” said she, withdrawing from his embrace; “Tam come to take an everlasting farewell,” ' | every argument that had | Charlotte’s resolution began to waver, and he drew the best of, here ensued; suffice it to say, that Montraville used ormerly been successful, her almost imperceptibly towards the chaise. “IT cannot go,” said she; * cease, dear Montraville, } ore I must not—relizion, duty, forbid.” ruel Charlotte,” said he, “if you disappoint Pay a ardent ho by all that is sacred, this hands ae a period my existence. I cannot—will not— ve without you.” *‘Alas! iny torn heart,"’ said Charlotte, “‘ how shall I act?” “Let me direct you,” said Montraville, lifting her into the chaise. ’ “Oh, my dear, forsaken parents!”’. cried Char otte. The chaise drove off. She shrieked, and fainted tn the arms of ber betrayer. CHAPTER XIII. CRUEL DISAPPOINTMENT. ““Wnart pleasure,” cried Mr. Eldridge, as he step ped into the chaise to go for his granddaughter, ‘what pleasure expands the heart of an old mau when he beholds the progeny of a beloved child grow- ing up in every virtue that adorned the minds of her parents. I foolishly thought. some few years since, that every sense of joy was buried in the grave of my dear partner and my son; but my Lucy, by her filial affection, soothed my soul to peace, and this dear Charlotte has entwined herself around my heart, and opened such new scenes of delight to my view that I almost forget that I have ever been un- happy.” When the chaise stopped, he alighted with the alacrity of youth; so much dothe emotions of the soul influence the body. It was half-past eight o'clock; the ladies were as- sembled in the schoolroom, and Madame Du Pont was preparing to offer the morning sacrifice of pray- er and praise, when it was discovered that mademoi- selle and Charlotte were missing. “She is busy, no doubt,” said the governess, “in preparing Charlotte for her litile excursion; but pleasure should never make us et our duty to our Creator, Go, oneof you, and bid them at | tend prayers.” The lady who went to summon them soon return- ed, and informed the governess that the room was locked, and that she had knocked repeatedly, but re- ceived no answer, “Good heavens!” cried Madame Du Pont, “this is very strange,” and turning pale with terror, she went hastily to the door, and ordered it to be forced open. The apartment instantly disclosed the fact that no ; person had been in it the ae night, the beds 1 appearing as though just made, 6 house was ip- stantly a scene of confusion; the garden, the pleasure grounds, were searched to no purpose; every apart- ment rung with the names of Miss Temple and made- moiselle; but they were too distant to hear; and every face wore the marks of disappointment. Mr. Eldridge was sitting in the parlor, eagerly ex- pecting his granddaughter to descend, ready equip- ped for her journey; he heard the confusion that reigned in the house—he heard the name of Charlotte frequently repeated. “What can be the matter?” said he, rising, and | opening the door; “I fear some accident has be my dear girl.” The governess entered. The visible agitation of her countenance discovered that something extraor dinary had ha: ned. “Where is Charlotte?” said he. “Why does not my child come to welcome her doting parent?” ‘Be composed, my dear sir,” said Madame Tu Pent; ‘do not frighten yourself unnecessarily, Sho ae sarees” illite ne vos eee
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; } 12 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. is not in the house at present; but as mademoiselle is undoubtedly with her, she will speedily return in safaty, and I hope they will both be able to account for this unseasonable absence in such &@ manner as shall remove our present uneasiness," ‘*Madame,”’ cried the old man, with ar angry look, “has my child been accustumed to go out without leave, with no other company or protector than that Frenchwoman? Pardon me, madame, I mean no re- flection on your country, but I never did like Made- moiselle La Rue; I think she was a very improper —— to be intrusted with the care of such a girl as Yharlotte Temple, or to be suffered to take her from ” under your immediate protection. “You wrong mé, Mr. Eldridge,” said she, “if you suppose I have ever panes your granddaughter to go out, unless with the other ladies. I would to Heaven I could form any probable conjecture con- cerning her absence this morning; but itis a mystery to me, which her return can alone unravel.” Servants were now dispatched to every place where there was the least hope of hearing any tidings of the fugitives, but in yain. Dreadful were the hours of horrid suspense which Mr. Eldridge passed till twelve o'clock, when the suspense was reduced to a shocking certainty, and every spark of hope, which till then they had indulged, was in a moment ex- tinguished. Mr. Eldridge was preparing, with a heavy heart, to return to his anxiously-expecting children, when Ma- dame Du Pont received the following note, without either name or date: ‘‘Miss Temple is well, and wishes to relieve the anxiety of her parents, by letting them know she has voluntarily put herself under the protection of a man whose future study shall be to make her happy. Pursuit is needjless; the measures taken to avoid dis- covery are too effectual to be eluded. When she thinks her friends are reconciled to this precipitate step, they may, perhaps, be informed of her place of residence. Mademoiselle is with her.” As Madame Du Pont read these cruel lines, she turned as pule as ashes, her limbs trembled, and she was forced to call for a glass of water. She loved Charlotte truly; and when she reflected on the inno- cence and gentleness of her disposition, she concluded that it must have been the advice and machinations of La Rue which led her to this imprudent action; she recollected her agitation at the receipt of her mother’s Jetter, and saw in it the conflict of her mind, “Does the letter relate to Charlotte?” said Mr, Eldridge, having waited some fime in expectation of Madame Du Pont’s speaking. “Tt does,” said she. ‘Charlotte is well, but cannot return to-day.” “Not return, madame! Where isshe? Who will detain her from her fond, expecting parents?’ **You distract me with these questions, Mr. Eld- ridge. Indeed, I do not know where she is, or who has seduced her from her duty.” The whole truth now rushed at once upon Mr. Eldridge’s mind. “She has eloped, then,” said he; ‘“‘my child is be- trayed; the darling, the comfort of my aged heart, is lost! Oh, would to heaven I had died but yester- day.” A violent gush of grief in some measure relieved him, and after several vain attempts, he at length as- sumed sufficient composure to read tife note. * And low shall I return to my children?” said he. “How approach that mansion so late the habitation of peace? Alas! my dear Lucy, how will you support these heart-rending tidings? or how shall 1 be enabled to console you, who. need 80 much consolation my- selt?” The old man returned to the chaise; but the light ' step and cheerful countenance were no more; sorrow filled his heart and guided his motions. He seated lioself in the chaise, his venerable head reclined up- on his bosom, his hands were folded, his = fixed on vacancy, and the large drops of sorrow rolled’silenuly down his cheeks. There was a mixture of anguish and resignation depicted in his countenance, as if he should say: “Henceforth, who shall dare to boast his happiness, or even in idea contemplate his treasure, lest. in the very moment his heart is exulting in its own felicity, the object which constitutes that felicity should be torn from him?’ CHAPTER XIV. MATERNAL SORROW. Siow and heavy passed the time while the carriage was conveying Mr. Eldridge home; and yet, when + came in sight of of the house, he wished a long re- pars from the dreadful task of informing Mr. and Mrs. Temple of their daughter's elopement. Ivis easy to judge the anxiety of these affectionate parents, when they found the return of their father delayed so much beyond the expected time. They were now met inthe dining-parlor, and sever- al of the young people who had been invited were al- ready arrived. Each different part of the company was employed in the same manner, looking out at the windows which faced the road, At length the long-expected chaise appeared. Mrs. Temple ran out to receive and welcome her darling—her young companions flocked around the door, each one eager to give her joy on the return of her birthday. The door of the chaise was opened. Charlotte was not there. ** Where is my child?” cried Mrs. Temple, in breath- less agitation. Mr. Eldridge could not answer; he took hold of his daughter’s hand and led her into the house; and sink- ing on the first chair he came to, he burst into tears, and sobbed aloud: ‘She is dead!” cried Mrs. Temple. ‘*Oh, my dear Charlotte!” and, clasping her hands in an agony of distress, fell into strong hysterics. Mr. Temple, who had stood speechless with surprise and fear, now ventured to inquire if indeed his Char- lotte was no more, Mr. Eldridge led him into another apartment, and jutting the fatal note into his hand, cried; “Bear it ike a Christian; and turned from him, endeavoring to suppress his own too visible emotion. It would be vain to attempt describing what Mr.Tem- le felt while he hastily ran over the dreadful lines, hen he had finished, the paper dropped from his unnerved hand, 4 “ Gracious Heaven!” said he, ‘could Charlott® act, 1us | _ Neither tear nor sigh escaped km ir. and he sat the image of mute sorrow, till arou from his stupor by the repeated shrieks of Mrs. Temple, He arose hastily, and rushing iato the apartment, where she was, folded his arms about her, and Bay- ing: “Let us be patient, my dear Lucy,” nature relieved hisalmost bursting heart by a friendly gush of tears, Should any one, presuming on his own philosophic temper, look with an eye of contempt on &man who could indulge a woman's weakness, let him remember that that man wasa father, and he will then pity the misery which wrung those drops from @ noble and eet Temple: beginning to be a little more com rs. Temple, beginning ; ed, but still imagining her child was dead, her a band, gently taking her ied: “You are m n, my love, Charlotte is not dead, ”
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: : CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. : “Then she fs very fll; else why did she not come? But I will go to her; the chaise is still at the door; let ne go instantly to the dear girl. If I wasill, she would ily to attend me, to alleviate my sufferings, and cheer me with her love.” “*Be calm, my dearest Lucy, and I will tell you all,” said Mr, Temple. “You, must not go; indeed, you must not; it will be of no use.” , “Temple,” said she, assuming a look of firmness and composure, “tell me the truth, I beseech you! 1 cannot bear this dreadful suspense. What mis fortune has befalien my child? Let me know the wor and I will endeavor to bear it asl ought.” * Lucy,’’ said Mr. Temple, “imagine your daughter alive, andin no danger of death—what misfortune would you then dread?’ “There is one misfortune which is worse than death, | But I knew my child too well t6 suspect “Be not too confident, Lucy.” ““Oh, heavens!” said she, * what horrid images do you start? Is it possible that she should forget?’ ‘She has forgot us all, my love; she has preferred the love of astranger,to the affectionate protection of her friends.” ** Not eloped!”’ cried she, eagerly. Mr. Temple was silent. ** You cannot contradict,’’ said she, ‘‘1 see my fate in those tearful eyes. Oh, Charlotte—Charlotte! how ill you have requited our tenderness. But, Father of Mercies,”’ continued she, sinking on her knees, and raising her streaming eyes and clasped hands to heaven, “this once vouchsafe to hear a fond, dis- tracted mother’s prayer. Oh, let thy bounteous Providence watch over the dear, thoughtless girl, save her from the miseries which I fear will be her portion; and oh! of thine infinite mercy, make her not a mother, lest she should one day fee] what I now suffer!” The last words faltered on her tongue, and she fell fainting intothe arms of her husband, who had in- voluntarily dropped on his knees beside her. A mother’s anguish, when disappointed in her ten- derest hopes, none but a mother can conceive. Yet, my dear young readers, I would have you read this seene with attention, and reflect that you may your- selves one day be mothers, Oh, my friends,as you value your eternal happi- ness, wound not, by thoughtless ingratitude, the peace of the mother who bore you. Remember the tendern the care, the unremitting anxiety witn which she has attended to all your wants and wishes from earliest infancy to the mild ray of affectionate applause that beams from hereye onthe from a heart anxious for your future felicity; you must love her; nature, all-powerful nature has placed the seeds of filial affection in your bosoms. Then, once more read over the sorrows of poor Mrs. Temple; remember, the mother whom you so dearly | venerate will feel the same, should you, for- | love an getful of the respect due to your Maker and your- rac forsake the paths of virtue, for those of vice and olly, CHAPTER XY. EMBARKATION, Ir was with the utmost difficulty that the united ef- | forts of mademoiselle and Montraville could ait Charlotte’s spirits during their short ride from Chi- bhester to Portsmouth, where a boat waited to take them immediately on board the ship in which they resent day. Behold the | rformance of your duty; listen to her reproofs with silent attention; they proceed | 18 | and concluded with saying. her onl ae of future comfort consisted in the (perhaps delusive) idea she indulged, of being onee more folded in their protect- ing arms, and hearing the words of peace and pardon from tielr lips. The tears streamed incessantly while she was writ- ing, and she was frequently obliged to lay down her pen; but when the task was completed, and she had committed the letter to the care of Montraville, to be sent to the post-office, she became more calm, and indulging the delightful hope of soon receiving an answer that would seal her pardon, she in some measure assumed her usual cheerfulness. But Montraville knew too well the consequences that must unavoidably ensue, should this ietter reach Mr. Temple; he, therefore, craftily resolved to walk on the deck, tear it to pieces, and commit the frag- ments tothe care of Neptune, who might or might not, as it suited his convenience, convey thein on shore. All Charlotte’s hopes and wishes were now center- ed in one, namely—that the fleet might be detained at Spithead till she might receive a letter from her friends; but in this she was disappointed, for the second morning after she went on board, the signal was made, the fleet weighed anchor, and, in a few hours, the wind being favorable, they bid adieu to the white cliffs of Albion, In the meantime, every inquiry that could be thought of was made by Mr. and Mrs, hag for many days did they indulge the fond hope that she was aes, J gone off to be married, and that when the indissoluble knot was once tied, she would return with the partner she had chosen, and entreat their blessing and forgiveness. Ripe shall we not forgive her?” said Mr, 4em- pie “Forgive her!"’ exclaimed the mother. ‘ Oh! yes; whatever be ber errors, is she not our childY And though bowed even to the earth with shame and re- morse, is it not our duty to raise the poor penitent, | and whisper peace and comfort to her desponding soul? Would she but return, with rapture would I fold her tomy heart, and bury every remembrance of her faults in the dear embrace.” . But still day after day passed on, and Charlotte did not appear, nor were any tidings to be heard of her; yet each rising morning was welcomed by some new 10pe. The evening brought with it disappointment. At length hope was no more, despair usurped her place, and the mansion that was once the mansion of peace, became the habitation of pale, dejected meian- choly. The cheerfui smile that was wont to adorn the face of Mrs. Temple was fied, and had it not been for the support of unaffected piety, and a consciousness of having ever set before her child the fairest example, | she must have sunk under this heavy affliction. “Since,” said she, ‘the severest scrutiny cannot charge me with any breach of duty, to have deserved this severe chastisement, I will bow before the power who inflicts it with humble resignation to His will; nor shall the duty of a wife be totally absorbed in the | feelings of the mother; I will endeavorto seem more cheerful, and, by appearing in some measure to have conquered my own sorrow, alleviate the sufferings of my husband, and arouse, him from the torpor into which this misforturie has plunged. him. My father, too, demands my care and attention. I must not, by a selfish indulgence of my own grief, forget the inter- est those two dear objects take in my happiness or misery. Iwill wear a simile on my face, though the thorn rankles in my heart, and if by so doing, I con- tribute in the smallest degree to ‘estore their peace | were about to embark for Ameriea. As soon as she became tolerably composed, she en- treated pen and ink to write to her parents. his she did in the most affecting, artless manner, entreating their pardon and blessing, and describing the dread- ful situation of her mind, the contlict she suffered in endeavoring to conquer this unfortunate attachment, | of mind, I shall be amply rewarded for the pain thy concealment of my own feelings may occasion,” Thus argued this excellent woman; and in the exe- cution af so laudable a resolution we shall leave her, to follow the fortunes of the hapless victim of im- prudence and evil counsellors, we —~<a eee € ‘i a te eae teens Mee
