ghoacevabnestirpeperhanvased nasa IRGINIA LIBRARY |= r is woo ae lw rn a ee - ao * a aes FA bE oe Pe. Rg REE RS : 33 K 3 | 2 rtFo aassnsmomhmS OiSNS RN ON s . SNep Yess ore Ce SOLO LLL LLL SCREEN NSA \S SSN WR SNSSu \\ Hes \ WSN WSe: 39; o>) A532 SS ESET SSIES PSEC RSS Tels Om. O 1/7059 200 25e ele og > EV ERS OS opp Dp SESS SSID — ES NS Gj, Dp aS (MES YL, PERO ae aia uayale CHARLOTTE TEMPLE eee—=—> CHARLOTTE TEMPLE TALE OF TRUTH, BY MRS. ROWSON, wate of he New-Theatre, Philadelphia; Autor Victoria, Th "nguisitor. Fille de Chambre, &c. She was her parents’ only joy; They had but one—one darling child. Romeo and Juliet tler form was faultless, and her mind Untainted yet by art, Was noble, just, humane, and kind: And virtue warm’d her heart. Gut, ah! the crvel spoiler camo— NEW YORK: Wms. L. ALLISON, PUBLISHER, No. 93 CHAMBERS ST. 2sGeer aees es SS(- — = : CHARLOTTE TEMPLE CHAP. I. A BOARDING SCHOOL. “Are you for a walk,” said Montraville to his companion as they arose from table; “are zou tor a walk? or shall we order the chaise and proceed to Portsmouth?” Belcour pre- ferred the former; and they sauntered out to view the town. and to make remarks on the inhabitants, as they returned fromm church. Montraville was a lieutenant in the army: Belcour was his brother officer: they had been to take leave of their trienas previous to their departure for America, and were now return- ing 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 tueir devotions. They had gratified their curiosity, and were preparing to return to the inn without honoring4 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. any of the belles with particular attention when Madame Du Pont, at the head of her school, descended from the church. Such an assem- blage of youth and innocence naturally at- tracted the young soldiers: they stopped; and, as the little cavalcade passed, almost involun- tarily 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 improve- ment 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. LBelcour started. “Did you not notice her?” contin- ned Montraville: ‘she had*on a blue bonnet, and with a pair of lovely eyes of the same co lor, has contrived to make me feel devilish odd about the heart.” “Poh,” said Belcour, “a musket ball from our friends the Americans, may in less than two months make you feel worse.”CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 5 “ f never think of the future,” replied Mon- traville, ‘* 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 impres- sion on his mind to be easily eradicated: hav- ing therefore spent three whole days in think- ing on her, and enceayoring to form some plan for seeing her, he determined to set off for Chichester, and trust to chance either to favor or frustrate his designs. Arriving at the verge of the town, he dismounted, and sending the servant forward with the horses, proceeded to- ward the place, where, in the midst of an ex- tensive pleasure ground, stuod the mansion which contained the lovely Charlotte Temple. Montraville leaned on a broken gate, and look- ed earnestly at the house. The wall which gurrounded it was high, and perhaps the Ar- gusses, who guarded the Hesperian fruit with- in, were more watchful than those famed of old. “Tis a romantic attempt,” said he, “and should I even succeed in seeing ard conversing elie eee6 CHARLOTTE TEMPi&£. with her, it can be productive of no good: 1 must of necessity leave England in a few days, and probably may never return; why then should I endeavor 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 was now closed; a serene still- ness 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. “J 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 came out, who walked arm in arm across the field. “T will at least see who these are,” said he. He overtook them, and giving them the compli- ments of the evening, begged leave to see them into the more frequented parts of the town; but how was he delighted, when, waiting for an 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 Mademoi-CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 7 Selle, who promised she would endeavor to bring her young charge into the field again the next evening. CHAP. II. DOMESTIC CONCERNS. Mr. Tempe was the youngest son of a nobleman, whose fortune was by no means ade- quate to the antiquity, grandeur, and I may add, pride of the family. He saw his elder brother made completely wretched by marrying a dis- agreeable 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 them conse- quence in the eyes of the world, and whose af- fluence rendered them splendidly miserable. “] will not sacrifice internal happiness for out- ward show,” 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 whiere the feelings of his heart should direct him, and to confine his expenses withiniis nate ee 8 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. the limits cf his income. He had a heart oper 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 friena of the unfortunate, his advice and bounty were 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 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 voung 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 raan’s heart was too full to proceed; and Temple, un- willing to irritate his feelings by making fur. ther inquiries, followed him in silence, till they arrived at the Fleet prison. The officer inquired for Captain Eldridge. A person led them up several pair of dirty slairs, and pointing tc a door which led toa ’CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. g miserable small apartment, said that was the captain’s room, and retired. The officer, whose name was Blakeney, tap ped at the door, and was bid to enter by a voice melodiously soft. He opened the door and dis- covered to Temple a scene which riveted him to the spot with astonishment. The apartment, though small, and bearing strong marks of poverty, was neat in the ex- treme. 