CHARLOTTE
TEMPLE
SUSANNA HASWELL ROWSON
CHAPTER I.
A Boarding School.
CHAPTER II.
Domestic Concerns.
CHAPTER III.
Unexpected Misfortunes.
CHAPTER IV.
Change of Fortune.
CHAPTER V.
Such Things Are.
CHAPTER VI.
An Intriguing Teacher.
CHAPTER VII.
Natural Sense of Propriety Inherent in the
Female Bosom.
CHAPTER VIII.
Domestic Pleasures Planned.
CHAPTER IX.
We Know Not What a Day May Bring Forth.
CHAPTER X.
When We Have Excited Curiosity, It Is But an Act
of Good Nature to Gratify it.
CHAPTER XI.
Conflict of Love and Duty.
CHAPTER XII.
Nature's last, best gift:
Creature in whom excell'd, whatever could
To sight or thought be nam'd!
Holy, divine! good, amiable, and sweet!
How thou art falln'!--
CHAPTER XIII.
Cruel Disappointment.
CHAPTER XIV.
Maternal Sorrow.
CHAPTER XV.
Embarkation.
CHAPTER XVI.
Necessary Digression.
CHAPTER XVII.
A Wedding.
VOLUME II.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Reflections.
CHAPTER XIX.
A Mistake Discovered.
CHAPTER XX.
Virtue never appears so amiable as when reaching
forth her hand to raise a fallen sister.
Chapter of Accidents.
CHAPTER XXI.
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.
CHAPTER XXII.
Sorrows of the Heart.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A Man May Smile, and Smile, and Be a Villain.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Mystery Developed.
CHAPTER XXV.
Reception of a Letter.
CHAPTER XXVI.
What Might Be Expected.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Pensive she mourn'd, and hung her languid head,
Like a fair lily overcharg'd with dew.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A Trifling Retrospect.
CHAPTER XXIX.
We Go Forward Again.
CHAPTER 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.
CHAPTER XXXI.
Subject Continued.
CHAPTER XXXII.
Reasons Why and Wherefore.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Which People Void of Feeling Need Not Read.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Retribution.
CHAPTER XXXV.
Conclusion.
PREFACE.
FOR the perusal of the young and thoughtless of the fair sex,
this Tale of Truth is designed; and I could wish my fair readers
to consider it as not merely the effusion of Fancy, but as a reality.
The circumstances on which I have founded this novel were related
to me some little time since by an old lady who had personally
known Charlotte, though she concealed the real names of the characters,
and likewise the place where the unfortunate scenes were acted:
yet as it was impossible to offer a relation to the public in such an
imperfect state, I have thrown over the whole a slight veil of fiction,
and substituted names and places according to my own fancy.
The principal characters in this little tale are now consigned
to the silent tomb: it can therefore hurt the feelings of no one;
and may, I flatter myself, be of service to some who are so unfortunate
as to have neither friends to advise, or understanding to direct them,
through the various and unexpected evils that attend a young
and unprotected woman in her first entrance into life.
While the tear of compassion still trembled in my eye for the fate
of the unhappy Charlotte, I may have children of my own, said I,
to whom this recital may be of use, and if to your own children,
said Benevolence, why not to the many daughters of Misfortune who,
deprived of natural friends, or spoilt by a mistaken education,
are thrown on an unfeeling world without the least power to defend
themselves from the snares not only of the other sex, but from
the more dangerous arts of the profligate of their own.
Sensible as I am that a novel writer, at a time when such a variety
of works are ushered into the world under that name, stands
6 PREFACE.
but a poor chance for fame in the annals of literature, but conscious
that I wrote with a mind anxious for the happiness of that sex whose
morals and conduct have so powerful an influence on mankind in general;
and convinced that I have not wrote a line that conveys a wrong idea
to the head or a corrupt wish to the heart, I shall rest satisfied
in the purity of my own intentions, and if I merit not applause,
I feel that I dread not censure.
If the following tale should save one hapless fair one from
the errors which ruined poor Charlotte, or rescue from impending
misery the heart of one anxious parent, I shall feel a much
higher gratification in reflecting on this trifling performance,
than could possibly result from the applause which might attend
the most elegant finished piece of literature whose tendency might
deprave the heart or mislead the understanding.
CHARLOTTE TEMPLE,
VOLUME I
CHAPTER I.
A BOARDING SCHOOL.
"ARE you for a walk," said Montraville to his companion,
as they arose from table; "are you for a walk? or shall we order
the chaise and proceed to Portsmouth?" Belcour preferred the former;
and they sauntered out to view the town, and to make remarks on
the inhabitants, 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 orders for embarkation.
They had stopped at Chichester to dine; and knowing they had
sufficient time to reach the place of destination before dark,
and yet allow them a walk, had resolved, it being Sunday 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 without honouring any of the belles with particular notice,
when Madame Du Pont, at the head of her school, descended from
the church. Such an assemblage 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 that time he thought on her only as 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 pleasing ideas.
Vanity led him to think that pleasure at again beholding him might
have occasioned the emotion he had witnessed, 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 stared. "Did you not notice her?" continued Montraville:
"she had on a blue bonnet, and with a pair of lovely eyes
of the same colour, has contrived to make me feel devilish odd
about the heart."
"Pho," said Belcour, "a musket ball from our friends, the Americans,
may in less than two months make you feel worse."
"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 Familiar who would inform me who the girl is,
and how I might be likely to obtain an interview. "
But no kind Familiar at that time appearing, and the chaise which they
had ordered, driving up to the door, Montraville and his companion
were obliged to take leave of Chichester and its fair inhabitant,
and proceed on their journey.
But Charlotte had made too great an impression on his mind
to be easily eradicated: having therefore spent three whole
days in thinking on her and in endeavouring to form some plan
for seeing her, he determined to set off for Chichester,
and trust to chance either to favour or frustrate his designs.
Arriving at the verge of the town, he dismounted, and sending
the servant forward with the horses, proceeded toward
the place, where, in the midst of an extensive pleasure ground,
stood the mansion which contained the lovely Charlotte Temple.
Montraville leaned on a broken gate, and looked earnestly at the house.