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14 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE, CHAPTER XVL NECESSARY DIGRESSION. Own board of the ship on which Charlotte and mad- emoiselle were embarked, was an officer of large un- encumbered fortune aud elevated rank, and whom I shall call Crayton. He was one of those men who, having traveled in their youth, pretend to have contracted a peculiar fondness for everything foreign, and to hold in con- tempt the productious of their own country; and this affec' partiality extended even to the wo- men. With him, therefore, the blushing modesty and un- | affected simplicity of Charlotte passed unnoticed; but the forward pertness of La Rue, the freedom o her conversation, the elegance of her person, mixed with a certain engaging je ne sats quoi, perfectly en- chanted him, The reader, no doubt character of La Rue; designing, artful and selfish, she accepted the devoirs of Belcour because she was heartily weary of the retired life she led at the school, wished to be released from what she deemed a slavery, and to return to that vortex of folly and dissipation which had once plunged her into the deepest misery; but her plan, she flattered herself was now better formed; she resolved to put hersel under the protection of no man, till she had first se- cured a settlement; but the clandestine manner in which she left Madame Du Pont’s prevented her put- tng this plan into execution, thougn Belcour sol emnly protested he would make her a handsome set- tlement the moment they arrived at Portsmouth. This he afterward contrived to evade by a pretended hurry of busiuess, La Rue, readily conceiving he never meant to fulfill his promise, determined to change her battery, and attack the heart of Colonel | Crayton. She soon discovered tlie partiality he en- tertained for her nation, and, having imposed on him a feigned tale of distress, represented Belcour asa villain who had seduced her from her friends under the promise of marriage, and afterward be- trayed her; pretending great remorse for the errors she had committed, and declaring that, whatever her affection might have been, it was now entirely ex- tinguished, and she wished for nothing more than an opportunity to leave a course of life which her soul abhorred; but she had no friends to apply to; they had all renoanced her, and guilt and misery would andoubtedly be her future portion through life. Crayton was possessed of many amiable qualities, | though the peculiar trait in his character, which we have already mentioned, in agreat measure threw a shade over them. He was beloved for his humanity has already developed the | and benevolence by all who knew him, but he was | easy and unsuspicious himself, and became a dupe to the artifice of others, He was, when very young, united to an amiable Parisian lady, and perhaps it was his affection for her that laid the foundation for the partiality he ever retained for the whole nation. He had by her one daughter, who entered into the world but a few hours before her mother left it. This lady was uni- versally beloved and admired, being endowed with all the virtues of her mother, without the weakness of herfather, She was married to Major Beauchamp, and was at this time inthe fleet with her father, at- tending her husband to New York. Crayton was melted by the affected contrition and distress of La Rue; he would converse with her for hours, read to her, play cards with her, listen to all her complaints, and promise to protect her to the utmnost of his power. La Rue easily saw his charac- ter{her sole ain was to awaken a passion in his bosom that might turn out to her advantage, and in this aim she was but too successful; for, before the | voyage was finished, the infatuated colonel gave her, | from under his hand, a promise of marriage on their | arrival at New York, under forfeiture of five thou- Sand pounds, And how did our poor Charlotte pass her time dur- ing a tedious and tempestuous passage? Naturally delicate, the fatigue and sickness she endured ren- dered her so weak as to be almost entirely confined to her bed; yet the kindness and attention of Mon- traville, in some measure, céutributed to alleviate her sufferings, and the hope of hearing from her friends soon after their arrival kept up her spirits, and cheered many a gloomy night. But during the voyage a great revolution took lace, not only in the fortune of La Rue, but in the som of Belcour. While in pursuit of his amour with mademoiselle, he had attended little to the in- teresting, unobtrusive charms of Charlotte; but when, cloyed by ession,and disgusted with the art and dissimulation of the one, he beheld the sim- plicity and gentleness of the other, the contrast be- came too striking not to fill him at once with sur- rise and admiration, He frequently conversed with tharlotte; he found her sensible, well informed, but diffident and unassuming. The languor which the fatigue of her b and rturbation of her mind spread over her delicate features, served only, in his att to render her more lovely; he knew that Montraville did not design to marry her, and he formed a resolution to endeavor to gain her himself, whenever Montraville should leave her, Let not the reader imagine Belcour’s designs were honorable, Alas! when once a woman has forgot the respect due to herself, by yielding to the solicitations of illicit love, she loses all her consequence, even in the eyes of the man whose art has betrayed her, and 3 whose sake she has sacrificed every valuable con- sideration, “The heedless Fair, who stoops to guilty joys, A man may pity—but he must domieee Nay, every libertine will think he bas a right to in- sult her with his Heentious passions; and should the unhappy creature shrink fromthe insolent overture, he wilt sneeringly taunt her with pretense of modesty. CHAPTER XVIL 4 WEDDING, On the day before their arrival at New York, after dinner, Crayton arose from his seat, and placing him- self by mademoisele, thus addressed the company: “As we have now nearly arrived at our destined pas, I think it but my duty to inform you, my riends, that thislady ” (taking her hand) * has placed herself under my protection. have seen and se- verely felt the anguish of her heart, and through every shade which cruelty or malice may throw over her, can discover the most amiable qualities. [ thought it but necessary to mention my esteem for her before our disembarkation, as it is my fixed re- solution, the morning after we land, to give her an undoubted title to my favor and protection by hon- orably uniting my fate to hers. I would wish every entleman here, therefore, to remember that her 1onor henceforth is mine; and,” continued he, look- ing at Belcour, “ should any man presume to speak in the least disrespectfully of her, 1 shall not hesitate to pronounce him a scoundrel.” Belcour cast at him a smile of contempt, and bowed rofoundly low; he wished mademoiselle much joy ss the proposed union; and assured the colonel that he need not be in the least apprehensive of any one throwing the least odium on the character of his lady shook him by the hand with ridiculous gravity, and left the cabin. The truth was, he was glad to get rid of La and so he was but freed from her, he cared not who fell a victim to her infamous arts,
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CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. The inexperienced Charlotte was astonished at | what she heard. She thought La Rue had, like her- self, only been urged by the force of her attachment to Belcour, to quit her friends, and follow him to the seat of war, ow wonderful, then, that she should resolve to marry another man! It was certainly ex- tremely wrong. It was indelicate. She mentioned her thoughts co Montraville. He laughed at her pony! ant called her a little idiot, and patting her on the cheek, said she knew nothing of the worl, “If the world sanctions such things, "tis a very bad world, I think,” said Charlotte. “Why, I always understood that they were to have been married when bec arrived at New York. Iam sure Mademoiselle told me Belcour promised to marry her.” “Well, and suppose he did?” “Why, he should be obliged to keep his word, I think.” “ : ‘Well, but I suppose he has changed his mind,” -_ Montraville, “and then, you know, the case is Charlotte looked at him attentively for a moment, A full sense of her own situation rushed upon her mind. She burst into tears, and remained silent. Montraville too well understood the cause of her tears. He kissed her cheek, and bidding her not to make herself uneasy, unable to bear the silent but keen remonstrance, tily left her. The next morning, by sunrise, they found them- selves at anchor before the pee of New York. A boat was ordered to convey the ladies on shore. Crayton accom ed them, and they were shown to a house of public entertainment. Scarcely were they seated, when the duor opened aad the colonel found himself in the arms of his daughter, who had landed a few minutes before him. he first transport of meeting subsided, Crayton introduced his daughter to Mademoiselle La Rue, as an old friend of her moth- er’s (for the artful Frenchwoman had really niade it appear to the credulous colonel that she was in the same convent with his first wife, and though much younger, had received many tokens of her esteem and regard). “If, mademoiselle,” said Mrs. Beauchamp, “ you were the friend of my mother, you must be worthy the esteem of all good hearts.” **Mademoiselle will soon honor our family,” said Crayton, “* by supplying the place that valuable wo- man filled; and as you are married, my dear, I think you will not blame——"’. “ Hush, my dear sir,”’ replied Mrs. Beauchamp. “I know my duty too well to scrutinize toed conduct, Be assured, my dear father, your happ ness is mine, I shall rejoice in it. But tell me,’’ continued she, turning to Charlotte, “ who is this lovely girl? Isshe your sister, mademoiselle?” A blush, deep as the glow of the carnation, suffused the cheek of Charlotte. “It is a yourg lady,” replied the colonel, ‘‘ who came in the same vessel with us from England.” He then drew his daughter aside, and told her, in awit, that Charlotte was the mistress of Mon- | raville, “What a pity!” said Mrs. Beauchamp, softly, cast- | ings most compassionate glance at her, ‘“ But sure- | ly her mind is not depraved. The goodness of her heart is depicted in her ingenuous countenance.” Charlotte caught the word pity. “ And am I already fallen so low?” said she. A sigh | escay her, and a tear was ready to start; but Mon- | traville red, and she checked the rising emotion, Mademoiselle went with the colonel and his daughter | to another apartment. Charlotte remained with | Montraville and Beleour, The next morning the colonel performed his promise, and La Rue became | in due form Mrs. Crayton, exulted in her good for- tune, and dared to loo with an eye of contempt on the unfortunate but far less guilty Charlotte, | consolation, on the face of every 1b CHAPTER XVUOL REFLEOTIONB. “Anp am I indeed fallen so low,” said Charlotte, “as to be only pitied? Will the voice of approbation no more meet my ear? And shall I never = a pos- sess a friend, whose face will wear as of joy whenever I approach? Alas! how onenees, how dreadfully imprudent have I been! know not which is the most painful to endure, the sneer of con- tempt, or the glance of compassion which is depicted on the various countenances of my own sex; they are both equally humiliating. Ah! my dear parents. | could you now see the child of your affections, the daughter whom you so dearly loved, a poor, solitary being, without society, here wearing out her hea hours in deep regret and anguish of heart—no ki friend of her own sex to whom she can unbosom er griefs, no beloved mother, no woman of character to appear in her company; and, low as your Charlotte is fallen, she cannot associate with infamy.” These were the painful reflections which occupied the mind of Charlotte. Montraville had placed her in a small house a few miles from New York. He gave her one feinale attendant, and supplied her with what money she wanted; but business and pleasure so entirely occupied his time, that he had but little to devote to the woman whom he had brought from all her connections, and robbed of innocence. Some- times, indeed, he would steal out at the close of the evening, and pass a few hours with her. And then, so much was she attached to him, thatall her sorrows were forgotten while blessed with his society. She would enjoy a walk by moonlight, or sit by him in a little arbor at the bottom of the garden, and play on the harp, accompanying it with her plaintive, har monious voice. But often, very often, did he promise to renew his visits, and, forgetful of his promise, leave her to mourn her disappointment. pain- ful hours of expectation would she pass! She would sit at a window which looked toward a field he used to cross, counting the minutes and eondeccagy | her eyes to catch the first glinypse of his person, till, blinded with tears of disappointment, sho would jean her head on her hands, and give free vent to her sorrow; then catching at some new hope, she would again re- new her watchful position till the shades of evening enveloped every object in a dusky cloud; she would then renew her complaints, and, with a heart burst- ing with cheappomtes love and wounded sensibility, retire to a bed which remorse had strewed with thorns, and court in vain that comforter of w nature (who seldom visits the unhappy) to come and steep her senses in oblivion. Who can form an adequate idea of the sorrow that peeves upon the mind of Charlotte? The wife,whose reast glows with affection for her husband and who in return meets only indifference, can but faintly con- ceive her anguish. Dreadfully painful is the situa- tion of such a woman; but she has many comforts of which our poor Charlotte was depriv The dute- ous, faithful wife, though treated with indifference, has one solid pleasure within her own bosom; she ean reflect that she has not deserved neglect—that she has ever fulfilled the duties of her station with the strictest exactness; she may hope, that by con- stant assiduity and unremitted attention, to recall her wanderer, and be doubly happy in his returning affection; she knows he cannot leave her to unite | himself to another; he cannot cast her out to pov- erty and contempt. She looks around and sees the smile of friendly welcome, or the tear of affectionate person whom she favors with her esteem, and from all these circum- stances she gathers comfort; but the poor girl Md thoughtless passion led astray, who, in parting wi honor, has forfeited the esteem of the very man to whom she has sacrificed everything dear and yalu- able in life, feels his indifference to be the fruit of her own folly, and laments the want of power to recall his lost affections; she knows that there is no tie bug
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} 16 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. honor, and that, in a man who has been guilty of se- duction, is but very feeble; he may leave her in a moment to shame and want; he may marry and for- sake her for ever, and should he do so, she has no re- dress, no friendly, soothing companion to pour into her mind the balm of consolation, no benevolent hand to lead her back to the path of rectitude; she has disgraced her friends, forfeited the good opinion of the world, and undone herself. She feels herself like a poor solitary being in the midst of surrounding multitudes; shame bows her to the earth, remorse tears her distracted mind, and guilt, poverty and dis- ease close the dreadful scene; she sinks unnoticed to oblivion. The finger of contempt may point out, to some — daughter of youthful mirth, the humble bed where lies this frail sister of mortality. And will she, in the unbounded gayety of heart, exult in her unblemished fame, and triumph over the silent ashes of the dead? Oh, no! she has a heart of sensibility; Pag will stop and thus address the unhappy victim of folly: “Thou hast thy faults; but surely thy sufferings have expiated them; thy errors brought thee to an early grave; but thou wert a fellow-creature—thou hast been unhappy--then be those errors forgotten,” Then, as she stoops to pluck the noxious weed from off the sod, a tear will fall and consecrate the spot to Charity. For ever honored be the sacred drop of humanity; the angel of mercy shall record its source, and the soul from whence it sprung shall be itnmortal, My dear madame, contract not your brow Into a frown of disapprobation. I mean not to extenuate the faults of those unhappy women who fall victims of guilt and folly; but surely, when we reflect how many errors we ourselves are subject to, how many secret faults lie hid in the recesses of our hearts, which we would blush to have brought into open day, and yet those faults require the lenity and pity of a benevolent judge, or awful would be our prospect of futurity. Isay, my dear madame, when we consider this, we surely may pity the faults of others. Believe me, many an unfortunate female, who has once strayed into the thorny paths of vice, would gladly return to virtue, were any generous friend to endeavor to raise and reassure her; but alas! it can- not be, you say; the worki would deride and scoff. Then let me tell you, madame, it is a very unfeeling world, and does not deserve half the blessings which bountiful Providence showers upon it. Oh, thou benevolent Giver of all good! how shall we erring mortals dare to look up to thy merey in the great day of retribution, if we now uncharitably refuse to overlook the errors, or alleviate the miseries of our fellow-eréatures., CHAPTER XIX. A MISTAKE DISCOVERED. JULIA FRANKLIN was the only child of a man of large property, who left her independent mistress of an unencumbered income of seven bundred a year, at the age of eighteen; she was a girl of lively dispo- sition, and humane, susceptible heart. She resided in New York with an uncle who loved her too well, and had too high an opinion of her prudence, to scru- tinize her actions so much as would have been necessary with many young ladies who were not blest with her discretion. She was, at the time Mon- traville arrived at New York, the life of society, and the universal toast. 