i < 4 I i-m jM*. ?$$ri' IIMTVFRS1TY OF Tnn, E * S .!Jl°. F y. C - AT CHAPEL HILL 00022228803 .1 '*/f&r**/ , Jt<' \ // ( I '*• V ^\\>.\ ..VV, V A s»\ CH£BliOTTE T^JMTliE, A TALE OF TRUTH. BY MRS. 1WWS0JST, 1 ATE OP THE SEW THEATUE, PHILADELPHIA ; AUTHOR OF VICTORIA, INQUISITOR, FILLE DE CHAMBRE^ etC, She was her parents' only joy ; They had but one — one darling child. Romeo and Juliet.. Her form was faultless, and her mind, Untainted yet by art, Was noble, just, humane and kind, And virtue warm'd her heart. But ah ! the cruel spoiler came. PHILADELPHIA: PUBLISHED BY BENJAMIN WARNER, NO. 147, MARKET-STREET— AND SOLD ALSO AT HIS STORE IN RICHMOND, VIRGINIA. 1818. | WIILUM GREEB— rBINTtH, I / * CILOULOTTE TEMRId& T CHAP. L A Boarding School. < ARE you for a walk/ said Montraville to his companion, as they arose from table; 'are you for a walk ? or shall we order the chaise an4 proceed to Portsmouth V Belcour preferred the former ; and they sauntered out to view the town^ and to make remarks on the inhabitants, as they returned from the church. Montraville was a lieutenant in the army ' Bel- cour was his brother officer : they had been tq take leave of their friends, previous to their de- parture for America, and were now returning tQ Portsmouth, where the troops waited orders for embarkation. They had stopped at Chichester to dine ; and knowing they had sufficient time to reach the place of destination before dark, an4 yet allow them a walk, had resolved^ it being Sunday afternoon, to take a survey of the Chi- ^ Chester ladies as they returned from their deyp- -» tions. hemisphere. The mind of Montraville was aitsta A- 3 ed into composure by the serenity of the surround- ing objects. ' I will think on her no more,' 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 wo- men come out, who walked arm in arm across the field. 1 I will at least see who these are,' said he. — He overtook them, and giving them the compli- ments of the evening, begged leave to see them into the more frequented parts of the town : but how was he delighted, when, waiting for an an- swer, he discovered, under the concealment of a large bonnet, the face of Charlotte Temple. He soon found means to ingratiate himself with her companion, who was a 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 endeavour to bring her young charge into the field again, the next even- ing. CHAP. II. Domestic concerns. Mr. TEMPLE was the youngest son of a nobleman, whose fortune was by no means ade- quate to the antiquity, grandeur, and, I may add, pride of the family. He saw his eider, brother made completely wretched, by marrying a disa- greeable woman, whose fortune helped to prop 7 the sinking dignity of the house ; and he beheld his sisters legally prostituted to old, decrepid men, whose titles gave them consequence in the eyes of the world, and whose affluence render- ed them splendidly miserable. ' I will not sacri- fice internal happiness for outward show,' said he : 4 1 will seek content ; and if I find her in a cottage, will embrace her with as much cordiali- ty 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 expenses within the limits of his income. He had a heart open to every gen- erous feeling of humanity, and a hand ready to dispense to those who wanted part of the bless- ings he enjoyed himself. As he was universally known to be the friend of the unfortunate, his advice and bounty was frequently solicited ; nor was it seldom that he sought out indigent merit, and raised it from ob- scurity, confining his own expenses within a very narrow compass. * You are a benevolent fellow,' said a young officer to him one day ; 4 and I have a great mind to give you a fine subject to exercise the goodness of your heart upon.' * You cannot oblige me more,' said Temple, 4 than to point any way by which I can be ser- viceable to my fellow creatures.' 4 Come along then,' said the young man, 4 we will go and visit a man who is not in so good a lodging as he deserves ,* and, were it not that he has an angel with him, who comforts and supr ports him, he must long since have sunk under his misfortunes.' The young man's heart was too full to proceed ; and Temple, unwilling to irritate his feelings by making further inquiries, followed him in silence, till they arrived at the . Fleet prison. The officer inquired for Captain Eldridge : a person led them up several pair of dirty stairs, and pointing to a door which led to a miserable, small appartment, said that was the Captain's room, and retired. The officer, whose name was Blakeney, tapped at the door, and was bid to enter by a voice me r lodiously soft. He opened the door and discovr ered to Temple a scene which rivetted him to the spot with astonishment, The appartment, though small, and bearing strong marks of poverty, was neat in the extreme. In an arm-chair, his head reclined upon his hand, his eyes fixed on a book which lay open before him, sat an aged man in a Lieutenant's uniform, which, though threadbare, would sooner call a blush of shame into the face of those who could neglect real merit, than cause the hectic of confu- sion to glow on the cheeks of him who wore it. Beside him sat a lovely creature, busied in painting a fan mount. She was fair as the lily, but sorrow had nipped the rose in her cheek be- fore it was half blown. Her eyes were blue ; and her hair, which was light brown, was slight- ly confined under a plain muslin cap, tied round with a black ribbon ; a white linen gown and plain lawn handkerchief, composed the remain- 9 der of her dress ; and in this simple attire, she was more irresistibly charming to such a heart as Temple's, than she would have been, if adorn- ed with all the splendour 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 being but three in the room, seated himself on the side of his little bed, with evident com- posure. * This is a strange place,' said he to Temple, * to receive visitors of distinction in ; but we must fit our feelings to our station. While I am not ashamed to own the cause that brought me here, why should I blush at my situation ? Our misfortunes are not our faults ; and were it not for that poor girl ' Here the philosopher was lost in the father. He rose hastily from his seat, and walking to- ward the window, wiped off a tear which he was afraid would tarnish the cheek of a sailor. Temple cast his eye on Miss Eldridge ; a pel- lucid drop had stolen from her eyes, and falien upon a rose she was painting. It blotted and discoloured the flower. ' 'Tis emblematic,' said he, mentally : ' the rose of youth and health soon fades when wattered 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 increase the pleasure of mv own.' 'My good young man,' said Eidrid^e, 'you kjiow not what you offer. While deprived of 10 my liberty, I cannot be free from anxiety on my own account ; but that is a trifling concern ; my anxious thoughts extend to one more dear a thou- sand times than life j lama poor weak old man, and must expect in a few years to sink into si- lence and oblivion ; but when I am gone, who will protect that fair bud of innocence from the blasts of adversity, or from the cruel hand of in- sult and dishonour V ' Oh, my father !' cried Miss Eldridge, ten- derly taking his hand | • be not anxious on that account ; for daily are my prayers offered to hea- ven that our lives may terminate at the same in- stant, and 'one grave receive us both : for why should I live when deprived of my only friend I* Temple was moved even to tears. ' You will both live many years,' said he, ' and I hope, to see much happiness. Cheerly, my friend, cheerly ; these passing clouds of adversity will serve only to make the sunshine of prosperity more pleas- ing. But we are losing time ; you might ere this have told me who were yqirr creditors, what were their demands, and otfyer particulars neces- sary to your liberation.* 4 My story is short,' said Mr. Eldridge ; * but there are some particulars which will wring my heart barely to. remember ; yet to one whose of- fers of friendship appear so open and disinter- ested, I will relate every circumstance that led to my present painful situation. But my child,' continued he, addressing his daughter, * let me prevail on you to take this opportunity, while my friends are with me, to enjoy the benefit of air and exercise. Go, my love;; leave me now; ii to-morrow, at your usual hour, I will expect you Miss Eldridge impressed on his cheek the kiss of fiilial affection, and obeyed^ CHAJP. III. Unexpected misfortunes. « MY life,' said Mr. Eldridge ; « till within these few years, was marked by no particular circumstances deserving notice. I early embrac- ed the life of a sailor, and have served my king with unremitting ardour for many years. At the age of twenty-five I married an amiable wo- man j one sOn and the girl who just now left us, were the fruits of our union. My boy had ge- nius and spirit. I straitened my little income to give him a liberal education, but the rapid progress he made in his studies amply compen- sated for the inconvenience. At the academy where he received his education, he commenced an acquaintance with a Mr. Lewis, a young man of affluent fortune. As they grew up, their in- timacy ripened into friendship, and they became almost inseparable companions. * George chose the profession of a soldier. I had neither friends ttor money to procure him a commission, and had Wished him to embrace a nautical life ; but this was repu'gnant to his wish- es, and I ceased to urge him on the subject. * The friendship subsisting between Lewis and my soli was of such a nature as gave him free 12 arecess to oar 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 to us with attention, and of- fered to advance any sum necessary for his first setting out. 4 1 embraced this 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 convenient to myself. About this time my dear Lucy returned from school, and I soon began to imagine Lewis look- ed at her with eyes of affection. I gave my child a caution, to beware of him, and to look on her mother as her friend. She was unaffectedly art- less ; and when, as I suspected, Lewis made professions of love, she confided in her parents, and assured us her heart was perfectly unbiassed in his favour, and she would cheerfully submit to our direction. 4 1 took an early opportunity of questioning him concerning his intentions towards my child : he gave an equivocal answer, and I forbade him the house. 1 The next day he sent and demanded pay- ment of his money. It was not in my power to comply with the demand. I requested three days to endeavour to raise it, determining in that time to mortgage my half pay, and live on a small annuity which my wife possessed, rather than be under an obligation to so worthless a man : but this short time was not allowed me ; for that evening, as I was sitting down to sup- per, unsuspicious of danger, an officer entered, and tore me from the embraces of my family. 13 c My wife had been for some time in a declin- ing state of health ; ruin at once so unexpected and inevitable, was a stroke she was not prepar- ed to bear, and I saw her faint into the arms of our servant, as I left my own habitation for the comfortless walls of a prison. My poor Lucy, distracted with her fears for us both, sunk on the floor and endeavoured to detain me by her feeble efforts ; but in vain ; they forced open her arms ; she shrieked, and fell prostrate. But pardon me ; the horrors of that night unman me ; I cannot proceed.' He rose from his seat, and walked several times across the room ; at length, attaining more composure, he cried — ' What a mere infant lam ! Why, Sir, I never felt thus in the day of battle.' * No,' said Temple ; l but the truly brave soul is tremblingly alive to the feelings of humanity.' * True,' replied the old man, (something like satisfaction darting across his features,) 'and painful as these feelings are, I would not ex- change them for that torpor which the stoic mis- takes for philosophy. How many exquisite de- lights should I have passed by unnoticed, but for these keen sensations, this quick sense of happi- ness or misery ! Then, let us, my friend, 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 unto the evil, and pre- sume not to inquire why the latter predominates*' 'This is true philosophy,' said Temple. c 'Tis the only w r ay to reconcile ourselves to the cross events of life,' replied he. * But I for- get myself. I will no longer intrude on your pa- tience, but proceed in my melancholy tale. B 14 1 The very evening that I was taken to prison, my son arrived from Ireland, where he had been some time with his regiment. From the distract- ed expressions of his mother and sister, he learnt by whom I had been arrested ; and, late as it was, flew on the wings of wounded affection, to the house of his false friend, and earnestly in- quired the cause of this cruel conduct. With all the calmness of a cool deliberate villain, he avow- ed 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 on her, if George would persude her to live, as he impiously termed it, a life of honour. 4 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 neighbourhood and wrote a long affectionate let- ter to me, blaming himself severely for having introduced Lewis into the family, or permitted him to confer an obligation which had brought ruin upon us all. He begged me, whatever might be the event of the ensuing morning, not to suf- fer regret or unavailing sorrow for his fate, to increase the anguish of my heart, which he great- ly feared was already insupportable. 4 This letter was delivered to me early in the morning. It would be in vain to attempt des- cribing my feelings on the perusal of it ,* suffice it to say, that a merciful Providence interposed* and I was for three weeks insensible to miseries almost beyond the strength of human nature to support* 15 * A fever and strong delirium seized me, and my life was despaired of. At length, nature, overpowered with fatigue, gave way to the salu- tary power of rest, and a quiet slumber of some hours restored me to reason, though the extreme weakness of my frame prevented my feeling my distress so accutely as I otherwise should. 'The first object that struck me on awaking, was Lucy sitting by my bed side ; her pale coun- tenance and sable dress prevented my inquiries for poor George ; for the letter I had received from him was the first thing that occurred to my memory. By degrees the rest returned. Ire- collected being arrested, but could, no way ac- count for being in this appartment, whither they had conveyed me during my illness. ' 1 was so weak as to be almost unable to speak, pressed Lucy's hand, and looked earnestly round the apartment, in search of another dear object. ' Where is your mother V said I, faintly. * The poor girl could not answer : she shook her head in expressive silence ; and throwing herself on the bed, folded her arms about me, an J burst into tears. * What ! both gone V said I. * Both,' she replied, endeavouring 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. \ CHAP. IV. Change of fortune, c IT was some days,' continued Mr. Fldridge, recovering himself, • before I could venture to inquire the particulars of what had happened during my illness. A,t length I assumed cou- rage to ask my dear girl 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 greatly agi- tated at parting, but gave them strict charge to keep up their spirits, and hope every thing would turn out for the best. In about two hours after, as they were sitting at breakfast, and endeavour- ing to strike out some plan to obtain 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 had lift- ed him from a litter, on which they had brought him from the place where he fought. Her poor mother, weakened by illness and the struggles of the preceding night, was not able to support this shock ; gasping for her breath, her looks wild and haggard, she reached the apartment where they had carried her dying son. She knelt by the bed side, and taking his cold hand, c my poor boy,' said she, ' I will not be parted from thee ; husband ! son ! both at once lost. Fa- ther of mercies, spare me !' She fell into a stron r convulsion, and expired in about two hours, the meantime, a surgeon had dressed Geor ~ 17 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. 