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 lieuten- ant’s uniform, which, though threadbare, should sooner call a blush of shame into the face of those who could neglect real merit, than cause the hectic of confusion to glow on the cheeks of him who wore it. Beside him sat a lovely creature, busied in painting 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 slight- ly confined under a plain muslin cap, tied round with a black ribbon; a white linen gown and plain lawn handkerchief composed the remain- der of her dress; and in this simple attire she was more irresistibly charming to such a heart as Temple’s, than she would have been if adorn- ed with all the splendor of a courtly belle. When they en‘ered, the old man arose from kis seat and shaking Blakeney by the hand A®0 CHARLOTTE TEDIPLE. 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 evi- dent composure. “ This is a strange place,” said he to Tem- ple, ‘to receive visiters 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, walked towards the window, and wiped off a tear which he was afraid would tarnish the cheek of a sailor. Temple cast his eye on Miss Eldridge ; a pelucid 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 af- fliction.” ‘‘ My friend Blakeney,” said he, addressing the old man, “told me I could be of service to you: be so kind, then, dear sir, as to point out some way in which I can relieve the anxiety of your heart and increase the pleasure of my own.” “ My good young man,” said Eldridge, “ you know not what you offer. While deprivea of my liberty, I cannot be free from anxiety on myCE ARLOTTE TEMPLE. li 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 in silence and oblivion; but when I am gone, who will protect that fair bud of inno- cence from the blasts of adversity, or fromthe cruel hand of insult and dishonor ?” “QO! my father!” cried Miss Eldridge, ten- derly 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 othei 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 :o my present painful situation. But my child, ’ continued he, addressing tis daugh- Sm Saree ree ee ee pe aes vee aE oN ee erat Rca ST °12 CHARLOTTE TEMPI &, ter, “ let me prevail on you to take this opper- tunity, 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 J will expect you.” Miss Eldridge impressed on his cheek the kiss of filial affection, and obeved- CHAP. II. UNEXPECTED MISFORTUNES. “My life,” said Mr. Eldridge, “ till within these few years, was marked by no particular circumstance deserving notice. I early em- braced the life of a sailor, and have served my king with unremitted ardor for many years At the age of twenty-five, I married an amia- ble 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 alr ost inseparable companions.CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 13 “George chose the profession of a soldier. [ had neither friends nor 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 tl 1e Subject. eer lhe friendship subsisting between Lewis and my son was of such free access to our family ; and so specious was his manner, that we hesitated not to state to him all our little difficulties jn regard to George’s future views. He listened to us with attention, and offered to advance any sum necessary for his first Setting out. “Tl embraced the offer, and gave him my note for the payment of it; but he would not suffer me to mention any stipulated time, a nature as gave him as he said I might do it whenever most convenient to my- Self. 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 caution to beware of him, and to look on her mother as her friend. She was unaf- fectedly 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 favor, and she would cheerfully submit to our direction. “1 took an early opportunity of questioning him concerning his intentions towards my chila: he gave an ecuivocal and suspicious an- aera ere css re SO x =14 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. swer—some angry words followed—and I for- bade him the house. “The next day he sent and demanded pay- ment of his money. It was not inmy power to comply with the demand. I requested three days to endeavor to raise it, determining in that time to mortgage my half pay and live on a small annuity which my wife possessed, ra- ther than be under any obligation to so worth- less a man; but this short time was not allow- ed 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 de- clining state of health: ruin at once so unex- pected and inevitable, was a stroke she was not prepared to bear; and I saw her faint in the arms of our servant, as I left my own habita- tion for the comfortless walls of a prison. My poor Lucy, distracted with her fears for us both, sunk on the floor, and endeavored to de- tain me by her feeble efforts; but in vain; they forced open her arms; she shrieked and fe. prostrate—but pardon me—the horrors of that night unman me. I cannot proceed.” He rose from his seat, and walked seve ral times across the room* at length, attaining more compos ue, he cried—“ What a mere in- fant I am! why, sir, I never felt thus in the day of battle.’ | |CAARLUTTE TEMPLE. 