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 house, which in a few hours reduced that and several others to ashes; for- tunately no lives were lost, and by the assiduity of the soldiers much valuable property was saved from the flames. Inthe midst of the confusion, an old gentleman came up to Montrayille, and putting a ~ sma box into his hands, cried; “Keep it| my good sir, till I come to you again;” and then rushed a into the thickest of the crowd; Montraville saw no more, He waited tillthe fire was quite extinguished, and the mob dispersed, but in vain; the old gentleman did not appear to claim his property; and Montraville, fearing to make an inquiry, lest he should meet with impostors who might lay claim withoutany legal right to the box, carried it to his lodgings, and locked itup; he naturally imagined that the person who committed it to his caré knew him, and would in a a day or two reclaim it; but several weeks passed on, and no inquiry being made, he began to be uneasy. aud resolved to examine the contents of the box, an if they were, as he supposed, valuable, to spare no »ains to discover the owner, and restore them to him. Jpon opening it, he found it contained jewels to a a amount, about two hundred pounds in money, and & miniature picture set for a bracelet. On ex- amining the picture, he thought he had somewhere seen features very like it, but could not recollect where. A few Says after bese ata public assembly, he saw Miss Franklin, and the likeness was too evi- dent to be mistaken; he inquired among his brother officers if any of them knew her, and found one who was upon terms of intimacy with the family. ‘Then introduce me to herimmediately,” said he, ‘for lam certain I can inform her of something which will give her peculiar pleasure.”’ He was immediately introduced, found she was the owner of the jewels, and was invited to breakfast the next morning, in order to restore them. The whole evening Montraville was honored with-Julia’s hand; the lively sallies of her wit, the elegance of her manner, Ane charmed him; he forgot Char- lotte, and indulged himself in saying everything that was polite and tender to Julia. But on retiring, re- sollection returned. ‘‘ What am I about?’ said he. “Though I cannot marry Charlotte, I cannot be vil- lain enough to forsake her, nor must I dare to trifle with the heart of Julia Franklin. Iwill return this box,”’ said he, ‘* which has been the source of so much uneasiness already, andin the evening ya visit to my poor, melancholy Charlotte, and endeavor to forget this fascinating Julia. He arose, dressed himself, and taking the picture out, ‘‘f{ willreserve this from the rest,” said he, “and 4 presentiugit to her when she thinks it is lost, enhance the value of the obligation.’’ He re- aired to Mr, Franklin’s and found Julia in the break- ast parlor alone. ‘“How happy am I, madame,” said he, “that be- ing the fortunate instrument of saving these jewels, has been the means of procuring me the acquaintance ~ ae = alady. There are the jewels and money a)l safe,”’ * But where is the picture, sir?’ said Julia, . Here, madame. I would not willingly part with ‘It is the portrait of my mother,” said she, takin it from him; *’tis al] that remains.’’ She pressed it to her lips, and a tear trembled inher eye. Mon. traville resi his eyes on her grey night-gown and <a ribbon, and his own feelings prevented a re- ply. Julia Franklin was the very reverse of Charlotte Temple; she was tall, elegantly shaped, and possess- ed much of the alr and manner of a woman of fash- ion; her complexion was a.clear brown, enlivened with the glow of health; hereyes full, black, and sparkling, darted their intelligent glances through long silken lashes; her hair was shining brown, and her features He nae and striking: there was an air of innocent gaiety that played about her counten- ance where good humor sat triumphant, “T have been mistaken,” said Montraville, ‘ Iim- ined I loved Charlotte; but, alas! I am too late con- vinced my attachment to her was merely the impulse of the moment. I fear [have not only entailed last- |
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ing misery on that poor girl. but also thrown a bar- rier in the way of my own happiness which it will be impossible tosurmount, I feel I love Julia Franklin with ardor and sincerity; yet, when in her presence, Lam sensible of my own inability to offer a heart worthy her acceptance, and remain silent,”’ Full of these painful thoughts, Montraville walked outto see Charlotte. She saw him ty Semen” and ran out to meet him. She banished from her coun- tenance theair of discontent, which ever appeared when he was absent, and met him with a smile of Joy. bia thought you had forgotten me, Montraviile,”’ said she, “‘and was very unhappy.” ; ‘IT shall never forget you, Charlotte,’ he replied, pressing her hand. The uncommon gravity of his countenance, and the brevity of his reply alarmed her. : “* You are not well," said she; “your hand is hot; your eyes are heavy; you are ill.’ / “Tam a villain,” said he, mentally, as he turned | from her to hide his emotion. / ** But come,” continued she, tenderly, “you shall | 0 to bed, and I will sit by and watch you; you shall Be ‘better when you have slept.” / Montraville was glad to retire, and by pretending | to sleep, concealthe agitation of his mind from her netrating eye. Charlotte watched him until a late our, and then, lying softly down by his side, sunk into a profound sleep, from which she awoke not | till late the next morning. CHAPTER XX. * Virtue never appears so amiable as when reaching ry a hand to raise a fallen sister.”"—CHAPTER OF CCIDENTS. Wuen Charlotte awoke, she missed Montraville, but thinking he might have risen early to enjoy the , beauties of the morning, she was preparing t» follow him, when casting her ore on the table, she saw a note, and opening it hastily, she found these words: “My dear Charlotte must not be surprised if she does not see meagain for some time; unavoidable business will prevent me that pleasure. Be assured I am quite well this motuing, and what your fond imagination magnified into illness, was nothing more | than fatigue, which in a few hours’ rest has entirely | removed. Make yourself happy, and be certain of the unalterable friendship of “MONTRAVILLE.”’ “ Friendship!” said Charlotte, emphatically, as she finished the note. “Isitcome to this at last? Alas! poor forsaken Charlotte! oe doom is but too apparent. Montraville is no longer interested in thy happiness, and shame, remorse, and disappointed love will henceforth be thy only attendants.’ Though these were the ideas that involuntarily rushed upon the mind of Charlotte, as she perused the fatal note, yet, after a few hours elapsed, the siren hope a took possession of her bosom, and she flattered herself she could on the second perusal. discover an air of tenderness in the few lines he had left, and which had at first escaped her notice. ‘He certainly cannot beso base as to leave me,” said she; ‘and instyling himself as my friend, does he not promise to protect mef I will not torment myself with these causeless fears; I will place con- fidence in his honor, and sure he will not be so unjust as to abuse it.” Just as she had,by this manner of reasoning, brought her mind to some tolerable degree of com- sure, she was surprised by a visit from Beleour, he dejection visible in Charlotte's countenance, her swollen eyes and neglected attire, at once told him she was unhappy. He made no doubt Montraville had, by his cold- / CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. | not the hurry an 17 ness, alarmed her suspicions, and was resolved. if oSssible, to arouse her jealousy, urge her to reproach iim, and by that means occasion a breach between them. ‘If Ilcan once convince her that she has a rival,” said he, ‘she will listen to my passion, if it is only to revenge his slights.”’ Beloour knew but little of the female heart; and what he did know was only of those of loose and dis- solute lives, He had no idea that a woman might falla victim to imprudence, and yet retain so strong a sense of honor as to reject, with horror and contempt, every solicitation to a second fault. He never imagined that a gentle, generous female heart, once attached, when treated with unkindness might break, but would never harbor a thought ot revenge, 2 His visit was not long; but before he went, he fixed a scorpion in the heart of Charlotte, whose venom embittered every future hour of her life. We will turn now, for a moment, to Colonel Cray- ton, He had been three months married, and in that little time had discovered that the conduct of his lady was not so prudent asit ought to have been; but remonstrance was vain; her temper was violent, and to the Colonel’s great misfortune he had con- ceived a sincere affection for her; she saw her own power, and with the art of Circe, made every action appear to him in what light she pleased: his ac- quaintange laughed at his blindness, his friends pitied his infatuation, his amiable daughter, Mrs. au- champ, in secret deplored the loss of her father’s affection, and grieved that he should be so entirely swayed by an artful and, sbe much feared, infamous woulan. Mrs. Beauchamp was mild and engaging; she loved bustle of a city, and had prevailed on her husband to take a house a few miles from New York. Chance led her into the same neighborhood with Charlotte. Their houses stood within a short space of each other, and their gardens joined. She had not been long in her new habitation before the figure of Charlotte struck her; she recollected her interesting features; she saw the melancholy so couspicuous in her countenance, and her heart bled at reflecting that perhaps deprived of honor, friends, and all that was valuable in chis life, she was duomed to linger out a wretched existence in a strange land, and sink broken-hearted into an untimely grave. “Would to heaven.I could snatch her from so hard a fate,’ said she; ‘“‘but the merciless world has barred the doors of compassion against a poor weak girl, wno, perhaps, had she one kind friend to raise and reassure her, would gladly return to peace and virtue. Nay, even the woman who dares to pity, and endeavors to recall a wandering sister, incurs the sneer of contempt and ridicule, for an action in which even angels are said to rejoice.” The longer Mrs. Beauchamp was a witness to the solitary life Charlotte led, the more she wished to speak to her; and often as she saw her cheeks wet with tears of anguish, she would say—* Dear suffer- er, how gladly would I pour into your heart the | balm of consolation, were it not for the fear of de- rision.”’ But an accident soon happened, which made her resolve to brave even the scoffs of the world, rather than not to enjoy the heavenly satisfaction of com- forting a desponding fellow-creature. Mrs. Beauchamp was an early riser. She was one morning walking in the garden, leaning on her hus- band's arm, when the sound of a harp attracted their noticé; they listened attentively, and heard a soft, melodious voice, distinctly singing the following stanzas:
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“18 “Thou glorious orb, supremely bright, Just rising from the sea, ee all nature with thy light, t are thy beams to me? In vain thy glories bid me rise, To hail the new-born day; Alas! my morning sacrifice, Is still to weep and pray. For what are nature’s charms combin’d To one whose weary breast. ‘ Can neither peace, ror comfort find, Nor friend whereon to rest? Oh! never, never! whilst I live Can my heart's anguish cease: Come, friendly deat, thy mandate give, And let me be at peace.”’ “*Tis poor Charlotte!"’ said Mrs. Beauchamp, the pellucid drop of humanity stealing down her cheek. Major Beauchamp was alarmed at her emotion, “What Charlotte?” said he. ‘“ Do you know her?” In the accent of a pitying angel did she disclose to her husband Charlotte’s unhappy situation, and the frequent wish she had formed of being serviceable toher. “I fear,’ continued she, **the poor girl has been basely betrayed; and if I thought you would not blaine me, I would pay her a visit, offer her my friendship, and endeavor to restore to her heart that vweace she seems to have lost, and so pathetically aments. Wlio knows, my dear,” laying her hand affectionately on his arm, ** who knows, ut she has left some kind, affectionate parents to lament her errors, and would she return, they might with rap- ture receive the poor nitent, and wash away her faults in tears of Joy? Oh! what a glorious reflection wouldit be for me, could Ibe the happy instrument of restoring her. Her heart may not be depraved, Beauchamp,” “Exalted woman,” cried Beauchamp, embracing her,” how dost thou rise every moment in my esteem! Follow the impulse of thy generous heart, my Emily. Let prudes and fools censure if they dare, aud blame a sensibility they never felt. I will exultingly tell them that the truly virtuous heart is never inclined to pity and forgive the errors of its fellow crea- tures.” A beam of exulting joy played around the animat- ed countenance of Mrs. Beauchamp, at these enco- miums bestowed on her by a beloved husband; the most delightful sensations pervaded her heart; and, having Breakfasted, she prepared to visit Charlotte, CHAPTER XXTI. ‘ Teach me to feel another’s woe; To hide the fault 1 see; That mercy I to others show That mercy show to me,— A BENEVOLENT VISIT. WuHen Mrs. Beauchamp was dressed, she began to fee] embarrassed at the thought of beginning an acquaintance with Charlotte, and was distressed how to make the first visit. “I cannot go without some introduction,” said she, “It will look like impertin- ent curiosity.” At length, recollecting herself, she stepped into the garcen, and, gathering a few fine cucumbers, took them in her hand by way of apology for her visit, A glow of conscious shame vermillioned Charlotte's face, as Mrs. Beauchamp entered, ~ You will pardon me, madame,” said she,“ for not having before pald my respects to so amiable a neighbor; but we English people always keep up, whither we go, that reserve which is the character- istic of our nation, I have taken the liberty to bring CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. ee you a few cucumbers; for I had observed you had houe in your garden.’ Charlotte, though naturally polite and well b was 80 confused she could ha —— Her kin visitor endeavored to relieve her by not noticing her embarrassment. *“*lam come, madame,” continued she, ‘to request you to spend the day withme. I shall be alone, and as we are both strangers in this country, we may hereafter be extremely happy in each other's friendship.” “Your friendship, madame,” said Charlotte, blush- ing, **is an honor to all who are favored with it. Little as I have seen of this part of the world, I am no stranger to Mrs. Beauchaimp’s ness of heart and known humanity; but my friendship~"’ She | paused. glanced her eye upon her own visible situa- tion, and, in spite of her own endeavors to suppress them, burst into tears, Mrs. eee bo 9 guessed the source from whence these tears flowed. ‘‘ You seem unhappy, madame,” said she; “shall I be thought worthy your conii- dence? Will you intrust me with the cause of your sorrow, and rest on my assurance to exert my utmost power toserve you!’ Charlotte returned a look of gratitude, but could not speak, and Mrs. Beaucham ecoutinued: ‘* My heart wasinterested in your beh the first moment I saw you, and I only lamert I had not made earlier overtures towards an acquaintance; but I flatter myself you will henceforth consider me as your friend. “Oh, madame!” said Charlotte, “Ihave forfeited the good opinion of all my friends; I have forsaken them, and undone niyself.” “Come—come, my dear,” said Mrs, Beauchamp, “you must not indulge iu these gloomy thoughts; you are not, I hope, so unhappy as you imagine yourself; endeavor to be compesed, and let me be avored with your company at dinner, when, if you can en ourself to think me your friend, and re- pose confidence in me, I aim ready to convince you that it shall not be abused.” She then arose and bade her good morning. At dining hour, Charlotte repaired to Mrs. Beau- champ’s, and, during dinner, assumed as composed an aspect as possible, but when the cloth was remov- ed, she summoned all her resolution, and determined to make Mrs. Beauchamp acquainted with every cir- cumstance preceding her elopement, and the earnest desire she had to quita way of lifeso repugnant to her feelings. With the benignant aspect of an angel of mercy, did Mrs. Beauchamp listen to the artless tale; she was shocked to the soul to find how large a share La Rue had in the seduction of this amiable girl, and a tear fell when she reflected that so vile a woman was now the wife of her father. Wien Charlotte had finished, she gave her a little time to collect her scattered spins, and then asked her if shé had written to her riends? “Oh, yes, madame,” said she, ‘frequently; but I have broken their hearts; they are all either dead, or have cast me off forever, for | have never received a single line from them.” “I rather suspect,” said Mrs. Beauchamp, “they have never had your Jetters; but suppose you were to hear from them, and they were willing to receive you, would you leave this cruel Montraville, anc re- turn to them?” “Would I?” said Charlotte, clasping her hands; * would not the poor sailor, tossed on a tem uous ocean, threatened every moment with death, gladly return to the shore he had left to trust to its deceit- ful calmness? Oh, my dear madame, I would return, though to do it I were obliged to walk bare-footed, and beg a scanty pittance of each traveler to support ny existence. 1 would endure it all cheerfully, could I but once more see my dear, blessed mother, hear her pronounce my pardon, and bless me before I died; but alas! I shall never see her more; she hag | | | rr eee ——— .