The wall which surrounded it was high, and perhaps the Argus's
who guarded the Hesperian fruit within, were more watchful than
those famed of old.
"'Tis a romantic attempt," said he; "and should I even succeed
in seeing and conversing with her, it can be productive of no good:
I must of necessity leave England in a few days, and probably
may never return; why then should I endeavour to engage
the affections 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 now was closed; a serene stillness reigned;
and the chaste Queen of Night with her silver crescent faintly
illuminated the hemisphere. The mind of Montraville was hushed
into composure by the serenity of the surrounding objects.
"I will think on her no more," said he, and turned with an intention
to leave the place; but as he turned, he saw the gate which led
to the pleasure grounds open, and two 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 giving them the compliments of the evening, begged leave
to see them into the more frequented parts of the town:
but how was he delighted, when, waiting for an answer, he discovered,
under the concealment of a large bonnet, the face of Charlotte Temple.
He soon found means to ingratiate himself with her companion,
who was a French teacher at the school, and, at parting,
slipped a letter he had purposely written, into Charlotte's hand,
and five guineas into that of Mademoiselle, who promised she
would endeavour to bring her young charge into the field again
the next evening.
CHAPTER II.
DOMESTIC CONCERNS.
MR.Temple was the youngest son of a nobleman whose fortune was by no means
adequate to the antiquity, grandeur, and I may add, pride of the family.
He saw his elder brother made completely wretched by marrying
a disagreeable woman, whose fortune helped to prop the sinking dignity
of the house; and he beheld his sisters legally prostituted to old,
decrepid men, whose titles gave them consequence in the eyes of
the world, and whose affluence rendered them splendidly miserable.
"I will not sacrifice internal happiness for outward shew," said he:
"I will seek Content; and, if I find her in a cottage, will embrace
her with as much cordiality as I should if seated on a throne."
Mr. Temple possessed a small estate of about five hundred pounds
a year; and with that he resolved to preserve independence,
to marry where the feelings of his heart should direct him,
and to confine his expenses within the limits of his income.
He had a heart open to every 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 was frequently solicited; nor was it seldom
that he sought out indigent merit, and raised it from obscurity,
confining his own expenses within a very narrow compass.
"You are a benevolent fellow," said a young officer to him one day;
"and I have a great mind to give you a fine subject to exercise
the goodness of your heart upon."
"You cannot oblige me more," said Temple, "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 misfortunes."
The young man's heart was too full to proceed; and Temple,
unwilling to irritate his feelings by making further enquiries,
followed him in silence, til they arrived at the Fleet prison.
The officer enquired for Captain Eldridge: a person led them up several
pair 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 Blakeney, tapped at the door,
and was bid to enter by a voice melodiously soft. He opened
the door, and discovered to Temple a scene which rivetted 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 upon
his hand, his eyes fixed on a book which lay open before him,
sat an aged man in a Lieutenant's uniform, which, though threadbare,
would sooner call a blush of shame into the face of those who could
neglect real merit, than cause the hectic of confusion to glow
on the cheeks of him who wore it.
Beside him sat a lovely creature busied in painting a fan mount.
She was fair as the lily, but sorrow had nipped the rose in her
cheek 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 round with a black ribbon; a white linen gown
and plain lawn handkerchief composed the remainder of her dress;
and in this simple attire, she was more irresistibly charming
to such a heart as 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 composure.
"This is a strange place," said he to Temple, "to receive visitors
of distinction in; but we must fit our feelings to our station.
While I am not ashamed to own the cause 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 rose hastily
from his seat, and walking toward the window, wiped off a tear
which he was afraid would tarnish the cheek of a sailor.
Temple cast his eye on Miss Eldridge: a pellucid drop had
stolen from her eyes, and fallen upon a rose she was painting.
It blotted and discoloured the flower. " 'Tis emblematic,"
said he mentally: "the rose of youth and health soon fades when
watered by the tear of affliction."
"My friend Blakeney," said he, addressing the old man, "told me I
could be of service to you: be so kind then, dear Sir, as to point
out some way in which I can relieve the anxiety of your heart
and increase the pleasures 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 dishonour. "
"Oh, my father!" cried Miss Eldridge, 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 instant,
and one grave receive us both; for why should I live when deprived
of my only friend."
Temple was moved even to tears. "You will both live many years,"
said he, "and I hope see much happiness. Cheerly, my friend, cheerly;
these passing 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. Eldridge, "but there are some particulars
which will wring my heart barely to remember; yet to one whose
offers of friendship appear so open and disinterested, I will relate
every circumstance that led to my present, painful situation.
But my child," continued he, addressing his daughter, "let me prevail
on you to take this opportunity, while my friends are with me,
to enjoy the benefit of air and exercise.
Go, my love; leave me now; to-morrow at your usual hour I will
expect you. "
Miss Eldridge impressed on his cheek the kiss of filial
affection, and obeyed.
CHAPTER III.
UNEXPECTED MISFORTUNES.
"MY life," said Mr. Eldridge, "till within these few years was marked
by no particular circumstance deserving notice. I early embraced
the life of a sailor, and have served my King with unremitted ardour
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 straitened 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 commenced 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
or money to procure him a commission, and had wished him to embrace
a nautical life: but this was repugnant to his wishes, and I ceased
to urge him on the subject.
"The friendship subsisting 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 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 returned from school, and I soon
began to imagine Lewis looked at her with eyes of affection.
I gave my child a caution to beware of him, and to look on her mother
as her fe,,end. She was unaffectedly artless; and when, as I suspected,
Lewis made professions of love, she confided in her parents,
and assured us her heart was perfectly unbiassed in his favour,
and she would chearfully submit to our direction.
"I took an early opportunity of questioning him concerning
his intentions towards my child: he gave an equivocal answer,
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 endeavour to raise it, determining in that time to mortgage
my half pay, and live on a small annuity which my wife possessed,
rather than be under an obligation to so worthless a man:
but this short time was not allowed me; for that evening, as I was
sitting down to 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 into the arms of our servant,
as I left my own habitation for the comfortless walls of a prison.