15 “No,” said Temple, “but the trily brave soul is tremblingy alive to the feelings of humanity.” “True,” replied the old man, (something like satisfaction darting across his features,) “and painful as these feelings are, I would not ex- change them for that torpor which the stoie 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? ‘Chen 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 Temple. “Tis the only way to reconcile ourselves to the cross events of life,” replied he. “But I forgot myself. I will not longer intrude on your patience, but proceed in my melancholy tale. “The very evening that I was taken to pri. son, my son arrived from Ireland, where he hae been some time with his regiment. From the distracted expressions 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 hig talse friend, and earnestly inquired the cause of this cruel con- duct. With all the calmness of a cool, delibes ate villain, he avowed his passion fcr Lucy16 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. dee,ared her situation in life would not permit him to marry her; but offered to release me immediately, and make any settlement upcn 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 chal- lenge ensued. He then went toa coffee-house in the neighborhood, and wrote a long, affec- tionate letter to me, blaming himself severely for having introduced Lewis into the family, or permitting him to confer an obligation, which had brought inevitable ruin on us all. He beg- ged me whatever might be the event of the ensuing morning, not to suffer regret or un- availing sorrow for his fate, to increase the an- cuish of my heart, which, he greatly feared, was already insupportable. “This letter was delivered to me early in the morning. It would be in vain to attempt to describe my feelings on the perusal of it; suf- fice it to say, that a merciful Providence inter- posed, and I was for three weeks insensible to miseries almost beyond the strength of hu- man 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 sa lutary power of rest, and a quiet slumber of some hours restored me to reason, though the extreme weakness of my frame prevented myCHARLOTTE TEMPLE, feeling my distress so acutely as I otherwise should. “The first object that struck me on awaking, was Lucy sitting by my bedside; her pale coun- tenance and sable dress prevented my inquiries tor poor George: for the letter I had received trom him, was the first thing that occurred to my memory. By degrees the rest returned: I recollected being arrested, but could noway account for being in this apartment, whither they had conveyed me during my illress. “I was so weak as to de almost unablé to speak: I pressed Lucy’s land, and Jooked ear nestly round the apartment in search of another dear object. “Where is your mother 2” said ] 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 zone!” said I. “ Both,” she replied, endeavoring to restrain her emotions: “but they are } appy, no doubt.” Here Mr. Eldridge paused the recollection vf the scene was too painful o permit him to proceed.CHARLUTTE TEMPLE. CHAP, #V. CHANGE OF FORTUNE “ Tp was some days,” continued Mr. Eldridge, recovering himself, ‘“ before I could venture to inquire the particulars ot what had happened during my illness: at length I assumed courage to ask my dear girl, how long her mother and bro- ther had been dead: she told me, that the morning after my arrest, George came home early to inquire after his mother’s health, staid with them but a few minutes, seemed greatly 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 endeavoring to strike out some plan to at- tain my liberty, they heard a loud rap at the door, which Lucy running to cpen, she met the bleeding body of her brother, borne in by two men, who 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 reach- ed the apartment where they had carried herCHARLOTTE TEMPLE. dying son. She knelt by the bedside, and tak- ing 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 meantime a surgeon had dressed George’s wounds; but they were in such a situation as to bar the smallest hopes of recovery. He never was sensible from the time he was brought home, and died that evening in the arms of his sister. “‘ 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 appa- rent 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 neighbors, who had kindly come in to comfort and assist her; and on entering the house where I was confined, found me in the situation [ have mentioned. “‘ How she supported herself in these trying moments, I know not: heaven no doubt wag with her; and her anxiety to preserve the life ot one parent in some measure abated her afflic- tion for the loss of the other. ‘““My circumstances were greatly embar- rassed, my acquaintances few, and those few utterly unable to assist me. When my wife and scn were committed to their kindred earth,Sanat 20 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 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 fol- ‘owed an almost dying fatler to this melan- a choly place. ae “Here we have been nearly a year. and a half. My half pay 1 have given up to satisfy Lf my creditors, and my child supports me by her ts industry: sometimes by fine needle-work be sometimes by painting. She leaves me every . \ Mi night, and goes to a lodging near the bridge Sie but returns in the morning, to cheer me with sae her smiles, and bless me by her duteous affec i tion. A lady once offered her an asylum in her ‘ family ; but she would not leave me. ‘ We =i d 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 chem in the sup- port of a beloved parent, I shall not be thought fe an unprofitable servant. While he lives, I pray a for strength to pursue my emp.oyment; and wher. it pleases heaven to take one of us, may it give the survivor fortitude to bear the sepa- ration with due resignation ; till then I will nee ver leave him.’” “But where is this inhuman persecutor?” said ‘Temple. WOOOCe esr rtinemreretbriee ete CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. Qh “He has been abroad ey er Since,” rep_ied the old man; “but | 1e 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 ex- pected. “But Something must be done,” said he; “that sweet maid must not wear out her life in prison. I will see you again to-morrow, my friend,” said he, shaking Eldridge’s hand: “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 Eld- ridg2. “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 pri- son, 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 hada fortune that2 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. would enable me instantly to discharge his debt; what exquisite transport, to see the ex- pressive eyes of Lucy beaming “at once with pleasure for her father’s deliverance, and grati- ude for his deliverer: but is not my fortune af- fluence,” continned he, “nay, superfluous wealth, when compared to the extreme indi- gence of Eldridge? and what have I done to deserve 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 be- ing convinced of its fraud and hypocrisy. He pitied their sufferings, overlooked their faults, thought every bosom as generous as his own, and would cheerfully have divided his last gui- nea with an unfortunate fellow-creature. No wonder then that such a man, (without waiting a moment for the interference of Ma- dam Prudence,) should resolve to raise money sufficient for the relief of Eldridge, by mort- gaging part of his fortune. We will not inquire too minutely into the motive which might actuate him in this in- stance: suffice it to say, he immediately put the plan in execution; and in three days fromCHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 23 the time he first saw the unfortunate lieuten- ant, 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 ?” ‘l'emple was at a loss for a reply: he had ne- ver asked himself the question: he hesitated, and his father continued— “Tt was not till within these few days that [ 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 cer- tainly 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—” “Every thing that is amiable and lovely,” said his father, interrupting him, Ironically 5 “ no doubt, in your opinion, she is a pattern of excellence for all her sex to follow; but comme, sir, pray tell me, what are your designs toward this parageu? 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 woman24 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. more formed to ensure happiness in the mare ried state.” “Then prithee, my dear lad,” said his father, ‘since your rank and fortune are sv much be- neath what your Princess might expect, be so kind as to turn your eyes to Miss Weatherby ; who, haying 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 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 lacy Eld- ridge.” The old gentleman walked in a stately man- ner out’ of the room; and Temple stood almost petrified with astonishment, contempt, and rage. CHAP. V. SUCH THINGS ARE. Miss WeaTHersy was the only child of a wealthy man, almost idolized by her parents, flattered by her dependents, and never contra- dicted even by those who called themselves her friends: I cannot give a better description than by the following lines: The Jovely maid whose form «nd face Nature Fas deck’d with every grace, SOOKeoCHARLOITE TEMPLE. But in whose breast no virtues glow, Whose heart ne’er felt another’s wo, 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 unculti- vated, her heart unfeeling, her passions impetu- ous, 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 frequeritly ; and fancy- ing she could never be happy without him, nor once imagining he could refuse a girl of her beauty and fortune, she prevailed on her fond 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 hir the situatior of his heart; and he found that the most afflu- ent fortune would bring no increase of happi- ness unless Lucy Eldridge shared it with him; Ba ee 26 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. and the integrity of his own heart, made his shudder at the idea his father had started, of marrying a woman for no other reason than be cause the affluence of her fortune would enable 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 sought his tas ther, declared his resolution, and was com- manded never more to appear in his presence. Temple bowed: his heart was too full to per- mit him to speak; he left the house precipi- tately, and hastened to relate the cause of his sorrows, to his good o]d friend and his amiable daughter. In the meantime, the Earl, vexed tu the soul that such a fortune should be lost, determined to offer himself a candidate for Miss Weather- by’s favor. What wonderful changes are wrought by that elgning power, ambition! The love-sick girl, when first she heard of Temple’s refusal, wept, caved, tore her hair, and vowed to found a pro- ‘estant nunnery with her fortune; and comes mencing abbess, to shut herself up from the sight of cruel, ungrateful man, for ever. Hor father was a man of the world: he suf: fered this first transport to subside, and then very leliberetely unfolded tc her the offers of fatCHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 27 the old Earl, expatiating on the mary benefits arising from an elevated title, painted in glow- ing colors the surprise and vexation of Temple when he should see her figuring as a Countess and his mother-in-law, and begged her to con- sider well before she made any rash vows. The distressed fair one dried her tears, listen- ed patiently, and at length declared she be- lieved the surest method to revenge the slight put on her by the son, would be to accept the father: so said, so