Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2013 http://archive.org/details/charlottetemple01 rows CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. A Tale of Truth. CHAPTER T. A BOARDING-SCHOOL. "Are you for a walk? " said Montra- ville to his companion, as they arose from table; " are you for a walk, or shall Ave order a chaise and proceed to Ports- mouth?" Belcour preferred the form- er; and they sauntered out to view the town and to make remarks on the in- habitants as they returned from church. Montraville was a lieutenant in the army; Belcour was his brother officer; they had been to take leave of their friends previous to their departure for America, and were now returning to Portsmouth, where the troops waited or- 5 6 Charlotte Temple. ders for embarkation. They had stopped at Chicester to dine; and knowing they had sufficient time to reach the place of destination before dark, and vet allow them a walk, had resolved, it being Sun- day afternoon, to take a survey of the Chichester ladies as they returned from their devotions. They had gratified their curiosity, and were preparing to return to the inn with- out honoring any of the belles with par- ticular attention, when Madame Du Pont, at the head of her school, descend- ed from the church. Such an assem- blage of youth and innocence naturally attracted the young soldiers; they stopped; and as the little cavalcade passed almost involuntarily pulled off their hats. A tall, elegant girl looked at Montraville and blushed; he instantly recollected the features of Charlotte Temple, whom he had once seen and danced with at a ball at Portsmouth. At Charlotte Temple. 7 the time he thought her a very lovely child, she being then only thirteen; but the improvement two years had made in her person, and the blush of recollection which suffused her cheeks as she passed, awakened in his bosom new and pleas- ing ideas. Vanity led him to think that pleasure at again beholding him might have occasioned the emotion he had wit- nessed; and the same vanity led him to wish to see her again. " She is the sweetest girl in the world," said he, as he entered the inn. Belcour started. " Did you not notice her?" continued Montraville. "She had on a blue bonnet, and with a pair of lovely eyes of the same color, has con- trived to make me feel devilish odd about the heart." "Pooh!" said Belcour; "a musket- ball from our friends, the Americans, may, in less than two months make you feel worse." 8 Charlotte Temple. u I never think of the future," replied Montraville, " but am determined to make the most of the present, and would willingly compound with any kind Fa- miliar who would inform me who the girl is and how I might be likely to ob- tain an interview." But no kind Familiar at that time ap- peared, and the chaise which they had ordered driving up to the door, Montra- ville and his companion were obliged to take leave of Chichester and its fair in- habitant and proceed on their journey. But Charlotte had made too great an impression on his mind to be easily erad- icated ; having, therefore, spent three whole days in thinking of her, and en- deavoring to form some plan of seeing her, he determined to set off for Chi- chester, and trust to chance either to favor or frustrate his designs. Arriv- ing at the verge of the town, he dis- mounted, and sending the servant for- Charlotte Temple. 9 ward with the horses proceeded toward the place, where, in the midst of an ex- tensive pleasure-ground, stood the man- sion which contained the lovely Char- lotte Temple. Montraville leaned on a broken gate and looked earnestly at the house. The wall which surrounded it was high, and perhaps the Arguses who guarded the Hesperian fruit within were more watchful than those famed of old. " 'Tis a romantic attempt," said he; u and should I even succeed in seeing and conversing with her, it can be pro- ductive of no good. I must of necessity leave England in a few days, and prob- ably may never return; why, then, should I endeavor to engage the affec- tions of this lovely girl, only to leave her a prey to a thousand inquietudes of which at present she has no idea ? I will return to Portsmouth and think no more about her." The evening was now closed; a serene 10 ( !harlotte Temple. stillness reigned; and the moon with lier silver crescent faintly illuminated the hemisphere. The mind of Montraville was calmed by the serenity of the surrounding ob- jects. " I will think on her no more," said he, and turned with an intention to leave the place; lut as he turned he saw the gate which led to the pleasure- grounds open and two women come out, who walked arm in arm across the field. " I will at least see who these are," said he. He overtook them, and after saluting, begged leave to see them into the more frequented part of the town; but how T was he delighted, when, waiting for an answer, he discovered, under the con- cealment 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 2 and at Charlotte Temple. 1 1 parting, slipped a letter he had purpose- ly written into Charlotte's hand, and five guineas into that of mademoiselle, who promised she wouM endeavor to bring her young charge into the field again the next evening. CHAPTER IT. DOMESTIC CONCERNS. Mr. Temple was the youngest son of a nobleman, whose fortune was by no means adequate to the antiquity, grand- eur, and, I may add, pride of the family. He saw his elder brother made complete- ly wretched by marrying a disagreeable woman, whose fortune helped to prop the sinking dignity of the house; and he beheld his sisters legally prostituted to old, decrepit men, whose titles gave 12 ( !harlotte Temple. them consequence in the eyes of the world, and whose affluence rendered them splendidly miserable. " I will not sacrifice internal happiness for outward show," said he; " I will seek content; and if I find her in a cottage, will embrace her with as much cordial- ity 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 inde- pendence, 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 generous feeling of humanity, and a hand ready to dispense to those who wanted, part of the blessings he enjoyed himself. As he was universally known to be the friend of the unfortunate, his advice and bounty were frequently solicited; nor was it seldom that he sought out indigent Charlotte Temple. 13 merit, and raised it from obscurity, con- fining his own expenses within a very narrow compass. " You are a very benevolent fellow," said a young officer to him one day; " and I have a great mind to give you a subject to exercise the goodness of your heart upon." " You cannot oblige me more," said Temple, " than to point out any way by which I can be serviceable to my fellow creatures." " Come along, then," said the young- man. " We will go and visit a man who is not in so good a lodging as he deserves ; and were it not that he has an angel with him, who comforts and supports him, he must long since have sunk under his mis- fortunes." The young man's heart was too full to proceed; and Temple, unwilling to ir- ritate his feelings by making further inquiries, followed him in silence till they arrived at the Fleet prison. 1-t Charlotte Temple. The officer inquired for Captain El- dridge. A person led them up several pairs of dirty stairs, and pointing to a door which led to a miserable, small apartment, said that was the captain's room, and retired. The officer, whose name was Blake- ney, tapped at the door, and was bidden to enter by a voice melodiously soft. He opened the door and discovered to Tem- ple a scene which riveted him to the spot with astonishment. The apartment, though small and bearing strong marks of poverty, was neat in the extreme. In an arm-chair, his head reclined on his hand, his eyes fixed on a book which lay open before him, sat an aged man in a lieutenant^ uniform, which, though threadbare, should sooner call a blush of shame into the face of those who could neglect real merit, than cause the hectic of confusion to glow on the cheeks of him who wore it. Charlotte Temple. 15 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 before it was half blown. Her eyes were blue, and her hair, which was light brown, was slightly confined under a plain muslin cap, tied around with a black ribbon; a white linen gown and plain lawn hand- kerchief composed the remainder 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 adorned with all the splendor of a courtly belle. When they entered the old man arose from his seat, and, shaking Blakeney by the hand with great cordiality, offered Temple his chair; and there being but three in the room, seated himself on the side of his little bed with evident com- posure. " This is a strange place," S9id he to Charlotte Temple. temple, " to receive visitors of distinc- tion in, but we must fit our feelings to our station. While I am not ashamed to own the cause which 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 arose hastily from his seat, walked toward the window, and wiped off a tear which he was afraid would tarnish the cheek of a sailor. Temple cast his eye on Miss El- dridge; a pellucid drop had stolen from her eye, and fallen upon a rose she was painting. It blotted and discolored the flower. " 'Tis emblematic," said he, mentally; " the rose of youth and health soon fades when watered by the tear of affliction." " My friend Blakeney," said he, ad- dressing the old man, " told me I could be of service to you; be so kind, then, Charlotte Temple. 17 dear sir, as to point out some way in which I can relieve the anxiety of your heart and increase the pleasure of my own." "My good young man," said Eldridge, " you know not what you offer. While deprived of my liberty, I cannot be free from anxiety on my own account, but that is a trifling concern; my anxious thoughts extend to one more dear a thousand times than life. I am a poor, weak old man, and must expect in a few years to sink into silence 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 insult and dishonor? " " Oh, my father ! " cried Miss El- dridge, tenderly taking his hand, " be not anxious on that account, for daily are my prayers offered to Heaven that our lives may terminate at the same in- stant, and one grave receive us both, for 18 Charlotte Temple. why should I live when deprived of my only friend? " Temple was moved even to tears. " You will both live many years ! " he said, " and, I hope, see much happiness. Cheerily, my friend, cheerily ; these pass- ing clouds of adversity will serve only to make the sunshine of prosperity more pleasing. But we are losing time; you might, ere this, have told me who were your creditors, what were their demands, and other particulars necessary to your liberation." "My story is short," said Mr. El- dridge, " but there are some particulars which will wring my heart barely to re- member, yet to one whose offers 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 Charlotte Temple. 19 are with me, to enjoy the benefit of air and exercise. Go, my love; leave me now; to-morrow, at the usual hour, I will expect you." Miss Eldridge impressed on his cheek the kiss of filial affection, and obeyed. CHAPTEE III. UNEXPECTED MISFORTUNES. " My life," said Mr. Eldridge, " till within these few years, was marked by no particular circumstance deserving no- tice. I early embraced the life of a sailor, and have served my king with un- remitted ardor for many years. At the age of twenty-five I married an amiable woman; one son and the girl who just now left us were the fruits of our union. My boy had genius and spirit. I strained 20 Charlotte Temple. my little income to give him a liberal education; but the rapid progress he made in his studies amply compensated for the inconvenience. At the academy where he received his education, he com- menced an acquaintance with a Mr. Lewis, a young man of affluent fortune; as they grew up, their intimacy ripened into friendship, and they became almost inseparable companions. " George chose the profession of a soldier. I had neither friends nor money to procure him a commission, and had washed him to embrace a nautical life, but this was repugnant to his wishes, and I ceased to urge him on the subject. The friendship existing between Lewis and my son was of such a nature as gave him free access to our family, and so specious was his manner that we hesitated not to state to him all our little difficulties in regard to George's future views. " He listened to us with attention, and Charlotte Temple. 21 offered to advance any sum necessary for his first setting out. " I embraced the offer, and gave him my note for the payment of it; but he would not suffer me to mention any stipulated time, as he said I might do it whenever most convenient to myself. "About this time my dear Lucy re- turned from school, and I soon began to imagine Lewis looked at her with eyes of affection. I gave my child caution to beware of him, and to look on her moth- er as her friend. She was unaffectedly artless; and when, as I suspected, Lewis made professions of love, she confided in her parents, and assured us that her heart was perfectly unbiased in his favor, and she would cheerfully submit to our di- rection. " I took an early opportunity of ques- tioning him concerning his intentions tow r ard my child; he gave an equivocal and suspicious answer — some angry Charlotte Temple. words followed, and I forbade him the house. " The next day he sent and demanded payment of his money. It was not in my power to comply with the demand. I requested three days to endeavor to raise it, determining to mortgage my half-pay, and live on a small annuity which my wife possessed, rather than be under any obligation to so worthless a man; but this short time was not allowed me, for that evening, as I was sitting- down to supper, unsuspicious of danger, an officer entered and tore me from the embraces of my family. " My wife had been for some time in a declining state of health; ruin at once so unexpected and inevitable was a stroke she was not prepared to bear; and I saw her faint in the arms of our ser- vant, as I left my own habitation for the comfortless walls of a prison. " My poor Lucy, distracted with her Charlotte Temple. 23 fears for us both, sank on the floor and endeavored to retain me by her feeble ef- forts, but in vain; they forced her to open her arms; she shrieked and fell prostrated — but pardon me — the horrors of that night unman me. I cannot pro- ceed." He arose from his seat and walked several times across the room; at length, attaining more composure, he cried : " What a mere infant I am ! Why, sir, I never felt thus in the day of bat- tle." "Xo," said Temple; "but the truly brave soldier is tremblingly alive to the feelings of humanity." " True," repled the old man (some- thing like satisfaction darting across his features), " and painful as these feelings are, I would not exchange them for that torpor which the stoic mistakes for phil- osophy. How many exquisite delights should I have passed by unnoticed, but 24 Charlotte Temple. for these keen sensations, this quick sense of happiness 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 under the evil, and presume not to inquire why the latter predominates." " This is true philosophy," said Tem- ple. " 'Tis the only way to reconcile our- selves to the cross events of life," replied he. " But I forgot myself. I will not longer intrude on your patience, but pro- ceed with my melancholy tale. " 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 distracted expres- sions of his mother and sister, he learned 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, Charlotte Temple. 25 and earnestly inquired the cause of this cruel conduct. With all the calmness of a cool, deliberate villain, he avowed his passion for Lucy, declared her situa- tion in life would not permit him to marry her, but offered to release me im- mediately, and make any settlement upon her, if George would persuade her to live, as he impiously termed it, a life of honor. " Fired at the insult offered to a man and a soldier, my boy struck the villain, and a challenge ensued. " He then went to a coffee-house in the neighborhood, and wrote a long, af- fectionate letter to me, blaming himself severely for having introduced Lewis into the family, or permitting him to pay an obligation which had brought in- evitable ruin on us all. He begged me, whatever might be the event of the en- suing morning, not to suffer regret or unavailing sorrow for his fate to increase 26 Charlotte Temple. the anguish of my heart, which he great- ly feared was already insupportable. " This letter was delivered to me early in the morning. It would "be vain to at- tempt to describe my feelings on the perusal of it ; suffice it to say, that a mer- ciful Providence interposed, and I was for three weeks insensible- to miseries al- most beyond the strength of human nature to support. "A fever and strong delirium seized me, and my life was despaired of. "At length nature, overpowered with fatigue, gave way to the salutary power of rest, and a quiet slumber of some hours restored me to reason, though the extreme weakness of my frame pre- vented my feeling my distress so acutely as I otherwise should. " The first object that struck me on awakening was Lucy sitting by my bed- side; her pale countenance and dress pre- vented my inquiries for poor George; for Charlotte Temple. 27 the letter I had received from him was the first thing that occurred to my mem- ory. By degrees the rest returned; I recollected being arrested, but could in no way account for being in this apart- ment, whither they had conveyed me during my illness. " I was so weak as to be almost unable to speak; I pressed Lucy's hand, and looked earnestly around the apartment in search of another dear object. " ' Where is your mother ? ' said I, 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 and burst into tears. " 1 What, both gone ? ' said I. " ' Both,' she replied, endeavoring to restrain her emotions; 'but they are happy, no doubt.' " Here Mr. Eldridge paused! the recol- lection of the scene was too painful to permit him to proceed. CHAPTER IV. CHANGE OF FORTUNE. " It was some days/' continued Mr. Eldridge, recovering himself, " before I could venture to inquire the particulars of what had happened during my illness; at last I assumed courage 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, stayed with them but a few min- utes, seemed to be greatly agitated 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, as they were sitting at breakfast and endeavoring to strike out some plan to attain my liberty, they heard a loud rap at the door, which Lucy, running to open, she met the bleeding 28 Charlotte Temple. 29 body of her brother, borne in by two men, who lifted it from a litter, on which they had brought him from the place where he had fought. " Her poor mother, weakened by ill- ness and the struggles of the preceding night, was not able to support this shock; gasping for breath, her looks wild and haggard, she reached the apartment where they had carried her dying son. She knelt by his bedside, and taking his cold hand : ' My poor boy/ said she, ' I will not be parted from thee; husband — son — both at once lost ! Father of mer- cies, spare me ! ' She fell into a strong convulsion, and expired within two hours. In the meantime a surgeon had dressed George's wounds; but they were in such a situation as to bar the smallest hopes of recovery. He never was sensi- ble from the time he was brought home, and died that evening in the arms of his sister. 30 Charlotte Temple. " Late as it was when this event took place, my affectionate Lucy insisted on coming to me. * What must he feel,' said she, ' at our apparent neglect, and how shall I inform him of the afflictions with which it has pleased Heaven to visit us V " She left the care of the dear depart- ed ones to some neighbors, who had kind- ly some in to comfort and assist her, and on entering the house where I was con- fined, found me in the situation I have mentioned. " 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 affliction for the loss of the other. " My circumstances were greatly em- barrassed, my acquaintances few, and those few utterly unable to assist me. When my wife and son were committed Charlotte Temple. 31 to their kindred earth, my creditors seized my house and furniture, which, not being sufficient to satisfy their de- mands, detainers were lodged against me. Xo friend stepped foward to my re- lief; from the grave of her mother, my beloved Lucy followed an almost dying father to this melancholy place. " Here we have been nearly a year and a half. My half-pay I have given up to satisfy my creditors, and my child sup- ports me by her industry; sometimes by fine needle-work, sometimes by painting. She leaves me every night, and 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 a>ylum in her family, but she would not leave me. * AVe are all the world to each other/ said she. i I thank God I have health and spirits to improve the talents nature has endowed me with; I trust, if I employ 32 Charlotte Temple. 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 fortitude to bear the separation with due resignation ; till then I will never leave him.' " " But where is this inhuman persecu- tor ? " said Temple. " He has been abroad ever since," re- plied the old man ; " but he has left or- ders with his lawyer never to give up the note until the utmost farthing is paid." "And how much is the amount of your debts in all ? " said Temple. " Five hundred pounds," he replied. Temple started; it was more than he expected. " But something must be done," said he ; " that sweet maid must not wear out her life in prison. I will see you again to-morrow, my friend," said he, shaking Charlotte Temple. 33 Eldridge's hand. " Keep up your spir- its; 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 splendor of the other." " You never lost a wife and son," said Eldridge. " No/' replied he, " but I can feel for those that have." Eldridge pressed his hand, as they went toward the door, and they parted in silence. "When they got without the walls of the prison, Temple thanked his friend Blakeney for introducing him to so worthy a character ; and, telling him that he had a particular engagement in the city, wished him a good-evening. "And what is to be done for this dis- tressed man ? " said Temple, as he walk- ed up Ludgate Hill. " Would to Heaven I had a fortune that would enable me in- 34 Charlotte Temple. stantly to discharge his debt; what ex- quisite transport, to see the expressive eyes of Lucy beaming at once with pleasure for her father's deliverance and gratitude for his deliverer; but is not my fortune affluence," continued he, " nay, superfluous wealth, when com- pared to the extreme indigence of El- dridge? And what have I done to de- serve ease and plenty, while a brave 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 find means to execute a good action. Temple was a young man, his feelings warm and impetuous; unacquainted with the world, his heart had not been rendered callous by being convinced of its fraud and hypocrisy. He pitied their sufferings, overlooked their faults, Charlotte Temple. 35 thought every bosom as generous as his own, and would cheerfully have divided his last guinea with an unfortunate fel- low creature. ~No wonder, then, that such a man (without waiting a moment for the in- terference of Madame Prudence) should resolve to raise money sufficient for the relief of Eldridge, by mortgaging part of his fortune. We will not inquire too minutely into the motive which might actuate him in this instance: suffice it to say, he im- mediately, put the plan into 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. ''And pray, young man," said his father to him one morning, 4 ' what are your designs in visiting thus constantly the old man and his daughter ? ' ' 36 Charlotte Temple. Temple was at a loss for a reply; he had never asked himself the question ; he hesitated, and his father continued: a It was not till within these few days that I heard in what manner your ac- quaintance first commenced, and I can- not suppose anything but attachment to the daughter could carry you such im- prudent lengths for the father; it must certainly have been her art that drew you into mortgaging part of your for- tune." "Art, sir ! " cried Temple, eagerly — " Lucy Eldridge is as free from art as she is from every other error; she is " " Everything that is amiable and love- ly," said his father, interrupting him, ironically. " No doubt, in your opin- ion, 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 Charlotte Temple. 