'JLate as it was when this event took place, my affectionate Lucy insisted on coming to me. 1 What must he feel,' said she, 'at our apparent neglect ; how shall I inform him of the afflictions with which it has pleased heaven to visit us ?' 4 She left the care of the dear departed ones to some neighbours, who had kindly come in to comfort and assist her ; and on entering the house where I was confined, found me in the situation I have mentioned. 4 How she supported herself in these trying moments, I know not ; heaven, no doubt, was with her ; and her anxiety to preserve the life of one parent, in some measure abated her afflic- tion for the loss of the other. 4 My circumstances were greatly embarrassed, my acquaintance few, and those few utterly un- able to assist me. When my wife and son were committed to the kindred earth, my creditors seized my house and furniture, which not being sufficient to discharge all their demands, detain- ers were lodged against me. No friend stepped forward to my relief. From the grave of her mother, my beloved Lucy followed an almost dying father to this melancholy place. 4 Here we have been nearly a year and a half. My half-pay I have given up to satisfy my cre- ditors, and my child supports me by her indus- try — sometimes by fine needle-work, sometimes by painting. She leaves me every night, and B-2 18 goes to a lodging 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. 4 We are all the world to each other,' said she ; ' I thank God, I have health and spirits to improve the talents with which nature has endowed me ; and I trust if I employ them in the support of a beloved 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 resignation to bear the separation as we ought ; till then I will never leave him.' 4 But where is this inhuman persecutor V said Temple. 4 He has been abroad ever since,' replied the old man ; 4 but he has left orders with his law- yer never to give up the note till the utmost far- thing is paid.' ' And how much is the amount of your debt in all r' said Temple. * Five hundred pounds,' he replied. Temple started j it was more than he expect- ed. 4 But something must be done,' said he : • that sweet maid must not wear out her life in a pri- son. I will see you again to-morrow, my friend,' said he, shaking Eldridge's hand : 4 keep up your spirits ; light and shade are not more happily blended than are the pleasures and pains of life ; and the horrors of the one serve only to increase the splendour of the other.' 4 You never lost a wife and son,' sa?d Eldridgc. 19 < No,' replied he, c but I can feel for those thai have.' Eldridge pressed his hand as they went toward the door, and they parted in silence. When they got without the walls of the pri- son, Temple thanked his friend Blakeney for in- troducing him to so worthy a character ; and telling him he had a particular engagement in the city, wished him a good evening. ' And what is to be done for this distressed man V said Temple, as he walked up Ludgate Hill. ' Would to heaven I had a fortune that would enable me instantly to discharge his debt 3 what exquisite transport, to see the expressive eyes of Lucy beaming at once with pleasure for her father's deliverance, and gratitude for her deliverer : but is not my fortune affluence,' con- tinued he, ' nay superfluous wealth, when com- pared to the extreme indigence of Kldridge ; and what have I done to deserve ease and plenty, while a brave worthy officer starves in prison £ Three hundred a year is surely sufficient for all my wants and wishes : at any rate Eldridge must be relieved.' When the heart has will, the hands can soon iind means to execute a good action. Temple was a young man, his feelings warm and impetuous ; unacquainted with the world, his heart had not been rendered callous by being convinced of its fraud and hypocrisy. He pitied their sufferings, overlooked their faults, thought every bosom as generous as his own, and would cheerfully have divided his last guinea with an unfortunate fellow creature. No wonder then that such a man (without 20 waiting a moment for the interference of Madam Prudence) should resolve to raise money suffi- cient for the relief of Eldridge, by mortgaging part of his fortune. We will not inquire too minutely into the cause which might actuate him in this instance : suffice it to say, he immediately put the plan in execution ; and in three days from the time he first saw the unfortunate Lieutenant, he had the superlative felicity of seeing him at liberty, and receiving an ample reward in the tearful eye and half articulated thanks of the grateful Lucy. 1 And pray young man,' said his father to him one morning, ' what are your designs in visiting thus constantly that old man and his daughter.' Temple was at a loss for a reply : he had ne- ver asked himself the question ; he hesitated, and his father continued ' It was not till within these few days that I heard in what manner your acquaintance first commenced, and cannot suppose any thing but attachment to the daughter could carry you such imprudent lengths for the father : it certainly must be her art that drew you in to mortgage part of your fortune.' 4 Art, Sir !' cried Temple eagerly. I Lucy El- dridge is as free from art as she is from every other error : she is ' 4 Every thing that is amiable and lovely,' said his father, interrupting him ironically : 'no doubt in your opinion she is a pattern of excellence for all her sex to follow ; but come, Sir, pray tell me what are your designs towards this paragon. I hope you do not intend to complete your folly by marrying her.' 21 4 Were my fortune such as would support her according to her merit, I do not know a woman more formed to ensure happiness in the married state.' 4 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, hav- ing only an estate of three 'thousand a year, is more upon a level with you, and whose father yesterday solicited the mighty honour of your alliance. I shall leave you to consider 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 man- ner out of the room ; and Temple stood almost petrified with astonishment, contempt and rage. CHAP. V. Such things are. , MISS WEATHERBY was the only child of a wealthy man, almost idolized by her parents, flattered by her dependents, and never contra- dicted 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 q-low, Whose heart ne'er felt another's woe. 22 Whose hand ne'er smooth'd the bed of pain, Or eas'd the captive's grilling" 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 nature could make it, but her mind uncultivat- ed, her heart unfeeling, her passions impetuous, and her brain almost turned with flattery, dissi- pation, 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 fancy- ing she could never be happy without him, nor once imagining he could refuse a girl of her beauty and fortune, she prevailed on her fond fa- ther ttfoffer the alliance to the old Earl of D , Mr. Temble'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 impediment to the friendship he possess- ed for Eldridge and his daughter. Unfortunately for Temple, he thought quite otherwise ; the conversation he had just had with his father, discovered to him the situation of his heart : and he found that the most afflu- ent fortune would bring no increase of happiness unless Lucy Eldridge shared it with him ; and the knowledge of the purity of her sentiments, 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 be- cause the affluence of her fortune would enable 23 him to injure her by maintaining in splendour the woman to whom his heart was devoted : he therefore resolved to refuse Miss Weatherby, and be the event what it might, offer his heart and hand to Lucy Eldridge. Full of this determination, he sought his fa- ther, declared his resolution, and was command- ed never more to appear in his presence. Tem- ple bowed : his heart was too full to permit him to speak : he left the house precipitately, and hastened to relate the cause of his sorrows 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 Weather- by's favour. 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 pro- testant nunnery with her fortune ; and by com- mencing abbess, shut herself up from the sight of cruel, ungrateful man forever. Her father was a man of the world ; he suf- fered 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 colours the surprise and vexation of Temple when he should see her figuring as a Countess and his mother-in-law, and begged her to con- sider well before she made any rash vows. The distressed fair one dried her tears, listen- ed patiently, and at length declared she believ- 24 ed the surest method to revenge the slight put upon her by the son would be to accept the fa- ther ; so said, so done, and in a few days she became the Countess of D . Temple heard the news with emotion : he had lost his father's favour by avowing his passion for Lucy, and he saw now there was no hope of regaining it ; ' but he shall not make me miser- able,' said he ; 4 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 shall have sufficient, not only for the comfort, but many of the little elegancies of life. We will purchase a little cottage, my Lu- cy,' said he, * and thither, with your revered fa- ther, we will retire ; we will forget there are such things as splendour, profusion and dissipa- tion ; we will have some cows, and you shall be queen of the dairy ; in a morning, while I look after my garden, you shall take a basket on your arm, and sally forth to feed your poultry ; and as they flutter round you in token of 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 own heart, as shall make him forget he had ever been unhappy. Lucy smiled ; and Temple saw it was a smile of approbation. He sought and found a cottage suited to his taste : thither, attended by Love and Hymen, the happy trio retired : where, dur- ing many years of uninterrupted felicity, they cast not a wish beyond the little boundaries of their own tenement. Plenty, and her handmaid 25 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 pillows. 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 permitted to finish the education her mother had begun, at Madame Du Pont's school, where we first introduced her to the acquaint- ance of the reader. CHAP. VI. An intriguing teacher. MADAME DU PONT was a woman every way calculated to take the care of young ladies^ had that care devolved on herself; but it was impossible to attend the enducation of a nu- merous school without proper assistants; and those assistants were not always the kind of peo- ple whose conversation and morals were exactly such as parents of delicacy and refinement would wish a daughter to copy. Among the teachers at Madame Du Pont's school, was Mademoi- selle La Rue, who added to a pleasing person an insinuating address, a liberal education and the manners of a gentlewoman. She was recom- mended to the school by a lady whose humanity overstepped the bounds of discretion ; for though she knew Miss La Rue had eloped from a con- vent with a young officer, and on coining to Eng- C 26 land, had lived with several different men in open defiance of all moral and religious duties ; yet, finding her reduced to the most abject want, ar &* believing the penitence which she professed to be sincere, she took her into her own family, and from thence recommended her to Madame Du Pont, as thinking the situation more suitable for a woman of her abilities. But Mademoiselle possessed too much of the spirit of intrigue to remain long without adventures. At church, where she constantly appeared, her person at- tracted the attention of a young man who was upon a visit at a gentleman's seat in the neigh- bourhood ; she met him several times clan- destinely ; and being invited to come out that evening, and eat some fruit and pastry in a sum- mer-house belonging to the gentleman he was visiting, and requested to bring some of the la- dies with her, Charlotte, being her favourite, was fixed on to accompany her. The mind of youth eagerly catches at promis- ed pleasure; pure and innocent by nature, it thinks not of the dangers lurking beneath those pleasures, till too late to avoid them ; when Ma- demoiselle asked Charlotte to go with her, she mentioned the gentleman as a relation, and spoke in such high terms of the elegance of his gar- den : the sprightliness of his conversation, and the ii w - 'ity with which he ever entertained his. guests, what Charlotte thought only of the plea-, sure she should enjoy in the visit, — not on the imprudence of going without her governess' knowledge, or of the danger to which she ex- posed herself in visiting the house of a gay young man of fashion. 27 Madame Du pont was going out for the even- ing and the rest of the ladies retired to rest, when Charlotte and the teacher stole out at the back gate, and in crossing the field were : accos - ed by Montraville, as mentioned in the first Ch Charlotte was disappointed in the pleasure she had promised herself from this visit. The levi- tv of the gentleman and the freedom of their conversation disgusted her. She was astonish- ed at the liberties Mademoiselle permitted them to take ;-grew thoughtful and uneasy, and heartily wished herself at home again in her own chamber. . , Perhaps one cause of that wish might be, an earnest desire to see the contents of the le tet which had been put into her hand by Montra- 1 Any reader who has the least knowledge of the world, will easily imagine the letter was made up of encomiums on the beauty, and vows ot everlasting love and constancy; nor will he be surprised that a heart open to every gentle, gen- erous sentiment, should feel itself warmed by cratitude for a man who professed to teel so much for her. Nor is it improbable but her mind might revert to the agreeable person and martial appearance of Montraville. In affairs of love, a young heart is never ra more danger than when attempted by a hand- some young soldier. A man of an indifferent appearance will, when arrayed in military habit, shew to advantage ; but when beauty of person, elegance of manners, and an easy method ot pay* 28 ing compliments, are united to the scarlet coat* smart cockade, and military sash, ah ! well-a-day for a poor girl who gazes on him ; she is in im- minent danger; but if she listens to him with pleasure, 7 tis all over with her, and from that * moment she has neither eyes nor ears for any other object. Now, my dear sober matron, (if a sober ma- tron should deign to turn over these pages, be- fore she trusts them to the eye of a darling daughter) let me entreat you not to put on a grave face, and throw down the book in a pas- sion and declare 'tis enough to turn the heads of half the girls in England ; I do solemnly protest, my dear madam, I mean no more by what I have here advanced, than to ridicule those ro- mantic girls who foolishly imagine a red coat and silver epaulette constitute the fine gentle- man : and should that fine gentleman make half a dozen fine speeches to them, they will imagine themselves so much in love as to fancy it a me- ritorious action to jump out of a two pair of stairs window, abandon their friends, and trust entirely to the honour of a man, who, perhaps, hardly knows the meaning of the word, and if he does, will be too much the modern man of refinement, to practise it in their favour. Gracious heaven ! when I think on the mise- ries that must rend the heart of a doating parent, when he sees the darling of his age at first se- duced from his protection, and afterwards aban- doned, by the very wretch whose promises of love decoyed her from her paternal roof—when he sees her poor and wretched, her bosom torn 29 between remorse for her crime, and love for her vile betrayer — when fancy paints to me the good old man stooping to raise the weeping penitent, while every tear from her eye is numbered by drops from his bleeding heart, my bosom glows with honest indignation, and I wish for power to extirpate those monsters of seduction from the earth. Oh my dear girls, for to such only am I writ- ing, listen not to the voice of love, unless sanc- tioned by paternal approbation ; be assured it is now past the days of romance ; no woman can be run away with contrary to her own inclina- tion ; then kneel down each morning, and re- quest kind heaven to keep you free from temp- tation, or, should it please to suffer you to be tried, pray for fortitude to resist the impulse of inclination when it runs counter to the precepts of religion and virtue. CHAP. VII. Natural sense of propriety inherent in the female bosom, 4 1 CANNOT think w* have done exactly right in going out this evening, Mademoiselle,' said Charlotte, seating herself when she entered her apartment, 'nay, lam sure it was not right; for I expected to be very happy, but was sadly disappointed.' 