My poor Lucy, distracted with her fears for us both, sunk on the floor
and endeavoured to detain me by her feeble efforts, but in vain;
they forced open her arms; she shrieked, and fell prostrate.
But pardon me. The horrors of that night unman me.
I cannot proceed."
He rose from his seat, and walked several times across the room:
at length, attaining more composure, he cried--"What a mere
infant I am! Why, Sir, I never felt thus in the day of battle."
"No," said Temple; "but the truly brave soul is tremblingly alive
to the feelings of humanity."
"True," replied the old man, (something like satisfaction darting
across his features) "and painful as these feelings are, I would not
exchange them for that torpor which the stoic mistakes for philosophy.
How many exquisite delights should I have passed by unnoticed,
but 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 enquire why
the latter predominates."
"This is true philosophy," said Temple.
"'Tis the only way to reconcile ourselves to the cross events of life,"
replied he. "But I forget myself. I will not longer intrude on
your patience, but proceed in 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 expressions of his mother and sister, he learnt
by whom I had been arrested; and, late as it was, flew on the wings
of wounded affection, to the house of his false friend, and earnestly
enquired the cause of this cruel conduct. With all the calmness
of a cool deliberate villain, he avowed his passion for Lucy;
declared her situation in life would not permit him to marry her;
but offered to release me immediately, and make any settlement on her,
if George would persuade her to live, as he impiously termed it,
a life of honour.
"Fired at the insult offered to a man and a soldier, my boy struck
the villain, and a challenge ensued. He then went to a coffee-house
in the neighbourhood and wrote a long affectionate letter to me,
blaming himself severely for having introduced Lewis into the family,
or permitted him to confer an obligation, which had brought
inevitable ruin on us all. He begged me, whatever might be the event
of the ensuing morning, not to suffer regret or unavailing sorrow
for his fate, to encrease the anguish of my heart, which he greatly
feared was already insupportable.
"This letter was delivered to me early in the morning.
It would be vain to attempt describing my feelings on the perusal
of it; suffice it to say, that a merciful Providence interposed,
and I was for three weeks insensible to miseries almost beyond
the strength of human nature to support.
"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 prevented my feeling my
distress so acutely as I otherways should.
"The first object that struck me on awaking, was Lucy sitting
by my bedside; her pale countenance and sable dress prevented
my enquiries for poor George: for the letter I had received
from him, was the first thing that occurred to my memory.
By degrees the rest returned: I recollected being arrested,
but could no ways account for being in this apartment, 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 round 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.
"What! both gone?" said I.
"Both," she replied, endeavouring to restrain her emotions:
"but they are happy, no doubt."
Here Mr. Eldridge paused: the recollection of the scene was too
painful to permit him to proceed.
CHAPTER IV.
CHANGE OF FORTUNE.
"IT was some days," continued Mr. Eldridge, recovering himself,
"before I could venture to enquire the particulars of what had
happened during my illness: at length 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 enquire after his mother's health, staid with them but a few minutes,
seemed 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 after, as they were sitting at breakfast,
and endeavouring to strike out some plan to attain my liberty,
they heard a loud rap at the door, which Lucy running to open,
she met the bleeding body of her brother, borne in by two men
who had lifted him from a litter, on which they had brought him
from the place where he fought. Her poor mother, weakened by illness
and the struggles of the preceding night, was not able to support
this shock; gasping for breath, her looks wild and haggard,
she reached the apartment where they had carried her dying son.
She knelt by the bed side; and taking his cold hand,
'my poor boy,' said she, 'I will not be parted from thee:
husband! son! both at once lost. Father of mercies, spare me!'
She fell into a strong convulsion, and expired in about two hours.
In the mean time, a surgeon had dressed George's wounds; but they
were in such a situation as to bar the smallest hopes of recovery.
He never was sensible from the time he was brought home, and died
that evening in the arms of his sister.
"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?'
"She left the care of the dear departed ones to some neighbours who had
kindly come in to comfort and assist her; and on entering the house
where I was confined, found me in the situation I have mentioned.
"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 embarrassed, my acquaintance few,
and those few utterly unable to assist me. When my wife and son
were committed to their kindred earth, my creditors seized my house
and furniture, which not being sufficient to discharge all their demands,
detainers were lodged against me. No friend stepped forward to my relief;
from the grave of her mother, my beloved Lucy followed an almost
dying father to this melancholy place.
"Here we have been nearly a year and a half. My half-pay I have given
up to satisfy my creditors, and my child supports me by her industry:
sometimes by fine needlework, sometimes by painting.
She leaves me every night, and goes to a lodging near the bridge;
but returns in the morning, to chear me with her smiles,
and bless me by her duteous affection. A lady once offered
her an asylum in her family; but she would not leave me.
'We are all the world to each other,' said she. 'I thank God,
I have health and spirits to improve the talents with which nature
has endowed me; and I trust if I employ them in the support of a
beloved parent, I shall not be thought an unprofitable servant.
While he lives, I pray for strength to pursue my employment;
and when it pleases heaven to take one of us, may it give
the survivor resignation to bear the separation as we ought:
till then I will never leave him.' "
"But where is this inhuman persecutor?" said Temple.
"He has been abroad ever since," replied the old man; "but he has
left orders with his lawyer never to give up the note till 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 a prison. I will see you again to-morrow, my friend,"
said he, shaking Eldridge's hand: "keep up your spirits:
light and shade are not more happily blended than are the pleasures
and pains of life; and the horrors of the one serve only to increase
the 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 he had a particular engagement in the city,
wished him a good evening.
"And what is to be done for this distressed man," said Temple,
as he walked up Ludgate Hill. "Would to heaven I had a fortune
that would enable me instantly to discharge his debt:
what exquisite transport, to see the expressive eyes of Lucy
beaming at once with pleasure for her father's deliverance,
and gratitude for her deliverer: but is not my fortune affluence,"
continued he, "nay superfluous wealth, when compared to the extreme
indigence of Eldridge; and what have I done to deserve ease
and plenty, while a brave worthy officer starves in a 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, thought every
bosom as generous as his own, and would chearfully have divided
his last guinea with an unfortunate fellow creature.