37 to complete your folly by marrying her ? " " Were my fortune such as would sup- port her according to her merit, I don't know a woman more formed to insure happiness in the marriage state." " Then, prithee, my dear lad," said his father, " since your rank and fortune are so much beneath what your Princess might expect, be so kind as to turn your eyes to Miss Weatherby, who, having only an estate of three thousand a year, is more upon a level with you, and whose father yesterday solicited the mighty honor of your alliance. I leave you to consider on this offer, and pray remem- ber that your union with Miss Weather- by will put it in your power to be more liberally the friend of Lucy Eldridge." The old gentleman walked in a stately manner out of the room, and Temple stood almost petrified with astonishment, contempt and rage. CHAPTER V. SUCH THINGS ARE. Miss Weatherby was the only child of a wealthy man, almost idolized by her parents, nattered by her dependents, and never contradicted, even by those who called themselves her friends. I cannot give a better description than by the following lines: The lovely maid whose form and face Nature has deek'd with every grace, But in whose breast no virtues glow, Whose heart ne'er felt another's woe, Whose hand ne'er smooth'd the bed of pain, Or eas'd the captive's galling chain: But like the tulip caught the eye, Born just to be admir'd and die; When gone, no one regrets its loss, Or scarce remembers that it was. Such was Miss Weatherby; her form lovely as nature conld make it, but her mind uncultivated, her passions impetu- ous, and her brain almost turned with 3 8 Charlotte Temple. 39 flattery, dissipation, and pleasure; and such was the girl whom a partial grand- father left independent mistress of the fortune before mentioned. She had seen Temple frequently; and. fancying she could never be happy with- out him, nor once imagining he could refuse a girl of her beauty and fortune, she prevailed on her fond father to offer the alliance to the Earl of D , Mr. Temple's father. The earl had received the offer court- eously; he thought it a great match for Henry; and was too fashionable a man to suppose a wife could be any impedi- ment to the friendship he professed for Eldridge and his daughter. Unfortunately for Temple,* he thought quite otherwise; the conversa- tion he had just had with his father dis- covered to him the situation of his heart ; and he found that the most affluent for- tune would bring no increase of happi- 40 Charlotte Temple. ness unless Lucy Eldridge shared it with him; and the integrity of his own heart made him shudder at the idea his father had started, of marrying a woman for no other reason than because the affluence of her fortune would enable him to injure her by maintaining in splendor the woman to whom his heart was devoted; he therefore resolved to refuse ^liss Weatherby, and, be the event what it might, offer his heart and hand to Lucy Eldridge. Full of this determination, he sought his father, declared his resolution, and was commanded never more to appear in his presence. Temple bowed; his heart was too full to permit him to speak; he left the house precipitately, and hastened to relate the cause of his sorrow to his good old friend and his amiable daughter. In the meantime, the earl, vexed to the soul that such a fortune should be Charlotte Temple. 41 lost, determined to offer himself a candi- date for Miss Weatherby's favor. What wonderful changes are wrought by that reigning power, ambition ! The love-sick girl, when first she heard of Temple's refusal, wept, raved, tore her hair, and vowed to found a Protestant nunnery with her fortune; and com- mencing abbess, to shut herself up from the sight of cruel, ungrateful man for- ever. Her father was a man of the world; he suffered his 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 ele- vated title ; painted in glowing colors the surprise and vexation of Temple when he should see her figuring as a countess and his step-mother, and begged her to consider well before she made any rash vows. The distressed fair one dried her tears, 42 Charlotte Temple. listened patiently, and at length declared she believed the surest method to re- venge the slight put on her by the son. would be to accept the father; so said — so done, and in a feAv days she became the Countess D . Temple heard the news with emotion; he had lost his father's favor by avowing his passion for Lucy, and he saw now there was no hope of regaining it. " But he shall not make me miserable," said he. " Lucy and I have no ambitious no- tions; we can live on three hundred a year for some little time, till the mort- gage is paid off, and then we shall have sufficient not only for the comforts, but many of the little elegancies of life. We will purchase a little cottage, my Lucy," said he, " thither with your reverend father, we will retire; we will forget that there are such things as splendor, pro- fusion, and dissipation — we will have some cow t s, and you shall be queen of the Charlotte Temple. 43 dairy; in the 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 humble gratitude, your father shall smoke his pipe in a woodbine alcove, and viewing the serenity of your counten- ance, feel such real pleasure dilate his heart as shall make him regret that he has ever been unhappy." Lucy smiled, and Temple saw it was the smile of approbation. He sought and found a cottage suited to his taste; thither, attended by love and Hymen, the happy trio retired, where, during many years of uninterrupted felicity, they cast not a wish beyond the little boundaries of their own tenement. Plenty, and her hand-maid, 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. 44 Charlotte Temple. Such were the parents of Charlotte Temple, who was the only pledge of their mutual love, and who, at the earn- est 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 acquaintance of the reader. CHAPTEE VI. AN INTRIGUING TEACHER. Madame Du Pont was a woman in every way calculated to take care of young ladies, had that care entirely de- volved on herself; but it was impossible to attend to the education of a numerous school without proper assistants; and those assistants were not always the kind of people whose conversations and Charlotte Temple. 45 morals were exactly such as parents of delicacy and refinement would wish a daughter to copy. Among the teachers at Madame Du Font's school was Mademoiselle La Rue, who added to a pleasing person and in- sinuating address a liberal education and the manners of a gentlewoman. She was recommended to the school by a lady whose humanity overstepped the bounds of discretion ; for, though she knew Miss La Rue had eloped from a convent with a young officer, and on coming to Eng- land had lived in open defiance of all moral and religious duties, yet, finding her reduced to the most abject want, and believing the penitence which she pro- fessed to be sincere, she took her into her own family, and thence recommended her to Madame Du Pont, as thinking the situation more suitable for a woman of her abilities. But mademoiselle possessed too much 46 Charlotte Temple. 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 neighborhood; she had met him several times clandestinely, and be- ing invited to come out that evening and eat some fruit and pastry in a summer- house belonging to the gentleman he was visiting, and requested to bring some of the ladies with her, Charlotte, being her favorite, was fixed on to accompany her. The mind of youth easily catches at promised pleasure. Pure and innocent by nature, it thinks not of the dangers lurking beneath those pleasures until too late to avoid them. When mademoiselle asked Charlotte to go with her, she mentioned the gen- tleman as a relation, and spoke in such high terms of the elegance of his gar- dens, the sprightliness of his conversa- Charlotte Temple. 47 tion, and the liberality with which he entertained his guests, that Charlotte thought only of the pleasure she should enjoy in the visit, not of the imprudence of going without her governess' knowl- edge, or of the danger to which she ex- posed herself in visiting the house of a young man of fashion. Madame Du Pont had gone out for the evening, and the rest of the ladies had retired to rest, when Charlotte and the teacher stole out of the back gate, and in crossing the field, were accosted by Montraville, as mentioned in the first chapter. Charlotte was disappointed at the pleasure she had promised herself from this visit. The levity of the gentlemen and the freedom of their conversation disgusted her. She was astonished at the liberties mademoiselle permitted them to take, grew thoughtful and un- easy, and heartily wished herself at home again, in her own chamber. 48 Charlotte Temple. Perhaps one cause of that wish might be an earnest desire to see the contents of the letter which had been put into her hand by Montraville. Any reader, who has the least knowl- edge of the world, will easily imagine the letter was made up of encomiums on her beauty, and vows of everlasting love and constancy, nor will he be surprised that a heart open to every gentle, generous sentiment, should feel itself warmed by gratitude for a man who professed to feel so much for her, nor is it improbable that her mind might revert to the agreeable person and martial appearance of Mon- traville. In affairs of love, a young heart is never in more danger than when attack- ed by a handsome young soldier. A man of indifferent appearance will, when ar- rayed in a military habit, show to ad- vantage, but when beauty of person, ele- gance of manner, and an easy method Charlotte Temple. 49 of paying compliments are united to the scarlet coat, smart cockade, and military sash — ah! well-a-day for the poor girl who gazes upon him; she is in imminent danger, but if she listens to him with pleasure, 'tis all over with her, and from that moment she has neither eyes nor ears for any other object. Xow, my dear, sober matron — if a sober matron should deign to turn over these pages before she trusts them to the eyes of a darling daughter — let me en- treat you not to put on a grave face and throw down the book in a passion, and de- clare 'tis enough to turn the heads of half the girls in England. I do solemnly pro- test, my dear madam, I mean no more by what I have here advanced than to ridicule those girls who foolishly im- agine a red coat and a silver eqaulet con- stitute a fine gentleman; and should that fine gentleman make half a dozen fine speeches to them they will imagine 50 Charlotte Temple. themselves so much in love as to fancy it a meritorious act to jump out of a two-pair stairs window, abandon their friends, and trust entirely to the honor of a man who, perhaps, hardly knows the meaning of the word, and if he does, will be too much the modern man of re- finement to practise it in their favor. Gracious Heaven ! when I think of the miseries that must rend the heart of a doting parent, when he sees the darling of his age at first seduced from his protec- tion, and afterwards abandoned by the very wretch whose promises of love de- coyed her from the paternal roof — when he sees her poor and wretched, her bosom torn between remorse for her crime and love for her foul 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 T Charlotte Temple. 51 wish for power to extirpate these mon- sters of seduction from the earth. Oh, my dear girls — for to such only am I writing — listen not to the voice of love, unless sanctioned by paternal ap- probation; 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 request kind Heaven to keep you free from temptation; or should it please to suffer you to be tried, pray for fortitude to resist the impulse of natural inclina- tion, when it runs counter to the precepts of religion and virtue. CHAPTER VII. NATURAL SENSE OF PROPRIETY INHERENT IN THE FEMALE BOSOM. " I cannot think we have done exact- ly right in going ont this evening, mademoiselle," said Charlotte, seating herself, when she entered her apart- ment; u nay, I am sure it was not right; for I expected to be very happy, but was sadly disappointed." " It was your own fault, then," replied mademoiselle ; " for I am sure my cousin omitted nothing that could serve to ren- der the evening agreeable." "True," said Charlotte, "but I thought the gentlemen were very free in their manner; I wonder you would suf- fer them to behave as they did." " Prithee, don't be such a foolish little prude," said the artful woman, affecting anger. " I invited you to go, in hope* it 52 Charlotte Temple. 53 would divert you, and be an agreeable change of scene; however, if your del- icacy was hurt by the behavior of the gentlemen, you need not go again; so there let it rest." " I do not intend to go again," said Charlotte, gravely, taking off her bon- net, and beginning to prepare for bed. " I am sure, if Madame Du Pont knew we had been out to-night, she would be very angry; and it is ten to one but she hears of it by some means or other." " Nay, miss," said La Rue, " perhaps your 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 partiality which led me to prefer you be- fore any of the rest of the ladies, but perhaps it will give you pleasure," con- tinued she, letting fall some hypocritical 54 Charlotte Temple. tears, " to see me deprived of bread, and for an action which by the most rigid could be esteemed but an inadvertency, lose my place and character, and be driven again into the world, where I have already suffered all the evils attend- ant on poverty." This was touching Charlotte in the most vulnerable part; she arose from her seat, and taking mademoiselle's hand — " You know, my dear La Kue," said she, " I love you too well to do anything that would injure you in my governess' opin- ion; I am only sorry we went out this evening." "I don't believe it, Charlotte," said she, assuming a little vivacity, " for, if you had not gone out, you would not have seen the gentleman who met us crossing the field, and I rather think you were pleased with his conversation." " I had seen him once before," replied Charlotte, " and thought him an agree- Charlotte Temple. 55 able man, and you know one is always pleased to see a person with whom one has passed several cheerful hours. But," said she, pausing and drawing the letter from her pocket, while a general suffu- sion of vermilion tinged her neck and face, " he gave me this letter; what shall I do with it \ " " Read it, to be sure," returned made- moiselle. " I am afraid I ought not," said Char- lotte. " 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, my dear girl ! " cried the teacher, smiling, " have you a mind to be in leading strings all your lifetime? Prithee, open the letter, read it, and judge for yourself. If you show it to your mother, the consequence will be, you will be taken from school, and a strict guard kept over you, so you w T ill 56 Charlotte Temple. stand no chance of ever seeing the smart young officer again." " I should not like to leave school yet/' replied Charlotte, " till I have at- tained a greater proficiency in my Ital- ian 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 pro- priety, enter into a clandestine corres- pondence with him." She laid the letter on the table, and began to undress herself. " Well," said La Kue, a I vow you are an unaccountable girl. Have you no curiosity to see the inside now? For my part, I could no more let a letter ad- dressed 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. " 'Tis well enough," said C harlotte, drawing it towards her. Charlotte Temple. 57 " He is a genteel young fellow," said La Rue, carelessly, folding up her apron at the same time; "but I think he is marked with the smallpox." " Oh, you are greatly mistaken," said Charlotte, eagerly; "he has a remark- ably clear skin and a fine complexion. " His eyes, if I should judge by what I saw," said La Rue, " are gray, and want expression." "By no means," replied Charlotte; " they are the most expressive eyes I ever saw." " Well, child, whether they are gray or black is of no consequence; you have determined not to read his letter, so it is likely you will never either see or hear from him again." Charlotte took up the letter, and mademoiselle continued : " He is most probably going to Amer- ica; and if ever you should hear any ac- count of him it may possibly be that he 58 Charlotte Temple. is killed; and though he loved you ever so fervently, though his last breath should be spent in a prayer for your hap- piness, it can be nothing to you; you can feel nothing for the fate of the man whose letter you will not open, and whose sufferings you will not alleviate, by permitting him to think you would remember him when absent and pray for his safety." Charlotte still held the letter in her hand; her heart swelled at the conclu- sion of mademoiselle's speech, and a tear dropped on the wafer that closed it. " The wafer is not dry yet," said she, " and sure there can be no great harm " She hesitated. La Eue was silent. " I may read it, made- moiselle, and return it afterwards." " Certainly," replied mademoiselle. "At any rate, I am determined not to answer it," continued Charlotte, as she opened the letter. Charlotte Temple. 59 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 the basis on which reputation, honor, everything that . should be dear to the female heart, rests — she grows hardened in guilt, and will spare no pains to bring down innocence and beauty to the shocking level with herself; and this proceeds from that dia- bolical spirit of envy which repines at seeing another in full possession of that respect and esteem which she can no longer hope to enjoy. Mademoiselle eyed the unsuspecting Charlotte, as she perused the letter, with malignant pleasure. She saw that the contents had awakened new emotions in her youthful bosom.' She encouraged her hopes, calmed her fears, and before they parted for the 00 Charlotte Temple. night, it was determined that she should meet Montraville on the ensuing even- ing. CHAPTEK VIII. DOMESTIC PLEASURES PLANNED. " I think, my dear/' said Mrs. Term pie, laying her hand on her husband's arm, as they were walking together in the garden, " I think next Wednesday will be Charlotte's birthday. Xow, I have formed a little scheme in my own mind to give her an agreeable surprise, and if you have no objection, we will send for her to come home on that day." Temple pressed his wife's hand in token of approbation, and she proceeded : " You know the little alcove in the bottom of the garden, of which Char- Charlotte Temple. 61 lotte is so fond? I have an inclination to deck it 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 general taste of young guests, and to make it more pleasing to Charlotte, she shall be mis- tress of the feast, and entertain her visit- ors in this alcove. I know she will be delighted, and, to complete all, they shall have some music, and finish with a dance." " A very fine plan, indeed," said Tem- ple, smiling, " and you really suppose I will wink at your indulging the girl in this manner? You will spoil her, Lucy; indeed you will." " She is the only child we have," said Mrs. Temple, the whole tenderness of a mother adding animation to her fine countenance, but it was w T ithal tempered so sweetly with the meek affection and kind compliance of the wife, that as she 62 Charlotte Temple. paused, expecting her husband's answer, he gazed at her tenderly, and found he was unable to refuse her request. " She is a good girl," said Temple. " She is, indeed," replied the fond mother, exultingly, " a grateful, affec- tionate girl; and I am sure will never lose sight of the duty she owes her parents." " If she does," said he, " she must for- get the example set her by the best of mothers." Mrs. Temple could not reply; but the delightful sensation that dilated her heart sparkled in her intelligent eye and heightened the vermillion on her cheeks. Of all the pleasures of which the hu- man mind is sensible, there is none equal to that which warms and expands the bosom when w T e are listening to com- mendation bestowed on us by a beloved object, and we are conscious of having deserved it. ( Jharlotte Temple. 63 Ye giddy flutterers in the fantastic round of dissipation, who eagerly seek pleasure in the lofty dome, rich »treat, and midnight revel — tell me, thought- less daughters of folly, have you ever found the phantom you have so long sought with unremitting assiduity? Has she not always eluded your grasp, and when you have reached your hand to take the cup she extends to the de- luded votaries, have you not found the long-expected draught strongly tinc- tured with the bitter dregs of disappoint- ment ? I know you have. I see it in the wan cheek, sunken eye, and air of cha- grin, which ever mark the children of dissipation. 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 virgin, arrayed in a white robe, 64 Charlotte Temple. devoid of ornament; behold the meekness of her countenance, the modesty 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 felic- ity, and when once you have formed an intimate acquaintance with these her at- tendants — nay, you must admit them as your bosom friends and chief counsellors ■ — then, whatever may be your situation in life, the meek-eyed virgin will imme- diately take up her abode with you. Is poverty your portion? she will lighten your labors, preside at your fru- gal board, and watch your quiet slum- bers. Is your state mediocrity? she will heighten every blessing you enjoy, by in- forming you how grateful you should be to that bountiful Providence, who might have placed you in the most abject situ- ation, and by teaching you to weigh your Charlotte Temple. 65 blessings against your deserts, show you how much more you receive than you have a right to expect. Are you possessed of affluence — what an inexhaustible fund of happiness she will lay before you! To relieve the dis- tress, redress the injured — in short to perform all the good works of peace and mercy. Content, my dear friends, will blunt even the arrows of an adversary, so that they cannot materially harm you. She will dwell in the humblest cot- tage; she will attend you even to a pris- on; her parent is Religion; her sisters, Patience and Hope. She will pass with you through life, smoothing the rough paths, and tread- ing to earth those thorns which every one must meet with as they journey on- ward to the appointed goal. She will soften the pains of sickness, continue with you even in the coM, 66 Charlotte Temple. gloomy hour of death, and cheering yon with the smiles of her heaven-born sis- ter, Hope, will lead you triumphantly to a blissful eternity. I confess I have rambled strangely from my story, but what of that? If I have been so lucky as to find the road to happiness, why should I be such a nig- gard as to omit so good an opportunity of pointing out the way to others? The very basis of true peace of mind is a benevolent wish to see all the world as happy as one's self ; and from my soul do I pity the selfish churl, who, remem- bering the little bickering of anger, envy, and fifty other disagreeables to which frail mortality is subject, would wish to avenge the affront which pride whispers him he has received. For my own part, I can safely declare, there is not a human being in the uni- verse whose prosperity I should not re- joice in, and to whose happiness I would Charlotte Temple. 07 not contribute to the utmost limit of my power. And may my offenses be no more remembered in the day of general retribution, than as from my soul I for- give every offense or injury received from a fellow-creature. Merciful Heaven ! who would ex- change the rapture of such a reflection for all the gaudy tinsel which the world calls pleasure! But to return. Content dwelt in Mrs. Temple's bosom, and spread a charming animation over her countenance, as her husband led her in, to lay the plan she had formed (for the celebration of Char- lotte's birthday) before Mr. Eldridge. CHAPTER IX. WE KNOW NOT WHAT A DAY MAY BRING FORTH. Various were the sensations which agitated the mind of Charlotte during the day preceding the evening in which she was to meet Montraville. Several times did she almost resolve to go to her governess, show her his let- ter, and be guided by her advice; but Charlotte had taken one step in the ways of imprudence, and when that is once done, there are always innumerable ob- stacles to prevent the erring person re- turning to the path of rectitude; yet these obstacles, however forcible they may appear in general, exist only in the imagination. Charlotte feared the anger of her gov- erness; she loved her mother, and the • el ' Charlotte Temple. 