'It was your own fault, then,' replied Made- moiselle, ' for I am sure my cousin omitted no- C-2 thing, that could serve to render the evening agreeable.' 4 True/ said Charlotte, c but I thought the gen- tlemen were very free in their manner ; I won- der you could suffer them to behave as they did.' c Prithee do not be such a foolish little prude,' said the artful woman, affecting anger ; * I invit- ed you to go, in hopes it would divert you, and be an agreeable change of scene ; however, if your delicacy was hurt by the behaviour of the gentlemen, you need not go again ; so there let it rest.' * I do not intend ta ga again,' said Charlotte, gravely taking off her bonnet, and beginning to prepare for bed : ' I am sure, if Madame Ou 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, c perhaps your mighty sense of propriety may lead you to tell her yourself; and in order to avoid the censure you would incur, should she hear of it by accident, throw the blame on me : But I confess I deserve it ; it will be a very kind return for that partia- lity which led me to prefer you before any of the rest of the ladies ; but perhaps it will give you pleasure,' continued she, letting fall some hypocritical tears, * to see me deprived of bread, and for an action which, by the most rigid, could only be esteemed an inadvertency, lose my place and character, and be turned again into the world, where I have already suffered all the evils atten- dant on poverty.' This was touching Charlotte in the mo*t vul- 31 nefable part : she rose from her seat, and taking Mademoiselle's hand — * You know my dear La Rue,' said she, 4 1 love you too well to do any thing that would injure you in my governess* opinion ; I am only sorry we went out this even- ing.' 8 1 do not believe it Charlotte,' said she assum- ing a little vivacity ; * if you had not gone out you would not have seen the gentleman who met us crossing the field ; I rather think you was pleased with his conversation.' ' I had seen him once before,' replied Char* lotte, * and thought him an agreeable man ; and you know one is always pleased to see a persons with whom one has passed several cheerful hours. But,' said she, pausing, and drawing the letter from her pocket, while a gentle suffusion of ver- milion tinged her neck and face, ' he gave me this letter; what shall I do with it?' • Read It, to be sure,' returned Mademoiselle* 'I am afraid I ought not,' said Charlotte ; 6 my mother has often told me, I should never read a letter given me by a young man, without first giving it to her.' • Lord bless you, rrfy dear girl,' cried the teach- er, smiling, « have you a mind to be in leading strings all your lifetime I Prithee, open the let- ter, read it, and judge for yourself ; if you show it 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.' • I should not like to leave school yet,' repli- ed Charlotte^ 'until I have attained a greater 32 proficiency in my Italian and 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 propriety, enter into a clandestine correspondence with him.' She laid the letter on a table, and began to undress herself. * Well,' said La Rue, * I vow you are an un- accountable girl ; have you no curiosity to see the inside now ? For my part, I could no more let a letter addressed to me lie unopened so long, than I could work miracles. He writes a good hand,' continued she, turning the letter to look at the superscription. 4 'Tis well enough,' said Charlotte, drawing it towards her. 4 He is a genteel young fellow,' said La Rue, carelessly, folding up her apron at the same time, 4 but I think he is marked with the small-pox.' * Oh, you are greatly mistaken,' said Char- lotte, eagerly ; 4 he has a remarkable clear skin and fine complexion.' 4 His eyes, if I could judge by what I saw/ said La Rue, ' are grey, and want expression.' 4 By no means,' replied Charlotte ; they are the most expressive eyes I ever saw.' 4 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 cither see or hear from him again.' Charlotte took up the letter, and Mademoi- selle continued — 4 He is most probably going to America ; and if ever you should hear any account of him, it S3 may be that he is killed ; and though he loved you ever so fervently, though his last breath be spent in a prayer for your happiness* it ean be nothing to you ; you can feel nothing for the fate of a man, whose letters you will not open, and whose sufferings you will not alleviate, by per- mitting him to -think you would remember him when absent, and pray for his safety ^ Charlotte still held the letter in her hand ; hetf heart swelled at the conclusion of Mademoiselle's speech, and a tear dropped upon the wafer that closed it. 4 The wafer is not dry yet/ said she, * and sure there can be no great harm'— she hesitated«*~L« Rue was silent. I may read it, Mademoiselle^ and return it afterwards.' * Certainly,' replied Mademoiselle. * At any rate, I am 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 I am, that when once a woman has stifled the sense of shame in her own bosom, when once she has lost sight of that basis on which reputation, honour, 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 shock- ing level with herself ; and this proceeds from that diabolical spirit of envy* which repines at seeing another in the full possession of that res- pect and esteem which she can no longer hope to enjoy. Mademoiselle eyed the unsuspecting Charlotte^ 34 • as she perused the letter, with a malignant plea- sure. She saw that the contents had awakened new emotions in her youthful bosom : she en- couraged her hopes, calmed her fears, and before they parted for the night, it was determined that she should meet Montraville the ensuing evening. CHAP. VIII. Domestic pleasures planned. J I THINK, my dear,' said Mrs. Temple, laying her hand on her husband's arm, as they were walking together in the garden, I think next Wednesday is Charlotte's birth day ; now I have formed a little scheme in my mind to give her an agreeable 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 ap- probation, and she proceeded — 4 You know the little alcove at the bottom of the garden, of which Charlotte is so fond ; I have an inclination to deck this out in a fanciful manner, and invite all her little friends to partake of a collation of fruit, sweetmeats, and other things suitable to the gen- eral taste of young guests : and to make it more pleasing to Charlotte, she shall be mistress of the feast, and entertain her visitors in this alcove. I know she will be delighted ; and to complete all, they shall have some music, and finish with a dance.' 4 A very fine plan, indeed,' said Temple, smil- ing ; and you really suppose I will wink at you 35 indulging the girl in this manner ? you will quite spoil her, Lucy ; indeed you will.' 4 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 sweetly with the meek affection and submissive duty of the wife, that, as she paused, expecting her husband's answer, he gazed at her tenderly, and found he was un- able to refuse her request. * She is a good girl,' said Temple. 'She is indeed,' replied the fond mother ex- ultingly, ' a grateful, affectionate girl ; and I am sure will never lose sight of the duty she owes her parents.' ' If she does,' said he, ' she must forget the example set her by the best of mothers.' Mrs. Temple made no reply ; but the delight- ful sensation that dilated her heart, sparkled in her intelligent eyes, and heightened the Vermil- lion of her cheeks. t Of all the pleasures of which the human mind is sensible, there is none equal to that which warms and expands the bosom, when listening to the commendations bestowed on us by a be- loved object, and are conscious *>f having deserv- ed them. Ye giddy flatterers in the fantastic round of dissipation, who eagerly seek pleasure in the lof- ty dome, rich retreat, and midnight revel — tell me, ye thoughtless daughters of folly, have ye ever found the phantom you have so long sought with such unremitting assiduity ? Has she not always eluded your grasp ; and when you have.. 36 reached your hand to take the cup she extends to her deluded votaries, have you not found the long expected draught strongly tinctured with the bitter dregs of disappointment ? I know you have ; I see in the wan cheek, sunk eye, and air of chagrin, which ever mark the children of dis- sipation, Pleasure is a vain illusion ; she draws you on to a thousand follies, errors, and I may say vices, and then leaves you to deplore your thoughtless credulity. Look, my dear friends, at yonder lovely Vir- fin, arrayed in a white robe devoid of ornament; ehold the meekness of her countenance, the mo- desty of her gait ; her handmaids are Humility , Filial Piety , Conjugal Affection, Industry, and Benevolence ; her name is Content; she holds in her hand the cup of true felicity ; and when you have formed an acquaintance with these her at- tendants, you must admit them as your bosom friends and chief counsellors; then, whatever miy be your situation in life, the meek eyed Virgin will immediately take up her abode with you. Is poverty your portion ?~-she will lighten your labours, preside at your frugal board, and watch your quiet slumbers. Is your state mediocrity ? — she will heighten every blessing you enjoy, by informing you how grateful you should be to that bountiful Provi- dence who might have placed you in the most abject -situation ; and by teaching you to weigh your blessings against your deserts, show you Jiow much more you receive than you have a fcjght to expect* 37 Are you possessed of affluence ? — what an in- exhaustible fund of happinesss will she lay be- fore you ? To relieve the distressed, redress the injured, in short, to perform all the good work* of peace and mercy. Content, my dear friends, will blunt even the: arrows of adversity, so that they cannot mate- rially harm you. She will dwell in the humble cottage : she will attend you even to a prison. Her parent is Religion; her sisters are Patience and Hope. She will pass with you through life ; smoothing the rough paths, and tread to earth those thorns which every one must meet with as they journey onward to the appointed goal* She will soften the pains of sickness, continue with you even in the cold, gloomy hour of death* and, cheering you with the smiles of her heaven- born sister, Hope, lead you triumphant to a blissful eternity. I confess I have rambled from my story : but what of that ? If I have been so lucky as to find, the road to happiness, why should I be such a niggard 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 bickerings of anger, en- vy, and fifty other disagreeables to which frails mortality is subject, would wish to revenge the affront which pride whispers him he has receiv- ed. For my own part, I can safely declare, th«re is not a human ' being in the universe, whose prosperity I should not rejoice in, and to D 38 whose happiness I would not contribute to the utmost limit of my power : and may my offen- ces be no more remembered in the day of gen- eral retribution, than as from my soul I forgive every offence or injury received from a fellow creature. Merciful Heaven ! who would exchange the rapture of such a reflection for all the gaudy tinsel which the world calls pleasure. But to return.— Content dwelt in Mrs. Tem- ple's bosom, and spread a charming animation over her countenance, as her husband led her in, to lay the plan she had formed (for the cele- bration of Charlotte's birth day) before Mr. El- dridge. CHAP. IX. We know not what a day may bring forth. VARIOUS were the sensations which agi- tated the mind of Charlotte, during the day pre- ceding the evening in which she was to meet Montraville. Several times did she almost re- solve to go to her governess, show her letter and be guided by her advice : but Charlotte had ta- ken one step in the way of imprudence ; and when that is once done, there are always innu- merable obstacles to prevent the erring person returning to the path of rectitude ; yet those ob- stacles, however forcible they may appear in general, exist chiefly in the imagination. 39 Charlotte feared the anger of her governess 5 she loved her mother, and the very idea of in- curring her displeasure, gave her the greatest uneasiness ; but there was a more forcible rea- son still remaining : should she show the letter to Madame Du Pont,* she must confess the means by which it came into her possession ; and what would be the consequence ? Mademoi- selle would be turned out of doors, * I must not be ungrateful,' said she ; l La Rue is very kind to me 5 besides, I can, when I see Montraville, inform him of the impropriety of our continuing to see or correspond with each other, and request him to come no more to Chi- chester.' However prudent Charlotte might be in these resolutions, she certainly did not take a proper 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 contents sunk deeper into her heart. As evening drew near, she caught herself frequent- ly consulting her watch. J I wish this foolish meeting was over,' said she, by way of apology to her own heart, } I wish it was over; for when I have seen him and convinced him my resolu- tion is not to be shaken, I shall feel my mind much easier.' The appointed hour arrived. Charlotte and Mademoiselle eluded the eye of vigilance ; aad Montraville, who had waited their coming with impatience, received them with rapturous and unbounded acknowledgements for their conde- scension : he had wisely brought Belcour with 40 him to 'entertain Mademoiselle, while he enjoy- ed an uninterrupted conversation with Charlotte. Belcour was a man whose character might be comprised in a few words ; and as he will make some figure in the ensuing pages, I shall here describe him. He possessed a genteel fortune, and had a liberal education ; dissipated, thought- less, and capricious, he paid little regard to mo- ral duties, and less to religious ones ; eager in the pursuit of pleasure, he minded not the mise- ries he inflicted on others, provided his own wishes, however extravagant, were gratified. "Self, darling self, was the idol be worshipped, and to that he would have sacrificed the inter- est 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 same feelings, follow the same pursuits, and be equal- ly unworthy with the person to whom he thus 'gave his confidence ? But Montraville was a different character; generous in his disposition, liberal in his opi- nions, and good natured almost to a fault ; yet eager and impetuous in the pursuit of a favour- ite object, he staid not to reflect on the conse- quence which might follow the attainment of his wishes ; with a mind ever open to conviction, bad he been so fortunate as to possess a friend who would have pointed out the cruelty of en- deavouring to gain the heart of an innocent, art- less girl, when he knew it was utterly impossi- ble for him to marry her, and when the gratifi- cation of his passion would be unavoidable in- 41 ferny and misery to her, and a cause of never- ceasing remorse to himself: had these dreadful consequences been placed before him in a pro- per light, the humanity of his nature would have urged him to give up the pursuit : but Belcour was not this friend ; he rather encouraged the growing passion of Montraville; and being pleased with the vivacity of Mademoiselle, re- solved to leave no argument untried, which he thought might prevail on her to be the compa- nion of their intended voyage ; and he made no doubt but her example, added to the rhetoric of Montraville, would persuade Charlotte to go with them. Charlotte had, when she went out to meet Montraville, flattered herself that her resolution was not to be shaken, and that, conscious of the impropriety of her conduct, in having a clandes- tine intercourse with a stranger, she would ne- ver repeat the indiscretion. But alas ! poor Charlotte, she knew not the deceitfulness 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 I leave England ? will you not bless me by an assurance, that when we are di- vided by a vast expanse of sea, I shall not be forgotten ? Charlotte sighed. 