No wonder, then, that such a man (without waiting a moment
for the interference of Madam Prudence) should resolve to raise
money sufficient for the relief of Eldridge, by mortgaging part
of his fortune.
We will not enquire too minutely into the cause which might actuate
him in this instance: suffice it to say, he immediately put
the plan in execution; and in three days from the time he first saw
the unfortunate Lieutenant, he had the superlative felicity of seeing
him at liberty, and receiving an ample reward in the tearful eye
and half articulated thanks of the grateful Lucy.
"And pray, young man," said his father to him one morning,
"what are your designs in visiting thus constantly that old man
and his daughter?"
Temple was at a loss for a reply: he had never asked himself
the question: he hesitated; and his father continued--
"It was not till within these few days that I heard in what manner your
acquaintance first commenced, and cannot suppose any thing but attachment
to the daughter could carry you such imprudent lengths for the father:
it certainly must be her art that drew you in to mortgage part
of your fortune."
"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 lovely," said his father,
interrupting him ironically: "no doubt in your opinion she
is a pattern of excellence for all her sex to follow; but come,
Sir, pray tell me what are your designs towards this paragon.
I hope you do not intend to complete your folly by marrying her."
"Were my fortune such as would support her according to her merit,
I don't know a woman more formed to insure happiness in
the married 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 on 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 honour of your alliance.
I shall leave you to consider on this offer; and pray remember,
that your union with Miss Weatherby will put it in your power
to be more liberally the friend of Lucy Eldridge. "
The old gentleman walked in a stately 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, flattered by her dependants, and never
contradicted even by those who called themselves her friends:
I cannot give a better description than by the following lines.
The lovely maid whose form and face
Nature has deck'd with ev'ry 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 could make it,
but her mind uncultivated, her heart unfeeling, her passions impetuous,
and her brain almost turned with flattery, dissipation, and pleasure;
and such was the girl, whom a partial grandfather left independent
mistress of the fortune before mentioned.
She had seen Temple frequently; and fancying she could never be happy
without him, nor once imagining he could refuse a girl of her beauty
and fortune, she prevailed on her fond father to offer the alliance
to the old Earl of D----, Mr. Temple's father.
The Earl had received the offer courteously: he thought it a great
match for Henry; and was too fashionable a man to suppose a wife
could be any impediment to the friendship he professed for Eldridge
and his daughter.
Unfortunately for Temple, he thought quite otherwise:
the conversation he had just had with his father, discovered to him
the situation of his heart; and he found that the most affluent
fortune would bring no increase of happiness unless Lucy Eldridge
shared it with him; and the knowledge of the purity of her sentiments,
and the integrity of his own heart, made him shudder at the idea
his father had started, of marrying a woman for no other reason than
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 Miss Weatherby, and be the event
what it might, offer his heart and hand to Lucy Eldridge.
Full of this determination, he fought 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 sorrows to his good old friend and his amiable daughter.
In the mean time, the Earl, vexed to the soul that such a fortune
should be lost, determined to offer himself a candidate for
Miss Weatherby's favour.
What wonderful changes are wrought by that reigning power,
ambition! the love-sick girl, when first she heard of Temple's refusal,
wept, raved, tore her hair, and vowed to found a protestant nunnery
with her fortune; and by commencing abbess, shut herself up from
the sight of cruel ungrateful man for ever.
Her father was a man of the world: he suffered this first transport
to subside, and then very deliberately unfolded to her the offers
of the old Earl, expatiated on the many benefits arising from an
elevated title, painted in glowing colours the surprise and vexation
of Temple when he should see her figuring as a Countess and his
mother-in-law, and begged her to consider well before she made
any rash vows.
The DISTRESSED fair one dried her tears, listened patiently,
and at length declared she believed the surest method to revenge
the slight put on her by the son, would be to accept the father:
so said so done, and in a few days she became the Countess D----.
Temple heard the news with emotion: he had lost his father's favour
by avowing his passion for Lucy, and he saw now there was no hope
of regaining it: "but he shall not make me miserable," said he.
"Lucy and I have no ambitious notions: we can live on three hundred
a year for some little time, till the mortgage is paid off, and then we
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, "and thither with your reverend father we will retire; we will
forget there are such things as splendor, profusion, and dissipation:
we will have some cows, and you shall be queen of the dairy;
in a morning, while I look after my garden, you shall take a basket
on your arm, and sally forth to feed your poultry; and as they
flutter round you in token of humble gratitude, your father shall
smoke his pipe in a woodbine alcove, and viewing the serenity
of your countenance, feel such real pleasure dilate his own heart,
as shall make him forget he had ever been unhappy."
Lucy smiled; and Temple saw it was a smile of approbation.
He sought and found a cottage suited to his taste; thither, attended by
Love and Hymen, the happy trio retired; where, during many years
of uninterrupted felicity, they cast not a wish beyond the little
boundaries of their own tenement. Plenty, and her handmaid,
Prudence, presided at their board, Hospitality stood at their gate,
Peace smiled on each face, Content reigned in each heart, and Love
and Health strewed roses on their pillows.
Such were the parents of Charlotte Temple, who was the only pledge
of their mutual love, and who, at the earnest entreaty of a
particular friend, was permitted to finish the education her mother
had begun, at Madame Du Pont's school, where we first introduced
her to the acquaintance of the reader.
CHAPTER VI.
AN INTRIGUING TEACHER.
MADAME Du Pont was a woman every way calculated to take the care
of young ladies, had that care entirely devolved on herself;
but it was impossible to attend the education of a numerous school
without proper assistants; and those assistants were not always
the kind of people whose conversation and morals were exactly such
as parents of delicacy and refinement would wish a daughter to copy.
Among the teachers at Madame Du Pont's school, was Mademoiselle
La Rue, who added to a pleasing person and insinuating 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 England,
had lived with several different men in open defiance of all moral
and religious duties; yet, finding her reduced to the most abject want,
and believing the penitence which she professed to be sincere,
she took her into her own family, and from thence recommended
her to Madame Du Pont, as thinking the situation more suitable
for a woman of her abilities. But Mademoiselle possessed too much
of the spirit of intrigue to remain long without adventures.