69 very idea of incurring her displeasure gave the greatest uneasiness; but there was a more forcible reason still remain- ing. Should she show the letter to Mad- ame Du Pont, she must confess the means by which it came into her pos- session; and what would be the conse- quence? Mademoiselle would be turned out-of-doors. " I must not be ungrateful," said she. " La Rue is very kind to me ; 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 her- self 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 sank deeper in 70 Charlotte Temple. her heart. As evening drew near, she caught herself frequently consulting her watch. " 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 that my resolution is not to be shaken, I shall feel my mind much easier." The appointed 'hour arrived. Char- lotte and mademoiselle eluded the eye of vigilance; and Montraville, who had waited their coming with impatience, re- ceived them with rapturous and un- bounded acknowledgment for their con- descension. He had wisely brought Bel- cour with him to entertain mademois- elle, while he enjoyed 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 ensu- Charlotte Temple. 71 ing pages, I shall here describe him. He possessed a genteel fortune, and had had a liberal education; dissipated, thought- less and capricious, he paid little regard to the moral duties, and less to religious ones; eager in the pursuit of pleasure, he minded not the miseries he inflicted on others, provided his own wishes, how- ever extravagant, were gratified. Self, daring self, was the idol he worshiped, and to that he would have sacrificed the interest and happiness of all mankind. Such was the friend of Montraville. Will not the reader be ready to imagine, that the man who could regard such, a character must be actuated by the same feelings, follow the same pursuits, and be equally unworthy with the person to whom he thus gave his confidence? But Montraville was a different char- acter; generous in his disposition, lib- eral in his opinion, and good-natured al- most to a fault, yet eager and impetuous Charlotte Temple. in the pursuit of a favorite object, he stayed not to reflect on the consequences which might follow the attainment of his wishes; with a mind ever open to conviction, had he been so fortunate as to possess a friend who would have pointed out the cruelty of endeavoring to gain the heart of an innocent, artless girl, when he knew it was utterly impos- sible for him to marry her, and when the gratification of his passion would be unavoidable infamy and misery to her, and a . cause of never-ceasing remorse to himself. Had these dreadful conse- quences been placed before him in a proper light, the humanity of his nature would have urged him to give up the pursuit. But Belcour was not his friend; he rather encouraged the grow- ing passion of Montraville, and being pleased with the vivacity of mademois- elle, resolved to leave no argument un- tried which he thought might prevail Charlotte Temple. 73 on her to be the companion of their in- tended voyage, and he had no doubt but their 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 clandestine intercourse with a stranger, she would never 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, ar- dent, and yet respectful. " Shall I not see you once more," said he, " before I leave England? Willyou not bless me by an assurance that, when we are divided by a vast expanse of sea, I shall not be forgotten ? " 74 Charlotte Temple. Charlotte sighed. " Why that sigh, my dear Charlotte ? Could I flatter myself that a fear for my safety, or a wish for my welfare occa- sioned it, how happy it would make me!" u I shall ever wish you well, Montra- ville," said she, ' k but we must meet no more." " Oh, say not so, my lovely girl ! Re- flect that when I leave my native land, perhaps a few short weeks may termi- nate my existence ; the perils of the ocean — the dangers of war " " I can hear no more," said Charlotte, in a tremulous voice. " I must leave you." " Say you will see me once again." " I dare not," said she. ft Only for one half hour to-morrow evening; 'tis my last request. I shall never trouble you again, Charlotte." "I know not what to say," cried Char- Charlotte Temple. 75 lotte," struggling to draw lier hand from him ; " let me leave you now." "And will you come to-morrow?" said Montraville. " Perhaps I may," said she. " Adieu, then. I will live upon that hope until we meet again." He kissed her hand. She sighed an adieu, and catching hold of mademoiselle's arm, hastily en- tered the garden gate. CHAPTEK X. WHEN WE HAVE EXCITED CURIOSITY, IT IS BUT AX ACT OF GOOD NA- TURE TO GRATIFY IT. Moxtraville was the youngest son of a gentleman of fortune, whose family being numerous, he was obliged to bring up his sons to genteel professions, by 76 Charlotte Temple. the exercise of which they might hope to raise themselves into notice. " My daughters," said he, " have been educated like gentlewomen; and should I die before they are settled, they must have some provision made to place them above the snares and temptations which vice ever holds out to the elegant, ac- complished female, wdien oppressed by the frowns of poverty and the sting of dependence; my boys, with only moder- ate 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 profes- sion of arms, his father presented him with a commission, and made him a handsome provision for his private purse. " Xow, my boy," said he; "go! seek glory on the field of battle. You have Charlotte Temple. 77 received from me all I shall ever have it in my power to bestow; it is certain I have interest to gain your promotion; but be assured that that interest shall never be exerted unless by your future conduct you deserve it. Remember, therefore, your success in life depends entirely upon yourself. " There is one thing I consider it my duty to caution you against; the precip- itancy with which young men frequent- ly rush into matrimonial engagements, and by their thoughtlessness draw many a deserving woman into scenes of pov- erty and distress. "A soldier has no business to think of a wife until his rank is such as to place him above the fear of bringing into the world a train of helpless inno- cents, heirs only to penury and affliction. " If, indeed, a woman, whose fortune is sufficient to preserve you in that state of independence which I would teach 78 Charlotte Temple. yon to prize, should generously bestow herself on a young soldier, whose chief hope of future prosperity depended on his successes in the field — if such a woman should offer — every barrier is removed, and I shall rejoice in a union which would promise so much felicity. " But mark me, boy, if, on the con- trary, you rush into a precipitate union with a girl of little or no fortune, take the poor creature from a comfortable home and kind friends, and plunge her into all the evils that a narrow income and increasing family can inflict, I will leave you to enjoy the blessed fruits of your rashness, for, by all that is sacred, neither my interest nor my fortune shall ever be exerted in your favor. " I am serious," continued he, " there- fore imprint. this conversation on your memory, and let it influence your fu- ture conduct. Your happiness will al- ways be dear to me; and I wish to warn Charlotte Temple. 79 you of a rock on which the peace of many an honest fellow has been wrecked; for, believe me, the difficulties and dangers of the longest winter cam- paign are much easier to be borne than the pangs that would seize your heart, when you beheld the woman of your choice, the children of your affection, involved in penury and distress, and re- flected that it was your own folly and precipitancy that had been the prime cause of their suffering." As this conversation passed but a few hours before Montraville took leave of his father, it was deeply impressed on his mind; when, therefore, Belcour came with him to the place of assigna- tion with Charlotte, he directed him to inquire of the Frenchwoman what were Miss Temple's expectations in regard to fortune. Mademoiselle informed him, that though Charlotte's father possessed a 80 Charlotte Temple. genteel independence, it was by no means probable that he conld give his daughter more than a thousand pounds; and in case she did not marry to his lik- ing, it was possible he might not give her a single sou; nor did it appear the least likely that Mr. Temple would agree to her union with a young man on the point of embarking for the seat of war. Montraville, therefore, concluded it was impossible he should ever marry Charlotte Temple : and what end he pro- posed to himself by continuing the ac- quaintance he had commenced with her, he did not at that moment give himself time to inquire. CHAPTER XI. CONFLICT OF LOVE AND DUTY. Almost a week was now gone, and Charlotte continued every evening to meet Montraville, and in her heart every meeting was resolved to be the last ; but alas ! when Montraville, at parting, would earnestly entreat one more interview that treacherous heart betrayed her, and forgetful of its reso- lution, pleaded the cause of the enemy so powerfully, that Charlotte was un- able to resist. Another and another meeting succeeded; and so well did Montraville improve each opportunity, that the heedless girl at length confessed no idea could be so painful to her as that of never seeing him again. " Then we will never be parted," said he. 81 82 Charlotte Temple. " Ah, Montraville ! " replied Char- lotte, forcing a smile, " how can it be avoided? My parents would never con- sent to our union; and even could they be brought to approve of it, how could I bear to be separated from my kind, my beloved mother? " " 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." " Well, Charlotte," said Montraville, gravely, and letting go her hand, " since that is the case, I find I have deceived myself with fallacious hopes. I had flattered my fond heart that I was dearer to Charlotte than anything in the world besides. I thought that you would for my sake have braved fhe danger of the ocean — that you would, by your affec- tion and smiles, have softened the hard- Charlotte Temple. 83 ships of war; and had it been my fate to fall, that your tenderness would cheer the hour of death, and smooth my pass- age to another world. But farewell, Charlotte ! I see you never loved me. I shall now welcome the friendly ball that deprives me of the sense of my misery." " Oh, stay, unkind Montraville," cried she, catching hold of his arm, as he pre- tended to leave her — stay; and to calm your fears, I will here protest, that were it not for the fear of giving pain to the best of parents, and returning their kindness with ingratitude, I would fol- low you through every danger, and in studying to promote your happiness, in- sure my own. But I cannot break my mother's heart, Montraville; I must not bring the gray hairs of my doting 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. 84 Charlotte Temple. " All these distressing scenes, my dear Charlotte/' cried Montraville, " are merely the chimeras of a disturbed fancy. Your parents might perhaps grieve at first, but when they heard from your own hands that you were with a man of honor, and that it was to insure your felicity by a union with him, that you left their protection, they will, be assured, forgive an error which love alone occasioned, and when we re- turn 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 per- suasions, approached Charlotte, and so well seconded the entreaties of Montra- ville, that finding that mademoiselle in- tended going with Belcour, and feeling that her own treacherous heart too much inclined to accompany them, the hap- less Charlotte consented in an evil hour Charlotte Temple. 85 that the next evening they would bring a chaise to the end of the town, and that she would leave her friends, and throw herself entirely on the protection of Montraville. " But should you," said she, looking earnestly at him, her eyes full of tears, " should you, forgetful of your prom- ises, and repenting the engagements you here voluntarily enter into, forsake and leave me on a foreign shore " " Judge not so meanly of me," said he. " The moment we reach our place of destination, Hymen shall sanction our love, and when I forget your goodness may Heaven forget me! " " Ah," said Charlotte, leaning on mademoiselle's arm, as they walked up the garden together, " I have forgotten all that I ought to have remembered, in consenting to this intended elopement." " You are a strange girl," said mad- emoiselle; "you never know your own 86 Charlotte Temple. 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 insured that happiness by agreeing to accompany him abroad." " Indeed, I do repent/' replied Char- lotte, " from my soul ; but while discre- tion points out the impropriety of my conduct, inclination urges me on to ruin." "Ruin! fiddlesticks! " said mademois- elle. " Am not I going with you, and do I feel any of these qualms? 99 " You do not renounce a tender father and mother," said Charlotte. " But I hazard my reputation," re- plied mademoislle, 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 anguish wa- tered her pillow. CHAPTER XII. Nature's last, best gift, Creature in whom excelPd whatever could To sight or thought be named Holy, divine! good, amiable and sweet, How art thou fall'n! When Charlotte left her restless bed, her languid eyes and pale cheek discov- ered to Madame Du Pont the little re- pose she had tasted. " My dear child/' said the affection- ate governess, " what is the cause of the langor so apparent in your frame? Are you not well ? " " Yes, dear madame, very well," re- plied Charlotte, attempting to smile, " but I know not how it was, I could not sleep last night, and my spirits are de- pressed this morning." " Come, cheer up, my love," said the governess ; " I believe I have brought a cordial to revive them. I have just re- 87 88 Charlotte Temple. ceived a letter from your good mamma, 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, af- fectionate child, and make it your study to improve in those branches of educa- tion which you know will give most pleasure to your delighted parents, as a reward for your diligence and attention, I have prepared an agreeable surprise for your reception. Your grandfather, eager to embrace the darling of his aged heart, will come in the chaise for you; so hold yourself in readiness to attend him by nine o'clock. Your dear father joins in every tender wish for your health and future felicity which warms Charlotte Temple. 89 the heart of my dear Charlotte's affec- tionate mother. L. Temple." " Gracious Heaven! " cried Charlotte, forgetting where she was, and raising her streaming eyes as if in earnest sup- plication. Madame Du Pont was surprised. " Why these tears, my love ? " said she. " Why this seeming agitation ? I thought the letter would have rejoiced, instead of distressing you." " It does rejoice me," replied Char- . lotte, endeavoring at composure ; " but I was praying for merit to deserve the un- remitted attentions of the best of par- ents." " You are right," said Madame Du Pont, " to ask the assistance of Heaven that you may continue to deserve their love. Continue, my dear Charlotte, in the course you have ever pursued, and 90 Charlotte Temple. you will insure at once their happiness and your own." " Oh ! " cried Charlotte, as her gov- erness left her, " I have forfeited both forever. Yet let me reflect; the irre- vocable step is not yet taken ; it is not yet too late to recede from the brink of a precipice from which I can only behold the dark abyss of ruin, shame and re- morse." She arose from her seat, and flew to the apartment 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 com- mitting. I will not go, mademoselle; I will not wound the hearts of those dear parents who make my happiness 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 Charlotte Temple. 91 in your power to alter it. I shall meet the gentlemen at the appointed hour, and shall not be surprised at any out- rage which Montraville may commit when he finds himself disappointed. In- deed, I should not be astonished were he to come immediately here and reproach you for your instability in the hearing of the whole school; and what will be the consequence? You will bear the odium of having formed the resolution of elop- ing, and every girl of spirit will laugh at your want of fortitude to put it into execution, while prudes and fools will load you with reproach and contempt. You will have 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 re- flect that you have deceived the man who adores you, and whom, in your 92 Charlotte Temple. heart, you prefer to all other men, and that you are separated from him for- ever." This eloquent harangue was given with such volubility that Charlotte did not find an opportunity to interrupt her or to offer a single word until the whole was finished, and then found her ideas so confused that she knew not what to say. At length she determined that she would go with mademoiselle to the place of assignation, convince Montraville of the necessity of adhering to the resolu- tion of remaining behind, assure him of her affection, and bid him adieu. Charlotte formed this plan in her head, and exulted at the certainty of its success. " How shall I rejoice," said she, " in this triumph of reason over inclination; and when in the arms of my affectionate parents, I lift up my soul in gratitude Charlotte Temple. 93 to Heaven as I look back on the dangers I have escaped ! " The hour of assignation arrived; mademoiselle put what money and val- uables she possessed in her pocket, and advised Charlotte to do the same, but she refused. " My resolution is fixed," said she; "I will sacrifice love to duty." Mademoiselle smiled internally; and they proceeded softly down the back stairs and out of the garden gate. Mon- traville and Belcour were ready to re- ceive them. " Now," said Montraville, taking Charlotte in his arms, " you are mine forever." " No," said she, withdrawing from his embrace ; "I am come to take an ever- lasting farewell." It would be useless to repeat the con- versation that here ensued; suffice it to say, that Montraville used every argu- ment that had formerly been successful, 94 Charlotte Temple. Charlotte's resolution began to waver, and he drew her almost imperceptibly toward the chaise. " I cannot go/' said she, " cease, dear Montraville, to persuade. I must not — religion, duty, forbid." " Cruel Charlotte ! " said he, " 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." "Alas! my torn heart," said Char- lotte, " how shall I act ? " " Let me direct you," said Montra- ville, lifting her into the chaise. " Oh, my dear, forsaken parents ! " cried Charlotte. The chaise drove off. She shrieked and fainted in the arms of her betrayer. CHAPTER XIII. CRUEL DISAPPOINTMENT. " What pleasure ! " cried Mr. El- dridge, as he stepped into the chaise to go for his granddaughter, " what pleas- ure expands the heart of an old man when he beholds the progeny of a be- loved child growing up in every virtue that adorned the minds of her parents. I foolishly thought, some few years since, that every sense of joy was buried in the grave of my dear partner and my son, but my Lucy, by her filial affection, soothed my soul to peace, and this dear Charlotte has entwined herself around my heart, and opened such new scenes of delight to my view that I almost for- get that I have ever been unhappy." When the chaise stopped he alighted with the alacrity of youth, so much do 95 96 Charlotte Temple. the emotions of the soul influence the body. It was half-past eight o'clock; the la- dies were assembled in the school-room, and Madame Du Pont was preparing to offer the morning sacrifice of prayer and praise, when it was discovered that made- moiselle and Charlotte were missing. " She is busy, no doubt," said the gov- erness, " in preparing Charlotte for her little excursion; but pleasure should never make us forget our duty to our Creator Go, one of you, and bid them both attend prayers." The lady who went to summon them soon returned, and informed the gover- ness that the room was locked, and that she had knocked repeatedly, but received no answer. " Good Heaven ! " cried Madame Du Pont, " this is very strange ; " and turn- ing pale with terror, she went hastily to the door, and ordered it to be forced Charlotte Temple. 97 open. The apartment instantly dis- closed the fact that no person had been in it the preceding night, the beds ap- pearing as though just made. The house was instantly a scene of confusion ; the garden, the pleasure grounds, were searched to no purpose; every apartment rung with the names of Miss Temple and mademoiselle; but they were too distant to hear; and every face wore the marks of disappointment. Mr. Eldridge was sitting in the par- lor, eagerly expecting his granddaughter to descend, ready equipped for her jour- ney; he heard the confusion that reigned in the house — he heard the name of Charlotte frequently repeated. " What can be the matter ? " said he, rising, and opening the door ; " I fear some accident has befallen my dear girl." The governess entered. The visible agitation of her countenance discovered that something extraordinary had hap- pened. 98 Charlotte Temple. " Where is Charlotte % " said he. u Why does not my child come to wel- come her doting parent ? " " Be composed, my dear sir," said Madame Du Pont ; " do not frighten yourself nnnecessarily. She is not in the house at present ; but as mademoiselle is undoubtedly with her, she will speed- ily return in safety, and I hope they will both be able to account for this unsea- sonable absence in such a manner as shall remove our present uneasiness. " " Madame," cried the old man, with an angry look, " has my child been ac- customed to go out without leave, with no other company or protector than that French-woman? Pardon me, madame, I mean no reflection on your country, but I never did like Mademoiselle La Rue; I think she is a very improper per- son to be intrusted with the care of such a girl as Charlotte Temple, or to be suf- fered to take her from under your im- mediate protection." Charlotte Temple. 99 " You wrong me, Mr. Eldridge," said she, " if you suppose I have ever per- mitted your granddaughter to go out, unless with the other ladies. I would to Heaven I could form any probable con- jecture concerning her absence this morning, but it is a mystery to me, which her return can alone unravel." Servants were now dispatched to every place where there was the least hope of hearing any tidings of the fugitives, but in vain. Dreadful were the hours of horrid suspense which Mr. Eldridge passed till twelve o'clock, when the suspense was reduced to a shocking certainty, and ev- ery spark of hope, which till then they had indulged, was in a moment extin- guished. Mr. Eldridge was preparing, with a heavy heart, to return to his anxiously- expecting children, when Madame Du Pont received the following note, with- out either name or date: 100 Charlotte Temple. " Miss Temple is well, and wishes to relieve the anxiety of her parents, by let- ting them know she has voluntarily put herself under the protection of a man whose future study shall be to make her happy. Pursuit is needless; the meas- ures taken to avoid discovery are too ef- fectual to be eluded. When she thinks her friends are reconciled to this pre- cipitate step, they may, perhaps, be in- formed of her place of residence. Made- moiselle is with her." As Mademoiselle Du Pont read these cruel lines, she turned as pale as ashes, her limbs trembled, and she was forced to call for a glass of water. She loved Charlotte truly; and when she reflected on the innocence and gentleness of hei disposition, she concluded it must have been the advice and machinations of La Rue which led her to this imprudent ac- tion ; she recollected her agitation on the receipt of her mother's letter, and saw in it the conflict of her mind. Charlotte Temple. 