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i 4 ; a. 4 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 19 blotted the ungrateful Charlotte from her remem- sorrows in my own bosom, and bore my injuries ih ce, and I shall sink to the grave loaded with her’s and my father’s curse.” Mrs. Beauchamp endeavored to soothe her. * You shall write to them again,” said she, “ and I will see that the letter is sent by the first packet that sails for England; in the meantime, keep be your spirits, and hope for everything by epee: | it.” She then turned the conversation, and arlotte, paving taken a cup of tea, wished her benevolent a good evening. GHAPTER XXIL SORROWS OF THE HEART, Wuen Chariotte returned home, she endeavored to collect her thoughts, and took upa pen, in order to address those dear parents, whom, spite of her errors, she still loved with the utmost tenderness; but vain was every effort to write with the least coherence. Her tears fell so fast, they almost blinded her; and as she proceeded to describe her unhappy situation, she ame so agitated that she was obliged to give over the attempt, and retire to bed, where, overcome with the fatigue her mind had undergone, she fell into a slumber which greatly refreshed her. She arose in the mornin with spirits more adequate to the painful task she had to perform; and, after several attempts, at length concluded the following letcer to her mother: . TO MRS. TEMPLE. New Yore, “Wall my once kind, my ever-beloved mother deign to receive a letter from her guilty, but repentant child; or has she, justly incensed at’ my ingratitude, ah a unhappy Charlotté from her remem- * Alas! shouldst thou even disown me, I dare not complain, because I have deserved it; but yet, be- lieve me, guilty as I am, and cruelly as I have disap- poiuted the hopes of the fondest parents that ever ps had, even in the moment when, forgetful of my uty, I fled from F bso and napeeee S120 then I loved you most, and my heart bled at the thought of what you would suffer. Oh! never—never! while I have existence, will the agony of that moment be erased from my memory. ft seemed like the separa- tion of soul and body. “What can I plead in excuse for my conduct? Alas! nothing. That I loved my seducer is but too true! Yet powerful as that passion is, when operat- ing in a young heart glowing with sensibility, it never would have conquered my affection to you, my be- loved parents, had I not been encouraged, nay, urged to take the fatal step by one of my own sex, who, under the mask of friendship, drew me on to ruin, “ Yet, think not that your Charlotte was so lost as to voluntarily rush into a life of infamy. No, my dear mother, deceived by the specious appearance of my betrayer, and every suspicion lulled asleep by the most solemn promise of marriage, I thought not those promises would so easily be forgotten. I never once reflected that the man who could stoop to se- duction, would not hesitate to forsake the wretched object of his passion, whenever his capricious heart grew weary of her tenderness. “When we arrived at this place, I vain! oe a silence. “But how shall I proceed? This man, this cruel Mon- traville, for whom I sacrificed honor, happiness, and the love of my friends, no longer louks on me with affection, but scorns the credulous girl whom his art has made miserable. “Could you see mé, my dear parents, without so- ciety, without friends, stung with remorse, and (1 feel the burning blush of shame dye my cheeks while I write it) tortured with the pangs of disappointed love, cut to the soul by the indifference of hii, who, having deprived me of every other comfort, no long- er thinks it worth his while to soothe the heart where he has planted the thorn of never-ceasing regret. ‘“*My daily employment is to think of you and | weep, to pray for your happiness..and deplore m own folly; my nights are scarce more happy; for, if by chance, 1 close my weary eyes, and hope some sinall forgetfulness of sorrow, some little time to pass in sweet oblivion, fancy, still waking, wafts me home to you: I see your beloved forms; I kneel and hear the b!essed words of peace and pardon. Ecstatic joy pervades my soul, reach my arms to catch the dear embraces; the motion chases the illusive dream; I wake to real misery. * At other times I see my father, angry and frown- ing, point to horrid caves, where, on the cold, damp ground, in the agonies of death, 1 see my dear mo- ther and my revered grandfather. “T strive to raise you; you push me from you, and shrieking, cry: ‘Charlotte, thou bast murdered me!’ Horror and despair tear every tortured nerve; I start and leave my restless bed, weary and unrefreshed. “Shocking as these reflections are, I have yet one more dreadful than the rest. Mother, my dear mo- ther! do not let me quite break your heart when I tell you, in a few montlis, I shall bring into che world an innocent witness of my guilt. Oh! my bleeding heart. I shall bring a poor little helpless creature heir toinfamy and shame, “This alone, has urged me once more to addrese you, to interest you In behalf of this unborn, and ou to extend your protection to the child of your ost Charlotte. For my own part I have wrote so often, so frequently have pleaded for forgiveness, and entreated to be wecntred once more beneath the paternal roof, that, having received no ansWer, nor even one line, Imuch fear you have cast me from you for ever. “But, sure you cannot refuse to protect my inno- cent infant; it partakes not of its mother’s guilt. Oh!” my father, oh! my beloved mother, now do I feel the anguish inflicted on your hearts recoiling with double force on my own. “Tf my child should be a girl (which heaven forbid tell her the unhappy fate of her mother, and teac her to avoid my errors; if a boy, teach him to lament my miseries, but tell him not who infficted them, a in wishing to revenge his mother’s injuries, he shoul wound the peace of his father. * And now, dear friends of my soul, kind guardians of my infancy, farewell. I feel I never more must hope to see you. The anguish of my heart strikes at the strings of life, and in a short time I shall be at rest. Oh! could I but receive your blessing and for- veness before I die, it would smooth my passage to he peaceful grave, and be a blessed foretaste of @ happy eternity. I beseech you, curse me not, pa adored parents; but let a tear of pity and pardon fa him to fulfil his engagements, but was at last fatally ,to the memory of your lost a 1, convinced he never intended to make me his wife, CHARLOTTE, a had once thought of it his mind was now alter- ae “TI scorned to claim from his humanity what I could not obtain from his love: I was conscious of having forfeited the only gem that could render me respectable in the eyes of the world. I locked my_
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+1] OHAPTER XXL 4 MAN MAY SMILE, AND SMILE, AND BE A VILLATN. Ware Charlotte was enjoying some small degree ef comfort in the consoli riendship of Mrs. Beau- Pp, Montraville was advancing rapidly in his af- fection towards Miss Franklin. Julia was an amiable girl; she saw only the fair side of his character; she d an independent fortune, and resolved to be ppy with the man of her heart, though his rank and fortune were by no means so exalted asshe had a right to expect; she saw the passion which Montraville | st: led to conceal; she wondered at his timidity, | but ned the distance fortune had placed be- tween them occasioned his backwardness. She, therefore, made every advance which strict prudence and a becoming modesty could permit. Montraville | saw with pleasure he was not indifferent to her; but a spark of honor which animated his bosom would not suffer him to take advantage of partiality. He was well acquainted with Charlotte's situation, and he thought there would be a double cruelty in for- galing her at such a time; and to marry Miss Frank- lin, while honor, humanity, every sacred law, obliged him still to protect and support Charlotte, was a base- ness at which his soul shuddered. He communicated his uneasiness to Belcour; it was the very thing his pretended friend had wished. “*And do you really,” said he, laughing, “ hesitate at marrying the lovely Julia, and becoming master of her fortune, because a little foolish, fond girl, chose to leave her friends and run away with you to Amer- ica? Dear Montraville, act more like aman of sense, This whining, pining Charlotte, who occasions you so much uneasiness, would have eloped with somebody else, if she had not with you.” *“* Would to heaven,” said Montraville, ‘I had never seen her. My regard for her was but the momentary assion of desire; but I feel I shall love and revere ulia Franklin as long as I live; yet to leave poor Charlotte in her present situation would be cruel be- yond descripition,” “Oh, my good, sentimental friend,” said Belcour, **do you imagine that nobody has a right to provide for the brat but yourself?" Montraville started. “Sure,” said he, ‘you cannot mear. to insinuate that Charlotte is false?” “I don’tinsinuate it,’ said Belcour; ‘1 know it.” Montraville turned pale as ashes. “Then there is no faith in woman,” said he. “While I thought you were attached to her,"’ said Belcour, with an air of indifference, *‘I never wished to make you uneasy by mentioning her perfidy; but, as I know you love and are beloved by Miss Franklin, I was determined not to let these foolish scruples of honor step between you and arrinces, or your ten- derness for the peace of a perfidious girl prevent your uniting yourself to a woman of honor.” “Good heavens!" said Montraville, “ what poignant refiections does a man endure who sees a lovely woman plunged in infamy, and is conscious he was her first seducer, But are you certain of what you aay, Belcour?” **So far,” said he, ‘that I myself have received advances from her, which I would not take advantage of out of regard for you. But, hang it, think no more about her. I dined at Franklin's to-day, and Julia bid me seek and bring you to tea; so come along, my lad, make good use of the opportunity, and receive the gifts of fortune whilethey are within your reach.” Montraville was too much agitated to pass happy evening even in the company of Julia Franklin. He perme 3 to visit Charlotte early next morning, tax er with falsehood, and take an everlasting leave o her, But when the morning came, he was command- ed on icmp torre for six weeks was prevented from putting his esign into execution, CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. | At length he found an hour to spare, and walked , Out to spend it with Charlotte, | It was near four o’clock in the afternoon when he arrived at her cottage. She was notin the parlor, and without calling her servant, he walked up stairs, thinking to find her in her bedroom. He opened the door, and the first ob- = that_met his eyes was Charlotte asleep on the ed, and Belcour by her side. “Death and distraction,” said he, stamping, ‘ this Is too much. Rise, villain, and defend yourself.” Balcour sprang from the bed. The noise awoke Charlotte. Terrified at the furious appearance of Montraville, and seeing Belcour with him in the chamber, she caught hold of his arm, as be stood by the bedside, and eagerly asked what was the matter, “Treacherous, infamous girl,” said he, “can you ask? How came he here?” pointing to Belcour. “As heaven is my witness,” replied she, weeping, “Ido not know. I have not seen him for these three weeks,” “Then you confess he sometimes visits you." “He came sometimes by your desire.”’ “Tis false. I never desired him to come, and you know I did not. But mark me, Charlotte, from this instant our connection is at an end, Let Belcour or any of your favored lovers take you and provide for you: I have done with vou forever.” He was then going to leave her; but starting wildly from the bed, she threw herself on her knees before him, protested her innocence, and entreated him not to leave her. “Oh, Montraville,”’ said she, “ kill me, for pity's sake, kill me, but do not doubt my fidelity. Do not leave me in this horrid situation. For the sake of your unborn child, oh, spurn not the wretched mother from you,” Charlotte,” said he, with a firm voice, ‘I shall take care that neither you nor your child want for anything in the approaching painful hour; but we ’ meet no more,’ . He then endeavored to raise her from the ground, but in vain. She clung about his knees, entreating him to believe her innocent, and conjuring Belcour to clear up the dreadful mystery. Belcour cast upon Montraville a amile of contempt. It irritated him almost to madness, Pia broke from the feeble arms of the distressed girl. She shrieked and fell prostrate on the floor. Montraville instantly left the house, and returned hastily to the city. CHAPTER XXIV. MYSTERY DEVELOPED. UnFortTuNATELY for Charlotte, about three weeks before this unhappy rencontre, “4 Beauchamp, being ordered to Rhode Island, his lady had accom- panied him, so that Charlotte was deprived of her riendly advice and consoling society. The afternoon on which Montraville had visited her she had found herself languid and fatigued, and after making avery slight dinner, had laid down to endeavor to recruit her exhausted spirits, and, con- trary to her expectations, had fallen asleep. She had not been long lain down when Belcour arrived; for he took every opportunity of visiting her, and striving to awaken her resentment against Montraville. He inquired of the servant where her mistress was, and being told she was asleep, took up a book to amuse himself. Having sat a few minutes, he by chance cast his we towards the road, and saw Montraville approach- g.