At church, where she constantly appeared, her person attracted
the attention of a young man who was upon a visit at a gentleman's seat
in the neighbourhood: she had met him several times clandestinely;
and being invited to come out that evening, and eat some fruit and
pastry in a summer-house belonging to the gentleman he was visiting,
and requested to bring some of the ladies with her, Charlotte being
her favourite, was fixed on to accompany her.
The mind of youth eagerly catches at promised pleasure:
pure and innocent by nature, it thinks not of the dangers
lurking beneath those pleasures, till too late to avoid them:
when Mademoiselle asked Charlotte to go with her, she mentioned
the gentleman as a relation, and spoke in such high terms of
the elegance of his gardens, the sprightliness of his conversation,
and the liberality with which he ever entertained his guests,
that Charlotte thought only of the pleasure she should enjoy in the visit,--
not on the imprudence of going without her governess's knowledge,
or of the danger to which she exposed herself in visiting the house
of a gay young man of fashion.
Madame Du Pont was gone out for the evening, and the rest of the ladies
retired to rest, when Charlotte and the teacher stole out at the
back gate, and in crossing the field, were accosted by Montraville,
as mentioned in the first chapter.
Charlotte was disappointed in 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 uneasy,
and heartily wished herself at home again in her own chamber.
Perhaps one cause of that wish might be, an earnest desire
to see the contents of the letter which had been put into her
hand by Montraville.
Any reader who has the least knowledge 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 but her mind might revert to the agreeable
person and martial appearance of Montraville.
In affairs of love, a young heart is never in more danger than
when attempted by a handsome young soldier. A man of an indifferent
appearance, will, when arrayed in a military habit, shew to advantage;
but when beauty of person, elegance of manner, and an easy method
of paying compliments, are united to the scarlet coat, smart cockade,
and military sash, ah! well-a-day for the poor girl who gazes on 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.
Now, my dear sober matron, (if a sober matron should deign
to turn over these pages, before she trusts them to the eye of a
darling daughter,) let me intreat you not to put on a grave face,
and throw down the book in a passion and declare 'tis enough to turn
the heads of half the girls in England; I do solemnly protest,
my dear madam, I mean no more by what I have here advanced,
than to ridicule those romantic girls, who foolishly imagine
a red coat and silver epaulet constitute the fine gentleman;
and should that fine gentleman make half a dozen fine speeches
to them, they will imagine themselves so much in love as to fancy
it a meritorious action to jump out of a two pair of stairs window,
abandon their friends, and trust entirely to the honour of a man,
who perhaps hardly knows the meaning of the word, and if he does,
will be too much the modern man of refinement, to practice it
in their favour.
Gracious heaven! when I think on the miseries that must rend the heart
of a doating parent, when he sees the darling of his age at first
seduced from his protection, and afterwards abandoned, by the very
wretch whose promises of love decoyed her from the paternal roof--
when he sees her poor and wretched, her bosom tom between remorse
for her crime and love for her vile betrayer--when fancy paints to me
the good old man stooping to raise the weeping penitent, while every
tear from her eye is numbered by drops from his bleeding heart,
my bosom glows with honest indignation, and I wish for power
to extirpate those monsters of seduction from the earth.
Oh my dear girls--for to such only am I writing--listen not to
the voice of love, unless sanctioned by paternal approbation:
be assured, it is now past the days of romance:
no woman can be run away with contrary to her own inclination:
then kneel down each morning, and request kind heaven to keep you
free from temptation, or, should it please to suffer you to be tried,
pray for fortitude to resist the impulse of inclination 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 exactly right in going out
this evening, Mademoiselle," said Charlotte, seating herself
when she entered her apartment: "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 render
the evening agreeable."
"True," said Charlotte: "but I thought the gentlemen were very
free in their manner: I wonder you would suffer 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 hopes it would divert you,
and be an agreeable change of scene; however, if your delicacy
was hurt by the behaviour of the gentlemen, you need not go again;
so there let it rest. "
"I do not intend to go again," said Charlotte, gravely taking off
her bonnet, 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 before any of the rest
of the ladies; but perhaps it will give you pleasure," continued she,
letting fall some hypocritical tears, "to see me deprived of bread,
and for an action which by the most rigid could only be esteemed
an inadvertency, lose my place and character, and be driven again
into the world, where I have already suffered all the evils attendant
on poverty. "
This was touching Charlotte in the most vulnerable part:
she rose from her seat, and taking Mademoiselle's hand--"You know,
my dear La Rue," said she, "I love you too well, to do anything
that would injure you in my governess's opinion: 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 agreeable man; and you know one is always pleased to see
a person with whom one has passed several chearful hours.
"But," said she pausing, and drawing the letter from her pocket,
while a gentle suffusion of vermillion tinged her neck and face,
"he gave me this letter; what shall I do with it?"
"Read it, to be sure," returned Mademoiselle.
"I am afraid I ought not," said Charlotte: "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 life time.
Prithee open the letter, read it, and judge for yourself; if you
show it your mother, the consequence will be, you will be taken
from school, and a strict guard kept over you; so you will stand
no chance of ever seeing the smart young officer again."
"I should not like to leave school yet," replied Charlotte,
"till I have attained a greater proficiency in my Italian and music.
But you can, if you please, Mademoiselle, take the letter back
to Montraville, and tell him I wish him well, but cannot,
with any propriety, enter into a clandestine correspondence with him."
She laid the letter on the table, and began to undress herself.
"Well," said La Rue, "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 addressed to me lie unopened so long,
than I could work miracles: he writes a good hand," continued she,
turning the letter, to look at the superscription.
"'Tis well enough," said Charlotte, drawing it towards her.
"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 small pox."
"Oh you are greatly mistaken," said Charlotte eagerly; "he has
a remarkable clear skin and fine complexion."
"His eyes, if I could judge by what I saw," said La Rue, "are grey
and want expression."
"By no means," replied Charlotte; "they are the most expressive
eyes I ever saw." "Well, child, whether they are grey or black
is of no consequence: you have determined not to read his letter;
so it is likely you will never either see or hear from him again."