done, and ina few days she became the Countess D ‘ Temple heard the news with emotion: he had lost his father’s favor by avowing his pas sion for Lucy, and he saw now there was nc hope of regaining it: But he shall not make me miserable,” said he. ‘ Lucy and I have ne ambitious notions: we can live on three hun- dred a year for some little time, till the mort- gage is paid off, and then we shall have suffi- cient 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 that there aro such things as splendor, profusion, and dissipation: we will have some cows, and you shall be queen of the dairy; ina 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 shallRS ee 28 CHARLUTTE TEMPLE. smoke his pipe in a woodbine alcove, and view ing the serenity of your countenance, feel such real pieasure dilate his heart, as shall make him forget 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 fe licity, 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 ae mother had begun, at Madame Du Pont’s e school, where we first introduced her to the acquaintance of the reader. CHAP. VI. AN INTRIGUING TEACHER. E rindi inmates Mavame Du Pont was a woman every way ealculated to take the care of young ladies, had a eer ee OSSCHARLOTTE TEMPLE. a9 that care entirely devolved on herself; but it was impossible to attend to the education of a numerous school withuvut proper assistants: and those assistants were not always the kind of people whose conversation and morals were exactly such as parents of delicacy and refine- ment 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 eduea- tion and the manners of a gentlewoman. She was recommended to the school by a lady, whose humanity overstepped the bounds of dis- cretion: for though she knew Miss La Rue had eloped from a convent with a young office), and, on coming to England, had lived with se- veral different men in open defiance of all mora] and relizious duties; yet, finding her reduced to the must abject want, and believing the pent- tence 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 wo: man of her abilities. But Mademoiselle pOse sessed too much the spirit of intrizue 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 neighborhood: she had met him several times clandestinely ; and being invited to come out that evening, and30 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. eat some fruit and pastry in a summer-house ‘ pelonging to the gentleman he was visiting, ané requested to bring some of the ladies with her Charlotte being her favorite, was fixed on te accompany her. The mind of youth easily catches at promised p.easure : pure and innocent by nature, it*thinks not of the dangers lurking beneath those plea sures, till too late to avoid them ; when Made moiselle 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 entertained his guests, that Charlotte thought only of the pleasure she should enjoy in the visit, not on the imprudence of going without her govern- ess’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 had gone out for the even- ing; and the rest of the ladies had 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 as- tonished at the liberties Mademoiselle permit- De ore ae! SOE TV ian estiCHARLOTI& TEMPLE. 31 ted them to take; grew thoughtful anu uneasy, and heartily wished herself at home again, in ner own chamber. Perhaps one cause of that wish might be, an earmest desire to see the contents of the letter which had been put into her hand by Montra- ville. 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 that 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 attacked by a handsome young soldier. A san of indifferent appear- ance, will, when arrayed in a military habit, show to advantage; but when beauty of person, elegance of manner, and an easy method of pay- ing 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 ut if she listens to him with pleasure, "tis al over with her, and from that moment she has neither eyes nor ears for any other object.32 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. Now, my dear sober matron, (if a sobe1 ma- tron should deign to turn over these pages, be- fore she trusts them to the eye of a darling daughter,) let me entreat you net to put on a grave face and throw down the book in a pas- sion, and declare ’tis enough to turn the heads of half the girls in England; I do solemnly pro- test, 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 a silver epaulet constitute the fine gentle- man; and should that fine gentleman make half a dozen fine speeches to them, they will imagine themselves so much in love as to fancy it a meritorious action to jump out of a two pair of 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 refinement, to practise it in their favor. Gracious heaven! when I think on the mi- series that must rend the heart of a doting pa- rent, when he sees the darling of his age at first seduced from his protection, and afterward | abandoned, by the very wretch whose promises of love decoyed her from the paternal roof— | when-he sees her poor and wretched, her bo- | 30m torn between remorse for her crime and teve for her vile betrayer—when fancy paints to me the good old man stooping to raise the weeping penitent, while every tear from her CiCRARLOTTE ‘TEMFLE. 