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i | KM <i CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 21 He instantly conceived the diabolical scheme of ! lotte till I saw Julia. TI thought I never could for ruining the unhappy Charlotte in his opinion for- aver. He therefore stole softly up stairs, and laying him- self by her side with the greatest precaution, for fear she should awake, was in that situation discov- ered by his credulous friend. When Montraville spurned the weeping Charlotte from him, and left her almost distracted with terror and despair, Belcour raised her from the floor, and leading her down stairs, assumed the part of a tend- er, consoling friend. She listened to the arguments he advanced, with apparent composure; but this was only thecalm of a moment. The remembrance of Montraville’s recent cruelty again rushed upon her mind; she pushed him from her with some violence, and crying: “Leave me, sir, I beseech you; leave me, for much I fear you have been the cause of my fidelity being suspected; go, leave me to the accumulated miseries my own imprudence has brought upon me.” She then left him with precipitation, and retiring to her own apartment, threw herself on the bed, and gave vent to an agony of grief which it is impossible to describe, oo ~ ee It now occurred to Belcour that she might possibly write to Montraville, and endeavor to convince him of her innocence. He was well aware of her pathetic remonstrances, and sensible of the tenderness of Montraville’s heart, resolved tu prevent any letters ever reaching him. He therefore called the servant and by the powerful persuasion of a bribe, prevaile with her to promise whatever letters her mistress might write, should be sent to him. He then left a lite, tender note for Charlotte, and returned to ew York. His first business was to seek Montra- ville, and endeavor to convince him that what had hg ae would ultimately tend to his happiness. He found him in his apartment, solitary, pensive and wrapped in disagreeable reflections, “Why, how now, whining, pining lover?” said he, clapping him on the shoulder. Montravil'e started; a momentary flush of resent- ment crossed his cheek, but instantly gave way to a ceath-like paleness, occasioned by painful remem- brance—remembrance awakened by that monitor, whom, though we may in vain endeavor, we can nev- er entirely silence. ‘“ Belcour,” said he, “you have injured mein a ten- der point.” “Prithee, Jack,” replied Belcour, ‘do not make a serious matter of it; how could I refuse the girl's ad- vances? and thank heaven she isnot your wife.” “True,” said Montraville; “* put she was innocent when I first knewher. It was 1seduced her, Belcour. Had it not been for me, she had still been virtuous sey never in the affection and protection of her fam- ily. ‘‘ Pshaw,” replied Belcour, laughing, “if you had not taken advantage of her easy nature, some other would, and where is the difference, pray?” “I wish I had never seen her,” cried he, passionate- ty, and starting from his seat. “Oh, that cursed ine pinta’ with vehemence, ‘had it or her, I might have 7—’ iy pane 4 ave been happy “With Julia Franklin,” said Belcour. The name, like a sudden spark of electric fire, Oe eeeatn a merece ~Sytape his faculties—for a momenthe was transfixed; but, recovering, Belcour’s hand, and cried: — “ Stop—stop! I beseech you name not the lovel Julia and the wretched Montraville in the ‘ine breath. Iam a seducer—a mean, ungenerous seduo- er of unsuspecting innocence, I dare not hope that purity like her’s would stoop to unite itself with He en premeditated guilt. Yet, by Heavens! I swear, cour, I thought I loved'the lost, abandoned Char: , sake her; but the heart is deceitful, and I now can b | plainly discriminate between the impulse of a youth- ful passion, and the pure flame of disinterested af- fection.” At that instant Julia Franklin passed the window, leaning on her uncle’s arm. She courtsied as she passed, and with a bewitching smile of modest cheer- fulness, said: “Do you bury yourselves in the house this fine evening, gents?” There was something in the voice! the manner! the look! that was altogether irresistible. * Perhaps she wishes my company," said Montra- ville, mentally, as he snatched up his hat. “If 1 thought she loved meé, I would confess my erro and trust to her generosity to pity and pardon me. He soon overtook her, and offering her his arm, they sauntered to pleasant, but unfrequented walks, Belcour drew Mr. Franklin on one side, and en- tered into a political discourse. The than the young people, and Belcour, contrived to lose sight of them. It was a fine evening in the beginning of autumn; the last remains of daylight faintly streaked the western sky, while the moon with pale and virgin luster in the room of gorgeous gold and purple, or- namented the canopy of heaven with silver, fleecy clouds, which now and then half hid her lovely face, and, by partly concealing, hightened every beauty; walked faster y some means, | the zephyrs whisperea softly through the trees, q | Which now began to shed their leafy honors; a solemn silence reigned; and, to a happy mind, an evening such as this would give serenity, and calm, unruffled pleasure, But to Montraville, while it soothed the turbulence of his passions, it brought increase of melancholy re- flections. Julia was ieaning on his arm. in his, and pressing it tenderly, sighed deeply, but continmed silent. Julia was embarrassed; she wished to break a silence so unaccountable, but was unable. She loved Montraville; she saw he was unhappy, and wished to know the cause of his uneasiness, but that innate modesty which nature had implanted in the female breast, prevented her inquiring. “I am bad company, Miss Franklin,” said he, at last recoliecting himse!f; ‘but I have met with something to-day that has greatly distressed me, and Icannot shake off the disagreeable impression it has made on my mind.” ° “Tam sorry,” she replied, ‘that you have any cause of inquietude. Iam sure if you were as hap- py as you deserve, and as all of your triends wish you She hesitated. “And might I,” replied he, with some animation, ae to rank the amiable Julia in that num- or 9 He took her hand Certainly,” said she, “the service you have ren- dered me, the knowledge of your worth, all cembine to make me esteem you.” ‘Esteem, my lovely Julia!" said he, passionately “is but a poor, cold word. I would if 1 dared—if t merited your attention—but no, | must not-—honor forbids—I am beneath your notice, Julia; Iam mis- erable and cannot hope to be otherwise.” “ Alas!” said Julia, ‘I pity you.’ “Oh, thou condescending charmer!” said he, “how that sweet word cheers my heart, Indeed, if you knew all, you would pity; but, at the same time, I fear you would despise me,” Just then they were joined by Mr. Franklin and Belcour, It had interrupted an interesting discourse. They found it erage le to converse on different subjects, and proceeded home in silence,
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22 CHARLOTTE TIF MPLE. At Mr. Franklin's door, Montraville again pressed Julia's hand, and, faintly articulating “good night,” retired to his lodgings, dispirited and wretched, from a consciousness that he deserved not the affection with which he plainly saw he was honored. CHAPTER XXV. RECEPTION OF 4 LETTER, “ Anp where now is our r Charlotte?” said Mr. haben yes one evening, as the cold blasts of autumn whistled rudely over the heath, and the yellow ap- pearance of the distant wood, ke the near ap- proach of winter. In vain the cheerful fire blazed on the hearth; in vain was he surrounded by all the com- forts of life; the parent was still alive in his heart; and when he thought that perhaps his once darling child was ere this exposed to all the miseries of wav in a distant land, without a friend to soothe and com- fort her, without the benignant look of compassion to cheer, or the angelic voice of Bey to pour the balm of consolation on her wounded heart; when he thought of this, his whole soul dissolved into tender- ness; and while he wiped the tear of anguish from the eye of his patient, uncomplaining Lucy, he strug- led bo suppress the sympathiziny drop that started phisown. “Oh! my poor girl!’ said Mrs. Temple, “how mustshe be altered, else surely she would have relieved our agonizing minds by one line to say she lived—to say she had not quite forgot the parents who almost idolized her.” “ Gracious heaven!” said Mr. Temple, starting from bis seat, ‘‘who would wish to be a father, to ex- rience the agonizing pangs inflicted on a parent’s eart by the ingratitude of a child?’ Mrs. Temple wept. er father took her hand. He woul have said: ‘ Be comforted, my child!” but the words died on his tongue. The sad silence that ensued was in- terrupted by a loud rap at the door. In a moment 4 servant entered with a Jetter in his hand, Mrs. Temple took it from him; she cast her eyes upon the superscription, She knew the writing— | “Tis Chariotte,”’ said she, ae the se. “she has not quite forgot us,’ t before she h half gone through the contents, a sudden sickness seized her; she grew cold and giddy, and putting it into her husband's hand, she cried: “Kead it; I} cannot.” Mr. Temple erage to read it aloud, but frequently paused to give vent to his tears. | 4, POO deluded child!” said he, when he had fin- | shed. ! ‘Oh, shall we not forgive the dear penitent?’’ said | Mrs. Temple. ‘‘W+ must, we will, my love; she is | willing to return, and ‘tis our duty to receive her.” “ Wuther of mercy,” said Mr. Eldridge, raising his | clasped hands, ‘let-me but live once mure to see the dear wanderer restored to her afflicted parents, and take me from this world of sorrow whenever it seem- eth best to Thy wisdom.” “Yes, we will receive her,” said Mr. Temple; “we will endeavor to heal her wounded spirit, and speak | peace and comfort to her agitated soul. I will write to her to return immediately.” “On!” said Mrs. Temple, ‘I would, if possible, fly / to her, papper and cheer the dear sufferer in the rs proaching hour of distress, and tell her how nearly | nitence is allied to virtue, Cannot we go and con- uct her home, my love?” continued she, laying her hand onhis arm. “ My father will surely forgive our absence, if we go to bring home his darling.” “You cannot go, my Lucy,” said Mr. Temple; “the delicacy of your frame would but rly sustain the fatigue of a long voyage; but I will go and bring the gentle penitent to your arms, We mmay still see many years of happiness.” The struggle in the bosom of Mrs. Temple between maternal and conju tenderness was a, and pain- fii, AtJength the former triumphed, and she con- | had made for her. ce a ES sented that her husband should set forward to New York by the first opportunity. She wrote to her Charlotte in the tenderest, most consoling manner, and looked forward to the happy’ hour, when she aes again embrace her with the most animated Ope. CHAPTER XXV1L WHAT MIGHT BE EXPECTED, Ix the meantime, the passion Montraville had con- ceived for Julia Franklin daily increased, and he saw evidently how much he was beloved by that amiable girl; he was likewise strongly impressed with an idea of Charlotte's perfidy. What wonder, then, if he gave himself up to the delightful sensation which pervaded his bosom; and finding no obstacle arise to oppose his neuen. he solicited and obtained the hand of Julia, few days before his marriage, he thus addressed Belcour: * Though Charlotte, by her abandoned conduct, bas thrown herself from my protection, I still hold my- self bound to support her till relieved from her pres- ent condition, and also to provide for the child. Ido not intend to see her again, but I will place a sum of money in your hands, which will amply supply her with every convenience; but should she require more, let her have it, and 1 will see it repaid, wish L could revail upon the poor, deluded girl to return to her riends. She was an only child, and 1 make no doubt but they would ene dl receive her. It would shock me greatly to see her leading a life of infamy, as I should always accuse myself as being the primary cause of her errors, If she should choose to remain under your protection, be kind to her, Belcour, I con- jure you. Let not satiety prompt you to treather in éuch a manner as may drive her to actions which necessity might urge ber to, while her better reason disapproves them. She shall never want a friend while I live, but I never more desire to behold her; her presence would always be painful to me, and a glance from her eye would call the blush of conscious guilt into ay cheek. I will write her a letter, which So may deliver when I am gone, as I shall go to St. Sustatia the day after my wuion with Julia, who will accouipany me.” Belcour promised to fulfil the request of his friend. though nothing was further from his intentions than the least design of delivering the letter, or making Charlotte acquainted with the provision Montraville He was bentupon the complete ruin of the unhappy girl. and supposed, by reducing her toan entire dependence upon him, to bring her by degrees to consent to gratify his ungenerous passion. The evening before the day appointed for the nu tials of Montraville and Julia, the former retired ear to bed, and, ruminating on the past scenes of his lif suffered the keenest remorse in the remembrance o Charlotte's seduction, “Poor girl,” said he, “I will atleast write and bid her adieu; I will, too, endeavor to awaken that love of virtue in her bosom, which her unfortunate attach- ment to me has extinguished.” He took up the pen and began to write, but. words were denied him. How could he address the woman whom he had seduced, and whom, though he thought unworthy his tenderness, he was about to bid adieu forever? How could he tell her that he was going to abjure her, and enter intothe most indissoluble ties with another, and that he could not even own the in- fant which she bore as his child? Several letters were begun and destroyed; at length he completed the following: TO CHARLOTTE “Though I have taken ¥ “pe to address you ae injured girl, I feel J am uate © the ; yet, however painful the endeavor,