101 " Does the letter relate to Charlotte? " said Mr. Eldridge, having waited some time in expectation of Madame Du Pont's speaking. It does," she said. " Charlotte is well, but cannot return to-day." " Xot return, madame! Where is she? Who will detain her from her fond, ex- pecting parents ? " " You distract me with these ques- tions, Mr. Eldridge. Indeed, I do not know where she is, or who has seduced her from her duty." The whole truth now rushed at once upon Mr. Eldridge's mind " She has eloped, then," said he; " my child is betrayed; the darling, the com- fort of my aged heart is lost ! Oh, would to heaven I had died but yesterday." A violent gush of grief in some meas- ure relieved him, and after several vain attempts, he at length assumed sufficient composure to read the note. 102 Charlotte Temple. "And how shall I return to my chil- dren ? " said he. " How approach that mansion so late the habitation of peace? Alas! my clear Lucy, how will you sup- port 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 counten- ance were no more; sorrow filled his heart and guided his emotions. He seated himself in the chaise; his venerable head reclined upon his bosom, his hands were folded, his eyes 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 should say: " Henceforth, who shall dare to boast his happiness, or even in idea contem- plate its treasure, lest in the very mo- ment his heart is exulting in his own Charlotte Temple. 103 felicity, the object which constitutes that felicity should be torn from him ? " CHAPTER XIV. MATERNAL SORROW. Slow and heavy passed the time while the carriage was conveying Mr. Eldridge home ; and yet, when he came in sight of the house, he wished a long 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 affectionate parents, when they found the return of their father delayed so much beyond the expected time. They were now met in the dining- parlor, and several of the young people who had been invited were already ar- rived. 104 Charlotte Temple. Each different part of the company was employed in the same manner — looking out at the windows which faced the road. At length the long-expected chaise ap- peared. Mrs. Temple ran out to receive and welcome her darling — her young com- panions flocked around the door, each one eager to give her joy on the return of her birthday. The door of the chaise was opened. Charlotte was not there. " Where is my child ? " cried Mrs. Temple, in breathless agitation. Mr. Eldridge could not answer; he took hold of his daughter's hand and led her into the house, and sinking on the first chair he came to, he burst into tears, and sobbed aloud. " She is dead ! " cried Mrs. Temple. " Oh, my dear Charlotte ? " and, clasp- ing her hands in an agony of distress, fell into strong hysterics. Charlotte Temple. 105 Mr. Temple, who had stood speechless with surprise and fear, now ventured to inquire if indeed his Charlotte was no more. Mr. Eldridge led him into another apartment, and putting the fatal note into his hand, cried: "Bear it like a Christian ! " and turned from him, en- deavoring to suppress his own too visible emotion. It would be vain to attempt describing what Mr. Temple felt while 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 ? " X either tear nor sigh escaped him, and he sat the image of mute sorrow, till aroused from his stupor by the repeated shrieks of Mrs. Temple. He arose hastily, and rushing into the apartment where she was, folded his 106 Charlotte Temple. arms about her, and saying, " Let us be patient, my dear Lucy," nature relieved his almost bursting heart by a friendly gush of tears. Should any one, presuming on his own philosophic temper, look with an eye of contempt on a man who could in- dulge in a woman's weakness, let him remember that that man was a father, and he will then pity the misery which wrung those drops from a noble and gen- erous heart. Mrs. Temple, beginning to be a lit- tle more composed, but still imagining her child to be dead, her husband, gently taking her hand, cried: " You are mistaken, my love. Char- lotte is not dead." " 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 Charlotte Temple. 107 my sufferings, and cheer me with her love." " Be calm, my dearest Lucy, and T will tell you all," said Mr. Temple. " You must not go ; indeed you must not ; it will be of no use." " Temple," said she, assuming a look of firmness and composure, " tell me the truth, I beseech you ! I cannot bear this dreadful suspense. What misfortune has befallen my child? Let me know the worst, I will endeavor to bear it as I ought." " Lucy," said Mr. Temple, " imagine your daughter alive, and in no danger of death, what misfortune would you then dread ? " " There is one misfortune that is worse than death. But I know my child too well to suspect " " Be not too confident, Lucy." " Oh, Heaven ! " said she, " what hor- rid images do you start? Is it possible that she should forget ? " 108 Charlotte Temple. "She has forgotten us all, my love; she has preferred the love of a stranger to the affectionate protection of her friends." " Not eloped ! " cried she, eagerly. Mr. Temple was silent. " Yon cannot contradict," said she. " I see my fate in those tearful eyes. Oh, Charlotte — Charlotte! how ill you have requited our tenderness. But, Father of Mercies," continued she, sinking on her knees and raising her streaming eyes and clasped hands to Heaven, " this once vouchsafe to hear a fond, distracted mother's prayer. Oh, let thy bounteous Providence watch over the dear, thoughtless girl, save her from the mis- eries which I fear will be her portion; and, oh! of Thine infinite mercy, make her not a mother, lest she should some day feel what I now suffer ! " The last words faltered on her tongue, and she fell fainting into the arms of Charlotte Temple. 101) her husband, who had voluntarily dropped on his knees beside her. A mother's anguish, when disappoint- ed in her tenderest hopes, none but a mother can conceive. Yet, my dear 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. Kemember the tenderness, the care, and unremitting anxiety with which she has attended to all your wants and wishes from earliest infancy to the present clay. Behold the mild ray of affectionate applause that beams from her eye on the performance of your duty ; listen to her reproofs with silent attention; they proceed from a heart anxious for your future felicity; you must love her; nature, all-powerful nature, has placed the seeds of filial affec- tion in your bosoms. 110 Charlotte Temple. Then, once more read over the sor- rows of poor Mrs. Temple; remember, the mother whom you so dearly love and venerate will feel the same, should you, forgetful of the respect due to your Maker and yourself, forsake the paths of virtue, for those of vice and folly. CHAPTEE XV. EMBARKATION. It was with the utmost difficulty that the united efforts of mademoiselle and Montraville could support Charlotte's spirits during their short ride from Chi- chester to Portsmouth, where a boat waited to take them immediately on board the ship in which they were about to embark for America. As soon as she became tolerably com- Charlotte Temple. Ill posed, she entreated pen and ink to write to her parents. This she did in the most affecting, artless manner, entreating their pardon and blessing, and describing the dreadful situation of her mind, the conflict she suffered in endeavoring to conquer this unfortunate attachment, and concluded with saying her only hope of future comfort consisted in the (per- haps delusive) idea she indulged, of be- ing once more folded in their protecting 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; but when the task was completed, and she had com- mitted the letter to the care of Montra- ville, to be sent to the postofflce, she be- came more calm, and indulging the de- lightful hope of soon receiving an answer that would seal her pardon, she in some measure assumed her usual cheerfulness. 112 Charlotte Temple. But Montraville knew too well the consequences that must unavoidably en- sue should this letter reach Mr. Temple; he, therefore, craftily resolved to walk on the deck, tear it to pieces, and com- mit the fragments to the care of Nep- tune, who might or might not, as it suit- ed his convenience, convey them on shore. All Charlotte's hopes and wishes were now centered in one, namely, that the fleet be detained at Spithead till she might receive a letter from her friends; but in this she was disappointed, for the second morning after she went on board the signal was made, the fleet weighed anchor, and in a few hours, the wind be- ing favorable, they bade adieu to the white cliffs of Albion. In the meantime 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 Charlotte Temple. 113 merely gone off to be married, and that when the indissoluble knot was once tied, she would return with the partner she had chosen and entreat their blessing and forgiveness. "And shall we not forgive her ? " said Mr. Temple. " Forgive her ! " exclaimed the moth- er. "Oh! yes; whatever be her errors, is she not our child? And though bow- ed even to the earth with shame and re- morse, is it not our duty to raise the poor penitent and whisper peace and comfort to her desponding :oul ? "Would she but return, with rapture would I fold her to my heart and bury every remembrance of her faults in the dear embrace." But still, day after day passed on and Charlotte did not appear, nor were any tidings to be heard of her; yet each ris- ing morning was welcomed by some new hope. The evening brought with it dis- appointment. At length hope was no 114 Charlotte Temple. more, despair usurped her place, and the mansion that was once the mansion of peace became the habitation of pale, de- jected 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 fair- est example, she must have sunk under this heavy affliction. " Since," said she, " the severest scru- tiny cannot charge me with any breach of duty, to have deserved this severe chastisement, I will bow before the Power who inflicts it with humble resig- nation to His will, nor shall the duty of a wife be totally absorbed in the feelings of the mother; I will endeavor to seem more cheerful, and by appearing in some measure to have conquered my own sor- row, alleviate the sufferings of my hus- band, and arouse him from the torpor Charlotte Temple. 115 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 contribute in the smallest degree to re- store their peace of mind, I shall be am- ply rewarded for the pain the conceal- ment 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 im- prudence and evil counselors. CHAPTER XVI. NECESSARY DIGRESSION. Ox board of the ship on which Char- lotte and mademoiselle were embarked, was an officer of large, unencumbered fortune and elevated rank, and whom I shall call Crayton. He was one of those men who, having traveled in their youth, pretend to have contracted a peculiar fondness for every- thing foreign, and to hold in contempt the productions of their own country, and this affected partiality extended even to the women. With him, therefore, the blushing modesty and unaffected simplicity of Charlotte passed unnoticed, but the for- ward pertness of La Rue, the freedom of her conversation, the elegance of her per- 116 Charlotte Temple. 117 son, mixed with a certain engaging je ne sais quoi, perfectly enchanted him. The reader, no doubt, has already de- veloped the character of La Rue; de- signing, artful and selfish, she accepted the devoirs of Belcour because she was heartily weary of the retired life she led at the school, wished to be released from what she deemed a slavery, and to re- turn to that vortex of folly and dissipa- tion, which had once plunged her into the deepest misery; but her plan, she flattered herself, was now better formed ; she resolved to put herself under the pro- tection of no man, till she had first se- cured a settlement; but the clandestine manner in which she left Madame Du Pont's prevented her putting this plan into execution, though Belcour solemn- ly protested he would make her a hand- some settlement the moment they arrived at Portsmouth. This he afterward con- trived to evade by a pretended hurry of business. La Rue, readily conceiving 118 Charlotte Temple. he never meant to fulfill his promise, de- termined to change her battery, and at- tack the heart of Colonel Crayton. She soon discovered the partiality he enter- tained for her nation, and having impos- ed on him a feigned tale of distress, represented Belcour as a villain who had seduced her from her friends under the promise of marriage, and afterward be- trayed her; pretending great remorse for the errors she had committed, and de- claring that, whatever her affection might have been, it was now entirely extinguished, and she wished for noth- ing more than an opportunity to leave a course of life which her soul abhorred; but she had no friends to apply to; they had all renounced her, and guilt and misery would undoubtedly be her future portion through life. Crayton was possessed of many ami- able qualities, though the peculiar trait in his character, which we have already Charlotte Temple. 119 mentioned, in a great measure threw a shade over them. He was beloved for his humanity and benevolence by all who him, but he was easy and unsuspicious himself, and became a dupe to the arti- fice of others. He was, when very young, united to an amiable Parisian lady, and perhaps it was his affection for her that laid the foundation for the partiality he ever re- tained 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 be- loved and admired, being endowed with all the virtues of her mother, without the weakness of her father. She was mar- ried to Major Beauchamp, and was at this time in the fleet with her father, at- tending her husband to New York. Crayton was melted by the affected contrition and distress of La Hue; he would converse with her for hours, read 120 Charlotte Temple. to her, play cards with her, listen to all her complaints, and promise to protect 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 in- fatuated colonel gave her from under his hand a promise of marriage on their ar- rival at New York, under forfeiture of five thousand pounds. And how did our poor Charlotte pass her time during a tedious and tempest- uous passage? Naturally delicate, the fatigue and sickness she endured ren- dered her so weak as to be almost entire- ly confined to her bed; yet the kindness and attention of Montraville, in some measure contributed to alleviate her suf- ferings, and the hope of hearing from her friends soon after their arrival, kept up her spirits, and cheered many a gloomy night. Charlotte Temple. 121 But during the voyage a great revolu- tion took place, not only in the fortune of La Rue, but in the bosom of Belcour. While in the pursuit of his amour with mademoiselle, he had attended little to the interesting, unobtrusive charms of Charlotte; but when, cloyed by posses- sion, and disgusted with the art and dis- simulation of the one, he beheld the sim- plicity and gentleness of the other, the contract became too striking not to fill him at once with surprise and admira- tion. He frequently conversed with Charlotte; he found her sensible, well informed, but diffident and unassuming. The langor 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 Montraville did noi: design to marry her, and he formed a resolution to endeavor to gain her him- self, whenever Montraville should leave her. 122 Charlotte Temple. Let not the reader imagine Belcour's designs were honorable. Alas! when once a woman has forgot the respect due to herself by yielding to the solicitations of illicit, love, she loses all the conse- quence, even in the eyes of the man whose art has betrayed her, and for whose sake she has 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 passions; and should the unhappy creat- ure shrink from the insolent overture, lie will sneeringly taunt her with pretense of modesty. CHAPTER XVII. A WEDDING. On the day before their arrival at New York, after dinner, Crayton arose from his seat, and placing himself by made- moiselle, thus addressed the company: "As we have nearly arrived at our des- tined port, I think it but my duty to in- form you, my friends, that this lady," (taking her hand) " has 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 dis- cover the most amiable qualities. I thought it but necessary to mention 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 favor and protec- 123 124 Charlotte Temple. tion by honorably uniting my fate to hers. I would wish svery gentleman hence, therefore, to remember that her honor henceforth is mine; and," con- tinued he, looking at iBelcour, " should any man presume to speak in the least disrespectfully of her, I shall not hesi- tate to pronounce him a scoundrel." Belcour cast at him a smile of con- tempt, and bowed profoundly low; he wished mademoiselle much joy in the proposed union; and assured the colonel that he need not be in the least appre- hensive of any one throwing the least odium on the character of his lady, shook him by the hand with ridiculous gravity, and left the cabin. The truth was, he was glad to get rid of La Rue, and so he was but freed from her, he cared not who fell a victim to her infamous arts. The inexperienced Charlotte was as- tonished at what she heard. She thought Charlotte Temple. 125 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 wonder- ful, then, that she should resolve to marry another man! It was certainly extremely wrong. It was indelicate. She mentioned her thoughts to Montra- ville. He laughed at her simplicity, called her a little idiot, and patting her on the cheek, said she knew nothing of the world. " If the world sanctions such things, 'tis a very bad world, I think," said Charlotte. " Why, I always understood that they were to have been married when they arrived at New York. I am sure Mademoiselle told me Belcour promised to marry her. " Well, and suppose he did ? " " Why, he should be obliged to keep his word, I think." " Well, but I suppose he has changed 126 Charlotte Temple. his mind," said Montraville, " and then, you know, the case is altered." Charlotte looked at him attentively for a moment. A full sense of her own situation rushed upon her own mind. She burst into tears, and remained silent. Montraville too well understood the cause of her tears. He kissed her cheek, and bidding her not to make herself un- easy, unable to bear the silent but keen remonstrance, hastily left her. The next morning by sunrise they found themselves at anchor before the city of Xew York. A boat was ordered to convey the ladies on shore. Crayton accompanied them, and they were shown to a house of public entertainment. Scarcely were they seated, when the door opened and the colonel found himself in the arms of his daughter, who had land- ed a few minutes before him. The first transport of meeting subsided, Crayton introduced his daughter to Mademoiselle Charlotte Temple. 127 La Rue as an old friend of her mother's (for the artful Frenchwoman had really made it appear to the credulous colonel that she was in the same convent as his first wife, and though much younger, had received many tokens of her esteem and regard). " If, mademoiselle," said Mrs. Beau- champ, " you were the friend of my mother, you must be worthy the esteem of all good hearts." " Mademoiselle will soon honor our family," said Crayton, " by supplying the place that valuable woman filled; and as you are married, my dear, I think you will not blame " " Hush, my dear sir," replied Mrs. Beauchamp. " I know my duty too well to scrutinize your conduct. Be assured, my dear father, your happiness is mine. I shall rejoice in it. But tell me," con- tinued she, turning to Charlotte, " who is this lovely girl? Is she your sister, mademoiselle ? " 128 Charlotte Temple. A blush, deep as the glow of the car- nation, suffused the cheek of Charlotte. " 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 of Montraville. " What a pity ! " said Mrs. Beau- champ, softly, casting a most compas- sionate glance at her. " But surely her mind is not depraved. The goodness of her heart is depicted in her ingenuous countenance." Charlotte caught the word pity. "And am I already fallen so low ? " said she. A sigh escaped her, and a tear was ready to start, but Montraville ap- peared, and she checked the rising emo- tion. Mademoiselle went with the colo- nel and his daughter to another apart- ment. Charlotte remained with Mon- traville and Belcour. The next morn- Charlotte Temple. 129 ing the colonel performed his promise, and La Rue became in due form Mrs. Crayton, exulted in her good fortune, and dared to look with an eye of con- tempt on the unfortunate but far less guilty Charlotte. CHAPTER XVIII. REFLECTIONS. "And am I indeed fallen so low," said Charlotte, " as to be only pitied ? Will the voice of approbation no more meet my ear ? And shall I never again pos- sess a friend whose face will wear a smile of joy whenever I approach? Alas! how thoughtless, how dreadfully imprudent have I been! I know not which is the most painful to endure — the sneer of contempt, or the glance of compassion 130 Charlotte Temple. which is depicted on the various coun- tenances of my own sex; they are both equally humiliating. Ah ! my dear par- ents, could you now see the child of your affections, the daughter whom you so dearly loved, a poor, solitary being, with- out society, here wearing out her heavy hours in deep regret and anguish of heart — no kind friend of her owm sex to whom she can unbosom her griefs, no be- loved mother, no woman of character to appear in her company; and low as your Charlotte is fallen, she cannot associate with infamy." These w T ere the painful reflections which occupied the mind of Charlotte. Montraville had placed her in a small house a few miles from ^'ew York. He gave her one female attendant, and sup- plied her with what money she wanted; but business and pleasure so entirely oc- cupied his time, that he had but little to devote to the woman wdiom he had Charlotte Temple. 131 brought from all her connections, and robbed of innocence. Sometimes, in- deed, he would steal out at the close of the evening, and pass a few hours with her. And then, so much was she attach- ed to him, that all her sorrows were for- gotten while blessed with his society. She would enjoy a walk by moonlight, or sit by him in a little arbor at the bot- tom of the garden, and play on the harp, accompanying it with her plaintive, har- monious voice. But often, very often, did he promise to renew his visits, and forgetful of his promise, leave her to mourn her disappointment. What pain- ful hours of expectation would she pass! She would sit at a window which looked toward a field he used to cross, counting the minutes and straining her eyes to catch the first glimpse of his person, till, blinded with tears of disappointment, she would lean her head on her hands, and give free vent to her sorrow; then 132 Charlotte Temple. catching at some new hope, she would again renew her watchful position till the shades of evening enveloped every object in a dusky cloud; she would then renew her complaints, and, with a heart bursting with disappointed love and w r ounded sensibility, retire to a bed which remorse had strewed with thorns, and court in vain that comforter of weary nature (who seldom visits the un- happy) to come and steep her senses in oblivion. Who can form an adequate idea of the sorrow that preyed upon the mind of Charlotte? The wife, whose breast glows with affection for her husband, and who in return meets only indiffer- ence, can but faintly conceive her an- guish. Dreadfully painful is the situation of such a woman; but she has many com- forts of which our poor Charlotte was deprived. The duteous, faithful wife, Charlotte Temple. 133 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 station with the strictest ex- actness; she may hope by constant as- siduity and unremitted attention to re- call her wanderer, and be doubly happy in his returning affection; she knows he cannot leave her to unite himself to an- other; he cannot cast her out to poverty and contempt. She looks around and sees the smile of friendly welcome or the tear of affec- tionate consolation on the face of every person whom she favors with her es- teem, and from all these circumstances she gathers comfort; but the poor girl by thoughtless passion led astray, who, in parting with honor, has forfeited the esteem of the very man to whom she has sacrificed everything dear and valuable in life, feels his indifference to be the 134 Charlotte Temple. fruit of her own folly, and laments the want of power to recall his lost affec- tions; she knows that there is no tie but honor, and that, in a man who has been guilty of seduction, is but very feeble; he may leave her in a moment of shame and want; he may marry and forsake her forever, and should he do so, she has no redress, no friendly, soothing companion to pour into her mind the balm of con- solation, no benevolent hand to lead her back to the path of rectitude; she has disgraced her friends, forfeited the good opinion of the world, and undone her- self. She feels herself like a poor solitary being in the midst of surrounding multi- tudes; shame bows her to the earth, re- morse tears her distracted mind, and guilt, poverty and disease close the dreadful scene; she sinks unnoticed to oblivion. The finger of contempt may point out Charlotte Temple. 