33 eye is numbered by drops from his bleeding heart, my bosom glows with honest roi tion, and | wish for power to extirpate those munsters of seduction from the earth. Oh, iny dear girls—for to such only I am 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 in- clination: 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 inclination when it runs counter to the precepts of religion and virtue. CEAP: Vil NATURAL SENSE OF PROPRIETY INHERENT IN THE FEMALE BOSOM. “T cannor think we have done exactly right in going out this evening, Mudemoiselle,” 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.” “‘Jt was your own fault, then,” replied Ma- demoiselle: ‘“ for I am sure my rousin omiited B2 9934 CHARLOTYVE TEMPLE. nothing that could serve to render the evening agreeable.” “True,” said Charlotte: “but I thought the gentlemen were very free ip their manner, |] wonder you would suffer taem to behave as they did.” “ Prithee, don’t be such a foolish little prude,” said the artful woman, affecting anger: “J invited you to go, in hopes it would divert you, and be an agreeable change of scene; how- ever, if your delicacy was hurt by the beha- vior of the gentlemen, you need not go again 5 so there let it rest.” “J do not intend to go again,” said Char- lotte, gravely taking off her bonnet, and begin- ning to prepare for bed: “Lam 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 acci- me dent, throw the blame on me; but I confess I Hew 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,” continued she, let- We ting fall some hypocritical tears, “to see me if deprived of bread, and, for an action which by the most rigid could be esteemed but an inad- eh ie Ge eed oerCHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 35 vactency, lose my place and character, and be driven again into the world, where I have al- ready suffered all the evils attendant on poverty.” This was touching Charlotte in the most vul- nerable 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 any thing that would injure you in my go- verness’s opinion: I am only sorry we went out this evening.” “7 don’t believe it, Charlotte,” said she, as | suming a little vivacity; “for if you had not } gone out, you would not have seen the gentle- man who met us crossing the field; and I ra- ther think you were pleased with his conver sation.” *‘T had seen him once before,” replied Char- lotte, ‘‘and thought him an agreeable 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 jetter from her pocket, while a gentle suf- fusion of vermillion tinged her neck and face, “he gave me this letter: what shall I do with it ?” ‘Read it, to be sure,” returned Mademoi selle. “Tam afraid I ought not,” said Charlotte: 2 “my mother has often told me, I should neverPept poi pinta 36 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. read a letter given me by a young man, without first giving it to her.” “Lord bless you, my dear girl, teacher, smiling, ‘‘have you a mird to be in leading strings all your lifetime? Prithec, open the letter, read it, and judge for yourself; if you show it to your iuocher, the consequence will be, you will be taken from school, and 2 strict guard kept over you: so you will stand no chance of ever seeing the smart young officer again.” “‘T should not like to leave school yet,” re plied 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 anun- accountable girl: have you no curiosity to see the inside now? For my part I could no more let a letter addressed to me lie unopened se 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 ler apron at the ” eried the ¢qCHARLUTTE TEMPLE. 37 same time; “but I think his marked w th the smallpox.” “O you are greatly mistaken,” said Char- lotte, eagerly, “he has a remarkable clear skin and a fine complexion.” “ His eyes, if I could 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 Mademoi- selle 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 shall be spent in a prayer for your hap- piness, it can be nothing to you: you ean 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 Made- moiselle’s speech, and a tear dr’ pped upon the wafer that closed it.ee Ae OE PPV asiin siti PON CHARLOTT« TEMPLE. 38 “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 afterward.” “ Certainly,” replied Mademoiselle. ‘At any rate, | am determined not to answer it,” continued Charlotte, as she opened the ictter. 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, 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 re- pines at seeing another in the full possession of that respect and esteem which she can ne longer hope to enjoy. Mademoiselle eyed the unsuspecting Char- lotte, as she perused the letter with a malig: nant 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 de- termined that she should meet Montiaville, in the ensuing ever ‘ng.CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. CHAP..Vill VOMESTIC PLEASURES PLANNED “] THINK, my dear,” said Mrs. Temple. lay ing her hand on her husband’s arm as th xy were walking together in the garden, ‘I thi tk next Wednesday is Charlotte’s birthday: new I have formed a little scheme in my own mil d, to give her an agreeable Surprise; and if y uU, have no objection, we will send for her hor ie on that day.” Temple pressed his wife’s har J, in token of approbation, and she proceede |: “You know the little alcove in the bottom if the garden, of which Charlotte is so for. !! I have an inclination to deck this out in a fa I- ciful manner, and invite all her little friends .o partake of a collation of fruit, Sweetmeats, a -d other things suitable to the general taste of young guests: and to make it more pleasing :o Charlotte, she shall be mistress of the fea: t, and entertain her visiters in this alcove. | know she will be delighted; and to comple e all, they shall have some music, and fini h with a dance. . “A very fine plan indeed,” said Ternp 2, smiling; “and you really suppose I will wi k at your indulging the girl inthis manner? Y y will quite spoi. her, Lucy, inleed you will.”4) CHARLOTTE TEMP .