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a —V———$— ————$ CHARLOTTE TEMPLE 28 Icould not resolve upon leaving you forever without one kind line to bid you adieu—to tell you how my h bleeds at the remembrance of bein J you wer’ before you saw the hated Mont- raville, “Even now imagination paints the scene, when torn by contending passions, when struggling between love and duty, you fainted in my arms and I lifted you into the chaise. _ “I see the agony of your mind, when recover- Ing, yore ran, yourself on the road to Ports- mouth. “But how, my gentle 1, how could you, when so justly impressec with the value of virtue, hw could you, when loving as I thought you loved me, yield to the solici* ition of Belcourt “Qh, Charlotte, conscience tells me it was I, Villain that Lam, who first taught you the allure- ments of guilty leasure; it was 1 who dragged you from the Salm repose which innocence and virtue ever enjoy, and can I, dare I tell you it was not love Sremmnced to the horrid deed? No, thou dear, fallen angel; believe your repentant Montraville when he tells you that the man who ee will never betray the object of his ection, *‘Adieu, Charlotte! Could you still find | charms in a life of unoffending innocence, return to your parents; you shall never wan. t. means of support both for erp and child. Oh! —a heaven! may that child be entirely free i the vice of its father and the weakness of its mother. “‘To-morrow—but no, I cannot tell you what to-morrow will produce—Belcour will inform you he also has cash for you, which I beg you will ask for whenever you may want it. Once more, adieu!” eliev me, could I hear gg had returned to your friends, and was enjoy- ng that tranquility of which I have robbed you, | I should be as completely h py as even you, in | your fondest hours ood wish me. But till then, @ gloom will obscure the brightest pr of MONTRAVILLE.” | After he had sealed this letter, he threw him- | self on the bed and enjoyed a few hours’ repose. | ; Early in the morning Belcour tapped at his oor. He arose hastily, and prepared to meet his Julia at the altar. 9 “This is the letter to Charlotte,” said he, giv- ing it to Belcour; ‘‘take it to her when we are gure to Eustatia; and I conjure you, my dear. end, not to use any sophistical arguments to | prevent her return to virtue; but should she incline that way, encou her in the thought and assist her to put her design in execution.’ ee } CHAPTER XXVIL Pensive she mourn’d, and hung her languid head, Like a fair lilly overcharg’d with as CHARLOTTE had now been left almost three months a prey to her own melancholy reflec- tions—sad companions, indeed; nor did anyone break in upon her solitude but Belcour, who once or twice called to inquire after her health, and | Tai , tell her he had in vain endeavored to bring Mon- traville to hear reason; and once, but only once was her mind cheered by the receipt of an affec- tionate letter from Mrs. uchamp. Often had she written to her perfidious seducer, and with the‘most persuasive eloquence endeav- ored to convince him of her innocence; but these letters were never suffered to reach the hands of Montraville, or they must, though on the very | eveof marriage, have prevented his deserting the | wretched girl Real anguish of heart had in a great measure faded her charms; her cheeks were pale from want of rest, and her eyes, by frequent, indeed, almost continued weeping, were sunk, and heavy. Sometimes a gleam of hope would play abont her heart when sho thought of her parents. “They cannot, surely,” she would say, ‘re- fuse to forgive me; or should they deny their pardon to me, they will not hate my infant on account of its mother’s errors.” How often did the poor mourner wish for the consoling presence of the benevolent Mrs. Bean- champ. ‘Tf she was here, she would certainly comfort me, and soothe the distraction of my soul.” She was sitting one afternoon, wrapped in these melancholy reflections, when she was inter- | rupted by the entrance of Belcour; great as the alteration was which incessant sorrow had made on her person, she was still interesting, still charming; and the unhallowed flame, which had urged Belcour to plant dissention between her and Mentraville, still raged in his bosom; he was determined, if possible, to make her his mistress; nay, he even conceived the diabolical scheme _ of taking her to New York, and making her ap- pear in every public place where it was likely she should meet Montraville, that he might be a witness to his unmanly triumph. When he entered the room where Charlotte was sitting, he assumed the look of tender, con- solatory friendship. . “And how does my lovely Charlotte?” said he. taking her hand; ‘I fear you are not so well as t could wish.” “Tam not well, Mr. Belcour,” said she, “ very far from it; but the pains and infirmities of. the body I could easily bear, nay, submit to them wit tience, were they not aggravated by the most insupportable anguish of my mind.” **'You are not happy, Charlotte?” said he, with a look of well-dissembled sorrow. ‘“‘Alas!” replied she, mournfully shaking her head. ‘‘How can I be happy, deserted as I am, without a friend of my own sex to whom I can unburthen my full heart; nay, my fidelity sus- scted by the very man for whom I have sacri- ced everything valuable in life—for whom I have made myself a poor, despised creature, an | outcast from society, an obje* only of contempt and pity.” “You speak too meanly of yourself, Miss Tem- ple; there is no one who would dare to treat you with coutempt. All who have the pleasure of knowing you, must admire and esteem. You are lonely here, my dear girl; give me leave to con- duct you to New York, where the agreeable so- ciety of some ladies I will introduce you to will dispel the sad thoughts, and I s again see _
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" 24 “Oh, never—never!” cried Charlotte, emphati- cally. ‘‘The virtuous part of my sex will scorn me, and I will never associate with infamy, No, Belcour, here let me hide my shame and sorrow; here let me spend my few remaining days in ob- security, unknown and unpitied; here let me die unlamented, and my naine sink to oblivion.” Here her tears stopped her utterance. Belcour was awed to silence; he dared not to interrupt her; and after a moment’s pause, she +) ed: **T once had conceived the thought of going to New York to seek out the still dear, though .eruel, ungenerous Montraville—to throw myself at his feet and entreat his compassion—heaven knows, not for myself; if I am no longer be- loved, I will not be indebted to his pity to re- dress my injuries; but I would have knelt and entreated him not to forsake my poor unborn—” She could say no more; a crimson glow rushed over her cheéks, and, covering her face with her hands, she sobbed aloud. Something like humanity was awakened in Belcour’s breast by this pathetic speech. He arose and walked toward the window; but the selfish passion which had taken possession of his heart, soon stifled these finer emotions, and he thought, if Charlotte was once convinced she had no longer dependence on Montraville, she would more readily throw herself on his protection. Determined, therefore, to inform her of all that had happened, he again resumed his seat; aad, finding she began to be composed, inquired if she had ever heard from Montraville, since the un- happy recontre in her bed-chamber. Rh no,” said she, ‘I fear I shall never hee from him again.” ‘‘Tam greatly of your opinion,” said Belcou ‘‘for he has been, for some time past, greatly ay tached-—” At the word “ attachede” a death-like paleness overspread the countenance of Charlotte, but she applied some hartshorn which stood beside her, and Beicour proceeded: ‘‘He has been for some time past, greatly at- tached to one Miss Franklin, a pleasing, lively girl, with a large fortune.” ‘* She may be richer, may be handsomer,” cried Charlotte, ‘but cannot love him so well, Ohl! may she beware of his art, and not trust him too far, as Ihave done.” ‘He addresses her publicly,” said he, “and it was rumored they were to be married before he sailed for Eustatia, whither his company is ordered.” “ Belcour,” said Charlotte, seizing his hand, and gazing at him earnestly, while Rie pale lips trembled with convulsive agony. **Oh, tell me, and tell me truly, I beseech you, do you think he can be such a villain as to marry another woman, and leave me to die with want and misery in a strange land? Tell me what you think: I can bear it very well; I will not shrink from tls. heaviest stroke of fate; I have deserved my afflictions, and I will endeavor to bear them as I ought,” : CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. “Perhaps,” cried she, eagerly interrupti him, ‘‘ perhaps he is married y; come, le me know the worst,” continued she, with an affected look of composure; “you need not be afraid; I shall not send the fortunate lady a bowl of poison.” ‘Well, then, my dear girl,” said he, deceived by her appearance, “they were married on Thursday, and yesterday morning they sailed for Eustatia.” “* Married—gone—say you?’ cried she, in dis- tracted accents ; Cwha, without a farewell, without one thought on my unhappy situation? oe Montraville! may God forgive your per- dy. She shrieked, and Belcour sprang forward just in time to prevent her falling to the floor, Alarming faintings now succeeded each other, and she was conveyed to her bed, from whence she earnestly prayed she might never more arise. Belcour stayed with her that night, and in the morning found her in a high fever. The fits she had been seized with gréatly terri- fied him; and confined as she was now to a bed of sickness, she was no longer an object of de- sire; it is true, for several days he went con- stantly to see her, but her pale, emaciated ap- pearance disgusted him; his visits became less frequent; he forgot the solemn charge given him by Montraville; he even forgot the money en- trusted to his care; and the burning blush of in- dignation and shame tinges my cheek while I write it, this disgrace to hamanity and manhood at length forgot even the nae otte; and, attracted by the blooming health of a farmer's daughter, whom he had seen in his frequent ex- cursions to the country, he left the unhappy girl to sink unnoticed to the grave, a prey ex ness, grief, and penury; while he, baving triumphed over the virtue of the artless cottager, rioted in all the intemperance of luxury and law- less pleasure CHAPTER XXVIIL ‘*BLESS my heart!” cries my young, volatile reader, ‘I shall never have patience to get through this volume; there are so mamy abs arid ohs! so much fainting, tears, and distress. I am sick to death of the subject.’ - My dear, cheerful, innocent girl (for innocent I will suppose you to be, or you would acutely feel the woes of Charlotte), did conscience say, thus might it have been with me, had not Provi- dence interposed to snatch me from destruction? Therefore, my lively, innocent girl, T must re- quest 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 prosperity, or a continuance in vice I expect not my tale lease, nay, I even e it will be thrown by with disgust. But softly gentle fair one, I pray you throw it not aside t you have i the whole, You may find something therein to repay you for the trouble, Methinks I see a sarcastic smile sit on your coun- tenance,
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“And what!” cry you, ‘‘does the conceited author sup Charlotte is held np as an object of terror, to prevent us from into guilty errors? Does not La Rue triumph in her shame? and by add- ing art to guilt, obtain the affection of a worth man, and rise to astation where sheis beheld with respect, and cheerfully received into all compan- ies? What, then, is the moral you would incul- cate? Would you wish us to think that a devia- tion from virtue, if covered by art and hy crisy isnot an object of detestation, but, on the con- trary, shall raise us to fame and honor; while the hapless yirl, who falls a victim to her too great sensibility, shall be loaded with ign: miny and shame?” } No, my fair querist, I mean no such thing. Remember the endeavors of the wicked are often suffered to prosper, that in the end their fall may be attended with more bitterness of heart; while the cup of affliction is poured out for wise and salutary ends, and they who are compelled to drain it even to the bitter dregs, | often find comfort at the bottom, the tear of cer ged ate their offence from the book of te, and they rise from the heavy, painful trial, purified and fit for a mansion in the kingdom of eternity. Yes, my young friends, the tear of compassion Shall fall for the fate of Charlotte, while the name of La Rue shall be detested and despised. For Charlotte, the soul melts with sympathy; for La Rue, it feels nothing but horror and con- tempt. But, haps your gay hearts would rather follow ihe, Sortunate frs. Crayton though the scenes of pleasure and dissipation in which she | was engaged than listen to the complaints and miseries of Charlotte. I will for once oblige you, | I will for once follow her to midnight revels, | balls, and scenes of gaiety, for in such was she constantly engaged. carted, I have said her person was lovely; let us add that she was surrounded by splendor and afflu- ence, and he must know but little of the world who can wonder (however faulty such a woman's conduct,) at her being followed by the men, and her company courted by the women. In short, ilrs. Crayton was the universal favorite; she set the faslsions; she was toasted by the gentlemen, and copied by the ladies. Colonel Crayton was a domestic man—could he be happy with such a woman? Impossible. Remonstrance was vain. He might as well have peeaced to the wind, as endeavor to persuade her romany action, however ridiculous, on which she hadset her mind; in short, after a little ineffectual struggle, he gave up the attempt, and left her to follow the bent of her own inclinations. What those were, I think the reader must have a enough of her character to form a just ea, Among the number who at her shrine, she singled out one, a young ensign of A me birth, indifferent education, and weak ects, How such a man came into the army we hard- | ly can account for: and how he afterwards rose d their devotions 25 we can glean from the pages, if ful But fortune is blind, and so are those too fre- quently who have the power of dispensing her avors; else why do we see fools and knaves at the very top of the wheel, while patient merit sinks to the yg > of the opposite abyss. But we may form a thousand conjectures on this sub- ject, and yet never hit on the right. Let us therefore, endeavor to deserve her smiles, and whether we succeed or not, we shaJl feel more innate satisfaction than thousands cof those who bask in the sunshine of her favor unworthily. But to return to Mrs. Crayton. This young man, whom I shall distinguish by the name of Corydon, was the reigning favorite of her heart. He escorted her to the play, danced with her at every ball, and, when indisposition prevented her going out, it was he alone who was permitted to cheer the gloomy solitude to which sho was obliged to confine’ herself. Did she ever think of poor Charlotte? If she did, my dear miss, if was only to laugh at the poor girl’s want of spirit in consenting to be moped up in the country, while Montraville was enjoying all the pleasures of a gay, dissipated | city. When she heard of his marriage, she smilingly said: **So there’s an end of Madame 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 subject, I think we may as well return to the distressed Charlotte and not, like the unfeeling ’Mrs. Crayton, shut our hearts to the call of humanity. CHAPTER XXIX. WE GO FORWARD AGAIN, THE strength of Chariotte’s constitution come batted against her disorder, and she began slow- ly to recover, though she still labored uader a violent depression of spirits: how must that de- Te be increased, when upon examining het ittle store, she found herself reduced to one solitary guinea, and that, during her illness the attendance of an apothecary and nurse, together with many other unavoidable expenses, had in- volved her in debt, from which she saw no method of extricating herself. As to the faint hope which she had entertained of hearing from and being relieved by her pa- rents, it now entirely forsook her, for it was about four months since her letter was dispatched, and she had received no answer; she, therefore, imagined her conduct had either entirely alierr ated their affection for her, or broken their hearts, and she must never more hope to receive their blessings. Never did any human being wish for death with greater feryency or juster cause; yet he had too just a sense of the duties of the Christian re- ligion to attempt to put a period to her own ex- istence. ““T have but to be patient a little longer,” she would cry, ‘‘ and nature, fatigued and fainting,