135 to some passing daughter of youthful mirth the humble bed where lies this frail sister of mortality. And will she, in the unbounded gayety of heart, exult in her unblem- ished fame and triumph over the silent ashes of the dead? Oh, no; she has a heart of sensibility; she will stop and thus address the un- happy victim of folly : " Thou hast thy faults; but surely thy sufferings have expatiated them; thy er- rors brought thee to an early grave; but thou wert a fellow-creature — thou hast been unhappy — then be those errors for- gotten." Then, as she stoops to pick the nox- ious weed from off the sod, a tear will fall and consecrate the spot to Charity. Forever honored be the sacred drop of humanity; the angel of mercy shall record its source, and the soul from whence it sprung shall be immortal. .136 Charlotte Temple. My dear madam, contract not your brow into a frown of disapprobation. I mean not to extenuate the faults of those unhappy women who fall victims of guilt and folly; but surely, when w T e re- £ect how many errors we ourselves are subject to, how many secret faults lie liidden in the recesses of our hearts, which we would blush to have brought Into open day, and yet those faults re- quire the lenity and pity of a benevolent judge, or awful w r ould be our prospect of futurity. I say, my dear madam, Avhen we consider this, we surely may pity the faults of others. Believe me, many an unfortunate fe- male, who has once strayed into the thorny paths of vice, would gladly re- turn to virtue were any generous friend to endeavor to raise and reassure her; but alas! it cannot be, you say, the world would deride and scoff*. Then let me tell you, madam, it is a Charlotte Temple. 137 very unfeeling world, and does not de- serve half the blessings which a bounti- ful Providence showers upon it. Oh, thou benevolent Giver of all good ! how shall we erring mortals dare to look up to thy mercy in the great day of re- tribution, if we now uncharitably refuse to overlook the errors, or alleviate the miseries of our fellow creatures! CHAPTER XIX. A MISTAKE DISCOVERED. Julia Franklin was the only child of a man of large property, who left her independent mistress of an unencum- bered income of seven hundred a year, at the age of eighteen; she was a girl of lively disposition, and humane, suscep- tible heart. She resided In New York Charlotte Temple. with an uncle who loved her too well, and had too high an opinion of her pru- dence, 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, and the universal toast. Montraville was introduced to her by the following accident : One night when he was upon guard, a dreadful fire broke out near Mr. Frank- lin's house, which in a few hours reduced that and several others to ashes; fortun- ately no lives were lost, and by the as- siduity of the soldiers much valuable property was saved from the flames. In the midst of the confusion an old gentle- man came up to Montraville, and putting a small box into his hands, cried: " Keep it, my good sir, till I come to you' again; " and then rushed again into the thickest of the crowd; Montraville saw him no more. Charlotte Temple. L39 He waited till the fire was quite ex- tinguished, and the mob dispersed, but in vain; the old gentleman did not ap- pear to claim his property; and Montra- ville, fearing to make an inquiry, lest he should meet with impostors who might lay claim without any legal right to the box, carried it to his lodgings, and locked it up; he naturally imagined that the person who committed it to his care knew him, and would in a day or two re- claim it; but several w T eeks passed on, and no inquiry being made, he began to be uneasy, and resolved to examine the contents of the box, and if they were, as he supposed, valuable, to spare no pains to discover the owner, and restore them to him. Upon opening it, he found it contained jewels to a large amount, about two hundred pounds in money,, and a miniature picture set for a brace- let. On examining the picture, he thought he had somewhere seen features 140 Charlotte Temple. very like it, but could not recollect where. A few days after, being at a public assembly, he saw ZMiss Franklin, and the likeness was too evident to be mistaken; he inquired among his brother officers if any of them knew her, and found one who was upon terms of in- timacy with the family. " Then intro- duce me to her immediately/ said he, u for I am certain I can inform her of something which will give her particular pleasure." He w 7 as immediately introduced, found she was the owner of the jewels, and was invited to breakfast the next morning, in order to restore them. The whole evening Montraville was honored with Julia's hand; the lively sallies of her wit, the elegance of her manner, powerfully charmed him; he forgot Charlotte, and indulged himself in say- ing everything that was polite and ten- der to Julia. But on retiring, recollec- Charlotte Temple. 141 tion returned. " What am I about \ " said he. tk Though I cannot marry Char- lotte, I cannot be villain enough to for- sake her, nor must 1 dare to trifile with the heart of Julia Franklin. I will re- turn this box," said he, " which has been the source of so much uneasiness already, and in the evening pay a visit to my poor, melancholy Charlotte, and en- deavor to forget this fascinating Julia." He arose, dressed himself, and taking the picture out, " I will reserve this from the rest," said he, u and by presenting it to her when she thinks it is lost, enhance the value of the obligation." He re- paired to Mr. Franklin's, and found Julia in the breakfast parlor alone. " How happy am I, madam," said he, " that being the fortunate instrument of saving these jewels, has been the means of procuring me the acquaintance of so amiable a lady. There are the jewels and money all safe." 142 Charlotte Temple. " But where is the picture, sir ? " said Julia. " Here, madam. I would not willing- ly part with it." u It is the portrait of my mother," said she, taking it from him ; " 'tis all that re- mains." She pressed it to her lips, and a tear trembled in her eye. Montraville glanced his eyes on her gray night- gown and black ribbon, and his own feel- ings prevented a reply. Julia Franklin was the very reverse of Charlotte Temple; she was tall, ele- gantly shaped, and possessed much of the air and manner of a woman of fashion; her complexion was a clear brown, enliv- ened with the glow of 'health ; her eyes, full, black, and sparkling, darted their intelligent glances through long silken lashes; her hair was shining brown, and her features regular and striking; there was an air of innocent gayety that played about her countenance where good- humor sat triumphant. Charlotte Temple. 143 " I have mistaken/' said Montraville. "I imagined I loved Charlotte; but, alas! I am too late convinced my attach- ment to her was merely the impulse of the moment. I fear I have not only en- tailed lasting misery on that poor girl, but also thrown a barrier in the way of my own happiness which it will be im- possible to surmount. I feel I love Julia Franklin with ardor and sincerity; yet, when in her presence, I am sensible of my own inability to offer a heart worthy her acceptance, and remain si- lent." Full of these painful thoughts, Mon- traville walked out to see Charlotte. She saw him approaching, and ran out to meet him. She banished from her countenance the air of discontent, which ever appeared when he was absent, and met him with a smile of joy. " I thought you had forgotten me, Montraville," said she, " and was very unhappy." 144 Charlotte Temple. " I shall never forget you, Charlotte," he replied, pressing her hand. The uncommon gravity of his coun- tenance and the brevity of his reply alarmed her. " You are not well," said she ; " your hand it hot ; your eyes are heavy ; you are ill." " I am a villain," said he mentally, as he turned from her to hide his emotion. " But come," continued she, tenderly, " you shall go to bed, and I will sit by and watch you; you shall be better when you have slept." Montraville was glad to retire, and by pretending to sleep, conceal the agitation of his mind from her penetrating eye. Charlotte watched him until a late hour, and then, lying softly down by his side, sunk into a profound sleep, from which she awoke not till late the next morning. CHAPTER XX. " Virtue never appears so amiable as when reaching forth her hand to raise a fallen sister." —Chapter of Accidents. When Charlotte awoke she missed Montraville, but thinking he might have risen early to enjoy the beauties of the morning, she was preparing to follow him, when casting her eye on the table, she saw a note, and opening it hastily, she found these words: " My dear Charlotte must not be sur- prised if she does not see me again for some time; unavoidable business will prevent me that pleasure. Be assured I am quite well this morning, and what your fond imagination magnified into ill- ness, was nothing more than fatigue, which a few hours' rest has entirely re- moved. Make yourself happy, and be certain of the unalterable friendship of Montraville." 145 146 Charlotte Temple. "Friendship" said Charlotte, em- phatically, as she finished the note. " Is it come to this at last? Alas! poor for- saken Charlottee! Thy doom is but too apparent. Montraville is no longer in- terested in thy happiness; and shame, re- morse, and disappointed love will hence- forth be thy only attendants ! " Though these were the ideas that in- voluntarily rushed upon the mind of Charlotte, as she perused the fatal note, yet, after a few hours elapsed, the siren hope again took possession of her bosom, and she flattered herself she could on the second perusal discover an air of tender- ness in the few lines he had left, and which had at first escaped her notice. " He certainly cannot be so base as to leave me," said she; " and in styling him- self as my friend, does he not promise to protect me? I will not torment myself with these causeless fears; I will place confidence in his honor, and sure he will not be so unjust as to abuse it." Charlotte Temple. 147 Just as she had, by this manner of reasoning, brought her mind to some tolerable degree of composure, she was surprised by a visit from Belcour. The dejection visible in Charlotte's counten- ance, her swollen eyes and neglected at- tire, at once told him she was unhappy. He made no doubt Montraville had, by his coldness, alarmed her suspicions, and was resolved, if possible, to arouse her jealousy, urge her to reproach him, and by that mean^ occasion a breach be- tween them. " If I can once convince her that she has a rival," said he, " she will listen to my passion, if it is only to revenge his slights." Belcour knew but little of the female heart; and what he did know was only of those of loose and dissolute lives. He had no idea that a woman might fall a victim to imprudence, and yet re- tain so strong a sense of honor as to re- 148 Charlotte Temple. ject, with horror and contempt, every so- licitation to a second fault. He never imagined that a gentle, gen- erous female heart, once attached, when treated with unkindness, might break, but would never harbor a thought of re- venge. His visit was not long, but before he went, he fixed a scorpion in the heart of Charlotte, whose venom embittered every future hour of her life. We will turn now, for a moment, to Colonel Crayton. He had been three months married, and in that little time had discovered that the conduct of his lady was not so prudent as it ought to have been, but re- monstrance was vain; her temper was violent, and to the colonel's great mis- fortune, he had conceived a sincere af- fection for her; she saw her own power, and with the art of Circe, made every ac- tion appear to him in what light she Charlotte Temple. 149 pleased; his acquaintances laughed at his blindness, his friends pitied his infatua- tion, his amiable daughter, Mrs. Beau- champ, in secret deplored the loss of her father's affection, and grieved that he should be so entirely swayed by an artful and, she much feared, infamous woman. Mrs. Beauchamp was mild and engag- ing; she loved not the hurry and bustle of a city, and had prevailed on her hus- band to take a house a few T miles from New York. Chance led her into the same neigh- borhood with Charlotte. Their houses stood within a short space of each other, and their gardens joined. She had not been long in her new habitation before the figure of Charlotte struck her; she recognized her interest- ing features; she saw the melancholy so conspicuous in her countenance, and her heart bled at reflecting that, perhaps, de- prived of honor, friends, and all that was 150 Charlotte Temple. valuable in this life, she was doomed to linger out a wretched existence in a strange land, and sink broken-hearted into an untimely grave. " Would to Heaven I could snatch her from so hard a fate ! " said she, " but the merciless world has barred the doors of compassion against the poor, weak girl, who, perhaps, had she one kind friend to raise and reassure her, would gladly re- turn to peace and virtue, nay, even the woman who dares to pity and endeavors to recall a wandering sister, incurs the sneer of contempt and ridicule, for an action in which even angels are said to rejoice." The longer Mrs. Beauchamp was a witness to the solitary life Charlotte led, the more she wished to speak to her; and often as she saw her cheeks wet with tears of anguish, she would say — " Dear sufferer, how gladly would I pour into your heart the balm of consolation, were it not for the fear of derision." Charlotte Temple. 151 But an incident soon happened which made her resolve to brave even the scoffs of the world, rather than not to enjoy the heavenly satisfaction of com- forting a despondent fellow-creature. Mrs. Beauehamp was an early riser. She was one morning walking in the gar- den, leaning on her husband's arm, when the sound of a harp attracted their no- tice; they listened attentively, and heard a soft, melodious voice, distinctly sing- ing the following stanzas: " In vain thy glories bid me rise, To hail the new-born day; Alas! my morning sacrifice, Is still to weep and pray. " For what are nature's charms combin'd • To one whose weary breast Can neither peace, nor comfort find, Nor friend whereon to rest? " Oh! never, never! whilst I live Can my heart's anguish cease; Come, friendly death, thy mandate give, And let me be at peace." " 'Tis poor Charlotte ! " said Mrs. Beauehamp, the pellucid drop of human- ity stealing down her cheek. 152 Charlotte Temple. Major Beauchamp was alarmed at her emotion. " What, Charlotte ? " said he. " Do you know her 1 99 In the accent of a pitying angel did she disclose to her husband Charlotte's unhappy situation, and the frequent wish she had formed of being serviceable to her. " I fear," continued she, " the poor girl has been basely betrayed; and if I thought you would not blame me, I would pay her a visit, offer her my friendship, and endeavor to restore to her heart that peace she seems to have lost, and so pathetically laments. Who knows, my dear," laying her hand affec- tionately on his arm, " who knows but she has left some kind, affectionate par- ents to lament her errors, and would she return, they might with rapture receive the poor penitent, and wash away her faults in tears of joy? Oh! what a glorious reflection would it be for me Charlotte Temple. 153 could I be the happy instrument of re- storing her. Her heart may not be de- praved, Beauchamp." " Exalted woman/' cried Beauchamp, embracing her, " how dost thou rise ev- ery moment in my esteem ! Follow the impulse of thy generous heart, my Emily. Let prudes and fools censure, if they dare, and blame a sensibility they never felt. I will exultingly tell them that the truly virtuous heart is ever in- clined to pity and forgive the errors of its fellow-creatures." A beam of exulting joy played around the animated countenance of Mrs. Beau- champ at these encomiums bestowed on her by a beloved husband; the most de- lightful sensations pervaded her heart; and, having breakfasted, she prepared to visit Charlotte. CHAPTER XXI. A BENEVOLENT VISIT. Teach me to feel another's woe; To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to me. — Pope. When Mrs. Beauchamp was dressed she began to feel embarrassed at the thought of beginning an acquaintance with Charlotte, and was distressed how to make the first visit. " I cannot go without some introduction/ 7 said she. " It will look like impertinent curiosity." At length, recollecting herself, she stepped into the garden, and, gathering a few fine cucumbers, took them in her hand by way of apology for her visit. A glow of conscious shame vermil- ioned Charlotte's face as Mrs. Beau- champ entered. " You will pardon me, madam," said 154 Charlotte Temple. 105 she, " for not having before paid my re- spects to so amiable a neighbor; bnt we English people always keep up, whither we go, that reserve which is the charac- teristic of our nation. I have taken the liberty to bring you a few cucumbers; for I had observed you had none in your garden." Charlotte, though naturally polite and well-bred, was so confused she could hardly speak. Her kind visitor endeav- ored to relieve her by not noticing her embarrassment. " I am come, madam/' continued she, " to request you to spend the day w T ith me. I shall be alone, and as we are both strangers in this country, we may hereafter be extremely happy in each other's friendship." " Your friendship, madam," said Charlotte, blushing, " is an honor to all who are favored with it. Little as I have seen of this part of the world, I am no stranger to Mrs. Beauchamp's goodness 156 Charlotte Temple. of heart and known humanity; but my friendship " She paused, glanced her eye upon her own visible situation, and in spite of her endeavors to suppress them, burst into tears. Mrs. Beauchamp guessed the source from whence these tears flowed. " You seem unhappy, madam," said she; " shall I be thought worthy your confidence? Will you intrust me with the cause of your sorrow, and rest on my assurance to exert my utmost power to serve you ? " Charlotte returned a look of gratitude, but could not speak, and Mrs. Beau- champ continued : " My heart was inter- ested in your behalf the first moment I saw you; and I only lament I had not made earlier overtures towards an ac- quaintance ; but I flatter myself you will henceforth consider me as your friend." " Oh, madam ! " said Charlotte, " I have forfeited the good opinion of all my friends; I have forsaken them, and un- done myself." Charlotte Temple. 157 " Come — come, my dear," said Mrs. Beauchamp, "you must not indulge in these gloomy thoughts; you are not, I hope, so unhappy as you imagine your- self; endeavor to be composed, and let me be favored with your company at dinner, when, if you can bring yourself to think me your friend and repose con- fidence in me, I am ready to convince you that it shall not be abused." She then arose and bade her good- morning. At dining hour, Charlotte repaired to Mrs. Beauchamp's, and during dinner assumed as composed an aspect as possi- ble, but when the cloth was removed, she summoned all her resolution, and de- termined to make Mrs. Bauchamp ac- quainted with every circumstance pre- ceding her elopement, and the earnest desire she had to quit a way of life so re- pugnant to her feelings. With the benignant aspect of an angel 158 Charlotte Temple. of mercy, did Mrs. Beauchamp listen to the artless tale; she was shocked to the soul to find how large a share La Rue had in the seduction of this amiable girl, and a tear fell when she reflected that so vile a woman was now the wife of her father. When Charlotte had finished, she gave her a little time to collect her scattered spirits, and then asked her if she had written to her friends. " Oh, yes, madam," said she, " fre- quently; but I have broken their hearts; they are all either dead, or have cast me off forever, for I have never received a single line from them." " I rather suspect," said Mrs. Beau- champ, " they have never had your let- ters; but suppose you were to hear from them, and they were willing to receive you, would you leave this cruel Montra- ville, and return to them ? " " Would I ? " said Charlotte, clasping her hands; "would not the poor sailor Charlotte Temple. 159 tossed on a tempestuous ocean, threat- ened every moment with death, gladly return to the shore he had left to trust to its deceitful calmness? Oh, my dear madam, I would return, though to do it I were obliged to walk barefooted, and beg a scanty pittance of each traveler to support my existence. I would endure it all cheerfully, could I but once more see my dear, blessed mother, hear her pronounce my pardon, and bless me be- fore I died; but alas! I shall never see her more; she has blotted the ungrateful Charlotte from her remembrance, and I shall sink to the grave loaded with her's and my father's curse." Mrs. Beauchamp endeavored to soothe her. " You shall write to them again," said she, " and I will see that the letter is sent by the first packet that sails for Eng- land; in the meantime, keep up your spirits, and hope for everything by de- serving it." 160 Charlotte Temple. She then turned the conversation, and Charlotte, having taken a cup of tea, wished her benevolent friend a good- evening. CHAPTEK XXII. SORROWS OF THE HEART. When Charlotte returned home she endeavored to collect her thoughts, and took up a pen, in order to address those dear parents, whom, spite of her errors, she still loved with the utmost tender- ness, but vain was every effort to write with the least coherence. Her tears fell so fast, they almost blinded her, and as she proceeded to de- scribe her unhappy situation, she became so agitated that she was obliged to give over the attempt, and retired to bed, Charlotte Temple. 161 where, overcome with the fatigue her mind had undergone, she fell into a slumber which greatly refreshed her. She arose in the morning with spirits more adequate to the painful task she had to perform, and after several at- tempts, at length concluded the follow- ing letter to her mother: " New York. " To Mrs. Temple: " Will my once kind, my ever-beloved mother, deign to receive a letter from her guilty, but repentant child? or has she, justly incensed at my ingratitude, driven the unhappy Charlotte from her remembrance? "Alas! shouldst thou even disown me, I dare not complain, because I have de- served it; but yet, believe me, guilty as I am, and cruelly as I have disappointed the hopes of the fondest parents that ever girl had, even in the moment when, 162 Charlotte Temple. forgetful of my duty, I fled from you and happiness — even then I loved you most, and my heart bled at the thought of what you would suffer. Oh ! never — never! while I have existence, will the agony of that moment be erased from my memory. It seemed like the separa- tion of soul and body. " What can I plead in excuse for my conduct? Alas! nothing. That I loved my seducer is but too true. Yet, pow- erful as that passion is, when operating in a young heart glowing with sensibil- ity, it never would have conquered my affection for you, my beloved parents, had I not been encouraged, nay, urged to take the fatal step by one of my own sex, who, under the mask of friendship, drew me on to ruin. " Yet, think not that your Charlotte was so lost as to voluntarily rush into a life of infamy. " Xo, my dear mother, deceived by Charlotte Temple. 163 the specious appearance of my betrayer, and every suspicion lulled asleep by the most solemn promise of marriage, I thought those promises would not so easily be fogotten. " I never once reflected that the man who could stoop to seduction, would not hesitate to forsake the wretched object of his passion, whenever his capricious heart grew weary of her tenderness. " When we arrived at this place, I vainly expected him to fulfill his engage- ments; but was at last fatally convinced he never intended to make me his wife, or if he had once thought of it his mind was now altered. " I scorned to claim from his human- ity what I could not obtain from his love ; I was conscious of having forfeited the only gem that could render me re- spectable in the eyes of the world " I locked my sorrows in my own bosom, and bore my injuries in silence. 