&. “She is the only child we have,” said Mrs. ‘Temple, the whole tenderness of a mother add- i! g animation to her fine countenance; but it w as withal tempered so sweetly with the meek a fection and kind compliance of the wife, that as 8 e paused, expecting her husband’s answer, h : gazed at her tenderly, and found he was vn al le to refuse her request. ““ She is a good girl,” said Temple. “She is, indeed,” replied the fond mother, e wultingly, “a grateful, affectionate girl; and | aa sure will never lose sight of the duty she o yes her parents.” “If she does,” said he, ‘she must forget the e ample set her by the best of mothers.” Mrs. Temple could not reply; but the de- i shtful sensation that dilated her heart, spar- k ed in her intelligent eyes, and heightened the v rmillion on her cheeks. Of all the pleasures of which the human n ind is sensible, there is none equal to that w hich warms and expands the bosom, when we a e listening to commendations bestowed upon us by a beloved object, and are conscious of h wing deserved them. Ye giddy flutterers in the fantastic round of d ssipation, who eagerly seek pleasure in the k fty dome, rich treat, and midnight revel—tell ne, thoughtless daughters of folly, have you ever found the phantom you have so long sought with such unremitting assiduity 2. Has she notCHARLOITE TEMPLE 41 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 vitter dregs of disappointment? I know you have: I see it in the wan cheek, sunk eye, and air of chagrin, which ever mark the chil- dren of dissipation. Pleasure is a vain illu- sion; she draws you on to a thousand follies, errors, and I may say vices, and then leaves you to deplore your thoughtless credulity. Look, my dear friends, at yonder lovely vir- gin, arrayed in a white robe, devoid of orna- ment; behold the meekness of her counte- nance, the modesty of her gait; her handmaids are Humility, Filial Piety, Conjugal Affection, Industry, and Benevolence; her name is Con- TENT; She holds in her hand the cup of true fe- licity, and when once you have formed an inti mate acquaintance with these her attendants, nay, you must admit them as your bosom frienas and chief counsellors, then, whatever may be your situation in life, the meek-eyed virgin will immediately take up her abode with you. Is poverty your portion ?—she will lighten yonr labers, 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 Prov:- dence, who pight have placed you ‘n the mostrenee kh) ne a SOY Lee peas ais 422 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. abject situation; and by teaching you to weigh your blessings against your deserts, show yon how much more you receive, than you have a right to expect. Are you possessed of affluence ?—what an mexhaustible fund of happiness will she lay be- fore you? ‘i’o relieve the distressed, redress the injured, in short, to perform all the good works of peave and mercy. Content, my dear friends, will blunt even the arrows of adversity, so that they cannot mate- rially harm you. She will dwell in the hum- blest cottage: she will attend you even to a pri- son: her parent is Religion, her sisters, Pa- tience and Hope. She will pass with you through life, smoothing the rough paths, and treading to earth those thorns which every one must meet with as they journey onward to the appointed goal. She will soften the pains of sickness, continue with you even in the cold gloomy hour of death, and, cheering you with tne smiles of her heaven-born sister, 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 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 benevole it wish to see all the world as hap py as one’s self; and from my soul do I pity theCHARLOTTE TEMPi k. 43 selfish churl, who, remembering the little bick- erings of anger, envy, and fifty other disagree- ables to which frail mortality is subject, would wish to avenge the affront which pride whis- pers him he has received. For my own part, I can safely declare, there is not a human be- ing 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 re- ceived from a fellow-creature. Merciful heaven! who would exchange the rapture of such a reflection for all the gaudy tinsel which the world calls pleasure! But to return.—Content dwelt in Mrs. Tem- ple’s bosom, and spread a charming animation over her countenance, as her husband led her in, to lay the plan she had fcrmed, (for the celebration of Charlotte’s birthday,) before Mr. Eldridge. CHAP. IX. WE KNOW NOT WHAT A DAY MAY BRING FORTH. Various were the sensatiuns which agitated the mind of Charlotte, during the day precedinga4 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. the evening in which she was to meet Montra- ville. Several times did she almost resolve to go to her governess, show her his Jetter, and be guided by her advice: but Charlotte had taker one step in the ways of ilmprudence; 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. nowever forcible they may appear in general, exist chiefly in the imagination. Charlotte feared the anger of her governess: she loved her mother, and the very idea of in- curring her displeasure, gave her the greatest uneasiness; but there was a more forcible rea- son still remaining ; should she show the letter to Madame Du Pont, she must confess the means by which it came into her possession * and what would be the consequence ? Made- \ moiselle would be turned out of doors. “JT must not be ungrateful,” said she, ‘ Lz Rue is very kind to me; besides, I can, when J] 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 nerself in reading over the letter, and each time #he read it, the contents sunk deeper in he; NE ee aoe oeCHARLOTIE TEMPLE. “AS heart. As evening drew near, she caught her self frequently consulting her watch. “I wish this foolish meeting was