4 Why that sigh, my dear Charlotte ? could I flatter myself that a fear for my safety, or a wish for my welfare occasioned it, how happy would it make me.' D2 42 * I shall ever wish you well Montravrlle,' said she ; 'but we must meet no more.' 1 Oh say not so, my lovely girl : reflect, that when I leave my native land, perhaps a few short week* may terminate my existence ; the perils of the ocean — the dangers of war — ' * I can hear no more,' said Charlotte, in a tre- snulous voice, • I must leave you.* * Say you will see me once again.' * I dare not,* said she. * Only for one half hour to-morrow evening ; 3t is my last request, I shall never trouble you again, Charlotte.' 4 1 know riot what to say,' cried Charlotte, struggling to draw her hands from him ; ' let me leave you now.' * And will you come to-morrow V. said Mon- traville. HPerhaps I may,' said she. * Adieu then, I will live upon that hope till we meet again.' He kissed her hand, . She sighed an adieu, and catching hold of Mademoiselle's arm, hasti- ly entered the garden gate. CHAP. X. When we have excited curiosity, it is but an act of good nature to gratify it. MONTRAVILLE was the youngest son cf a gentleman of fortune, whose family being numerous, he was obliged to bring up bis sons 43 to genteel professions, by the exercise of which they might hope to raise themselves into notice. fc My daughters/ said he, 4 have been educa- ted like gentlewomen ; and should I die before they are settled, they must have some provision made, to place them above the snares and temp- tations which vice ever holds out to the elegant, accomplished female, when oppressed by the frowns of poverty 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 commis^ sion, and made him a handsome provision for his private purse. ' Now, my boy, go, seek glo^ ry in the field of battle. You have received from me all I shall ever have it in my power to bestow; it is certain I have interest to gain you promotion, but be assured that interest shall ne- ver be exerted, unless by your future conduct you deserve it. Remember, therefore, your suc- cess in life depends entirely on yourself. There is one thing I think it my duty to caution you against; the precipitancy with which young men frequently rush into matrimonial engagements, and by their thoughtlessness draw many a de- serving woman into scenes of poverty and dis- tress. 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 penury and af- fliction. If, indeed, a woman whose fortune is 44 sufficient to preserve you in that state of inde- pendence I would teach you to prize, should ge- nerously bestow herself on a young soldier, whose chief hope of future prosperity depended on his success in the field— if such a woman should offer — every barrier is removed, and I should rejoice in an union which would promise so much felicity. But mark me, boy, if, on the contrary, you rush into a precipitate union with a girl of little or no fortune, take the poor crea- ture from a comfortable home and kind friends, and plunge her into all the evils a narrow income and increasing family can inflict, I will leave you to enjoy the blessed fruits of your rashness ; for, by all that is sacred, neither my interest nor for- tune shall ever be exerted in your favour. I am serious,' continued he, 'therefore imprint this consideration on your memory, and let it influ- ence your future conduct. Your happiness will always be dear to me; and I wish to wa v ~> you of a rock on which the peace of many an I eat fellow has been wrecked; for, believe me (he. difficulties and dangers of the longest winter campaign are much easier to be borne, than the pangs that would seize your heart, when you be- hold the woman of your choice, the children of your affection, involved in penury and distress, and reflect that your own folly and precipitancy had been the prime cause of their sufferings.' As this conversation passed but a few hours before Montraville took leave of his father, it was deeply impressed on his mind : when, there- fore, Belcour came with him to the place of as- signation with Charlotte, he directed him to in- 45 quire of the French woman what were Miss Temple's expectations with regard to fortune. Mademoiselle informed him, that though Charlotte's father possessed a genteel indepen- dence, 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. Tem- ple would agree to her union with a young man on the point of embarking for the seat of war. Montraville, therefore, concluded it was im- possible he should ever marry Charlotte Tem- ple ,• and what end he proposed to himself by continuing the acquaintance he had commenced with her, he djd not at that moment give him* self time to inquire. CHAP. XI. Conflict of love and duty. ALMOST a week was now gone, and Char- lotte continued every evening to meet Montra- ville, and in her heart every meeting was resolved to be the last; but alas! when Montraville, at part- ing, would earnestly entreat one more interview, that treacherous heart betrayed her ; and, for- getful of its resolution, pleaded the cause of the enemy so powerfully, that Charlotte was unable to resist. Another, and another meeting suc- ceeded; and so well did Montraville improve each opportunity, that the heedless girl at length 46 confessed that no idea could be so painful to her as that of never seeing him again. 4 Then we will never be parted,' said he. 4 Ah, Montraville,' replied Charlotte, forcing a smile, 4 how can it be avoided ? My parents would never consent to our union ; and even could they be brought to approve of it, how could I bear to be separated from my kind, my belov- ed mother ?' 1 Then you love your parents more than you do me, Charlotte ?' 'I hope I do,' said she, blushing and looking down. * I hope my affection for them will ever keep me from infringing the laws of filial duty.' 4 Well, Charlotte,' said Montraville gravely, and letting go her hand, 4 since this is the case, I find I have deceived myself with fallacious hopes. I had flattered my fond heart that I was dearer to Charlotte than any thing in the world beside. I thought that you would, for my sake, have braved the dangers of the ocean, thafcjrou would, by your affection and smiles, have soften- ed 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 ano- ther world. But, farewell, Charlotte ! I sep you never loved me. I shall now welcome the friend- ly ball that deprives me of the sense of my mi- sery.' 4 O stay, unkind Montraville,' cried she, catch- ing hold of his arm as he pretended to leave her, 4 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 kindness with 47 ingratitude, I would follow you through every danger, and, in studying to promote your hap- piness, ensure my own. But I cannot break my mother's heart, Montraville ; I must not bring the grey hairs of my doating grand-father with sorrow to the grave, or make my beloved father, perhaps, curse the hour that gave me birth.' She covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears. * All these distressing scenes, my dear Char- lotte,' cried Montraville, ' are merely the chime- ras of a disturbed fancy. Your parents might, perhaps, grieve at first, but when they heard from your own hand that you was with a man of honour, and that it was to ensure your felicity by a union with him, to which you feared they would never have given their assent, that you left their protection, they will, be assured, for- give an error which love alone occasioned, and when we return from America, receive you with open arms and tears of joy.' Belcour and Mademoiselle heard this last speech and conceiving it a proper time to throw in their advice and persuasions, approached Char- lotte, and so well seconded the entreaties of Mon- traville, that, finding Mademoiselle intended go- ing with Belcour, and feeling her own treacher- ous heart too much inclined to accompany them, the hapless Charlotte, in an evil hour, consented that the next evening they should bring a chaise to the end of the town, and that she would leave her friends, and throw herself entirely on the protection of Montraville. * But should you/ said she, looking earnestly at him, her eyes full 48 of tears, * should you, forgetful of your promises, and repenting of the engagements you here vo- luntarily enter into, forsake and leave me on a foreign shore ' ' Judge not so meanly of me,' said he. * The moment we reach the place of our destination, Hymen shall sanctify our love ; and when I shall forget your goodness, may heaven forget me.' 4 Ah,' said Charlotte, leaning on Mademoi- selle's arm, as they walked up the garden toge- ther, 4 1 have forgot all that I ought to have re- membered, in consenting to this intended elope- ment.' ' You are a strange girl,' said Mademoiselle; c 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 suppose, you repent having ensured that happiness by agreeing to accompa- ny him abroad.' * Indeed I do repent,' replied Charlotte, * from my soul ; but while discretion points out the im- propriety of my conduct, inclination urges me on to ruin.' 4 Ruin ! fiddlestick !' said Mademoiselle ; * am not I going with you ? and do I feel any of these qualms ?' 4 You 3o not renounce a tender father and mo- ther,' said Charlotte. 'But I hazard my dear reputation,' replied Mademoiselle, bridling. * True,' replied Charlotte, * but you do not feel what I do.' She then bade her good night ; but sleep was a stranger to her eyes, and the tear of -^cuish watered her pillo w . 49 CHAP. 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 thou art fallen ! WHEN Charlotte left her restless bed, her languid eye and pale cheek discovered to Ma- dame Du Pont the little repose she had tasted. 4 Ny dear child,' said the affectionate govern- ess, * what is the cause of the languor so appa- rent in your frame ? are you not well ?' 4 Yes, my dear Madam, very well,' replied Charlotte, attempting to smile ; ' but I know not how it was, I could not sleep last night, and- my spirits are depressed this morning.' ' Come, cheer up my love,' said the govern- ess, 4 1 believe I have brought a cordial to revive them. I have just received a letter from your good mama, and here is one for yourself.' Charlotte 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 a maternal heart, I have requested your governess to let you come home and spend it with us; and as I know you to be a good affectionate child, and make it your study to improve in those branches of edu- cation which you know will give most pleasure to your delighted parents, as a reward for your dili- gence ana attention, I have prepared an agreeable surprise for your reception. Your grand-father, ea- ger to embrace the darling of his aged heart, will so Come in the chaise for you ; so hold yourself in rea- diness to attend him by nine o'clock. Your dear father joins in every tender wish for your health and future felicity, which warms the heart of my Char- lotte's affectionate mother. L. TEMPLE." ' Gracious heaven !' cried Charlotte, forget- ting where she was, and raising her streaming eyes, as in earnest supplication. Madame Du Pont was surprised. 'Why these tears my love ?' said she. * Why this seeming agitation ? I thought the letter would have re- joiced, instead of distressing you.' 4 It does rejoice me,' replied Charlotte, endea- vouring at composure, ' but I was praying for merit to deserve the unremitted attentions of the best of parents.' * You do right,' said Madame Du Pont, * to ask the assistance of heaven that you may con- tinue to deserve their love. Continue, my dear Charlotte, in the course you have ever pursued, and you will ensure at once their happiness and your own.' 4 Oh !' cried Charlotte, as her governess left her, * I have forfeited both forever ! Yet, let me reflect ; the irrevocable step is not yet taken ; it is not too late to recede from the brink of a pre- cipice, from which I can only behold the dark abyss of ruin, shame, and remorse !' She rose from her seat and flew to the apart- ment of La Rue. * Oh Mademoiselle !' said she, * I am snatched by a miracle from destruction ! This letter has saved me ; it has opened my eyes to the folly I was so near committing. I wilt not go, Mademoiselle ; I will not wound the $1 hearts of those dear parents who make my hap- piness the whole study of their lives.' *■ Well,' said Mademoiselle, 'do as you please, Miss ; but pray understand that my resolution is taken, and it is not in your power to alter it. I shall meet the gentlemen at the appointed hour, and shall not be surprised at any outrage which Montraville may commit, when he finds himself disappointed. Indeed, I should not be astonish- ed was he to come immediately here, and re- proach you for your instability in the hearing of the whole school ; and what will be the conse- quence ? you will bear the odium of having form- ed the resolution of eloping, and every girl of spirit will laugh at your want of fortitude to put into execution, while prudes and fools will load you with reproach and contempt. You will have lost 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 ? (for such, no doubt, you think it is) you will have the pleasure to reflect, that you have deceived the man who adores you, and whom, in your heart, you prefer to all other men, and that you are separated from him forever.' This eloquent harangue was given with such volubility, that Charlotte could not find an op- portunity to interrupt her, or to offer a single word till 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 adher- 52 ing to the resolution of remaining behind, assure him of her affection, and bid him adieu. Charlotte formed this plan in her mind, and exulted in the certainty of its success. 4 How shall I rejoice,' said she, 4 in this triumph of rea- son over inclination, and when in the arms of my affectionate parents, lift up my soul in gra- titude to heaven as I look back on the dangers I j have escaped !' The hour of assignation arrived : Mademoi* selle put what money and valuables she possess- ed in her pocket, and advised Charlotte to do the same ; but she refused ; ' my resolution is fixed,' said she ; 4 I will sacrifice love to duty.' Mademoiselle smiled internally; and they I proceeded softly down the back stairs, and out of the garden gate, Montraville and Belcour were ready to receive them. 4 Now,' said Montraville, taking Charlotte in his arms, * you are mine forever.' 