Charlotte took up the letter, and Mademoiselle continued--
"He is most probably going to America; and if ever you should hear
any account of him, it may possibly be that he is killed; and though
he loved you ever so fervently, though his last breath should be
spent in a prayer for your happiness, it can be nothing to you:
you can feel nothing for the fate of the man, whose letters 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 conclusion of Mademoiselle's speech, and a tear dropped upon
the wafer that closed it.
"The wafer is not dry yet," said she, "and sure there can
be no great harm--" She hesitated. La Rue was silent.
"I may read it, Mademoiselle, and return it afterwards."
"Certainly," replied Mademoiselle.
"At any rate I am determined not to answer it," continued Charlotte,
as she opened the letter.
Here let me stop to make one remark, and trust me my very heart
aches while I write it; but certain I am, that when once a woman
has stifled the sense of shame in her own bosom, when once she has
lost sight of the basis on which reputation, honour, every thing
that should be dear to the female heart, rests, she grows hardened
in guilt, and will spare no pains to bring down innocence and beauty
to the shocking level with herself: and this proceeds from that
diabolical spirit of envy, which repines at seeing another in the full
possession of that respect and esteem which she can no longer
hope to enjoy.
Mademoiselle eyed the unsuspecting Charlotte, as she perused the letter,
with a malignant pleasure. She saw, that the contents had awakened
new emotions in her youthful bosom: she encouraged her hopes,
calmed her fears, and before they parted for the night, it was
determined that she should meet Montraville the ensuing evening.
CHAPTER VIII.
DOMESTIC PLEASURES PLANNED.
"I THINK, my dear," said Mrs. Temple, laying her hand on her
husband's arm as they were walking together in the garden,
"I think next Wednesday is Charlotte's birth day: now I have formed
a little scheme in my own mind, to give her an agreeable surprise;
and if you have no objection, we will send for her home on that day."
Temple pressed his wife's hand in token of approbation, and she
proceeded.--"You know the little alcove at the bottom of the garden,
of which Charlotte is so fond? I have an inclination to deck
this out in a fanciful manner, and invite all her little friends
to partake of a collation of fruit, sweetmeats, and other things
suitable to the general taste of young guests; and to make it
more pleasing to Charlotte, she shall be mistress of the feast,
and entertain her visitors in this alcove. I know she will
be delighted; and to complete all, they shall have some music,
and finish with a dance. "
"A very fine plan, indeed," said Temple, smiling; "and you really
suppose I will wink at your indulging the girl in this manner?
You will quite 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 withal tempered so sweetly with the meek affection
and submissive duty of the wife, that as she paused expecting her
husband's answer, he gazed at her tenderly, and found he was unable
to refuse her request.
"She is a good girl," said Temple.
"She is, indeed," replied the fond mother exultingly, "a grateful,
affectionate girl; and I am sure will never lose sight of the duty
she owes her parents."
"If she does," said he, 'she must forget the example set her by
the best of mothers."
Mrs. Temple could not reply; but the delightful sensation that
dilated her heart sparkled in her intelligent eyes and heightened
the vermillion on her cheeks.
Of all the pleasures of which the human mind is sensible,
there is none equal to that which warms and expands the bosom,
when listening to commendations bestowed on us by a beloved object,
and are conscious of having deserved them.
Ye giddy flutterers in the fantastic round of dissipation, who eagerly
seek pleasure in the lofty dome, rich treat, and midnight revel--
tell me, ye thoughtless daughters of folly, have ye ever found
the phantom you have so long sought with such unremitted assiduity?
Has she not always eluded your grasp, and when you have reached
your hand to take the cup she extends to her deluded votaries,
have you not found the long-expected draught strongly tinctured
with the bitter dregs of disappointment? I know you have:
I see it in the wan cheek, sunk eye, and air of chagrin, 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 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 felicity, and when once you
have formed an intimate acquaintance with these her attendants,
nay you must admit them as your bosom friends and chief counsellors,
then, whatever may be your situation in life, the meek eyed Virgin
wig immediately take up her abode with you.
Is poverty your portion?--she will lighten your labours, preside at
your frugal board, and watch your quiet slumbers.
Is your state mediocrity?--she will heighten every blessing you enjoy,
by informing you how grateful you should be to that bountiful
Providence who might have placed you in the most abject situation;
and, by teaching you to weigh your blessings against your deserts,
show you how much more you receive than you have a right to expect.
Are you possessed of affluence?--what an inexhaustible fund
of happiness will she lay before you! To relieve the distressed,
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 adversity,
so that they cannot materially harm you. She will dwell
in the humblest cottage; she will attend you even to a prison.
Her parent is Religion; her sisters, Patience and Hope.
She will pass with you through life, smoothing the rough paths and tread
to earth those thorns which every one must meet with as they journey
onward to the appointed goal. She will soften the pains of sickness,
continue with you even in the cold gloomy hour of death, and,
cheating you with the smiles of her heaven-born sister, Hope, lead you
triumphant to a blissfull 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 niggard as to omit so good an opportunity
of pointing out the way to others. The very basis of true peace
of mind is a benevolent wish to see all the world as happy
as one's Self; and from my soul do I pity the selfish churl,
who, remembering the little bickerings of anger, envy, and fifty
other disagreeables to which frail mortality is subject, would wish
to revenge the affront which pride whispers him he has received.
For my own part, I can safely declare, there is not a human being
in the universe, whose prosperity I should not rejoice in, and to whose
happiness I would not contribute to the utmost limit of my power:
and may my offences be no more remembered in the day of general
retribution, than as from my soul I forgive every offence or injury
received from a fellow creature.
Merciful heaven! who would exchange the rapture of such a reflexion
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 Charlotte's
birth day,) 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 the letter, 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 obstacles
to prevent the erring person returning to the path of rectitude:
yet these obstacles, however forcible they may appear in general,
exist chiefly in imagination.
Charlotte feared the anger of her governess: she loved her mother,
and the very idea of incurring her displeasure, gave her
the greatest uneasiness: but there was a more forcible reason
still remaining: should she show the letter to Madame Du Pont,
she must confess the means by which it came into her possession;
and what would be the consequence? 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 Chichester."