164 Charlotte Temple. " But how shall I proceed ? " This man, this cruel Montraville, for whom I sacrificed honor, happiness, and the love of my friends, no longer looks on me with affection, but scorns the credulous girl whom his art has made miserable. " Could you see me, my dear parents, without society, without friends, stung with remorse, and (I feel the burning blush of shame dye my cheeks while I write it) tortured with the pangs of dis- appointed love, cut to the soul by the in- difference of him, who, having deprived me of every other comfort, no longer thinks it worth his while to soothe the heart where he has planted the thorn of never-ceasing regret! " My daily employment is to think of you and weep, to pray for your happi- ness, and deplore my own folly; my nights are scarce more happy; for, if by Charlotte Temple. 165 chance I close my weary eyes, and hope some small forgetfulness of sorrow, some little time to pass in sweet oblivion, fancy, still waking, wafts me home to you; I see your beloved forms; I kneel and hear the blessed words of peace and pardon. Ecstatic joy pervades my soul. I reach my arms to catch the dear em- braces; the motion chases the illusive dream; I wake to real misery. "At other times I see my father, angry and frowning, point to horrid caves, where, on the cold, damp ground, in the agonies of death, I see my dear mother and my revered grandfather. " I strive to raise you ; you push me from you, and shrieking, cry: i Char- lotte, thou hast murdered me.' Horror and despair tear every tortured nerve; I start and leave my restless bed, weary and unrefreshed. " Shocking as these reflections are, I have yet one more dreadful than the rest. 166 Charlotte Temple. Mother, my dear mother! do not let me quite break your heart when I tell you, in a few months, in a few months I shall bring into the world an innocent witness of my guilt. Oh! my bleeding heart. I shall bring a poor little helpless creat- ure heir to infamy and shame. " This alone has urged me once more to address you, to interest you in behalf of this unborn, and beg you to extend your protection to the child of your lost Charlotte. For my own part, I have written so often, so frequently have pleaded for forgiveness, and entreated to be received once more beneath the pa- ternal roof, that, having received no an- swer, nor even one line, I much fear you have cast me from you forever. " But sure you cannot refuse to pro- tect my innocent infant; it partakes not of its mother's guilt. Oh! my father, oh! my beloved mother, now do I feel the anguish inflicted on your hearts re- coiling with double force on my own. Charlotte Temple. 167 " If my child should be a girl (which Heaven forbid), tell her the unhappy fate of her mother, and teach her to avoid my errors; if a boy, teach him to lament my miseries, but tell him not who inflicted them, lest, in wishing to re- venge his mother's injuries, he should wound the peace of his father. "And now, dear friends of my soul, kind guardians of my infancy, farewell. I feel I never more must hope to see you. The anguish of my heart strikes at the strings of life, and in a short time I shall be at rest. Oh, could I but re- ceive your blessing and forgiveness be- fore I die, it would smooth my passage to the peaceful grave, and be a blessed foretaste of a happy eternity. I beseech you, curse me not, my adored parents; but let a tear of pity and pardon fall to the memory of your lost " Charlotte." CHAPTER XXIII. A MAN MAY SMILE, AND SMILE AND BE A VILLAIN. While Charlotte was enjoying some small degree of comfort in the consoling friendship of Mrs. Beauchamp, Montra- ville was advancing rapidly in his affec- tion toward Miss Franklin. Julia was an amiable girl; she saw only the fair side of his character; she possessed an independent fortune, and resolved to be happy with the man of her heart, though his rank and fortune was by no means so exalted as she had a right to expect; she saw the passion which Montraville struggled to conceal; she wondered at his timidity, but im- agined the distance fortune had placed between them occasioned his backward- ness. She, therefore, made every ad- 16S Charlotte Temple. L69 vance which strict prudence and a be- coming modesty could permit. Mon- traville saw with pleasure she was not in- different to him; but a spark of honor which animated his bosom would not suffer him to take advantage of partial- ity. He was well acquainted with Char- lotte's situation, and he thought there would be a double cruelty in forsaking her at such a time; and to marry Miss Franklin, while honor, humanity, every sacred law, obliged him still to protect and support Charlotte, was a baseness at which his soul shuddered. He communicated his uneasiness to Belcour; it was the very thing his pre- tended friend had wished. "And do you really," said he, laugh- ing, " hesitate at marrying the lovely Julia, and becoming master of her for- tune, because a little, foolish, fond girl, chose to leave her friends, and run away with you to America? Dear Montra- 170 Charlotte Temple. ville, act more like a man of sense. This whining, pining Charlotte, who occa- sions you so much uneasiness, would have eloped with somebody else, if she had not with you." " Would to Heaven," said Montra- ville, " I had never seen her. My regard for her was but the momentary passion of desire; but I feel I shall love and revere Julia Franklin as long as I live; yet to leave poor Charlotte in her present situa- tion, would be cruel beyond descrip- tion." " Oh, my good, sentimental friend," said Belcour, " do you imagine that no- body has a right to provide for the brat but yourself ? " Montraville started. " Sure," said he, " you cannot mean to insinuate that Charlotte is alse ? " "I don't insinuate it," said Belcour; " I know it." Montraville turned pale as ashes. Charlotte Temple. 171 " Then there is no faith in woman," said he. " While I thought you were attached to her," said Belcour, with an air of in- difference, " I never wished to make you uneasy by mentioning her perfidy; but, as I know you love and are beloved by Miss Franklin, I was determined not to let these foolish scruples of honor step between you and happiness, or your ten- derness for the peace of a perfidious girl prevent your uniting yourself to a woman of honor." " Good heavens ! " said Montraville, " what poignant reflections does a man endure who sees a lovely woman plunged in infamy, and is conscious he was her first seducer. But are you certain of what you say, Belcour ? " " So far," said he, " that I myself have received advances from her, which I would not take advantage of out of re- gard for you. But, hang it, think no 172 Charlotte Temple. more about her. I dined at Franklin's to-day, and Julia bid me seek and bring you to tea ; so come along, my lad, make good use of the opportunity, and receive the gifts of fortune while they are with- in your reach." Montraville was too much agitated to pass a happy evening even in the com- pany of Jnlia Franklin. He determined to visit Charlotte early next morning, tax her with falsehood, and take an everlasting leave of her. But when the morning came, he was commanded on duty, and for six weeks was prevented from putting his design into execution. At length he found an hour to spare, and walked out to spend it with Char- lotte. It was near four o'clock in the after- noon when he arrived at her cottage. She was not in the parlor, and with- out calling her servant, he walked up- Charlotte Temple. 173 stairs, thinking to find her in her bed- room. He opened the door, and the first object that met his eyes was Char- lotte asleep on the bed, and Belcour by her side. " Death and destruction ! " said he, stamping, " this is too much. Rise, vil- lain, and defend yourself ! " The noise awoke Charlotte. Terrified at the furious appearance of Montraville, and seeing Belcour with him in the chamber, she caught hold of his arm, as he stood by the bedside, and eagerly asked what was the matter. "Treacherous, infamous giil ! " said he, " can you ask? How came he here? " pointing to Belcour. "As Heaven is my witness ! " replied she, weeping, " I do not know. I have not seen him for these three weeks." " Then you confess he sometimes visits you ? " " He came sometimes by your desire. " 174 Charlotte Temple. " 'Tis false. I never desired him to come, and you know I did not. But mark me, Charlotte, from this instant our connection is at an end. Let Bel- cour or any of your favored lovers take you and provide for you; I have done with you forever ! " He was then going to leave her, but starting wildly from the bed, she threw herself on her knees before him, pro- tested her innocence, and intreated him not to leave her. " Oh, Montraville ! " said she, " kill me, for pity's sake, kill me, but do not doubt my fidelity. Do not leave me in this horrid situation. For the sake of your unborn child, oh, spurn not the wretched mother from you ! " " Charlotte," said he, with a firm voice, " I shall take care that neither you nor your child want for anything in the approaching painful hour, but we meet no more." Charlotte Temple. 175 Pie then endeavored to raise her from the ground, but in vain. She clung about his knees, entreating him to be- lieve her innocent, and conjuring Bel- cour to clear up the dreadful mystery. Belcour cast upon Montraville a smile of contempt. It irritated him almost to madness. He broke from the feeble arms of the distressed girl. She shrieked and fell prostrate on the floor. Montraville instantly left the house, and returned hastily to the city. CHAPTEK XXIY. MYSTERY DEVELOPED. Unfortunately for Charlotte, about three weeks before this unhappy rencon- tre, Major Beauchamp, being ordered to 176 Charlotte Temple. Khode Island, his lady had accompanied him, so that Charlotte was deprived of her friendly advice and consoling so- ciety. The afternoon on which Montraville had visited her she had found herself languid and fatigued, and after making a very slight dinner, had laid down to endeavor to recruit her exhausted spirits, and, contrary to her expectations, had fallen asleep. She had not been long laid down when Belcour arrived; for he took every op- portunity of visiting her, and striving to awaken her resentment against Montra- ville. He inquired of the servant where her mistress was, and being told she was asleep, took up a book to amuse himself. Having sat a few minutes, he by chance cast his eyes towards the road, and saw Montraville approaching. He instantly conceived the diabolical Charlotte Temple. 177 scheme of ruining the unhappy Char- lotte in his opinion for ever. He therefore stole softly up-stairs, and laying himself by her side with the greatest precaution, for fear she would awake, was in that situation discovered by his credulous friend. When Montraville spurned the weep- ing Charlotte from him, and left her al- most distracted with terror and despair, Belcour raised her from the floor, and leading her down-stairs, assumed the part of a tender, consoling friend. She listened to the arguments he ad- vanced, with apparent composure; but this was only the calm of the moment. The remembrance of Montraville's re- cent cruelty again rushed upon her mind; she pushed him from her with some violence, crying: " Leave me, sir, I beseech you ; leave me, for much I fear you have been the cause of my fidelity being suspected ; go, 178 Charlotte Temple. leave me to the accumulated miseries my own imprudence has brought upon me." She then left him with precipitation, and retiring to her own apartments, threw herself on the bed, and gave vent to an agony of grief which it is impossi- ble to describe. It now occurred to Belcour that she might possibly write to Montraville, and endeavor to convince him of her inno- cence. He was well aware of her pa- thetic remonstrances, and sensible of the tenderness of Montraville's heart, re- solved to prevent any letters reaching him. He therefore called the servant, and by the powerful persuasion of a bribe, prevailed with her to promise whatever letters her mistress might write should be sent to him. He then left a polite, tender note for Charlotte, and returned to New York. His first business was to seek Montra- Charlotte Temple. 179 ville, and endeavor to convince him that what had happened would ultimately tend to his happiness. He found him in his apartment, soli- tary, pensive, and wrapped in disagree- able reflections. " Why, how now, whining, pining lover ? " said he, clapping him on the shoulder. Montraville started; a momentary flush of resentment crossed his cheek, but instantly gave way to a death-like paleness, occasioned by painful remem- brance — remembrance awakened by that monitor, whom, though we may in vain endeavor, we can never entirely silence. " Belcour," said he, " you have in- jured me in a tender point." " Prithee, J ack," replied Belcour, " do not make a serious matter of it; how could I refuse the girl's advances? and thank Heaven she is not your wife." "True," said Montraville; "but she 180 Charlotte Temple, t was innocent when I first knew her. It was I seduced her, Belcour. Had it not been for me, she had still been virtuous and happy in the affection and protection of her family. " Pshaw," replied Belcour, laughing, " if you had not taken advantage of her easy nature, some other would, and where is the difference, pray ? " " I wish I had never seen her," cried he, passionately, and starting from his seat. " Oh, that cursed French wo- man ! M added he with vehemence, " had it not been for her I might have been happy—" He paused. " With Julia Franklin," said Belcour. The name, like a sudden spark of elec- tric fire, seemed for a moment to sus- pend his faculties — for a moment he was transfixed; but recovering, he caught Belcour's hand, and cried : " Stop — stop ! I beseech you, name Charlotte Temple. 181 not the lovely Julia and the wretched Montraville in the same breath. I am a seducer — a mean, ungenerous seducer of unsuspecting innocence. I dare not hope that purity like hers would stoop to unite itself with black, premeditated guilt. Yet, by heavens! I swear, Bel- cour, I thought I never could forsake her; but the heart is deceitful, and now I can plainly discriminate between the impulse of a youthful passion, and the pure flame of disinterested affection." At that instant Julia Franklin passed the window, leaning on her uncle's arm. She courtesied as she passed, and with a bewitching smile of modest cheerfulness, said: " Do you bury yourselves in the house this fine evening, gents ? " There was something in the voice, the manner, the look, that was altogether ir- resistible. " Perhaps she wishes my company," 182 Charlotte Temple. said Montraville, mentally, as he snatch- ed up his hat. " If I thought she loved me, I would confess my errors, and trust to her generosity to pity and pardon me." He soon overtook her, and offering her his arm, they sauntered to pleasant, but unfrequented walks. Belcour drew Mr. Franklin on one side, and entered into a political dis- course. They walked faster than the young people, and Belcour, by some means, contrived to lose sight of them. It was a fine evening in the begin- ning of autumn ; the last remains of day- light faintly streaked the western sky, while the moon with pale and virgin lus- ter in the room of gorgeous gold and purple, ornamented the canopy of heaven with silver, fleecy clouds, which now and then half hid her lovely face, and, by partly concealing, heightened every beauty; the zephyrs whispered Charlotte Temple. 183 softly through the trees, which now be- gan to shed their leafy honors; a solemn silence reigned; and, to a happy mind, an evening such as this would give serenity, and calm, unruffled pleasure. But to Montraville, while it soothed the turbulence of his passions, it brought increase of melancholy reflec- tions. Julia was leaning on his arm. He took her hand in his, and pressing it ten- derly, sighed deeply, but continued si- lent. Julia was embarrassed; she wished to break a silence so unaccountable, but was unable. She loved Montraville; she saw he was unhappy, and wished to know the cause of his uneasiness, but that innate modesty which nature had implanted in the female breast, pre- vented her inquiring. " I am bad company, Miss Franklin," said he, at last recollecting himself, " but I have met with something to-day 184 Charlotte Temple. that has greatly distressed me, and I can- not shake off the disagreeable impression it has made on my mind." " I am sorry/' she replied, " that you have any cause of inquietude. I am sure if you were as happy as you deserve, and as all your friends wish you " She hesitated. "And might I," replied he, with some animation, " presume to rank the amia- ble Julia in the number ? " "Certainly," said she; "the service you have rendered me, the knowledge of your worth, all combine to make me es- teem you." " Esteem, my lovely Julia," said he, passionately, " is but a poor, cold word. I would if I dared — if I merited your at- tention — but no, I must not — honor for- bids — I am beneath your notice, Julia; I -am miserable and cannot hope to be otherwise." "Alas ! " said Julia, " I pity you." Charlotte Temple. 185 " Oh, thou condescending charmer ! " said he, " how that sweet word cheers my heart. Indeed, if yon knew all, you would pity; but at the same time, I fear you would despise me." Just then they were joined by Mr. Franklin and Belcour. It had interrupted an interesting dis- course. They found it impossible to converse on different subjects, and pro- ceeded home in silence. At Mr. Franklin's door, Montraville again pressed Julia's hand, and, faintly articulating " good-night," retired to his lodgings, dispirited and wretched, from a consciousness that he deserved not the affection with which he plainly saw he was honored. CHAPTER XXV. EECEPTIOX OF A LETTER. "And where now is our poor Char- lotte ? " said Mr. Temple, one evening, as the cold blasts of autumn whistled rudely over the heath, and the yellow appearance of the distant wood, spoke the near approach of winter. In vain the cheerful fire blazed on the hearth; in vain was he surrounded by all the comforts of life; the parent was still alive in his heart; and when he thought that perhaps his once darling child was ere this exposed to all the miseries of want in a distant land, without a friend to soothe and comfort her, without the benignant look of compassion to cheer, or the angelic voice of pity to pour the balm of consolation on her wounded heart; when he thought of this, his 13<5 Charlotte lemple. 187 whole soul dissolved into tenderness,and while he wiped the tear of anguish from the eye of his patient, uncomplaining Lucy, he struggled to suppress the sym- pathizing drop that started in his own. " Oh! my poor girl ! " said Mrs. Tem- ple, " how must she be altered, else sure- ly she would have relieved our agoniz- ing minds by one line to say she lived— to say she had not quite forgot the par- ents who almost idolized her." " Gracious Heaven ! " said Mr. Tem- ple, starting from his seat, " who would wish to be a father to experience the agonizing pangs inflicted on a parent's heart by the ingratitude of a child ? " Mrs. Temple wept. Her father took her hand. He would have said: "Be com- forted, my child ! " but the words died on his tongue. The sad silence that ensued was interrupted by a loud rap at the door. In a moment a servant en- tered with a letter in his hand. 188 Charlotte Temple. Mrs. Temple took it from him; she cast her eyes upon the superscription. She knew the writing — " 'Tis Char- lotte," said she, eagerly breaking the seal, " she has not quite forgot us." But before she had half gone through the contents, a sudden sickness seized her; she grew cold and giddy, and putting it into her husband's hands, she cried: " Eead it; I cannot." Mr. Temple attempted to read it aloud, but frequently paused to give vent to his tears. " My poor, deluded child ! " said he. when he had finished. " Oh, shall we not forgive the dear penitent ? " said Mrs. Temple. " We must, we will, my love; she is willing to return, and 'tis our duty to receive her." " Father of mercy," said Mr. El- dridge, raising his clasped hands, " let me but live once more to see the dear wanderer restored to her afflicted par- Charlotte Temple. 189 ents, and take me from this world of sor- row whenever it seemeth best to Thy wisdom." " Yes, we will receive her/' said Mr. Temple ; " we will endeavor to heal her wounded spirit, and speak peace and comfort to her agitated soul. I will write to her to return immediately. " " Oh ! " said Mrs. Temple. " I would, if possible, fly to her, support and cheer the dear sufferer in the approaching hour of distress, and tell her how nearly penitence is allied to virtue. Cannot we go and conduct her home, my love? " continued she, laying her hand on his arm. " My father will surely forgive our absence if we go to bring home his darling." " You cannot go, my Lucy," said Mr. Temple ; " the delicacy of your frame would but poorly sustain the fatigue of a long voyage; but I will go and bring the gentle penitent to your arms. We may still see many years of happiness." 190 Charlotte Temple. The struggle in the bosom of Mrs. Temple between maternal and conjugal tenderness was long and painful. At length the former triumphed, and she consented that her husband should set. forward to Xew York by the first oppor- tunity. She wrote to her Charlotte in the tenderest, most consoling manner, and looked forward to the happy hour when she would again embrace her with the most animated hope. CHAPTEE XXVI. WHAT MIGHT BE EXPECTED. In the meantime the passion Montra- ville had conceived for Julia Franklin daily increased, and he saw evidently how much he was beloved by that Charlotte Temple. 191 amiable girl; he was likewise strongly impressed with an idea of Charlotte's perfidy. What wonder, then, if he gave him- self up to the delightful sensation which pervaded his bosom, and finding no ob- stacle arise to oppose his happiness, he solicited and obtained the hand of Julia. A few days before his marriage, he thus addressed Belcour: " Though Charlotte, by her aban- doned conduct, has thrown herself from my protection, I still hold myself bound to support her till relieved from her present condition, and also to provide for the child. I do not intend to see her again, but I will place a sum of money in your hands which will amply supply her with every convenience, but should she require more, let her have it, and I will see it repaid. I wish I could pre- vail upon the poor, deluded girl to re- turn to her friends. She was an only 192 Charlotte Temple. child, and I make no doubt but they would joyfully receive her. It would shock me greatly to see her leading a life of infamy, as I should always accuse myself as being the primary cause of her errors. If she should choose to remain under your protection, be kind to her, Belcour, I conjure you. Let not satiety prompt you to treat her in such a man- ner as may drive her to actions which necessity might urge hereto, while her better reason disapproves them. She shall never want a friend while I live, but I never more desire to behold her; her presence would always be painful to me, and a glance from her eye would call the blush of conscious guilt into my cheek. I will write her a letter, which you may deliver when I am gone, as I shall go to St. Eustatia the day after my union with Julia, who will accompany me." Belcour promised to fulfil the request Charlotte Temple. 193 of his friend, though nothing was further from his intentions than the least design of delivering the letter, or making Charlotte acquainted with the provision Montraville had made for her. He was bent upon the complete ruin of the unhappy girl, and supposed, by re- ducing her to an entire dependence upon him, to bring her by degrees to consent to gratify his ungenerous passion. The evening before the day appointed for the nuptials of Montraville and Ju- lia, the former retired early to bed, and, ruminating on the past scenes of his life, suffered the keenest remorse in the remembrance of Charlotte's seduction. " Poor girl," said he, " I will at least write and bid her adieu; I will, too, en- deavor to awaken that love of virtue in her bosom which her unfortunate at- tachment to me has extinguished." He took up the pen and began to write, but words were denied him. 194 Charlotte Temple. How could he address the woman whom he had seduced, and whom, though he thought unworthy his tenderness, he was about to bid adieu forever ? How could he tell her that he was going to abjure her, and enter into the most in- dissoluble ties with another, and that he could not even own the infant which she bore as his child ? Several letters were begun and destroyed; at length he completed the following : " To Charlotte : — Though I have taken up my pen to address you, my poor, injured girl, I feel I am inade- quate to the task; yet, however painful the endeavor, I could not resolve upon leaving you forever without one kind line to bid you adieu — to tell you how my heart bleeds at the remembrance of what you were before you saw the hated Montraville. " Even now imagination paints the scene, when torn by contending pas- Charlotte Temple. 