4 No,' said she, withdrawing from his embrace, c I am come to take an everlasting farewell.' It would be useless to repeat the conversation that here ensued; suffice it to say that Montra- ville used every argument that had formerly been successful. Charlotte's resolution began to wa- ver, and he drew her almost imperceptibly to- wards the chaise. 4 1 cannot go,' said she ; c cease dear Montra- ville to persuade. I must not ; religion, duty, forbid.' 4 Cruel Charlotte,' said he, 4 if you disappoint my ardent hopes, by all that is sacred, this hand shall put a period to my existence. I cannot, will not live without you.' 57 of my aged heart is lost. would to heaven I had died but yesterday.' A violent gush of grief in some measure reliev- ed him, and after several vain attempts, he at length assumed sufficient composure to read the note. ' And how shall I return to my children V said he ; *■ how approach that mansion, so late the ha- bitation of peace ? Alas ! my dear Lucy, how will you support these heart-rending tidings ? or how shall I be enabled to console you, who need so much consolation myself?' 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 himself in the chaise ; his venerable head reclined upon his bosom, his hands were folded, his eye fixed on vacancy, and the large drops of sorrow rolled silently down his cheeks. There was a mixture of anguish and resignation depicted in his countenance, as if he would 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 con- stitutes that felicity should be torn from him. CHAP. XIV. Maternal sorrow. SLQW and heavy passed the time while the carriage was conveying Mr. Eldridge home ', and yet when he arrived in sight of the house, SB he wished a longer reprieve from the dreadful task of informing Mr. and Mrs. Temple of their daughter's elopement. It is easy to judge the anxiety of these affec- tionate parents, when they found the return of their father delayed so much beyond the expect- ed time. They were now met in the dining par- lour, and several of the young people who had been invited were already arrived. Each dif- ferent 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 re- ceive and welcome her darling ; her young com- panions flocked round 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 Mr* Temple, in breathless agitation* Mr. Eldridge could not answer ; he took hold of his daughter's hand and led her into the house ; and sinking into the first chair he came to, burst into tears, and sobbed aloud. • She is dead,' cried Mrs. Temple. ' Oh, my dear Charlotte V 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 in- deed his Charlotte was no more. Mr. Eldridge led him into another apartment, and putting the fatal note into his hand, cried — c Bear it like a christian,' and turned from him, endeavouring to suppress his own too visible emotions. It would be vain to attempt describing what 59 Mr. Temple felt whilst he hastily ran over the dreadful lines ; when he had finished, the paper dropped from his unnerved hand. ' Gracious heaven !' said he, ' could Charlotte act thus ??— * Neither tear nor sigh escaped him; and he sat the image of mute sorrow, till roused from his stupor by the repeated shrieks. of Mrs. Temple, He rose hastily, and rushing into the apartment where she was, folded his arms about her, and saying, c Let us be patient, my dear Lucy,' na- ture relieved his almost bursting heart by a friendly gush of tears. Should any one, presuming on his own philo- sophic temper, look with an eye of contempt on the man who could indulge a woman's weakness, let him remember that man was a father, and he will then pity the misery which wrung those drops from a noble, generous heart. Mrs. Temple beginning to be a little more composed, but still imagining her child was dead, her husband gently f tdok her hand, cried, 4 You ^re mistaken, my love ; Charlotte is not dead,' 4 Then she is very ill, else why did she not come ? But I will go to her ; the chaise is still at the door ; let me go instantly to the dear girl. If I was ill she would fly 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. l You must not go, in* deed you must not ; it will be of no use.' ff^ 4 Temple,' said she assuming a look qf firm- ness and composure, * tell me the truth, I beseech you. I cannot bear this dreadful suspense. What misfortune has befallen my child ? iLet me know 60 the worst, and I will endeavour to bear it as I ought.' ' Lucy,' replied Mr. Temple, c imagine your daughter alive, and in no danger of death ; what misfortune would you then dread ?* * There is one misfortune which is worse than death. But I know my child too well to suspect — ' * Be not too confident, Lucy. 5 1 Oh heavens !' said she, ' what horrid images do you start ; is it possible she should forget — V 4 She has forgotten us all, my love ; she has preferred the love of a stranger to the affection- ate protection of her friends.' 4 Not eloped !' said she eagerly. Mr. Temple was silent. 4 You cannot contradict it,' said she ; * I see my 'fate in those tearful eyes. Oh Charlotte! Charlotte ! how ill have you requited our ten- derness] But, Father of Mercies,' continued she, sinking on her knees, and raising her stream- ing eyes and clasped hands to heaven, * this once vouchsafe to hear a fond, a distracted mother's prayer. Oh let thy bounteous Providence watch over and protect the dear thoughtless girl, save her from the miseries which 1 fear will be her portion; and oh! of thine infinite mercy, make her not a mother, lest she should one day feel what I now suffer.' The last words faultered on her tongue, and she fell fainting into the arms of her husband, who had involuntarily dropped on his knees by her side. A mother's anguish, when disappointed in her tenderest hopes, none but a mother can conceive^ 61 Yet, my young readers, I would have you read this scene with attention, and reflect that you may yourselves one day be mothers. Oh ! my friends as you value your eternal happiness, wound not, by thoughtless ingratitude, the peace of the mother who bore you : remember the tenderness, the care, the unremitting anxiety with which she has attended to all your wants and wishes from earliest infancy to the present day ; behold the mild ray of affectionate applause that beams from her eye on the performance of your duty ; listen to her reproofs with silent at- tention ; they proceed from a heart anxious for your future felicity : you must love her ; nature, all-powerful nature, has planted the seeds of fili- al affection in your bosoms. ' Then once more read over the sorrows of poor Mrs. Temple, and remember the mother whom you so dearly love and venerate will feel the same, when you, forgetful of the respect due to your maker and yourself, forsake the paths of virtue for those of vice and folly. CHAP. XV. Embarkation* IT was with the utmost difficulty that the United efforts of Mademoiselle and Montraviile could support Charlotte's spirits daring their short ride from Chichester to Portsmouth, where a boat waited to take them immediately on board the ship in which they were to embark for Ame- rica ** r 62 As soon as she became tolerably composed, she entreated pen and ink to write to her parents. This she did in the most affecting, artless man- ner, entreating their pardon and blessing, and describing the dreadful situation of her mind, the conflict she suffered in endeavouring to con- quer this unfortunate attachment, and concluded with saying, her only hope of future comfort consisted in the (perhaps delusive) jdea she in- dulged, of being once more folded in their pro- tecting arms, and hearing the words of peace and pardon from their lips. The tears streamed incessantly while she. was writing, and she was frequently obliged to lay down her pen ; and when the task was complet- ed, 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 dejightful hope of soon receiving an answer which would seal her pardon, she in some measure assumed her usual cheerfulness. But Mqntraviile knew too well the consequen- ces that must unavoidably ensue, should this let- ter reach Mr. Temple. He, therefore, wisely ' resolved to walk on the deck, tear it in pieces, and commit the fragments to the care of Nep- tune, who might, or might not, as it suited his convenience, convey them on shore. AH Charlotte's hopes and wishes were now centered in one; namely, that the fleet might be detained at Spithead till she could receive a let- ter from her friends ; but in this she was disap- pointed, for the second morning after she went on board, the signal was made, the fleet weigh- 63 ed anchor, and in a few hours (the wind oein# favourable) they bid adieu to the white cliffs of Albion. In the mean time, every inquiry that could be thought of, was made by Mr. and Mrs. Temple; for many days did they indulge the fond hope that she was merely gone off to be married, and that when the indissoluble knot was once tied, she would return with the partner she had chos- en, and entreat their blessing and forgiveness. * And shall we not forgive her V said Mr. Temple. * Forgive her !' exclaimed the mother — l Oh yes : whatever be her errors, is she not our child ? and though bowed to the earth, even with shame and remorse, 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 to my heart, and bury every remembrance of her faults in the dear em- brace** But still day after day passed on$ and Char* lotte did not appear, nor were any tidings to be heard of her ; yet each rising morri was welcom- ed by some new hope— the evening brought with it disappointment. At iength hope was no more ; despair usurped her place ; and the mansion* which was once the mansion of peace, became the habitation of pale, dejected melancholy. The cheerful smile that was wont to adorn the face of Mrs. Temple, was fled, 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* 64 € Since,' said she, c the severest? scrutiny can- not charge me with any breach of duty to have deserved this severe chastisement, I will bow before the power who inflicts it, with humble re- signation to his will ; nor shall the duty of a wife be totally absorbed in .the feelings of a mo- ther ; I will endeavour to appear more cheerful and by appearing in some measure to have con- quered my own sorrow, alleviate the sufferings of my husband, and rouse him from that torpor into which this misfortune has plunged him. My father too demands my care and attention ; I must not, by a selfish indulgence of my own grief, forget the interest those two dear objects take in my happiness or misery : I will wear a smile on my face, though the thorn rankles in my heart ; and if, by so doing, I in the smallest degree contribute to restore their peace of mind, I shall be amply rewarded for the pain the con- cealment of my own feelings may occasion.'. Thus argued this excellent woman ; and in the execution of so laudable a resolution we shall leave her, to follow the fortunes of the hapless victim of imprudence and evil counsellor** CHAP. XVI. Necessary digression* ON board of the ship in which Charlotte and Mademoiselle were embarked, was an officer of large unincumbered fortune and elevated rank, and whom I shall call Crayton. 65 He was one of those men, who, having tra- velled in their youth, pretend to have contract- ed a peculiar fondness for every thing foreign, and to hold in contempt the productions of their own country ; and this affected partiality extend- ed even to the women. With him, therefore, the blushing modesty and unaffected simplicity of Charlotte passed un- noticed ; but the forward pertness of La Rue, the freedom of her conversation, the elegance of her person, mixed with a certain engaging je ne sais quoi, perfectly enchanted him. The reader, no doubt, has already developed the character of La Rue ; designing, artful, and selfish, she had accepted the devoirs of Belcour, because she was heartily weary of the retired life she had led at the school, wished to be re^ leased from what she deemed slavery, and to re- turn to that vortex of folly and dissipation which had once plunged her into the deepest misery ; but her plan, she flattered herself, was now bet- ter formed ; she resolved to put herself under the protection of no man, till she had first secur- ed a settlement; tfut the clandestine manner in which she left Madame Du Pont's, prevented fcer putting this plan into execution, though Bel- cour solemnly protested he would make her a handsome settlement the moment jthey arrived at Portsmouth. This he afterwards contrived to evade by a pretended hurry of business. La Rue, readily conceiving he never meant to fulfil his promise, determined to change her battery, and attack the heart of Colonel Crayton. She soon discovered the partiality he entertained for F-2 66 her nation ; and having imposed upon him a feigned tale of distress, representing Belcour as a villain who had seduced her from her friends under the promise of marriage, and afterwards betrayed her ; pretending great remorse for the errors she had committed, and declaring, what- ever her affection for Belcour might have been, it was now entirely extinguished, and she wish- ed 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 renounced her, and guilt and misery would undoubtedly be her future portion through life. Crayton was possessed of many amiable qua- lities, though the peculiar trait in his character, which we have already mentioned, in a great measure threw a shade over them. He was be- loved for his humanity and benevolence by all who knew him ; but he was easy and unsuspici- ous himself, and became a dupe to the artifice of others. He was, when very young, united to an ami- able Parisian lady, and perhaps it was his affec- tion for her that laid the foundation for the par- tiality he ever retained for the whole nation. He had by her one daughter, who entered into the world but a few hours before her mother left it. This lady was universally beloved and admired, being endowed with all the virtues of her mo- ther, without the weakness of the father ; she was married to Major Beauchamp, and was at this time in the same fleet with her father, at- tending her husband to New-York. Crayton was melted by the affected contrition 67 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 pro- tect her to the utmost of his power. La Rue easily saw his character ; her sole aim 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 a forfeiture of five thousand pounds,. And how did our poor Charlotte pass her time during a tedious and tempestuous passage ? Naturally delicate, the fatigue and sickness which she endured rendered her so weak as to be almost entirely confined to her bed ; yet the kindness and attention of Montraville in some measure contributed to alleviate her sufferings, and the hope of hearing from her friends soon after her arrival, kept lip her spirits, and cheer- cdrmany a gloomy hour. ^5ut during the voyage, a great revolution took place, not only in the fortune of La Rue, but in the bosom of Belcour. Whilst in the pursuit of his amour with Mademoiselle, he had attended little to the interesting charms of Charlotte ; but when cloyed by possession, and disgusted with the art and dissimulation of one, he beheld the simplicity and gentleness of the other, the contrast became too striking not to fill him at once with surprise and admiration. He fre- quently conversed with Charlotte; he found her sensible, well informed, but diffident and un- 68 assuming. The languor which the fatigue of her body and perturbation of her mind spread over her delicate features, served only, in his opinion, to render her more lovely ; he knew that IMontraville did not design to marry her, and he