However prudent Charlotte might be in these resolutions, she certainly
did not take a proper method to confirm herself in them. Several times
in the course of the day, she indulged herself in reading over the letter,
and each time she read it, the contents sunk deeper in 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 my resolution is not to be shaken, I shall feel
my mind much easier."
The appointed hour arrived. Charlotte and Mademoiselle eluded
the eye of vigilance; and Montraville, who had waited their coming
with impatience, received them with rapturous and unbounded
acknowledgments for their condescension: he had wisely brought
Belcour with him to entertain Mademoiselle, 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 ensuing pages, I shall
here describe him. He possessed a genteel fortune, and had a
liberal education; dissipated, thoughtless, 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, however extravagant,
were gratified. Self, darling self, was the idol he worshipped,
and to that he would have sacrificed the interest and happiness
of all mankind. Such was the friend of Montraville:
will not the reader be ready to imagine, that the man who could
regard such a character, must be actuated by the 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 character: generous in his disposition,
liberal in his opinions, and good-natured almost to a fault;
yet eager and impetuous in the pursuit of a favorite object,
he staid not to reflect on the consequence 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 endeavouring to gain the heart of an innocent
artless girl, when he knew it was utterly impossible for him to marry her,
and when the gratification of his passion would be unavoidable infamy
and misery to her, and a cause of never-ceasing remorse to himself:
had these dreadful consequences been placed before him in a proper light,
the humanity of his nature would have urged him to give up the pursuit:
but Belcour was not this friend; he rather encouraged the growing passion
of Montraville; and being pleased with the vivacity of Mademoiselle,
resolved to leave no argument untried, which he thought might prevail
on her to be the companion of their intended voyage; and he made
no doubt but her example, added to the rhetoric of Montraville,
would persuade Charlotte to go with them.
Charlotte had, when she went out to meet Montraville, flattered herself
that her resolution was not to be shaken, and that, conscious of
the impropriety of her conduct in having a 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, ardent, and yet respectful.
"Shall I not see you once more," said he, "before I leave England?
will you not bless me by an assurance, that when we are divided
by a vast expanse of sea I shall not be forgotten?"
Charlotte sighed.
"Why that sigh, my dear Charlotte? could I flatter myself that
a fear for my safety, or a wish for my welfare occasioned it,
how happy would it make me."
"I shall ever wish you well, Montraville," said she; "but we must meet
no more." "Oh say not so, my lovely girl: reflect, that when I leave
my native land, perhaps a few short weeks may terminate my existence;
the perils of the ocean--the dangers of war--"
"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.
"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 Charlotte, struggling to draw her
hands from him: "let me leave you now. "
"And you will come to-morrow," said Montraville.
"Perhaps I may," said she.
"Adieu then. I will live upon that hope till we meet again."
He kissed her hand. She sighed an adieu, and catching hold
of Mademoiselle's arm, hastily entered the garden gate.
CHAPTER X.
WHEN WE HAVE EXCITED
CURIOSITY, IT IS BUT AN ACT OF
GOOD NATURE TO GRATIFY IT.
MONTRAVILLE was the youngest son of a gentleman of fortune,
whose family being numerous, he was obliged to bring up his sons
to genteel professions, by the exercise of which they might hope
to raise themselves into notice.
"My daughters," said he, "have been educated like gentlewomen;
and should I die before they are settled, they must have some
provision made, to place them above the snares and temptations
which vice ever holds out to the elegant, accomplished female,
when oppressed by the frowns of poverty and the sting of dependance:
my boys, with only moderate incomes, when placed in the church, at the bar,
or in the field, may exert their talents, make themselves friends,
and raise their fortunes on the basis of merit."
When Montraville chose the profession of arms, his father
presented him with a commission, and made him a handsome provision
for his private purse. "Now, my boy," said he, 'go! seek glory
in the field of battle. You have received from me all I shall
ever have it in my power to bestow: it is certain I have interest
to gain you promotion; but be assured that interest shall
never be exerted, unless by your future conduct you deserve it.
Remember, therefore, your success in life depends entirely on yourself.
There is one thing I think it my duty to caution you against;
the precipitancy with which young men frequently rush into
matrimonial engagements, and by their thoughtlessness draw
many a deserving woman into scenes of poverty and distress.
A soldier has no business to think of a wife till his rank is such
as to place him above the fear of bringing into the world a train
of helpless innocents, heirs only to penury and affliction.
If, indeed, a woman, whose fortune is sufficient to preserve
you in that state of independence I would teach you to prize,
should generously bestow herself on a young soldier, whose chief
hope of future prosperity depended on his success in the field--
if such a woman should offer--every barrier is removed, and I
should rejoice in an union which would promise so much felicity.
But mark me, boy, if, on the contrary, you rush into a precipitate
union with a girl of little or no fortune, take the poor creature from
a comfortable home and kind friends, and plunge her into all the evils
a narrow income and increasing family can inflict, I will leave you
to enjoy the blessed fruits of your rashness; for by all that is sacred,
neither my interest or fortune shall ever be exerted in your favour.
I am serious," continued he, "therefore imprint this conversation
on your memory, and let it influence your future conduct.
Your happiness will always be dear to me; and I wish to warn you
of a rock on which the peace of many an honest fellow has been wrecked;
for believe me, the difficulties and dangers of the longest winter
campaign are much easier to be 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 reflected that it was your own folly and precipitancy had been
the prime cause of their sufferings. "
As this conversation passed but a few hours before Montraville
took leave of his father, it was deeply impressed on his mind:
when, therefore, Belcour came with him to the place of assignation
with Charlotte, he directed him to enquire of the French woman
what were Miss Temple's expectations in regard to fortune.
Mademoiselle informed him, that though Charlotte's father possessed
a genteel independence, it was by no means probable that he could
give his daughter more than a thousand pounds; and in case she did
not marry to his liking, it was possible he might not give her
a single SOUS; nor did it appear the least likely, that Mr. Temple
would agree to her union with a young man on the point of embarking
for the feat of war.
Montraville therefore concluded it was impossible he should ever
marry Charlotte Temple; and what end he proposed to himself
by continuing the acquaintance he had commenced with her, he did
not at that moment give himself time to enquire.