195 sions, when struggling between love and duty, you fainted in my arms and I lifted you into the chaise. " I see the agony of your mind, when, recovering, you found yourself on the road to Portsmouth. " But how, my gentle girl, how could you, when so justly impressed with the value of virtue, how could you, when loving as I thought you loved me, yield to the solicitation of Belcour ? " Oh, Charlotte, conscience tells me it was I, villian that I am, who first taught you the allurements of guilty pleasure; it was I who dragged you from the calm repose which innocence and virtue ever enjoy, and can I, dare I tell you it was not love prompted to the horrid deed ? No, thou dear, fallen an- gel; believe your repentant Montraville when he tells you that the man who truly loves will never betray the object of his affection. 196 Charlotte Temple. " Adieu, Charlotte ! Could you still find charms in a life of unoffending in- nocence, return to your parents; you shall never want the means of support both for yourself and child. Oh ! gra- cious Heaven ! may that child be en- tirely free from the vice of its father and the weakness of its mother. " To-morrow — but no, I cannot tell you what to-morrow will produce — Bel- cour will inform you, he also has cash for you, which I beg you will ask for whenever you may want it. " Once more, adieu ! Believe me, could I hear you had returned to your friends, and was enjoying that tran- quility of which I have robbed you, I should be as completely happy as even you, in your fondest hours, could wish me. But till then a gloom will obscure the brightest prospects of " Montr aville." Charlotte Temple. 197 After he had sealed this letter he threw himself on the bed and enjoyed a few hours' repose. Early in the morning Belcour tapped at his door. He arose hastily, and prepared to meet his Julia at the altar. " This is the letter to Charlotte/' said he, giving it to Belcour; " take it to her when we are gone to Eustatia; and I conjure you, my dear friend, not to use any sophistical arguments to prevent her return to virtue; but should she incline that way, encourage her in the thought and assist her to put her design into exe- cution." CHAPTEK XXVII. Pensive she mourn'd, and hung her languid head, Like a fair lily overcharg'd with dew. Charlotte had now been left almost three months a prey to her own melan- choly reflections — sad companions, in- deed; nor did any one break in upon her solitude but Belcour, who once or twice called to inquire after her health, and tell her he had in vain endeavored to bring Montraville to hear reason; and once, but only once, was her mind cheered by the receipt of an affectionate letter from Mrs. Beauchamp. Often she had written to her per- fidous seducer, and with the most per- suasive eloquence endeavored to con- vince him of her innocence; but these letters were never suffered to reach the hands of Montraville, or they must, though on the eve of his marriage, have 198 Charlotte Temple. 199 prevented liis deserting the wretched girl. Real anguish of heart had in a great measure faded her charms; her cheeks were pale from want of rest, and her eyes, by frequent, indeed, almost con- tinued weeping, were sunken and heavy. Sometimes a gleam of hope would play about her heart when she thought of her parents. " They cannot, surely," she would say, " refuse to forgive me ; or should they deny their pardon to me, they will not hate my infant on account of its mother's errors." How often did the poor mourner wish for the consoling presence of the benev- olent Mrs. Beauchamp. " If she were here she would certainly comfort me, and soothe the distraction of my soul." She was sitting one afternoon, wrapped in these melancholy reflections, 200 Charlotte Temple. when she was interrupted by the en- trance of Belcour. Great as the altera- tion Avas which incessant sorrow had made on her person, she was still inter- esting, still charming, and the unhal- lowed flame, which had urged Belcour to plant dissension between her and Montraville, still raged in his bosom; he was determined, if possible, to make her his mistress; nay, he had even conceived the diabolical scheme of taking her to Xew York, and making her appear in every public place where it was likely she should meet Montraville, that he might be a witness of his unmanly triumph. When he entered the room where Charlotte was sitting; he assumed the look of tender consolatory friendship. " And how does my lovely Char- lotte ?" said he, taking her hand; "I fear you are not so well as I could wish." " I am not well, Mr. Belcour," said Charlotte Temple. 201 she, "very far from it; but the pains and infirmities of the body I could easily bear, nay, submit to them with patience, were they not aggravated by the most insupportable anguish of my mind." " You are not happy, Charlotte \ " said he, with a look of well-dissembled sorrow. " Alas ! " replied she, mournfully shaking her head, " how can I be happy, deserted as I am, without a friend of my own sex to whom I can unburthen my full heart; nay, my fidelity suspected by the very man for whom I have sacrificed everything valuable in life — for whom I have made myself a poor, despised crea- ture, an outcast from society, an object only of contempt and pity ? " " You speak too meanly of yourself, Miss Temple; there is no one who would dare to treat you with contempt. All who have the pleasure of knowing you, must admire and esteem. You are lone- 202 Charlotte Temple. ly here, my dear girl; give me leave to conduct you to New York, where the agreeable society of some ladies I will introduce you to will dispel the sad thoughts, and I shall again see return- ing cheerfulness animate those lovely features." " Oh, never — never ! " cried Char- lotte, emphatically. " The virtuous part of my sex will scorn me, and I will never associate with infamy. No, Bel- cour, here let me hide my shame and sorrow; here let me spend my few re- maining days in obscurity, unknown and unpitied; here let me die unla- mented,and my name sink into ob- livion." Here her tears stopped her utterance. Belcour was awed to silence; he dared not to interrupt her, and after a mom- ment's pause she proceeded : " I once had conceived the thought of going to New York to seek out the Charlotte Temple. 203 still dear, though cruel, ungenerOtls Montraville — to throw myself at his feet and entreat his compassion — Heav- en knows, not for myself; if I am no longer beloved, I will not be indebted to his pity to redress my injuries, but I would have knelt and entreated him not to forsake my poor unborn " She could say no more ; a crimson glow rushed over her cheeks, and, cover- ing her face with her hands, she sobbed aloud. Something like humanity was awak- ened in Belcour's breast by this pathetic speech. He arose and walked toward the window, but the selfish passion which had taken possession of his heart soon stifled these finer emotions, and he thought, if Charlotte was once convinced she had no longer dependence upon Montraville, she would more readily throw herself upon his protection. De- termined, therefore, to inform her of 204 Charlotte Temple. all that had happened, he again resumed , his seat, and, finding she began to be composed, inquired if she had ever heard from Montraville since the un- hapy rencontre in her bed-chamber. " Ah, no ! " said she, " I fear I shall never hear from him again." " I am greatly of your opinion/' said Belcour, " for he has been, for some time past, greatly attached " At the word " attached," a death-like paleness overspread the countenance of Charlotte, but she applied some harts- horn which stood beside her, and Bel- cour proceeded : " He has been for some time past greatly attached to one Miss Franklin, a pleasing, lively girl, with a large for- tune." " She may be richer, may be hand- somer," cried Charlotte, " but cannot love him so well. Oh ! may she beware of his art, and not trust him too far, as I have done." Charlotte Temple. 205 " He addresses her publicly," said he, " and it was rumored they were to be married before he sailed for Eustatia, whither his company is ordered." " Belcour," said Charlotte, seizing his hand, and gazing at him earnestly, while her pale lips trembled with con- vulsive agony. " Oh, tell me, and tell me truly, I beseech you, do you think he can be such a villian as to marry an- other woman, and leave me to die with want and misery in a strange land ? Tell me what you think; I can bear it very well; I will not shrink from this heaviest stroke of fate; I have deserved my afflictions, and I will endeavor to bear them as I ought." " I fear," said Belcour, " he can be that villain." " Perhaps," cried she, eagerly, inter- rupting him, " perhaps he is married al- ready; come, let me know the worst," continued she, with an affected look of 206 Charlotte Temple. composure; "you need not be afraid; I shall not send the fortunate lady a bowl of poison ! 99 " Well, then, my dear girl/' said he, deceived by her appearance, " they were married on Thursday, and yesterday morning they sailed for Eustatia." " Married — gone — say you ? " cried she, in distracted accents; "what, with- out a farewell, without one thought on my unhappy situation \ Oh, Montra- ville ! may God forgive your perfidy ! " She shrieked, and Belcour sprang forward just in time to prevent her fall- ing to the floor. Alarming faintings now succeeded each other and she was conveyed to her bed, from whence she earnestly prayed she might never more arise. Belcour stayed with her that night, and in the morning found her in a high fever. The fits she had been seized with Charlotte Temple. 207 greatly terrified him; and confined as she was now to a bed of sickness, she was no longer an object of desire; it is true, for several days he went constantly to see her, but her pale, emaciated ap- pearance disgusted him; his visits be- came less frequent; he forgot the solemn charge given him by Montraville; he even forgot the money entrusted to his care; and the burning blush of indigna- tion and shame tinges my cheek while I write it, this disgrace to humanity and manhood at length forgot even the injured Charlotte; and, attracted by the blooming health of a farmer's daughter, whom he had seen in his frequent ex- cursions to the country, he left the un- happy girl to sink unnoticed to the grave, a prey to sickness, grief and penury, while he, having triumphed over the virtue of the artless cottager, rioted in all the intemperance of luxury and lawless pleasure. CHAPTEE XXVIII. " Bless my heart ! " cries my young, volatile reader, " I shall never have pa- tience to get through this volume, there are so many ahs and ohs ! so much faint- ing, tears and distress. I am sick to death of the subject." My dear, cheerful, innocent girl (for innocent I will suppose you to be, or you would acutely feel the woes of Char- lotte), did conscience say, thus might it have been with me, had not Providence interposed to snatch me from destruc- tion ? Therefore, my lively, innocent girl, I must request your patience. I am writing a tale of truth; I mean to write it to the heart. But, if perchance the heart is rendered impenetrable by unbounded prosperity, or a continuance in vice, I expect not my tale to please, nay, I even expect it will be thrown bv 208 Charlotte Temple. 209 with disgust. But softly, gentle fair one, I pray you throw it not aside till you have perused the whole. You may find something therein to repay you for the trouble. Methinks I see a sarcastic smile sit on your countenance. " And what/' cry you, " does the con- ceited author suppose we can glean from the pages, if Charlotte is held up as an object of terror, to prevent us from fall- ing into guilty errors ? Does not La Rue triumph in her shame ? and, by adding art to guilt, obtain the affection of a worthy man and rise to a station where she is held with respect, and cheerfully received into all companies ? What, then, is the moral you would in- culcate 1 Would you wish us to think that a deviation from virtue, if covered by art and hypocrisy, is not an object of detestation, but on the contrary, shall raise us to fame and honor, while the hapless girl who falls a victim to her too 210 Charlotte Temple. great sensibility, shall be loaded with ignominy and shame ? " ]STo, my fair querist, I mean no such thing. Remember the endeavors of the wicked are often suffered to prosper, that in the end their fall may be at- tended 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 offence from the book of fate, and they rise from the heavy, painful trial, puri- fied and fit for a mansion in the king- dom of eternity. Yes, my young friends, the tear of compassion shall fall for the fate of Charlotte, while the name of La Rue shall be detested and despised. For Charlotte the soul melts with sympathy; for La Rue it feels nothing but horror and contempt. Charlotte Temple. 211 But perhaps your gay hearts would rather follow the fortunate Mrs. Cray- ton through the scenes of pleasure and dissipation in which she was engaged than listen to the complaints and mis- eries of Charlotte. I will for once oblige you, I will for once follow her to mid- night revels, balls and scenes of gayety, for in such she was constantly engaged. I have said her person was lovely ; let us add that she was surrounded by splen- dor and affluence, and he must know but little of the world who can wonder (how- ever 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 favorite; she set the fashions; she was toasted by the gentlemen, and copied by the ladies. Colonel Crayton was a domestic man — could he be happy with such a woman ? Impossible. Remonstrance 212 Charlotte Temple. was vain. He might as well have preached to the wind as endeavor 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 inclinations. 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 out one, a young ensign of mean birth, in- different education, and w T eak intellect. How such a man came into the army we hardly can account for; and how he afterwards rose to posts of honor is like- wise strange and wonderful. But fortune is blind, and so are those, too, frequently, who have the power of dispensing her favors; else why do we see fools and knaves at the very top of Charlotte Temple. 213 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 the right. Let us, therefore, endeavor to deserve her smiles, and whether we succeed or not, we shall feel more innate satisfac- tion than thousands of those who bask in the sunshine of her favor unworthily. But to return to Mrs. Crayton. This young man, whom I shall distinguish by the name of Corydon, was the reigning favorite of her heart. He escorted her to the play, danced with her at every ball, and, when indisposition prevented her going out, it was he alone who was permitted to cheer the gloomy solitude to which she was obliged to confine her- self. Did she ever think of poor Charlotte 'I If she did, my clear miss, it was only to laugh at the poor girl's want of spirit in consenting to be moped up in the conn- 214 Charlotte Temple. try, while Montraville was enjoying all the pleasures of a gay, dissipated city. When she heard of his marriage, she smilingly said : " So there's an end of Madame Charlotte's hopes. I wonder who will take her now, or what will be- come of the little affected prude ? " But, as you have led to the subject, I think we may as well return to the dis- tressed Charlotte, and not, like the un- feeling Mrs. Crayton, shut our hearts to the call of humanity. CHAPTER XXIX. WE GO FORWARD AGAIN. The strength of Charlotte's constitu- tion combated against her disorder, and she began slowly to recover, though she still labored under a violent depression Charlotte Temple. 215 of spirits. How must that depression be decreased, when examining her little store, she found herself reduced to one solitary guinea, and that during her ill- ness the attendance of an apothecary and nurse, together wkh many other un- avoidable 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 about four months since her letter was dispatched, and she had received no answer; she, therefore, imagined her conduct had either entirely alienated their affection from her, or broken their hearts, and she must never more hope to receive their blessings. Never did any human being wish for death with greater fervency or juster cause, yet she had too just a sense of the duties, of the Christian religion to at- 216 Charlotte Temple. tempt to put a period to her own exist- ence. " I have but to be patient a little longer," she would cry, and nature, fa- tigued and fainting, will throw off this heavy load of mortality, and I shall be relieved from all my sufferings." It was one cold, stormy day in the lat- ter 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 teach- ing her to be careful of what she had, when she was surprised by the entrance of a farmer's wife, who, without much ceremony, seated herself and began this curious harangue : " I'm come to see if as how you can pay your rent, because as how we hear Captain Montable is gone away, and it's fifty to one if he b'ant killed afore he comes back again, and then, miss or ma'am, or whatever you may be, as I Charlotte Temple. 217 was saying to my husband, where are we to look for our money ? " This was a stroke altogether unex- pected by Charlotte. She knew so little of the world that she had never bestowed a thought on the payment of the rent of the house; she knew, indeed, that she owed a good deal, but this was never reckoned among the others; she was thunderstruck; she hardly knew what answer to make, yet it was absolutely necessary she should say something, and judging of the gen- tleness of every female disposition by her own, she thought the best way to in- terest the woman in her favor would be to tell her candidly to what a situation she was reduced, and how little proba- bility there was of her ever paying any- body. Alas ! poor Charlotte; how confined was her knowledge of human nature, or she would have been convinced that the 218 Charlotte Temple. only way to endure the friendship and assistance of your surrounding acquaint- ance, is to convince them that you do not require, for when once the petrify- ing aspect of distress and penury appear, whose qualities, like Medusa's head, can change to stone all that look upon it; when once the Gorgon claims acquaint- ance with us, the phantom of friendship, that before courted our notice, will van- ish into unsubstantial air, and the whole world before us appear a barren waste. Pardon me, ye dear spirits of benevo- lence, whose benign smile and cheerful- giving hands have strewed sweet flowers on many a thorny path through which my wayward fate forced me to pass; think not, that in condemning the un- feeling 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 the bright constel- lations, gathering new splendors from Charlotte Temple. 219 the surrounding darkness; but, ah ! while I adore the benignant rays that cheered and illumined my heart, I mourn that their influence cannot ex- tend to all the sons and daughters of affliction. " Indeed, madam," said poor Char- lotte, in a tremulous accent, kk I am at a loss what to do. Montraville placed me here and promised to defray my ex- penses; but he has forgotten his prom- ise; he has forsaken me, and I have no friend who either has power or will to relieve me. Let me hope, as you see my unhappy situation, your charity " " Charity ! " cried the woman, im- patiently interrupting her. " Charity, indeed; why, mistress, charity begins at home, and I have seven children at home — honest, lawful children; and it is my duty to keep them; and do you think I shall give away my property to a nasty, impudent hussy, to maintain 220 Charlotte Temple. her and her bastard ? As I was saying to my husband the other day, what will this world come to ? Honest women are nothing nowadays, while the harlot- ings are set up for fine ladies, and look on us no more nor 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 gim- cracks and fal-de-rals behind you. I don't ask for more than my right, and nobody shall go for to hinder me from it." " Oh, Heaven ! " cried Charlotte, clasping her hands, " what will become of me ? " " Come on ye ! " retorted the unfeel- ing wretch. " Why, go to the barrack^ and work for a morsel of bread; wash and mend the soldiers' clothes, and cook their victuals, and not expect to live in idleness on honest peoples' means. Oh, Charlotte Temple. 221 1 wish I could see the day when all such cattle were obliged to work hard and eat little; it's only what they deserve." " Father of mercy ! " cried Charlotte, " I acknowledge Thy correction just, but prepare me, I beseech Thee, for the por- tion of misery Thou may'st please to lay. before me." " Well," said the woman, " I shall go and tell my husband as how you can't pay; and so, d'ye see, ma'am, get ready to be packing away this very night, for, you would not stay another night in this house, though I were 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. CHAPTEK XXX. And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep — A shade that follows wealth and fame, But leaves the wretch to weep! —Goldsmith. When Charlotte was left to herself, she began to think what course she must take, or to whom she should apply, to prevent her perishing from want, or perhaps that very night falling a victim to the inclemency of the season. After many perplexed thoughts she at last determined to set out for Xew York and inquire out Mrs. Crayton, from whom she had no doubt but she should receive immediate relief as soon as her distress was made known. She had no sooner formed this resolution than she resolved immediately to put it into execution; she therefore wrote the following little billet to Mrs. Crayton, thinking if she should have company 222 Charlotte Temple. 223 with her, it would be better to send in the request to see her. " To Mrs. Craytox : " Madam : — When we left our na- tive land, that dear happy land which contains all that is dear to the wretched Charlotte, our prospects were the same; we both, pardon me, madam, if I say, we both too easily followed the impulses 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 honor and humanity, united by the most sacred ties, respected, esteemed, admired, and surrounded 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 224: Charlotte Temple. wanderer, who has not where to lay her weary head, wherewith to supply the wants of nature, or to shield her from in- clemency of the weather. " To you I sue, to you I look for pity and relief. I ask not to be received as an intimate or equal; only for charity's sweet sake, receive me into your hos- pitable 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 bear up under the accumulated woes that bear 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 compas- sion to my poor, helpless offspring, should it please Heaven that it survive its unhappy mother. "A gleam of joy breaks in on my be- nighted soul, while I reflect that you can- not, will not, refuse your protection to the heart-broken Charlotte." Charlotte Temple. 225 When Charlotte had finished this let- ter, late as it was in the afternoon, and though the snow began to fall very fast, she tied up a few necessaries, which she had prepared against her expected con- finement, and terrified lest she should be again exposed to the insults of her bar- barous 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 certain of receiving every tender attention which compassion and friend- ship could dictate; but let me entreat these wise, penetrating gentleman to re- flect, that when Charlotte left England, it was in such haste that there was no 226 Charlotte Temple. time to purchase anything more than what was wanted for immediate use upon the voyage; and after the arrivel at New York, Montraville's affection soon be- gan to decline, so that her wardrobe con- sisted only of necessaries; and as to the baubles, with which fond lovers often load their mistresses, she possessed not one, except a plain gold locket of small value, which contained a lock of her mother's hair, and which the great ex- tremity of want could not have forced her to part with. The distance from the house which our suffering heroine occupied, to New York, was not very great; yet the snow fell so fast, and the cold was so intense, that, being unable from her situation to walk quick, she found herself almost sinking with cold and fatigue before she reached the town; her garments, which were merely suitable to the summer sea- son, being an undress robe of plain white Charlotte Temple. 