formed the resolution to endeavour to gain her himself, whenever Montraville should leave her. Let not the reader imagine Belcour's designs were honourable. Alas ! when once a woman has forgot the respect due to herself, by yielding to the solicitations of illicit love, they lose all their consequence, even in the eyes of the man whose art has betrayed them, and for whose sake they liave sacrificed every valuable consideration. The heedless Fair, who stoops to guilty joys, A man may pity— but he must despise. Nay, every libertine will think he has a right to insult her with his licentious passion ; and should the unhappy creature shrink from the in- solent overture, he will sneeringly taunt her with pretence of modesty. CHAP. XVII. A wedding, ON the day before their arrival at New- York, after dinner, Crayton arose from his seat, and placing himself by Mademoiselle, thus ad- dressed the company : * As we are now nearly arrived at our destin- ed port, I think it but my duty to inform you, tny friends, that this lady (taking her hand) has 69 placed herself under my protection. I have seen and severely felt the anguish of her heart, and through every shade, which cruelty or malice may throw over her, can discover the most ami- able qualities. I thought it but necessary to men- tion my esteem for her before our disembarka- tion, as it is my fixed resolution, the morning after we land, to give her an undoubted title to my favour and protection, by honourably unit- ing my fate to hers. I would wish every gen- tleman here, therefore, to remember that her honour, henceforth, is mine ; and/ continued he, looking at Belcour, * should any man presume to speak in the least disrespectful of her, I shall not hesitate to pronounce him a scoundrel.' Belcour cast at him a smile of contempt, and bowing profoundly low, wished Mademoiselle much joy in the proposed union, and assuring the Colonel that he need not be in the least ap- prehensive 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 be rid of La Rue, and so he was but freed from her, he cared not who fell a victim to her infamous arts. The inexperienced Charlotte was astonished at what she heard. She thought La Rue had, like herself, only been urged by the force of her attachment to Belcour, to quit her friends and follow him to the seat of war : how wonderful then that she should resolve to marry another man. It was certainly extremely wrong. It was indelicate. She mentioned her thoughts to Mon- traville. He laughed at her simplicity, called ?6 fier a little ideot, and patting her on the cheek ? £aid she knew nothing of the world, f If the world sanctions such things, 'tis a very bad world I think/ said Charlotte. l Why I always under- stood they were to have been married when they arrived at New- York. I am sure Mademoiselle iold me Belcour promised to marry her-' * Well, and suppose he did ? 4 Why, he should be obliged to keep his word, I think.' • Well^ but I suppose he has changed his mind,' Said Montraville, ' and then you know the ease 3s altered/ Charlotte looked at him attentively for a mo- inent. A full sense of her own situation rushed upon her mind ; she burst into tears and remain- ed silent;— "Montraville too well understood the cause of her tears* He kissed her cheek, and hid her not to make herself uneasy ; and unable ±b bear the keen but silent remonstrance, hastily left hen The next morning by sunrise they found them- selves at anchor before the city of New- York. A boat was ordered to convey the ladies on shore. Crayton accompanied them, and they were shewn iti a house Of public entertainment. Scarcely vrere they seated when the door opened, and the feolonel found himself in the arms of his daugh- ieti who had landed a few minutes before him* The first transport of meeting subsided, Crayton introduced his daughter to Mademoiselle La Jfciie, as an old friend of her mother's (for the artful French woman had really made it appear tsthe credulous Colonel that she was in the same 71* convent with his first wife, and, though mucfy younger, had received many tokens of her esteen> and regard.) 4 If, Mademoiselle,' said Mrs. Beauehamp, *you were the friend of my mother, you must be worthy the esteem of all good hearts.' 4 Mademoiselle will soon honour our family,* said Crayton ? 4 by supplying the place that va- luable woman filled > and as you are married^my dear, I think you will not blame ,. >' 4 Hush, my dear Sir,' replied Mrs. Beaucharnp^ ' I know my duty too well to scrutinize your con- duct ; be assured, my dear father, your happU ness is mine ; I shall rejoice in it, and sincerely* love the person who contributes to it. But tel| me,' continued she, turning to Charlotte, 4 who* is this lovely girl ! is she your sister, Mademow selle?' A blush, deep as the glow of the carnation^' suffused the cheeks of Charlotte. 4 It is a young lady,' replied the Colonel, * who> came in the same vessel with us from England.* He then drew his daughter aside, and told her in a whisper, that Charlotte was the mistress o£ Montraville, 4 What a pity P said Mrs. Beauchamp softly, {casting a most compassionate glance at her)— ? 4 But surely her mind is not depraved. The goodness of her heart is depicted in her inger nuous countenance.' Charlotte caught the word pity : 4 And am £ already fallen so low ?' said she. A sigh es- caped her, and a tear was ready to start ; but Montraville appeared, and she checked the rhr 72 ing emotion.— Mademoiselle went with the Co- lonel and his daughter to another apartment. Charlotte remained with Montraville and Bel^ cour. The next morning the Colonel performed his promise, and La Rue became, in due form, Mrs. Cray ton, exulted in her own good fortune, and dared to look with an eye of contempt on the unfortunate but far less guilty Charlotte. CHAP. XVIII. Reflection* AND am I indeed fallen so low,' said Char* lotte, ' as to be only pitied ? Will the voice of approbation no more meet my ear ? And shall I never again possess a friend, whose face will wear a smile of joy whenever I approach I Alas ! how thoughtless, how dreadfully imprudent have I been ! I know not which is most painful to en- dure, the sneer of contempt, or the glance of compassion, which is depicted on the various countenances of my own sex; they are both equally humiliating. Alas ! 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 heavy hours in deep regret and anguish of heart, no kind friend of her own sex to whom she can unbosom her griefs, no beloved mother^ no woman of character to appear in my compa- ny ; and low as your Charlotte is fallen, she can- sot associate with infamy* 3 n . \ These were the painful sensations which of xupied the mind of Charlotte. Montraville had placed her in a small house, a few miles from. New. York : he gave her one female 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 her innocence. Sometimes, in- deed, he would steal out at the close of evening and pass a few hours with her; and then so much was she attaci d to him, that all her sorrows were forgotten while blest with his society ; she would enjoy a walk by moonlight, and sit by him m a little arbour at the bottom of the gar- den, and play on the harp, accompanying it with her plaintive, harmonious voice. But often very often did he promise to renew his visits* and forgetful of his promise, leave her to mourn her disappointment. What painful hours of ex pectation would she pass ! she would sit at a win- dow which looked toward a field he used to cross counting the minutes, and straining her eyes to catch the first glimpse of his person, till, blinded with tears of disappointment, she would J ean her head on her hands, and give free vent to her sor- rows; then catching at some new hope, she would again renew her watchful position, ti 1 the shades of evening enveloped every obj'ect in a dusky cloud ; she would then renew her com! plaints and with a heart bursting with disan- pmnted love and wounded sensibility, retire fo a bed which remorse had strewed with thorns! and court m vain that comforter of weary &' 74 ture, (who seldom visits the unhappy) to come and sleep her senses in oblivion. Who can form an adequate idea of the sor- row that preyed upon the mind of Charlotte ?— The wife whose breast glows with affection to her husband, and who in return meets only in- difference, can but faintly conceive her anguish. Dreadfully painful is the situation of such a woman, but she has many comforts of which our poor Charlotte was deprived. The duteous, faithful wife, though treated with indifference, has one solid pleasure within her own bosom ; she can reflect that she has not deserved neglect, that she has ever fulfilled the duties of her sta- tion with the strictest exactness ; she mav hope, by constant 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 poverty and contempt ; she looks around her, and sees the smile of friendly wel- come, or the tear of affectionate consolation on the face of every person whom she favours with her esteem ; and from all these circumstances she gathers comfort. But the poor girl, by thoughtless passion led astray, who, in parting with her honour, has forfeited the esteem of the very man to whom she has sacrificed every thing dear and valuable in life, feels his indifference in the fruit of her own folly, and laments her want of power to recall his lost affection ; she knows there is no tie but honour, and that, in a man who has been guilty of seduction, is but very feeble ; he may leave her in a moment to IS shame and want ; he may marry and forsake her forever ; and should he, she has no redress, no friendly soothing companion to pour into her wounded mind the balm of consolation — no be- nevolent hand to lead her back to the path of rectitude ; she has disgraced her friends, forfeit- ed the good opinion of the world, and undone herself; she feels herself a poor solitary being, in the midst of surrounding multitudes ; shame bows her to the earth, remorse tears her dis- tracted mind, and guilt, poverty and disease close the dreadful scene ; she sinks unnoticed to ob* livion. The finger of contempt may point out to some passing daughter of youthful mirth the humble bed where lies this frail sister of morta- lity ; and will she, in the unbounded gaiety of her heart, exult in her own unblemished fame, and triumph over the silent ashes of the dead ? Oh no ! has she a heart of sensibility, she will stop and thus address the unhappy victim of folly: 4 Thou hadst thy faults, but sure thy suffer- ings have expiated them; thy errors brought thee to an early grave ; but thou wert a fellow crea- ture — 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. Forever honoured be the sacred drop of hu- manity ; the angel of mercy shall record its force, and the soul whence it sprung shall be immortal. My dear Madam, contract not your brow in- to a frown of disapprobation. I mean not to ex- tenuate the faults of those unhappy women who 76 fall victims to guilt and folly ; but surely, when we reflect how many errors we are Ourselves subject to, how many secret faults lie hid in the recesses of our hearts, which we should 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 futu- rity)—! say, my dear Madam, when we con- sider 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, was any generous friend to endeavour to raise and reasure her : but alas ! it cannot be, you say ; the world would deride and scoff. Then let me tell you, Madam, 'tis a very unfeeling world, and does not deserve half the blessings which a bountiful Providence showers upon it. Oh, thou benevolent giver of all good ! how shall we erring mortals dare to look up to thy Biercy in the great day of retribution, if we now uncharitably refuse to overlook the errors, or alleviate the miseries of our fellow creatures ! CHAP. XIX. A mistake discovered* JULIA FRANKLIN was the only child ©f a man of large property, who, at the age of (eighteen left her independent mistress of an un- incumbered income of seven hundred a year j, she was a girl of a lively disposition, and hu- mane, susceptible heait; she resided in New- York with an uncle, who loved her too well, and had too high an opinion of her prudence, to scrutinize 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 Montraville arrived at New-York, the life of society, shall raise us to fame and honour? while the napless girl who falls a vic- tim to her too great sensibility, shall be loaded with ignominy and shame ?'. No, my fair querist, I mean no such thing. Remember the endea- vours of the wicked are often suffered to pros- per, 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 penitence blots their of- fences from the book of fate, 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 hoiror and con- tempt. But perhaps your gay hearts would ra- ther follow the fortunate Mrs. Crayton through the scenes of pleasure and dissipation in which she was engaged, than listen to the complaints and miseries of Charlotte. 1 will for once oblige you; I will for once follow her to midnight re- vels, balls, and scenes of gaiety, for in such she was constantly engaged. 1 have said her person was lovely ; let us add, that she was surrounded by splendour and af- fluence, and she must know but little of the 118 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, Mrs. Crayton was the universal fa- vourite ; she set the fashidtis, she was toasted by the gentlemen, and copied by all the ladies. Colonel Crayton was a domestic man. Could he be happy with such a woman ? Impossible I Remonstrance was vain : he might as well have preached to the winds, as endeavour to persuade her from any action, however ridiculous, on which she had set her mind; in short, after a little ineffectual struggle, he gave up the attempt, and left her to follow the bent of her own incli- nations: what those were, I think the reader must have seen enough of her character to form a just idea. Among the number who paid their devotions at her shrine, she singled one, a young Ensign, of mean birth, indifferent education, and weak intellects. How such a man came into the army, we hardly know to account for, and how he afterwards rose to posts of honour, is likewise strange and wonderful. But fortune is blind, and so are those, too frequently, who have the power of dispensing her favours ; else why do we see fools and knaves at the very top of the wheel, while patient merit sinks to the extreme of the opposite abyss ? But we may form a thousand conjectures on this subject, and yet never hit on the right. Let us, therefore, endeavour to deserve her smiles, and whether we succeed or not, we shall feel more innate sa- tisfaction than thousands of those who bask in the sunshine of her favour unworthily. But to 119 return to Mrs. Crayton This young man> whom I shall distinguish by the name of Cory- don, was the reigning favourite 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 permit- ted to cheer the gloomy solitude to which she was obliged to confine herself.— Did she ever think of poor Charlotte ?... If she did, my dear Miss, it 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 Madam Charlotte's hopes. I wonder who will take her now, or what will be- come of the little affected prude.' But as you have led to the subject, I think we may as well return to the distressed Char- lotte, and net, like the unfeeling Mrs. Crayton, shut our hearts to the call of humanity. CHAP. XXIX. We go forward again, THE strength of Charlotte's constitution combated against her disorder, and she began slowly to recover, though she still laboured un- der violent depression of spirits. How must that depression be increased, when, upon exam- ining her little store, she found herself reduced to one solitary guinea, and that during her ill* 120 ness the attendance of an apothecary and nurse, together with .many other unavoidable expenses, had involved 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 parents, it now entirely forsook her, for it was above four months since her letter was despatched, and she had received no answer. She, therefore, ima- gined that her conduct had entirely alienated their affection from her, or broken their hearts, and she must never more hope to receive their blessing. Never did any human being wish for death with greater fervency nor with a juster cause ; yet she had too just a sense of the duties of the christian religion to put a period to her own ex- istence. ' I have but to be patient a little long- er,' she would cry, c and nature, fatigued and fainting, will throw off this heavy load of mor- tality, and I shall be relieved from all my suf- ferings.' 