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 intreat one more interview, that treacherous heart
betrayed her; and, forgetful of its resolution, pleaded the cause
of the enemy so powerfully, that Charlotte was unable to resist.
Another and another 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.
"Ah, Montraville," replied Charlotte, forcing a smile, "how can
it be avoided? My parents would never consent to our union;
and even could they be brought to approve it, how should 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 any thing in the world beside.
I thought that you would for my sake have braved the dangers
of the ocean, that you would, by your affection and smiles,
have softened the hardships of war, and, had it been my fate to fall,
that your tenderness would chear the hour of death, and smooth my passage
to another world. But farewel, 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 pretended to leave her, "stay, and to calm your fears,
I will here protest that was it not for the fear of giving
pain to the best of parents, and returning their kindness
with ingratitude, I would follow you through every danger,
and, in studying to promote your happiness, insure my own.
But I cannot break my mother's heart, Montraville; I must not bring
the grey hairs of my doating grand-father with sorrow to the grave,
or make my beloved father perhaps curse the hour that gave me birth."
She covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.
"All these distressing scenes, my dear 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
hand that you was with a man of honour, and that it was to insure
your felicity by an union with him, to which you feared they would
never have given their assent, that you left their protection,
they will, be assured, forgive an error which love alone occasioned,
and when we return from America, receive you with open arms and
tears of joy."
Belcour and Mademoiselle heard this last speech, and conceiving it a proper
time to throw in their advice and persuasions, approached Charlotte,
and so well seconded the entreaties of Montraville, that finding
Mademoiselle intended going with Belcour, and feeling her own treacherous
heart too much inclined to accompany them, the hapless Charlotte,
in an evil hour, consented that the next evening they should bring
a chaise to the end of the town, and that she would leave her friends,
and throw herself entirely on the protection of Montraville.
"But should you," said she, looking earnestly at him, her eyes full
of tears, "should you, forgetful of your promises, 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 sanctify
our love; and when I shall forget your goodness, may heaven forget me."
"Ah," said Charlotte, leaning on Mademoiselle's arm as they walked up
the garden together, "I have forgot all that I ought to have remembered,
in consenting to this intended elopement."
"You are a strange girl," said Mademoiselle: "you never know
your own mind two minutes at a time. just now you declared
Montraville's happiness was what you prized most in the world;
and now I suppose you repent having insured that happiness by agreeing
to accompany him abroad."
"Indeed I do repent," replied Charlotte, "from my soul:
but while discretion points out the impropriety of my conduct,
inclination urges me on to ruin."
"Ruin! fiddlestick!" said Mademoiselle; "am I not going with you?
and do I feel any of these qualms?"
"You do not renounce a tender father and mother," said Charlotte.
"But I hazard my dear reputation," replied Mademoiselle, bridling.
"True," replied Charlotte, "but you do not feel what I do."
She then bade her good night: but sleep was a stranger to her eyes,
and the tear of anguish watered her pillow.
CHAPTER XII.
Nature's last, best gift:
Creature in whom excell'd, whatever could
To sight or thought be nam'd!
Holy, divine! good, amiable, and sweet!
How thou art fall'n!--
WHEN Charlotte left her restless bed, her languid eye and pale cheek
discovered to Madame Du Pont the little repose she had tasted.
"My dear child," said the affectionate governess, "what is the cause
of the languor so apparent in your frame? Are you not well?"
"Yes, my dear Madam, very well," replied Charlotte, attempting to smile,
"but I know not how it was; I could not sleep last night, and my
spirits are depressed this morning."
"Come chear up, my love," said the governess; "I believe I have
brought a cordial to revive them. I have just received a letter
from your good mama, and here is one for yourself."
Charlotte hastily took the letter: it contained these words--
"As to-morrow is the anniversary of the happy day that gave my beloved
girl to the anxious wishes of a maternal heart, I have requested
your governess to let you come home and spend it with us; and as I
know you to be a good affectionate child, and make it your study
to improve in those branches of education 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 grand-father, 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 the heart
of my dear Charlotte's affectionate mother,
L. TEMPLE."
"Gracious heaven!" cried Charlotte, forgetting where she was,
and raising her streaming eyes as in earnest supplication.
Madame Du Pont was surprised. "Why these tears, my love?" said she.
"Why this seeming agitation? I thought the letter would have rejoiced,
instead of distressing you."
"It does rejoice me," replied Charlotte, endeavouring at composure,
"but I was praying for merit to deserve the unremitted attentions
of the best of parents."
"You do right," said Madame Du Pont, "to ask the assistance
of heaven that you may continue to deserve their love.
Continue, my dear Charlotte, in the course you have ever pursued,
and you will insure at once their happiness and your own. "
"Oh!" cried Charlotte, as her governess left her, "I have forfeited both
for ever! Yet let me reflect:--the irrevocable step is not yet taken:
it is not too late to recede from the brink of a precipice, from which I
can only behold the dark abyss of ruin, shame, and remorse!"
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 committing. I will not go, Mademoiselle; 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 in your power to alter it.
I shall meet the gentlemen at the appointed hour, and shall
not be surprized at any outrage which Montraville may commit,
when he finds himself disappointed. Indeed I should not
be astonished, was 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 eloping, and every girl of spirit
will laugh at your want of fortitude to put it in execution,
while prudes and fools will load you with reproach and contempt.
You will have lost the confidence of your parents, incurred their anger,
and the scoffs of the world; and what fruit do you expect to reap
from this piece of heroism, (for such no doubt you think it is?)
you will have the pleasure to reflect, that you have deceived the man
who adores you, and whom in your heart you prefer to all other men,
and that you are separated from him for ever. "
This eloquent harangue was given with such volubility, that Charlotte
could not find an opportunity to interrupt her, or to offer a single
word till the whole was finished, and then found her ideas so confused,
that she knew not what to say.
At length she determined that she would go with Mademoiselle to the place
of assignation, convince Montraville of the necessity of adhering
to the resolution of remaining behind; assure him of her affection,
and bid him adieu.
Charlotte formed this plan in her mind, and exulted in the certainty
of its success. "How shall I