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MW / will throw off this heavy load of mortality, and I shall be released from all my sufferings.’ It was one cold, stormy day, in the latter end of December, as Charlotte sat by a handful of fire, the low state of her finances not allowing her to — her stock of fuel, and prudence | teaching her to be careful of what she had, when she was surprised by the entrance of a farmer’s wife, who without mach ceremony, seated her- self, and began this curious harangue, **T’m come to see if as how you can pay your rent, because 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, miss or ma’am, or whatever you may be, asl was saying to my husband, where are we to look for our money?’ This was a stroke altogether unexpected by Charlotte. She knew so little of the world, that she had never bestowed a thought on the payment of the rent of the house: she knew, indeed, that she owed a good deal, but this was never reckoned among the others; she was thunderstruck; she | hardly knew what answer to make, yet it was absolutely necessary she should say something; and judging of the gentleness of every female disposition by her own, she thought the best way to interest the woman in her favor would be to tell her candidly to what a situation she was re- duced, and how little probability there was of her ever paying anybody. Alas! poor Charlotte; how confined was her knowledge of human nature, or she would have been convinced that the only way to ensure the friendship and assistance of your surrounding ac- quaintance, is to convince them that you do not require it, for when once the petrifying aspect of distress and penury appear, whose qualities, like Medusa’s head, can change to stone all that look upon it; when once the Gorgon claims eee ance with us, the phantom of friendship, that be- fore courted our notice, will vanish into unsub- stantial air, and the whole world before us appear a barren waste. Pardon me, ye dear spirits of benevolence, | whose benign smile and cheerful-giving hands | have strewed sweet flowers on many a thorny | th through which my wayward fate forced me ss; think not, that in yore g | the un- fecling texture of the human heart, 1 forget the | spring from whence flow all the comforts I enjoy; oh, no! Ilook up to you as the bright constella. | tions, gathering new splendors from the sur. rounding darkness; but, ab! while I adore the be. nignant rays that cheered and illumined my heart, I mourn that their influence cannot extend to all the sons and daughters of affliction. ‘* Indeed, madam,” said poor Charlotte, in a tremulous accent, “Iam at a loss what to do. Montrayille placed me here and promised to de fray my expenses; but he has forgotten his pro- mise: he has forsaken me, and I hve no friend who either has power or will to relieve me. Let me hope, as you see my unhappy situation, your charity—” “Charity!” cried the woman, impatiently in- terrupting her. ‘‘ Charity, indeed; why, mistress, charity begins at home, and [ have seven children 6 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. ‘termined to set out for New | out Mrs, Crayton, from whom she had no doubt at home—honest, tawfud children; and it is my | duty to keep them; and do you think I shall give away my property to a nasty, impudent hussy, to maintain her and her bastard? As I was say- ing to my husband the other day, what will this world come to? Honest women are nothing now- a-days, while the harlotings are set up for fine ladies, and look on us no more nor the dirt they walk upon; butlet me tell you, my fine spoken ma’am, I must have my money; s0 seeing as how you can’t pay it, why, you must pie te ge leave all your gimcracks and fal-de-ralls behind you. I don’t ask for more than my right, and nobody shall go fof to hinder me from it ‘‘Oh, heavens!” cried Charlotte, clasping her hands, ‘‘ what will become of me?’ ‘‘Come on ye!” retorted the unfeeling wretch. ‘“ Why, goto the barracks and work for a morsel of bread, wash and mend the soldiers’ clothes, and cook their victuais, and not expect to live in idleness on honest people’s means, Oh, I wish 1 could see the day when all such cattle were oblig- ed to work hard, and eat little; it’s only what they deserve.” ‘Father of mercy!” cried Charlotte, “I ac- ge ty thy correction just, but prepare me, I beseech thee, for the portion of misery thou may’st please to lay before me.” ‘* Well,” said the woman, “I shall go and tell my husband as how you can’t pay; and, so, d’ye see, ma’am, get ready to be packing away this vay night, for you should not stay another night in this house, though I were sure you would Jay in the street.” Charlotte bowed her head in silence; but the anguish of her heart was too great to permit her to articulate a single word. : ——— CHAPTER XXX. And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to slee A shade that follows wealth and fame, But leaves the wretch to weep! LDSMITH, WHEN Charlotte was left to herself, she began to think what course she must take, or to whom she should apply, to prevent her perishing: from want, or perhaps that very night falling a victim to the inclemency of the season. After many perplexed ig ae age at last de- fork, and inquire but she should receive immediate relief as soon as her distress was made known; she had no sooner formed this resolution, than she resolved immedi- ately to putit in execution; she therefore wrote the following little billet to Mrs. Crayton, think- ing if she should have company with her, it would pe better to send it peg wee request to see er, TO MRS. CRAYTON. “ MapAME.—When we left our native :and, that dear, happy land which contains all that is dear to the wretched Charlotte, our prospects were the same: we both, pardon me, madam, if I say, we a ae
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both too easily followed the impulse of our treacherous hearts, and trusted our happiness on a tempestuous ocean, where mine has been wreck- ed and lost forever; you have been more fortu- nate—you are ted to a man of honor and humanity, united b spected, esteemed, ired, and surrounded by innumerable blessings of which Iam bereaved— enjoying those pleasures which have fled my bosom, never to return, alas! sorrow and deep regret have taken their place. Behold me, madam, a poor, forsaken wanderer, who has not where to lay her weary head, wherewith to sup- ply the wants of nature, or to shield her from the inclemency of the weather. To you I sue, to you I look for pity and relief. I ask not to be received as an intimate or equal; only for charity’s sweet sake, receive me into your hosprtable mansion, allot me the meanest apartment in it, and Jet me breathe out my soul in prayers for your happi- ness; [cannot, I feel [cannot long bear up under the accumulated woes that pour in upon me; but oh, my dear madam, for the love of heaven, suf- fer me not to expire in the street; and when I am at peace, as soon I shall be, extend your compas- sion to my poor helpless offspring, should it please Heaven that it survive its unhappy mother. A gleam of joy breaks in on my benighted soul, while I reflect that you cannot, will not, refuse your protection to the heart broken , ** CHARLOTTE.” When Charlotte had finished this letter, late as it was in the afternoon, and though the snow n to fall very fast, she tied up a few neces- saries, which she had prepared against her ex- sted confinement; and, terrified lest she should again exposed to the insults of ber barbarous y, more dreadful to her wounded spirit than either storm or darkness, she set forward for New York. It may be asked by those who, in a work of this kind, love to cavil at every trifling omission, whether Charlotte did not possess any valuable of which she could have sed, and by that means have supported herself till Mrs. Beau- champ’s return, when she would have been cer- tain of receiving every tender attention which compassion and friendship could dictate; but let me entreat these wise, penetrating gentlemen to reflect, that when Charlotte left England, it was in such haste that there was no time to purchase anything more than what was wanted for im- mediate use on the voyage; and after her arrival at New York, Montraville’s affection soon began to decline, sothat her whole wardrobe consisted only of necessaries; and as to the baubles, with which fond lovers often load their mistresses, she possessed not one, except a plain gold locket of small value, which contained a lock of her moth- er’s hair, and which the great extremity of want could not have forced her to part with. The distance from the house which our suf*+r- ing heroine occupied, to New York, was not very great; yet the snow fell so fast, and the coid was 8o intense, that, being unable from her situation to walk quick, she found herself almost sinking with cold and fatigue before she reached the town; her garments, which were merely suitable to the summer season, being an undress robe of . CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. the most sacred ties, re-. 27 ain white muslin, were wet through; anda thin, lack cloak and bonnet, very improper habili- ments for such a climate, but poorly defended her from the cold. In this situation she reached the city, and inquired of a foot-soldier whom she met, the way to Colonel Crayton’s. “Bless you, my sweet lady,” said the soldier with a voice and look of compassion, “‘ Iw ill show you the way with all my heart; but if you are going to make a petition to Madam Crayton, it is all to no purpose, I assure you; if you please, I will conduct you to Mr. Fran in’, throug 1 Miss Julia is married and gone, yet the old gentleman is very good.” ‘* Julia Franklin,” said Charlotte; ‘tis she not married to Montraville?” ‘* Yes,” replied the soldier, ‘‘ and may God bless them, for a better officer never lived, he is so good to us all; and as to Miss Julia, all the poor folks almost worship her.” **Gracious heavens,” cried Charlotte, ‘‘ is Mon- traville unjust to none but me?’ The soldier now showed her Colonel Drayton's door, and with a beating heart she knocked for admission. CHAPTER XXXL SUBJECT CONTINUED, WHEN the door was opened, Charlotte, in a voice rendered scarcely articulate, through cold and the extreme agita‘ion of her mind, demand ed whether Mrs, Crayton was at home. The servant hesitated; he knew that his lady was en- gaged at a game of picquet with her dear Cory- don, nor could he think she would like to be dis- turbed by a person whose appearance spoke of so little consequence as Charlotte; yet there was something in her countenance that rather interested him in her favor, and he said his lady was engaged; but if she had any particular mes- sage he would deliver it. “Take up this letter,” said Charlotte, “ tell her the unhappy writer of it waits in the hall for an answer.” The tremulous accent, the tearful eye, must have moved any heart not composed of adamant. The man took the letter from the poor suppliant, and hastily ascended the staircase. “A letter, madame,” said he, presenting it to his lady: *‘ an immediate answer is required.” Mrs. Crayton glanced her eyes carelessly over the contents. ‘What stuff is this?” cried she haughtily; “have I not told you a thousan times that I would not be plagued with beggars or petitions from people one knows nothing about? Go tell the woman I can’t do anything in it. I’m sorry, but one can’t relieve every- body.” The servant bowed, and heavily returned with this chilling message to Charlotte. “Surely,” said she, ‘‘ Mrs. Crayton has not read ay etter. Go, my friend, pray, go back to her; tell her it is Charlotte Temple who requests beneath her hospitable roof to find shelter from the inclemency of the season.”
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Crayton, impatiently, as the servant advanced something in behalf of the unhappy girl. ‘I tell you I don’t know her.” “Not know me!” cried Charlotte, rushing into the room (for she had followed the man up-stairs) ‘not know me—not remember the injured Char lotte Temple, who, but for you, perhaps might still have been innocent, still have been happy! Oh, La Rue, this is beyond everything I could have believed possible.” ‘Upon my honor, miss,” replied the unfeeling woman with the utmost effrontery, “this isa most unaccountable address—it is beyond my comprehension, John,” continued she, turning to the servant, ‘‘the young woman is certainly out of her senses; do pray take her away, she terrifies me to death.” **Oh, God,” cried Charlotte, clasping her hands in an agony, ‘‘this is too much; what will be- come of me! But I will not: leave you, the shall not tear me from you; here on my Sasioe conjure you to save me from perishing in the street; if you really have forgotton me, oh, for charity’s sweet sake, this night let me be shel- tered from the winter’s piercing cold.” The kneeling figare of Charlotte, in her affect- ing situation, might have moved the heart of a stone to compassion; but Mrs, Crayton remained inflexible. In vain did Charlotte recount the time they had known each other at Chichester; in vain mention their being in the same ship; in vain were the names of Montraville and Baleour men- tioned. Mrs. Crayton could only say she was sorry for her imprudence, but could not. think of having her own reputation endangered by encouraging a woman of that kind in her own house; besides, she did not know what trouble and expense she might bring upon her husband by giving shelter to a woman in her situation. “T can at least die here,” said Charlotte. ‘I feel I cannot long survive this dreadful conflict. Father of mercy! here let me finish my exist- ence,” Her agonizing sensations overpowered her, and she fell senseless on the floor, “Take her away,” said Mrs. Crayton; “she wil really frighten me into hysterics; take her away, L say, this instant.” ‘‘And where must I take the poor creature?” said the servant, with a voice and look of com- passion. “Anywhere,” cried she, hastily, “‘only don’t let me ever see her again. I declare, she has flurried me so, I shan’t be myself again this fort- night.” John, assisted by his fellow-servant, raised and carried her down stairs. ‘Poor soul,” said he, “you shall not lie in the street this night. I have a bed, and a poor little hovel, where my wife and little ones rest them; but they shall watch to-night, and you shall be sheltered from danger.” They placed her in a chair; and,the benevolent man, assisted by one of his comrades, carried her | to the place where his wife and children lived. Pa CHARLOTTE TEMPLE, “ Prithee, don’t plague me, man,” cried Mrs, | A surgeon was sent for; he bled ber; she gave signs of returning life, and before dawn, gave birth toa female infant. After this event, she lay for some hours in a kind of stupor; and, if at any time she spoke, it was with a quickness and incoherence that plainly evinced the deprivation of reason. CHAPTER XXXIL REASONS WHY AND WHEREFORE Tue reader of sensibility may perhaps be as- tonished to find Mrs. Crayton could so positively deny any knowledge of Charlotte; it is, there fore, but just, that her conduct should in some measure be accounted for. She had ever been fully sensible of the super- iority of Charlotte’s sense and virtue; she was conscious that she never would have swerved her rectitude, had it not been for her bad pre- cepts and worse example. These were things as yet unknown to her husband; and she wished not to have that part of her conduct exposed to him, as she had great reason to fear she had al- ready lost considerable part of that power she once maintained over him, She trembled while Charlotte was in the house, lest the colonel should return; she perfectly well remembered how much he seemed interested in her favor, while on their passage from England, and made no doubt but, should he see her in her present distress, he would offer her an asylum, and pro- tect her to the utmost of his power. In that case, she feared the unguarded nature of Char- lotte might discover to the colonel the part she had taken in the unhappy girl’s elopement, and she well knew the contrast between her own and Charlotte’s conduct, would make the former ap- pear in no very respectable light. Had she reflected properly, she would have afforded the poor girl protection; and, by enjoin- ing her silence, insured it by acts of repeated kindness; but vice in general blinds its votaries, . and they discover their real characters to the world when they are the most studious to pre- serve appearances, Just so it happened with Mrs, Crayton; her servants made no scruple of mentioning the cruel conduct of their ay to a poor distressed lunatic who claimed her protection; every one —— in reprobating her inhumanity; nay, even Yorydon thought she might at least have ordered her to be taken care of, but he dared not even hint it to her, for he lived but in her smiles, and | drew from her lavish fondness large sums to support an extravagance to which the state of his own finances were very inadequate. It can- not therefore be ——_ that he wished Mrs. Crayton to be very liberal in her bounty to the afflicted suppliant. Yet vice had not so entirely seared over his heart but the sorrows of Char- lotte could find a vulnerable part. Charlotte had now been three days with her humane preservers, but she was totally insensible of everything; she raved incessantly for Montra- ville and her father; she was not conscious of being a mother, nor took the least notice of her child, except to ask whose it was, and why it was not carried to its parents.