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 replenish her stock of fuel, and prudence teaching her to be careful of what she had, when she was surprised by the entrance of the farm- er's wife, who, without much ceremony, seated herself and began this curious harangue. 4 I'm come to see if as how you can pay your rent, because as how we hear Captain Montable is gone away, and its fifty to one if he be'ant killed afore he conies back again ; and then Miss, 121 or Ma'am, or whatever you may be, as I was saying to my husband, where are Ave to look for our money ?' This was a stroke altogether unexpected by Charlotte. She knew so little of the ways 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 an- swer to make, yet it was absolutely necessary that 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 favour, would be to tell her candidly to what a situation she was reduced, and what little probability there was of her ever paying any body. Alas ! poor Charlotte, how confirm! was her knowledge of human nature, or shV nvould have been convinced that the only way to ensure the friendship and assistance of your surrounding acquaintance is to convince them you do not require it, for when once the petrifying aspect of distress and penury appears, whose qualities, like Medusa's head, can change to stone all that look upon it; when once this gorgon claims ac- quaintance with us, the phantom of friendship, that before courted our notice, will vanish into unsubstantial air, and the whole world before us appear a barren waste. Pardon me, ye dear spirits of benevolence, whose benign smiles and cheerful-giving hand has strewed sweet flowers on many a thorny path through which my way- Ju 122 ward fate forced me to pass ; think not that i« condemning the unfeeling texture of the human heart, I forget the spring from whence flow all the comforts I enjoy ; oh, no ! I look up to you as to bright constellations, gathering new splen- dours from the surrounding darkness. But, ah ! while I adore the benignant rays that cheered and illuminated my heart, I mourn that their in- fluence cannot extend to all the sons and daugh- ters of affliction. * Indeed, Madam,' said poor Charlotte, in a tremulous accent, ' I am at a loss what to do ; Montraville placed me here, and promised to defray all my expenses ; but he has forgotten his promise, he has forsaken me, and I have no friend who has either power or will to relieve me. Let me hope, as you see my unhappy si- tuation, your charity—' 4 Charity !' cried the woman impatiently, in- terrupting her, 4 charity indeed ; why Mistress, Charity begins at home, and I have seven chil- dren at home, honest, lawful children, and it is mv duty to keep them; and do you think I will give away my property to a nasty, impudent hussv, to maintain her and her bastard ? an' I was saying to my husband the other day, what will this world come to ? honest women are no- thing now-a-days ; while the harlotings are set up for fine ladies, and look upon us no more than the dirt they walk upon ; but let me tell you, my fine spoken Ma'am, I must have my money ; so seeing as how you can't pay it, why you must troop, and leave all your gimcracks aid fal der rals behind vou. I don't ask you for no more 123 nor my right, and nobody shall , dare for tp ger for to hinder me from it.' 4 Oh heavens,' cried Charlotte, clasping her hands. * what will become of me !' * Come on ye !' retorted the unfeeling wretch ; * why go to the barracks and work for a morsel of bread ; wash and mend the soldier's clothes, an' cook their victuals, and not, expect to live in idleness on honest people's means. Oh I wish I could see the day when all such cattle were obliged to work hard and eat little ; it's only what they deserve.' 4 Father of mercy,' cried Charlotte, * I ac- knowledge thy correction just ; but prepare me, I beseech thee, for the portion of misery thou mayst please to lay upon me.' 4 Well,' said the woman, 4 1 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 very night, for you should not stay another night in this house, though I was sure you would lay 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. CHAP. XXX. And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep, A shade that follows wealth and tame, But leaves the wretch to weep. WHEN Charlotte was left to herself, she began to think wliat course she must take, or to whom she could apply, to prevent her perishing 124 for want, or perhaps that, very night falling a victim to the inclemency of the season. After many perplexed thoughts, she at last determin- ed to set out for New- York, and inquire out Mrs. Crayton, from whom she had no doubt but she would obtain immediate relief, as soon as her distress was made known ; she had no sooner formed this resolution^ than she resolved immediately to put it in execution ; she there- fore wrote the following little billet to Mrs. Crayton, thinking if she should nave company with her, it would hg better to send it in than to request to see her. To Mrsv^Crjlvton. Mqdam^ T^ ' - u When we left our native land, that dear hap- py land which now contains all that is dear to the wretched Charlotte, our prospects were the same; we both, pardon me Madam, if I say, we both too jeasily followed the impulse of our treacherous hearts, and trusted our happiness on a tempestuous ocean, where mine has been wrecked and lost forever : you have been more fortunate — you are united to a man of honour and humanity 1 — united by the most sacred ties, respected, esteemed and admired, and surroun- ded by innumerable blessings, of which I am 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 w£ary head, wherewith to supply the wants of nature, or to shield her from the inclemency of the weather. To you I sue, 125 to you I look for pity and relief. I ask not to be received as an intimate or an equal ; .only for charity's sweet sake receive me into your hospi- table mansion, allot me the meanest apartment in it, and let me breathe out my soul in prayers for your happiness; I cannot, I feel I cannot long bear up under the accumulated woes that pour in upon me ; but oh! my dear Madam, for the love of heaven suffer me not to expire in the street; and when I am at peace, as soon I shall be, extend your compassion to my help- less offspring, should jt please heaven that it should survive its unhappy mother. A gleam of joy breaks in upon 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 began to fall very fast, she tied up *a few neces- saries which she had prepared against her ex- pected confinement, and terrified lest she should again be exposed to the insults of her barbarous landlady, 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 disposed, 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 L-2 126 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 pur- chase any thing more than what was wanted for immediate use on the voyage, and after her ar- rival at New-York, Montraville's affection soon began to decline, so that her whole wardrobe consisted of only necessaries, and as to baubles, with which fond lovers often load their mis- tresses, she possessed not one, except a plain gold locket, of small value, which contained a lock of her mother's hair, and which the great- est extremity of want could not have forced her to part with. I hope, Sir, your prejudices are now removed in regard to the probability of my story ? Oh, they are. Well then, with your leave, I will proceed. The distance from the house which our suf- fering heroine occupied, to New-York, was not very great ; yet the snow fell so fast, and the cold so intense, that, being unable from her situ- ation to walk quick, she found herself almost sinking with cold and fatigue before she reach- ed the town ; her garments, which were merely suitable to the summer season, being an undress robe of plain white muslin, were wet through, and a thin black cloak and bonnet, very impro- per habiliments for such a climate, but poor- ly defended her from the cold. In this situation she reached the city, and inquired of a foot sol- dier, whom she met, the way to Col. Crayton's. 4 Bless you, my sweet lady,' said the soldier, with a voice and look of compassion, * I will Y27 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. Franklin's ; though Miss Julia is married and gone now, yet the old gentleman is very good.' * Julia Franklin !' said Charlotte ; * is she not married to Montraville V '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 worshipped her.' 4 Gracious heaven !' cried Charlotte, ' is Mon- traville unjust to none but me V The soldier now showed her Col. Crayton's door, and with a beating heart she knocked for admission* CHAP. XXXI. * Subject continued, WHEN the door was opened, Charlotte, in a voice rendered scarcely articulate, through cold and the extreme agitation of her mind, de- manded whether Mrs. Crayton was at home. The servant hesitated ; he knew that his lady was engaged at a game of picquet with her dear Corydon, nor could he think she would like to be disturbed by a person whose appearance spoke her of so little consequence as Charlotte ; yet there was something in her countenance that rather interested him in her favour, and he said his lady was engaged, but if she had any parti- cular message he would deliver it. 128 'Take up this letter,' said Charlotte; c tell her the unhappy writer of it waits in her 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 supliant, and hastily ascended the staircase. 4 A letter, Madam,' said he, presenting it to his lady; *an immediete answer is required.' Mrs. Crayton glanced her eye carelessly over the contents. 'What stuff is this !' cried she haughtily; 'have I not told you a thousand times that I will not be plagued with beggars, and petitions from people one knows nothing about? Go tell the woman I can't do any thing in it. I'm sorry, but one can't relieve every body.' The man bowed, and heavily returned with this chilling message to Charlotte. 4 Surely,' said she, ' Mrs. Crayton has not read my letter. Go, my good friend, pray go back to her; tell her it is Charlotte Temple who requests beneath her hospitable roof to find shel- ter from the inclemency of the season.' 4 Prithee, don't plague me, man,' cried Mrs* Crayton, impatiently, as the servant advanced something in behalf of the unhappy girl. I tell you I don't know her.' 4 Not know me!' cried Charlotte, rushing into the room, (for she had followed the man up stairs) ' not know me ! not remember the ruined Charlotte Temple, who, but for you, perhaps might still have been innocent, still have been happy. Oh ! La Rue, this is beyond every thing I could have believed possible.' 129 * Upon my honour, Miss/ replied the unfeel- ing woman, with the utmost effrontery, ' this is a 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 : here on my knees I conjure you to save me from perish- ing in the streets ; if you really have forgotten me, oh for charity's sweet sake, this night let me be sheltered from the winter's piercing cold.' The kneeling figure of Charlotte, in her affect- ing situation, might have moved the heart of a stoic to compassion ; but Mrs. CraytOn remain- ed inflexible. In vain did Charlotte recount the time they had known each other at Chiches- ter, in vain mention their being in the same ship, in vain were the names of Montraville and Bel- cour mentioned. Mrs. Crayton could only say she was sorry for her imprudence, but could not I think of having her own reputation endangered by encouraging a woman of that kind in her house, besides she did not know what trouble land expense she might bring upon her husband f by giving shelter to a woman in her situation. ' 1 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. Crsyton, 'she 130 will really frighten me into hysterics ; take her* away, I say, this instant.' 1 And where must I take the poor creature I said the servant, with a voice and a look of com- passion. * Any where,' 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 lay in the street this night. I have a bed and a poor little hovel, where my wife and her little ones restthem, 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 his comrades, car- ried her to the place where his wife and children lived. A surgeon was sent for ; he bled her, she gave signs of returning life, and before the dawn, gave birth to a female infant. After this> event she lay some hours in a kind of stupor* and if at any time she spoke, it was with a quick- ness and incoherence that plainly evinced ihe> total deprivation of her reason. CHAP. XXXII. Reasoiis why and wherefore. THE reader of sensibility may perhaps be astonished to find Mrs. Cray ton could so posi- tively deny any knowledge of Charlotte ; it is therefore but just that her conduct should in some measure be accounted for. She had ever 131 been fully sensible of the superiority of Char- lotte's sense and virtue ; she was conscious that she had never swerved from rectitude, had it not been for her bad precepts and worse exam- Iple. These were things as yet unknown to her husband, and she wished not to have that part 4 bf her conduct exposed to him, as she had great 3 jreason to fear she had already lost considerable ] *art of that power she once maintained over 1 jiim. She trembled wnile Charlotte was. in the 1 House, lest the Colonel should return ; she per- ifectly well remembered how much he seemed j interested in her favour whilst on their passage i'rom England, and made no doubt, but, should lie see her in her present distress, he would offer lker an asylum, and protect her to the utmost of 1 \\s power. In that case she feared the unguard- ckl nature of Charlotte might discover to the I Colonel the part she had taken in the unhappy jHrl's elopement, and she well knew the contrast Ipetween her own and Charlotte's conduct would ijr4ike the former appear in no very respectable lfe;ht. Had she reflected properly, she would Jhave afforded the poor girl protection; and by enjoining her silence, ensured it by acts of re- 'jpeated kindness ; but vice in general blinds its Notaries, and they discover their real characters to the world when they are most studious to 5>res^rve appearances.' J ist so it happened with Mrs. Crayton : her servants made no scruple of mentioning the cru- el conduct of their lady to a poor distressed lu- natic who claimed her protection ; every one joined in reprobating her inhumanity ; nay, even 132 Corydon thought she might at least have order- ed her to be taken care of, but he dared not even hint it to her, for he lived in her smiles, and drew from her lavish fondness large sums « to support an extravagance to which the state : of his own finances was very inadequate : i it cannot therefore be supposed that he wishe & Mrs. Crayton to be very liberal in her bount y to the afflicted* suppliant; yet vice had not s © entirely seared over his heart, but the sorrow rs of Charlotte could find a vulnerable part. Charlotte had been three days with her hi i- mane preservers, but she was totally insensib '.e of every thing; she raved incessantly for Moi i^ traville and her father ; she was not conscioi: s of being a mother ; nor took the least notice < A her child except to ask whose it was, and wh y it was not carried to its parents. c Oh,' said she 'one day, starting up, on heai •* ing the infant cry, ' why, why will you keep the it child here ? I am sure you would not if yo* 1 knew how hard it was for a mother to be pai *■ i from her infant; it is like tearing the cords *£ life asunder. Oh, could you see the horrid sigj \ which I now behold — there — there stands my j dear mother, her bosom bleeding at every vein. 1 her gentle, affectionate heart torn into a thou- sand pieces, and all for the loss of a ruined, un- grateful child. Save me, save me from her frown. I dare not — indeed I dare not speak to her.' 