227 muslin, were wet through; and a thin, black coat and bonnet, very improper habiliments for such a climate, but poorly defended her from the cold. In this situation she reached the city, and inquired of a foot-soldier whom she met, the way to Colonel Crayton's. " Bless you, my sweet lady/' said the soldier, with a voice and look of compas- sion, " I will show you the way with all my heart; but if you are going to make a petition to Madame 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, yet the old gentleman is very good." "Julia Franklin," said Charlotte; " is she not married to Montraville ? " " Yes," replied the soldier, " and may God bless them, for a better officer never lived, he is so good to us all; and as to Miss J ulia, all the poor folks almost wor- ship her." 228 Charlotte Temple. " Gracious Heavens ! " cried Char- lotte, " is Montraville unjust to none but me ?" The soldier now showed her Colonel Crayton's door, and with a beating heart she knocked for admission. CHAPTER XXXI. SUBJECT CONTINUED. "When the door was opened, Char- lotte, in a voice rendered scarcely artic- ulate, through cold and the extreme agi- tation of her mind, demanded whether Mrs. Crayton was at home. The servant hesitated; he knew that his lady was engaged at a game of pic- quet with her dear Coryclon, nor could he think she would like to be disturbed by a person whose appearance spoke of Charlotte Temple. 229 so little consequence as Charlotte; yet there was something in her countenance that rather interested him in her favor, and he said his lady was engaged; but if she had any particular message he would deliver it. " Take up this letter/' said Charlotte, " tell her the unhappy writer of it waits in the hall for an answer." The tremulous accent, the tearful eye, must have moved any heart not com- posed of adamant. The man took the letter from the poor suppliant, and hastily ascended the stair- case. "A letter, madam," said he, presenting it to his lady ; " an immediate answer is required." " Mrs. Crayton glanced her eyes care- lessly over the contents. " What stuff is this ? " cried she, haughtily; " have I not told you a thousand times that I would not be plagued with beggars or 230 Charlotte Temple. petitions from people one knows nothing about? Go tell the woman I can't do anything in it. I'm sorry, but one can't relieve everybody." The servant bowed, and heavily re^ turned with this chilling message to Charlotte. "Surely," said she, "Mrs. Crayton has not read my letter. Go, my friend, pray, go back to her; tell her it is Char- lotte Temple who requests beneath her hospitable roof to find shelter from the inclemency of the season." " 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." " Not know me ! " cried Charlotte, rushing into the room (for she had fol- lowed the man up-stairs), " not know me — not remember the injured Charlotte Temple, who, but for you, perhaps Charlotte Temple. 231 might still have been innocent, still have been happy! Oh, La Kue, this is be- yond everything I conld have believed possible.'' "Upon. my honor, miss," replied the unfeeling woman with the utmost effrontery, " this is a most unaccountable address — it is beyond my comprehen- sion. John," continued she, turning to the servant, " the young woman is cer- tainly out of her senses ; do pray take her away, she terrifies me to death." " Oh, God ! " cried Charlotte, clasp- ing her hands in an agony, " this is too much ; what will become of me ! But I will not leave you, they shall not tear me from you; here on my knees I con- jure you to save me from perishing in the street; if you really have forgotten me, O, for charity's sweet sake, this night let me be sheltered from the win- ter's piercing cold." The kneeling figure of Charlotte, in 232 Charlotte Temple. her affecting situation, might have moved the heart of a stone to compas- sion; but Mrs. Cray ton remained in- flexible. 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 Belcour mentioned. Mrs. Crayton could only say she was sorry for her imprudence, but could not think of having her own reputation en- dangered by encouraging a woman of that kind in her own house; besides, she did not know what trouble and expense she might bring upon her husband. by giving shelter to a woman in her situa- tion. " I can at least die here," said Char- lotte. " I feel I cannot long survive this dreadful conflict. Father of mercy! here let me finish my existence." Her agonizing sensations overpowered her ? and she fell senseless on the floor. Charlotte Temple. 233 " Take her away/' said Mrs. Crayton; " she will really frighten me into hys- terics; take her away, I say, this in- stant." "And where must I take the poor creature ? " said the servant, with a voice and look of compassion. "Anywhere," cried she, hastily, " only don't let me ever see her again. I de- clare she has flurried me so, I sha'n't be myself again this fortnight." John 5 assisted by his fellow-servant, raised and carried her down-stairs. " Poor soul," said he, " you shall not lie in the street this night. I have a bed and a poor little hovel, where my wife and little ones rest them; but they shall watch to-night and you shall be shel- tered from danger." They placed her in a chair, and the benevolent man, assisted by one of his comrades, carried her to the place where his wife and children lived. 234 Charlotte Temple. A surgeon was sent for; he bled her; she gave signs of returning life, and be- fore dawn she gave birth to a female in- fant. After this event, she lay for some hours in a kind of stupor: and, if at any time she spoke, it was with a quickness and incoherence that plainly evinced the deprivation of reason. CHAPTER XXXII. REASONS WHY AND WHEREFORE. The reader of sensibility may perhaps be astonished to find Mrs. Crayton could so positively deny any knowledge of Charlotte; it is, therefore, but just that her conduct should in some measure be accounted for. She had ever been fully sensible of the Charlotte Temple. 235 superiority of Charlotte's sense and vir- tue; she was conscious that she never would have swerved her rectitude had it not been for her bad precepts and worse example. These were things as yet un- 'known to her husband: and she wished not to have that part of her conduct ex- posed to him, as she had great reason to fear she had already lost considerable part of that power she once maintained over him. She trembled while Charlotte was in the house, lest the colonel should return; she perfectly well remembered how much he seemed interested in her favor, while on their passage from England, and made no doubt but, should he see her in her present distress, he would of- fer her an asylum, and protect her to the utmost of his power. In that case, she feared the unguard- ed nature of Charlotte might discover to the colonel the part she had taken in the 236 Charlotte Temple. unhappy girl's elopement, and she well knew the contrast between her own and Charlotte's conduct, would make the former appear in no very respectable light. Had she reflected properly, she would have afforded the poor girl protection, and, by enjoining her silence, insured it by acts of repeated kindness, but vice in general blinds its votaries, and they discover their real characters to the world when they are the most studious to pre- serve appearances. Just so it happened with Mrs. Cray- ton; her servants made no scruple of mentioning the cruel conduct of their lady to a poor distressed lunatic who claimed her protection; everyone joined in reprobating her inhumanity, nay, even Cory don thought she might at least have ordered her to be taken care of, but he dared not even hint it to her, for he lived but in her smiles, and drew from Charlotte Temple. 237 her lavish fondness large sums to sup- port an extravagance to which the state of his own finances were very inade- quate. It cannot therefore be supposed that he wished Mrs. Crayton to be very liberal in her bounty to the afflicted suppliant. Yet vice had not so entirely seared over his heart but the sorrows of Charlotte could find a vulnerable part. Charlotte had now been three days with her humane preservers, but she was totally insensible of everything; she raved incessantly for Montraville and her father; she was not conscious of be- ing a mother, nor took the least notice of her child, except to ask whose it was, and why it was not carried to its par- ents. " Oh ! " said she one day, starting up on hearing the infant cry, " why will you keep that child here? I am sure you w T ould not if you knew how hard it was for a mother to be parted from her 238 Charlotte Temple. infant; it is like tearing the cords of life asunder. " Oh ! could you see the horrid sight I now behold — there — there stands my dear mother, her poor bosom bleeding at every vein ; her gentle, affectionate heart torn in a thousand pieces, and all for the loss of a ruined, ungrateful 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 mal- ady which medicine had no power to re- move. The surgeon who attended her' was a humane man, who exerted his utmost abilities to save her; but he saw she was in want of many necessaries and com- forts which the poverty of her hospitable hosts rendered them unable to provide: he therefore determined to make her sit- Charlotte Temple. 239 uation known to some of the officers, ladies, and endeavor to make a collection for her relief. When he returned home after making this resolution, he found a message from Mrs. Beauchamp, who had just arrived from Rhode Island, requesting he would call and see one of her children, who was very unwell. " I do not know," said he, as he was hastening to obey the summons, " I do not know a woman to whom I could ap- ply with more hope of success than Mrs. Beauchamp. I will endeavor to inter- est her in this poor girl's behalf; she wants the soothing balm of friendly con- solation; we may perhaps save her; we will try, at least." "And where is she? " cried Mrs. Beau- champ, when he prescribed something for the child, and told his little pathetic tale, " where is she, sir? we will go to her immediately. Heaven forbid that I 240 Charlotte Temple. should be deaf to the calls of humanity. Come, we will go this instant/' Then seizing the doctor's arm, they sought the habitation of the dying Char- lotte. CHAPTEE XXXIII. WHICH PEOPLE VOID OF FEELING NEED NOT READ. When Mrs. Beauchamp entered the apartment of the poor sufferer, she started back in horror. On a wretched bed, without hangings and poorly sup- plied with covering, lay the emaciated figure of what still retained the sem- blance of a lovely woman, though sick- ness had so altered her features that Mrs. Beauchamp had not the least recollection of her person. Charlotte Temple. 241 In a corner of a 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 bedside stood a porringer and wooden spoon containing a little gruel, and a tea-cup with about two spoonsful of wine in it. Mrs. Beauchamp had never before be- held such a scene of poverty; she shud- dered involuntarily, and exclaiming, " Heaven preserve us ! " leaned on the back of the chair, ready to sink to the earth. The doctor repented having so pre- cipitately brought her into his affecting scene; but there was no time for apol- ogies. Charlotte caught the sound of her voice, and starting almost out of bed, ex- claimed: "Angel of peace and mercy, art thou come to deliver me? Oh, I know you 242 Charlotte Temple. are, for whenever you were near me I felt eased of half my sorrows; but you don't know me, nor can I, with all the recollection that I am mistress of, remem- ber your name just now ; but I know that benevolent countenance and the soft- ness of that voice, which has so often comforted the wretched Charlotte." Mrs. Beauchamp had, during the time Charlotte was speaking, seated herself on the bed; and taking one of her hands, she looked at her attentively, and at the name of Charlotte she perfectly con- ceived the whole affair. A faint sick- ness came over her. " Gracious Heaven ! " said she, " is this possible ? " and bursting into tears, she reclined the burning head of Char- lotte 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 Charlotte Temple. 243 head and heart are both on fire; but these tears of yours seem to cool and refresh me. " Oh, now I remember you said you would send a letter to my poor father; do you think he ever received it ? or per- haps you may have brought me an an- swer; why don't you speak, madam ? " " Does he say I may go home? Well, he is very good; I shall soon be ready." She then made an effort to get out of bed; but being prevented, her frenzy again returned, and she raved with the greatest wildness and incoherence. Mrs. Beauchamp, finding it was im- possible for her to be removed, contented herself with ordering the apartment to be made more comfortable, and procur- ing a proper nurse for both mother and child; and having learned the particu- lars of Charlotte's fruitless application to Mrs. Crayton from honest John, she amply rewarded him for his benevolence, 244 Charlotte Temple. and returned home with a heart op- pressed with many painful sensations, but yet rendered easy by the reflection that she had performed her duty towards a distressed fellow-creature. Early next morning she again visited Charlotte, and found her tolerably com- posed; she called her by name, thanked her for her goodness, and when her child was brought to her, pressed it in her arms, wept over it, and called it the off- spring of disobedience. Mrs. Beauchamp was delighted to see her so much amended, and began to hope she might recover, and in spite of her former errors, become a useful and re- spectable member of society; but the ar- rival of the doctor put an end to these delusive hopes; he said nature was mak- ing her last effort, and a few hours would most probably consign the unhappy girl to her kindred dust. Being asked how she found herself, she replied: Charlotte Temple. 245 " Why, better, much better, doctor. X hope now I have but little more to suffer. I had last night a few hours' sleep, and when I awoke recovered the whole power of recollection. I am quite sen- sible of my weakness; I feel I have but little longer to combat with the shafts of affliction. I have an humble confidence in the mercy of Him who died to save the world, and trust that my sufferings in this state of mortality, joined to my unfeigned repentance, through His mercy, have blotted my offences from the sight of my offended Maker. I have but one care — my poor infant! Father of mercy ! " continued she, raising her eyes, " of thy infinite goodness, grant that the sins of the parent be not visited on the unoffending child. May those who taught me to despise Thy laws be forgiven; lay not my offences to their charge I beseech Thee; and oh! shower the choicest of Thy blessings on those 246 Charlotte Temple. .whose pity has soothed the afflicted heart, and made easy even the bed of pain and sickness." She was exhausted by this fervent ad- dress 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 then requested that a clergyman might be sent for. On his arrival, she joined fervently in the pious 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 outside the door oc- casioned Mrs. Beauchamp to open it and inquire the cause. A man, in appearance about forty, presented himself, and asked for Mrs. Beauchamp. Charlotte Temple. 247 " That is my name, sir/' said she. " Oh, then, my dear madam," cried he, " tell me where I may find my poor, ruined, but repentant child." Mrs. Beauchamp was surprised and much affected; she knew not what to say; she foresaw the agony this interview would occasion Mr. Temple, who had just arrived in search of Charlotte, and yet was sensible that the pardon and blessing of the father would soften even the agonies of death to the daughter. She hesitated. " Tell me, madam," cried he, wildly, "tell me, I beseech thee, does she live? Shall I see my darling once again? Per- haps she is in this house. Lead — lead me to her, that I may bless her, and then lie down and die." The ardent manner in which he ut- tered these words occasioned him to raiso his voice. It caught the ear of Charlotte; she 248 Charlotte Temple. knew the beloved sound, and uttering a loud shriek, she sprang forward as Mr. Temple entered the room. " My adored father ! " « My long lost child ! " Mature could support no more, and they both sank lifeless into the arms of the attendants. Charlotte was again put into bed, and a few moments restored Mr. Temple ; but to describe the agonies of his sufferings is past the power of any one. Though we can readily conceive, we cannot de- lineate the dreadful scene. Every eye gave testimony of what each other felt — but all were silent. When Charlotte recovered, she found herself supported in her father's arms. She cast upon him a most impressive look, but was unable to speak. A reviving cordial was administered. She then asked in a low voice for her child. Charlotte Temple. 249 It was brought to her; she put it in her father's arms. "Protect her," said she, "and bless your dying " Unable to finish the sentence, she sunk back on her pillow; her countenance was serenely composed; she regarded her father as he pressed 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. CHAPTEK XXXIY. RETRIBUTION. In the meantime, Montraville had re- ceived orders to return to Xew York, ar- rived, and having some feeling of com- passionate tenderness for the woman 250 Charlotte Temple. whom he regarded as brought to shame by himself he went in search of Belcour, to inquire whether she was safe, and whether the child lived. He found him immersed in dissipa- tion, and could gain no other intelli- gence than that Charlotte had left him, and that he knew not what had become of her. " I cannot believe it possible/' said Montraville, " that a mind once so pure as Charlotte Temple's should .so sudden- ly become the mansion of vice. Be- ware, Belcour," continued he, " beware if you have dared to behave either un- justly or dishonorably to that poor girl, your life shall pay the forfeit; I will avenge her cause." He immediately went into the coun- try, to the house where he had left Char- lotte. It was desolate. After much inquiry he at length found the servant girl who had lived with her. Charlotte Temple. 251 From her he learned the misery Char- lotte had endured from the complicated evils of illness, poverty, and a broken heart, and that she had set out 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 reached it, the even- ing was drawing to a close. In entering the town, he was obliged to pass several little huts, the residences of poor women, who supported them- selves by washing the clothes of the officers and soldiers. It was nearly dark; he heard from a neighboring steeple a solemn toll that seemed to say, some poor mortal was go- ing to their last mansion; the sound struck on the heart of Montraville, and he involuntarily stopped, when from one of the houses he saw the appearance of a funeral. 252 Charlotte Temple. Almost unknowing what he did, he followed at a small distance; and as they let the coffin into the grave, he inquired of a soldier, who stood by, and had just wiped off a tear that did honor to his heart, who it was that was just buried. "An' please your honor," said the man, " 'tis a poor girl that was brought from her friends by a cruel man, who left her when she was big with a child 7 and married another." Montraville stood motionless, and the man proceeded. " I met her myself, not a fortnight since, one night, all cold and wet in the street; she went to Madam Crayton's, but she would not take her in and so the poor thing went raving mad." Montraville could bear no more; he struck his hands against his forehead with violence, and exclaiming, " poor murdered Charlotte ! " ran with pre- cipitation towards the place where they were heaping the earth on her remains. Charlotte Temple. 253 "Hold — hold! one moment/' said he, " close not the grave of the injured Char- lotte Temple, till I have taken ven- geance on her murderer." " Rash young man," said Mr. Temple, " who art thou that thus disturbest the last mournful rites of the dead, and rudely breakest in upon the grief of an afflicted father ? " " If thou art the father of Charlotte Temple," said he, gazing at him with mingled horror and amazement — " if thou art her father — I am Montraville." Then, falling on his knees, he con- tinued: "Here is my bosom. I bare it to receive the stroke I merit. Strike — strike now, and save me from the misery of reflection." "Alas !•" said Mr. Temple, "if thou wert the seducer of my child, thy own reflections be thy punishment. I wrest not the power from the hand of Om- nipotence. Look on that little heap of 254 Charlotte Temple. earth; there hast thou buried the only joy of a fond father. Look at it often; and may thy heart feel such sorrow as shall merit the mercy of Heaven. " He turned from him, and Montra- ville, starting up from the ground where he had thrown himself, and that instant remembering the perfidy of Belcour, flew like lightning to his lodgings. Bel- cour was intoxicated; Montraville im- petuous; they fought, and the sword of the latter entered the heart of his ad- versary. He fell, and expired almost instantly. 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 dangerous illness and obstinate de- lirium ensued, during which he raved incessantly for Charlotte, but a strong Charlotte Temple. 255 constitution, and the tender assiduities of Julia, in time overcame the disorder. He recovered, but to the end of his life was subject to severe fits of melan- choly, and while he remained in Xew York, frequently retired to the church- yard, where he wept over the grave, and regretted the untimely fate of the lovely Charlotte Temple. CHAPTEE XXXV. CONCLUSION. Shortly after the interment of his daughter, Mr. Temple, with his dear lit- tle charge and her nurse, set forward for England. It would be impossible to do justice to the meeting-scene between him and his Lucy, and her aged father. Every 256 Charlotte Temple. 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 grandchild, and as she grew up and improved, began almost to fancy she again possessed her Charlotte. It was about ten years after these painful events, that Mr. and Mrs. Tem- ple, having buried their father, were obliged to come to London on particular business, and brought the little Lucy with them. They had been walking one evening, when, on their return they found a poor wretch sitting on the steps of the door. She attempted to rise as they ap- proached, but from extreme weakness was unable, and after several fruitless efforts, fell back in a fit. Mr. Temple was not one of those men who stand to consider whether by assist- ing an object of distress they shall not Charlotte Temple. 257 inconvenience themselves, but, instigated by a noble, feeling heart, immediately ordered her to be carried into the house and proper restoratives applied. She soon recovered, and fixing her eye on Mrs. Temple, cried: " You know not, madam, what you do; you know not whom you are reliev- ing, or you would curse me in the bitter- ness of your heart. Come not near me, madam, I shall contaminate you. I am the viper that stung your peace. I am the woman who turned the poor Char- lotte 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 half blown." It was in vain that Mr. and Mrs. Tem- ple entreated her to be composed and take some refreshment. She only drank half a glass of wine, and then told them she had been sepa- 258 Charlotte Temple. rated from her husband seven years, the chief of which she passed in riot, dissi- pation and vice, till, overtaken by pov- erty and sickness, she had been reduced to part with every valuable, and thought only of ending her life in prison, when a benevolent friend paid her debts and released her; but that, her illness in- creasing, she had no possible means of supporting herself, and her friends were weary of relieving her. " I have fasted, " said she, " two days, and last night laid my aching head on the cold pavement; indeed, indeed, it was but just that I should experience those miseries myself, which I unfeelingly inflicted on others." Greatly as Mr. Temple had reason to detest Mrs. Crayton, he could not be- hold her in this distress without some emotions of pity. 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