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“Oh,” said she, one day, starting up on hear- ing the infant cry, ‘‘ why will you keep that child here? I am sure you would not if you knew how hard it was for a mother to be from her infant; it is like tearing “the cords of life asunder, Oh! could you see the horrid sight which I now behold—there—there stands my dear mother, her poor bosom bleeding at every vein, her gentle, affectionate heart torn in a thousand pieces, and all for the loss of a ruined, nnratatal chit, Save me—save me—from her ae ay I dare not—indeed 1 dare not speak to er. Such were the dreadful images that haunted her distracted mind, and nature was sinking fast under the dreadful malady which medicine had no power to remove. The surgeon who attended her was a humane man, who exerted his utmost abilities to save her; but he saw she was in want of many neces- saries and comforts which the poverty of her hospitable host rendered him unable to provide; he therefore determined to make her situation known to some of the officers’ ladies, and en- deavor to make a collection for her relief. When he returned home after making this resolution, he found a message from Mrs. Beau- champ, who had just arrived from Rhode Island, requesting he would call and see one of her children, who was very unwell. “T do not know,” said he, as he was hastening to obey the summons, ‘‘I do not know a woman to whom I could apply with more hope of suc- cess than Mrs. Beauchamp. I will endeavor to interest her in this poor girl’s behalf; she wants the soothing balm of friendly consolation: we may perhaps save her; we will try, at least.” “And where is she?” cried Mrs. Beauchamp, when he prescribed something for the child, and told his little pathetic tale, ‘“‘ where is she, sir? we will go to her immediately. Heaven forbid that I should be deaf to the calls of humanity, Come, we will go this instant.” Then seizing the doctor's arm, they sought the habitation of the dying Charlotte. CHAPTER XXXII. WHICH PEOPLE VOID OF FEELING NEED NOT READ. WHEN Mrs. Beauchamp entered the apartment of the poor sufferer, she started back in horror. On a wretched bed, without hangings and poorly supplied with covering, lay the emaciated figure of what still retained the semblance of a lovely woman, though sickness had so altered her features that Mrs. Beauchamp had not the least recollection of her person. . Ina corner of the room stood a woman, wash- ing; and shivering over a small fire, two healthy but half-naked children. The infant was asleep beside its mother, and on a chair by the bedside stood a porringer and wooden spoon, containing a little el, and a tea-cup with about two spoonsful of wine in it. Mrs. Beauchamp had never before beheld such 4 scene of poverty; she shuddered involuntarily and exclaiming, ‘‘ Heaven preserve us!” leaned CHARLOTTE TEMPLE 2) on the back of a chair, ready to sink Ww tne earth. The doctor repented having so precipitately brought her into this affecting scene; but there was no time for apologies. Charlotte caught the sound of her voice, and starting almost out of bed, exclaimed. ** Angel of peace and mercy, art thou come to deliver me! Oh, I know you are, for whenever you were near me, I felt eased of half my sor- rows; but you don’t know me, nor can I, with all the recollection that I am mistrees of, remember your name just now; but I know that benevolent countenance, and the softness of that voice, which has so often comforted the wretched Char- lotte.” Mrs. Beauchamp had, during the time Char- lotte was speaking, seated herse]f on the bed, and taken one of her hands: she looked at her atten- tively, and at the name of Charlotte she perfectly conceived the whole affair. A faint sickness came over her. “* Gracious heaven,” said she, “ is this possible?” and bursting into tears, she reclined the burning head of Charlotte on her own bosom; and fold- ing her arms about her, wept over her in silence, “Oh,” said Charlotte, ‘you are very good to weep thus for me; it is a Jong time since I shed a tear for myself; my head and heart are both on | tire; but these tears of yours seem to cool and re- fresh me, Oh. now I remember you said you would send a letter to my poor father; do you think he ever received it? or perhaps you may have brought me an answer: why don’t you speak, madame? Does he say I may go home! | Well, he is boos good; Ishall soon be ready.” =] She then made an effort to get out of bed; but being prevented, her frenzy again returned, and she raved with the greatest wildness and inco- herence. Mrs, Beanchamp finding it was impossible for her to be removed, contented herself with order- ing the apartment to be made more comfortable, and procuring a proper nurse for both mother | and child; and having learned the particulars | of Charlotte’s fruitless application to frs. Cray- ton from honest John, she amply rewarded him for his benevolence, and returned home with a heart oppressed with many painful sensations, but yet rendered easy by the reflection that she had performed her duty towards a distressed fellow-creature. Early next morning she again visited Char- lotte, and found her tolerably composed; she called her by name, thanked her for her goodness, and when her child was brought to her, pressed it in her arms, wept over it, and called it the off- spring of disobedience, Mrs. Beauchamp was delighted to see her so much amended, and began to hope she might re- cover, and, in spite of her former errors, become a useful and respectable member of society; but the arrival of the doctor put an end to these de- lusive hopes; he said nature was making her last effort, and a few hours would most probably consign the unhappy girl to her kindred dust. _ Being asked how she found herself, she re : ‘“Why, better—much better, doctor. hope now I have but little more to suffer. I had last
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w CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. night a few hours’ sleep, and when I awoke re-| When Charlotte recovered, she found herself covered the whole power of recollection. I am uite sensible of my weakness; I feel I have but little longer to combat with the shafts of afflic- tion. I have an humble confidence in the mercy of Him who died to save the world, and trust that my sufferings in this state of mortality, joined to my unfeigned repentance, through His mercy, have blotted my offences from the sight of my offended Maker. I have but one care— my poor infant! Father of mercy,” continued she, raising her eyes, ‘‘of thy infinite goodness grant that the sins of the ant be not visited on the unoffending child. May those who taught me to despise thy laws be forgiven; lay not my offences to their charge, I beseech thee; and, oh! shower the choicest of thy blessings on those whose pity has soothed the afflic heart, and made easy even the bed of pain and sickness.” She was exhausted by t the throne of mercy, and though her lips still moved, her voice became inarticulate; she lay for some time as it were in a doze, and then re- covering, faintly pressed Mrs. Beauchamp’s racy and requested that a clergyman might sent for. On his arrival, she joined fervently in the pious office, frequently mentioning her ingrati tude to her parents as what lay most heavy at her heart. ‘When she had performed the last solemn duty, and was preparing to lie down, a little bustle outside the door occasioned Mrs. Beauchamp to open it and inquire the cause. A man, in ap nee about forty, presented himself, and asked for Mrs. Beauchamp, “That is my name, sir,” said she. “Oh, then, my dear madame,” cried he,‘‘ tell me where I may find my poor, ruined, but re- pentant child.” Mrs. Beauchamp was surprised and much affected; she knew not what to say: she foresaw the agony this interview would occasion Mr. Temple, who had just arrived in search of Char- lotte, and yet was sensible that. the pardon and blessing of the father would soften even the ago- nies of death to the daughter. She hesitated. ‘Tell me, madame,” cried he, wildly, ‘‘tell me, I beseech’ thee, does she live? Shall I see my darling once again? Perhapsshe is in this house, Lead—lead me to her, that I may bless her, and then lie down and die.” The ardent manner in which he uttered these words occasioned him to raise his voice. It caught the ear of Charlotte; she knew the beloved sounds, and uttering a loud shriek, she sprang forward as Mr. Temple entered the room. **'My adored father!” ** My long-lost child!” Nature could i ipa no more, and they both sank lifeless into the arms of the attendants. Charlotte was i ut into bed, and a few moments restored Mr. Temple; but to describe the agonies of his sufferings is past the power of any one. Though we can readily conceive, we cannot delmeate, the dreadful scene, Every eye gave testimony of what each other felt—but all were silent. fervent address to | sa rted in her father’s arms. she cast upon him a most expressive look, but was unable to speak. hi: A reviving cordial was admini She then asked in a low voice for her child. It was brought to her; she put it in her father’s arms. ‘**Protect her,” said she, ‘‘and bless your dying——” Unable to finish the sentence, she sunk back on her pillow; her countenance was serenely com- sed; she regarded her father as he prvussed the infant to his breast, with a steadfast look; a sud- den beam of joy passed across her languid feat- ures; she rais er eyes to heaven—and then. closed them for ever. CHAPTER XXXIV. RETRIBUTION, In the meantime, Montraville had received or- ders to return to New York, arrived, and hav- ing still some feeling of compassionate tender- ness for the woman whom he regarded as brought toshame by himself, he went in search of Bel- cour, to inquire whether she was safe and whether the child lived. He found him immersed in dissipation, and could gain no other intelligence than that Char- lotte had left him, and that he knew not what had become of her. **T cannot believe it possible,” said Montra- ville, ‘‘thata mind once so pure as Charlotte Temple’s should so suddenly become the mansion of vice. Beware, Belcour,” continued he, ‘ be ware, if oa have dared to behave either unjust- ly or dishonorably to that poor girl, your life 8 pay the forfeit: I will avenge her cause.” He immediately went into the ccuntry, to the house where be had left Charlotte. It was deso- late. After much inquiry, he at length found the servant girl who had lived with her. From her he learned the misery Charlotte had endured from the complicated evils of illness poverty, and a broken heart, and that she h set out for New York, on a cold winter’s even- ing; but she could inform bim no furthe~. Toptured almost to madness by this shocking account, he returned to the city; but before he reached it, the evening was drawing to a close. In entering the town, be was obliged to pass several little huts, the residence of poor wonien, who supported themselves by washing the clothes of the officers and soldiers. : It was nearly dark: he heard from a neighbor- ing steeple a solemn toll, that seemed to say, some poor mortal was going to their last man- sion; the sound struck on the heart’ of Montra- ville, and he involuntarily stopped, when, from one of the bouses, be saw the appearance of a funeral. Almost unknowing what he did, he followed at a small distance; and as they let the coffin into the grave, he inquired of a soldier, who stood by, and had just wiped off a tear that did honor his heart, who it was that was just buried. - a tt ihe
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ee ater: See ** An’ please your honor,” said the man, ‘‘’tisa poor girl that was brought from her friends by a cruel man, who left her when she was big with a child, and married another.” Montraville stood motionless, and the man proceeded: 5 “IT met her myself, not a fortnight fsince, one night, all wet and coldin the street; she went to Madame Crayton’s, but she would not take her in, and so the poor thing went raving mad.” Montraville could bear no more; he struck his | hands against his forehead with violence, and ex- | claiming ‘* Poor murdered Charlotte!” ran with recipitation toward the place where they were | eaping the earth on her remains. ‘“* Hold—hold! one moment,” said he, “ close not the grave of the injured Charlotte Temple, till I have taken vengeance on her murderer.” “Rash young man,” said Mr. Temple, ‘ who | art thou, that thus disturbest the last mournful rites of the dead, and rudely breakest in upon the grief of an afflicted father?” “If thou art the father of Charlotte Temple,” said he, gazing at him with mingled horror and | amazement—" if thou art her father—I am Mon- | traville.” Then, falling on his knees, he contin- ued: ‘*Here is my bosom. I bare it to receive the stroke I merit. Strike—strike now, and save me from the misery of reflection.” “Alas!” said Mr. Temple, “if thou wert the seducer of my child, thy own reflections be thy nishment. I wrest not the power from the fend of Omnipotence. Look on that Uttle heap of earth; there hast thou buried the only joy of a fond father. Look at it often; and may tby heart feel such true sorrow as shall merit the mercy of Heaven,” He turned from him, and Montraville, start- ing Sp from the ground where he had thrown himself, and that instant remembering the per- fidy of Belcour, flew like lightning to his lodg- ings. Belecour was intoxicated; Montraville impetuous; they fought, and the sword of the latter entered the heart of bis adversary. He fell and expired almost instantly. Montraville had received a slight wouod; and overcome with the agitation of his mind, and loss of blood in a state of insensibility to his dis- tracted wife. A dangerous illness and obstinate delirium en- sued, during which he raved incessantly for Charlotte; but a strong constitution, and the tender assiduities of Julia, in time overcame the disorder. He recovered: but to the end of his CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. | I should e 31 Tt would be impossiblé to do justice to the meeting-scene between him and his Lucy, and her aged father, Every heart of sensibility can — conceive their feelings. After the first tumult of grief was subsided, Mrs. Temple gave up thechief of ber time to her grandchild, and as she grew up and im- proved, began almost to fancy she again pos- sessed her Charlotte. It was about ten years after these painful events, that Mr. and Mrs. Temple, having buried their father, were obliged to come to London on particular business, and brought the little Lucy witb them. They had been walking one evening, when on ) their return they found a poor wretch sitting on | the steps of the door. She attempted to rise as they approached, but from extreme weakness was unable, and after several fruitless efforts fell back im a fit. Mr. Temple was not one of those men who stand to consider whether by assisting an object in distress they shall not inconvenience them- selves, but, instigated by a noble, feeling heart, immediately ordered her to be carried into the house, and proper restoratives applied. She soon recovered, and fixing her eye on Mrs, Temple, cried: “You kuow not, madame, what you do; you know not whom you are relieving, or you would curse me in the bitterness of your heart. Come not near me, madame, I shall contaminate you. I am the viper that stung your peace. Iam the woman who turned the poor Charlotte out to verish in the street. Heaven have mercy! Tsee er now,” continued she, looking at Lucy; “ such —such was the fair bud of innocence that my vile arts blasted ere it was half blown.” . It was in vain that Mr. and Mrs, Temple en- treated her to be composed and take some re- freshment. She only drank half a glass of wine, and then told them she had been separatedfrom her husband seven years, the chief of which she passed in riot, dissipation, and vice, till,overtaken by poverty and sickness, she had been reduced to part with every valuable, and thought only of ending her life in prison, when a benevolent friend paid her debts and released her; but that her illness increasing, she had no possible means of supporting herself, and her friends were weary of relieving her. ‘‘I have fasted,” said she, “‘ two days, and last night laid my aching head on the cold pavement; indeed, it was but just that rience those miseries myself, which I had unfeelingly inflicted on others.” and while he remained in New York, frequently | life, was subject to severe fits of melancholy, | Greatly as Mr. Temple had reason to detest / retired to the cburchyard, where he wept over | Mrs. Crayton, he could not behold ber in this dis- hes the grave, and regretted = untimely fate of | tress without some emotions of pity. He gave oe the lovely Charlotte Temple. re that night beneath his hospitable | : ae . roof, and the next da t her admission into an = ie CHAPTER XXXV . ne me where, having ingered a few weeks, she an te CONCLUSION. died—a striking example, that vice, however tra- ' SHoRTLY after the interment of his daughter, | prosperous in the beginning, in the end leads only rom. , Mr. Temple, with his dear little charge and her | to misery and shame. yf a nurse, set forward for England.
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