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 attend- 133 ed her was a humane man.} he exerted his ut- most abihties to save her, but he saw she was in want of many necessaries and comforts, which the poverty of her hospitable host rendered him unable to prov.de ; he therefore determined to make her s.tuation known to some of the offi- for her r'eikf ^^^ * make a Collection resoh! 1 rion he h re f tUrn J d h ° me ' after maki "S this ch?mJ \ uT? a messa e e from Mn. Beau- champ, who had just arrived from Rhode- Is- her cMlf eSt ' nff K he W ° Uld Ca " and t see °"« of her children, who was very unwel. < I do not know,' sa.d he, as he was hastening to obey "he ZuU ""I ' l - d K° " 0t kn ° W a ~ to whom I could apply wuh more hope of success than Mrs Beauchamp. I will endeavour to interest 1^ m this poor grl's behalf ; she wants th sooS ing balm of fr,endly consolation ; we may per- haps save her ; we will try at least. 7 P And where is she,' cried Mrs. Beaurham,, v. -en he had prescribed somethLg for t he ^Z' a.d told h,s little pathetic tale, < where is she Z . ; v ? •* S° to her immediately Haven forbid that I should be deaf to the calls of h u «~ the doctor's arm, they sought the habi. tatton that contained the dying CharloUe, M 134, CHAP. XXXIII. . Which people void of feeling need not read* WHEN Mrs. Beauchamp entered the apartment of the poor sufferer, she started back with horror. On a wretched bed, without hang- ings, and but 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. Beau- champ had not the least recollection of her per- son. In one corner of the room stood a woman washing, 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 bed side stood a porringer and wooden spoon, containing a little gruel, and a teacup with about two spoonfuls of wine in it. Mrs. Beauchamp had never before beheld such a scene of pover- ty ; she shuddered involuntarily, and exclaim- ing— 1 heaven preserve us !' leaned on the back of a chair ready to sink to the earth. The doc- tor 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, ex- claimed — c Angel of peace and mercy, art thou come to deliver me? Oh, I know you are, for whenever you was near me I felt eased of half my sorrows; but you do not know me, nor can I, with all the recollection I am mistress of, re- member your name just now, but I know that 135 benevolent countenance, and the softness of that voice which has so often comforted the wretch- ed Charlotte. ' Mrs. Beauchamp had, during the time Char- lotte was speaking, seated herself on the bed and taken one of her hands ;. she looked at her at- tentively, and at the name or Charlotte she per- fectly conceived the whole shocking affair. A faint sickness came over her. k Gracious hea- ven,' said she, * is this possible V and bursting into tears, she reclined the burning head of Charlotte on her own bosom ; and folding her arms about her, wept over her in silence. ' Oh,* said Charlotte, * you are very good to weep thus for me ; it is a long time since I shed a tear for myself; my head and heart are both on lire, but these tears of yours seem to cool and refresh them. 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 have brought me an answer. Why do not you speak, Madam ? Does he say I may go home? Well he is very good ; I shall soon be ready.' She then made an ttTort to get out of bed; but being prevented, her frenzy again returned, and she raved with the greatest wildness and in- coherence. Mrs. Beauchamp finding it was impossible for her to be removed, contented herself with ordering the apartment to be made comfortable, and procuring a proper nurse for both mother and child ; and having learnt the particulars of Charlotte's fruitless application to Mrs. Cray ton, from honest John, she amply re- warded him for his benevolence, and returned 136 home with a heart oppressed with many painful sensations, but yet rendered easy by the reflec- tion that she had performed her duty towards a distressed fellow creature. Early the next morning she again visited Charlotte, and found her tolerably composed. She called her by name, thanked her ior her goodness, and when her child was brought to her, pressed it in her arms, wept over it, and called it the offspring of disobedience. Mrs, Beauchamp was delighted to find her so much amended, and began to hope s&e might recover, and, spite of her former errors, become a useful and respectable member of society ;*but the ar- rival of the doctor put an end to these delusive hopes; he said nature was making her last ef- fort, and a few hours would most probably con- sign the unhappy girl to her kindred dust. Being asked how she found herself, she re- plied — w Why better, much better, doctor. I hope now I have but little more to suffer. I had last night a few hours sleep, and when I awoke recovered the full power of recollection. 1 am quite sensible of my weakness ; I leel I have but little longer to combat with the shafts of af- fliction. 1 have a humble confidence in the mercy of him who died to save the world, and trust that my sufferings in this state of mortali- ty, joined to my unfeigned repentance, through his mercy, have blotted my offences from the sight of my offended maker. 1 have but one care — my poor infant! Father of mercies,' con- tinued she, raising her eyes, fc of thy infinite goodness, grant that the sins of the parent be 137 not visited on the unoffending child. May those who taught mc to despise thy laws be forgiven ; lay not my offences to their charge, I beseech thee ; and oh ! shower the choicest of thy bless- ings on those whose pity has soothed the afflict- ed heart, and made easy even the bed .of pain and sickness.' She was exhausted by this fervent address to 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 recovering, faintly pressed Mrs. Beauchamp's hand, and requested a clergyman might be sent for. On his arrival, she joined fervently in the pi- ous office, frequently mentioning her ingratitude 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 at the outside door occasioned Mrs. Beauchamp to open it, and inquire the cause. A man, in appearance about forty, presented himself, and asked for Mrs Beauchamp. 4 That is my name, Sir,' said she. 4 Oh then, my dear Madam,' cried he, * tell me where I may find my poor, ruined, but re- pentant child.' Mrs. Beauchamp was surprised and affected; e knew not what to say ; she foresaw the ago- ny this interview would occasion Mr. Temple, who had just arrived in search of his Charlotte, and yet was sensible that the pardon and bless- ing of her father would soften even the agonies of death to the daughter. M2 138 She hesitated. ' Tell me, Madam,' cried he wildly, * tell me, I beseech thee, does she live? shall I see my darling once again ? Perhaps she is in this house. Lead, lead me to her, that I may bless her, and tben lie down and die.' The ardent manner in which h#*S&tered these words occasioned him to raise his voice. It caught the ear of Charlotte ; she kmrw the be- loved sound ; and uttering a loud shriek, she sprang forward as Mr. Temple entered the room. 'My adored father.' 'My long lost child.' Nature could support no more, and they both sunk lifeless into the arms of the at- tendants. Charlotte was again put into bed, and a few moments restored Mr. Temple ; but to describe the agony of his sufferings is past the power of any one, who, though they may readily conceive, cannot delineate the dreadful scene. Every eye gave testimony of what each heart felt — but all were silent. When Charlotte recovered, she found herself supported in her father's arms. She cast on him a most expressive look, but was unable to speak. A reviving cordial was administered. She then asked, in a low voice, for her child ; it was brought to her ; she put it in her father's arms. 4 Protect her,' said she, ' and bless your dying — ' Unable to finish the sentence, she sunk b; *k on her pillow ; her countenance was serenely composed ; she regarded her father as he press- ed the infant to his breast with a steadfast look ; a sudden beam of joy passed across her languid features, she raised her eyes to heaven — and then closed them forever. 139 CHAP. XXXIV. Retribution. IN the meantime Montraville, having re- ceived orders to return to New-York, arrived, and having still some remains of compassionate tenderness for. the woman whom he regarded as brought to shame by himself, he went out ia search of Belcour, 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 Charlotte had left him, and that he knew not what was become of her. 8 1 cannot believe it possible, that a mind once so pure as Charlotte Temple's, should so sud- denly become the mansion of vice. Beware, Belcour,' continued he, 'beware, if you have dared to behave either unjust or dishonourably to that poor girl, your life shall pay the forfeit ; I will revenge her cause.' He immediately went into the country, to the house where he had left Charlotte : it was de- solate. After much inquiry, he at length found the servant girl who had lived with her. From her he learnt the misery Charlotte had endured from the complicated evils of illness, poverty and a broken heart, and that she had set out on foot for New-York, on a cold winter's evening; but she could inform him no further. Tortured almost to madness by this shocking account, he returned to the city ? but before he 140 reached it, the evening was drawing to a close. In entering the town he was obliged to pass se* veral little huts, the residence of poor women, who supported themselves by washing the clothes of the officers and soldiers. It was nearly dark ; he heard from a neighbouring steeple a solemn toll that seemed to say some poor mortal was going to their last mansion ; the sound struck on the heart of Montraville, and he in- voluntarily stopped, when, from one of the houses, he saw the appearance of a funeral. Al- most 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 brushed off a tear that did honour to his heart, who it was that was just buried. * An* please your honour,' said the man, 4 'tis a poor girl that was brought from her friends by a cruel man, who left her when she was big with child, and married another.' — Montraville stood motionless, and the man proceeded — ' I met her myself not a fortnight since, one night, all wet and cold, in the street ; she went to Madam Crayton's — 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 exclaiming — * poor murdered Charlotte !' ran with precipita- tion towards the place where they were heaping the earth on her remains. ' Hold, hold one mo- ment,' said he, ' loose not the grave of the injur- ed Charlotte Temple till I have taken vengeance on her murderer.' 141 *Hash young man,' said Mr. Temple, *who art thou that thus disturbest the last mourn tul rites of the dead, and rudely kf takest 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 lather 1 am Montraville.' Then falling on his knees he con- tinued — 4 Here is my bosom. I bare it to re- ceive the stroke I merit. Strike — strike now, and save me from the misery of reflection.' * Alas!' said Mr. Temple, * if them wert the seducer of my child, thy own reflections be thy punishment. I wrest not the power from the hand of omnipotence. Look on that little heap of earth ; there hast thou buried the only joy of a fond father. Look atitoitenj and may thy heart feel such true sorrow as may merit the mercy of heaven.' He turned from him ; and Montraville starting up from the ground, where he had thrown himself, and at that in- stant remembering the perfidy of Belcour, flew like lightning to his lodgings. Belcour was in- toxicated ; Montraville impetuous ; they fought, and the sword of the latter entered the heart of his adversary. He fell and expired almost in- stantly. Montraville had received a slight wound ; and overcome with the agitation of his mind and loss of blood, was carried in a state of insensibility to his distracted wife. A dan- gerous illness and obstinate delirium ensued, during which he raved incessantly for Charlotte ; but a strong constitution, and the tender assidu- ities of Julia, in time overcame the disorder* 142 He recovered, but to the end of his life was sub- ject to severe fits of melancholy, and, while he remained at New-York, frequently retired to the church yard, where he would weep over the grave, and regret the untimely fate of the love- ly Charlotte Temple. CHAP. XXXV. Conclusion, SHORTLY after the interment of his daughter, Mr. Temple, with his dear little charge, and her nurse, set forward for England. It would be impossible to do justice to the meet- ing scene between him, his Lucy, and her aged father. Every heart of sensibility can easily conceive their feelings. After the first tumult of grief was subsided, Mrs Temple gave up the chief of her time to her grand-child, and as she grew up and improved, began to almost fancy she again possessed her Charlotte. It was about ten years after these painful events, that Mr. and Mrs. Temple, having bu- ried their father, were obliged to come to Lon- don on particular business, and brought the lit- tle Lucy with them. They had been walking one evening, when on their return they found a poor wretch sitting on the steps at the door. She attempted to rise as they approached, but from extreme weakness was unable, and after several fruitless efforts fell back in a fit. Mr. 143 TemrJe was not one of those men who stand to consider whether by assisting an object in dis- tress they shall not inconvenience themselves but instigated by the impulse of a noble feeling heart, immediately ordered her to be carried in- to the house, and a proper restorative applied. She soon recovered, and fixing her eyes on, Mrs. Temple, cried— .* You know not, Madam, what you do ; you know not whom you are re- lieving, or you would curse me in the bitterness of your heart. Come not near me, Madam, I shall contaminate you. I am the viper that stung your peace. I am she who turned poor Charlotte out to perish in the street. Heaven, have mercy! I see her now,' continued she, looking at Lucy : ' such, such was the fair bud of innocence that my vile arts blasted ere it was halt blown.' \ It was in vain that Mr. and Mrs. Temple en- treated her to be composed, and to take some refreshment. She only drank half a glass of Wine, and then told them that she had been se- parated from her husband seven years, the chief ot which she had 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 a prison ; when a benevolent friend paid her debts and re- leased 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 lay my aching head on the cold pave- 144 ment; indeed it was but just that I shoijd ex» perience those miseries myself which I had un- feelingly inflicted on others.' Greatly as Mr. Temple had reason to detest Mrs. Crayton, he could not behold her in this distress without some emotions of pity. He gave her shelter that night beneath his hospita- ble roof, and the next day got her admission in- to a hospital ; where, haying lingered a few weeks, she died, a striking example that vice, however prosperous in the beginning, in th« end leads only to misery and shame. " I *!**