over,” said She, }) way of apology to her own heart ; “I wish it was over; for when I have seen him, and co }- vinced him that my resolution is not to he shaken, I shall feel my mind much easier” Tle appointed hour arrived. Charlotte a: id Mademoiselle eluded the eye of vigilance; aiid Montraville, who had waited their coming with impatience, received them with rapturous and unbounded acknowledgment for their eonds scension: he had wisely brought Belcour wi h him to entertain Mademoiselle, while he enjc y- ed an uninterrupted conversation with Chir lotte. Belcour was a man whose character mig ut be comprised in a few words; and as he will make some figure in the ensuing pages, I sh dl here describe him. He possessed a gent: el fortune, and had had a liberal education; dis i- pated, thoughtless, and capricious, he paid | t- tle regard to the moral duties, and less to re i- gious ones: eager in the pursuit of pleasure, ie ininded not the miseries he inflicted on othe s, provided his own wishes, however ex‘ravaga tt, were gratified. Self, darling self, was the i .ol he worshipped, and to that he would have a- crificed the ‘nterest and happiness of ail mir kind. Suen was the friend of Montravil e: wil! not the reader be ready to imagine, thata ee ee Sea 46 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. tle man who cowd regard such a character, must be actuated by the same feelings, follow tle same pursuits, and be equally unworthv wth the person to whom he thus gave nis ecnfidence * But Montraville was a different character: generous in his disposition, liberal in his oj inions, and good-natured almost to a fault ; yet eager and impetuous in the pursuit of a fa- vi rite object, he staid not to reflect on the con- sc yuences which might follow the attainment of his wishes; with a mind ever open to convic- tiin, had he been so fortunate as to possess a fr end who would have pointed out the cruelty of endeavoring to gain the heart of an innocent al less girl, when he knew it was utterly im- pc ssible for him to marry her, and when the gi itification of his passion would be unavoida- bl : infamy and misery to her, and a cause of n¢ ver-ceasing remorse to himself: had these di :adful consequences been placed before him tn a proper light, the humanity of his nature wuld have urged him to give up the pursuit : bi t Belcour was not his friend; he rather en- cc iraged the growing passion of Montraville; ar 1 being pleased with the vivacity of Made- m ‘iselle, resolved to leave no argument untried, w uch he thought micht prevail on her to be the ecinpanion of their iatended voyage; and he nade no doubt but their example, added to the =~CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 47 rhetoric of Montraville, would persuade Char. lotte to go with them. Charlotte had, when she went out to meet Montraviile, flattered herself, that her resolu- tion was not to be shaken, and that conscious of the impropriety of her conduct in having a clandestine intercourse with a Stranger, she Wald never repeat the indiscretion. But alas, poor Charlotte! she knew not the leceitfulness of her own heart, or she would have avoided the trial of her stability. Montraville was tender, eloquent, ardent, anc vet respectful. “Shall I not see sou 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, ] shall not be forgotten 2” Charlotte sighed. “ Why that sigh, my dear Charlotte? vould I flatter myself that a fear for my safety, or a wish for my welfare occasioned it, how happy would it make me ?” “J shall ever wish you well, Montraville,” said she; ‘‘ but we must meet no more.” **Q 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—” *T can hear no more,” said Charlotte, ir a tremulous voice, ‘| must leave you.” “ Sav you will see me once again.”ce te eee ee SoD eae aa tones a 18 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. ‘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: “et me leave von now.” “And you will come to-morrow.” said Mon- traville. ‘** 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 vatching hold of Mademoiselle’s arm, hastily entered the garden gate. CHAP; X. WHEN WE HAVE EXCITED CURIOSITY, JT IS BUT AN ACT OF GOOD NATURE TO GRATIFY IT. MonTRAVILLE was the youngest son of a gen- ‘leman of fortune, whose family being nume- rous, he was obliced to bring up his sons to gen- teel professiors, by the exercise of which, they might hope to raise themselves into notice. ** My daughters (said he) have been educated like gentlewomen; and shoul’ I die before they are settled, they must have some provisioues CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 49 made, to place them above the snares aud temptations, which vice ever holds out to the elegant, accomplished female, when oppressed by the frowns of poverty and the sting of de. pendence: my boys, with only moderate in- comes, when placed in the church, at the bar, or in the field, may exert their talents, make themselves friends, and raise their fortunes on the basis of merit.” When Montraville chose the profession of arms, his father presented him with a commis- sion, and made him a handsome provision for his private purse.—‘* Now, my boy, (said he) ! 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 that interest shall never be exerted, unless by yonr future conduct you deserve it. Remember therefore, your success in life depends entirely un 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 thought- lessness 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 wenin, whose fortune is sufficient to pre c 2OSee ne 50 CHARLITTE TEMPLE. serve you in that state of independence, which I would teach you to prize, should generously bestow herself on a young soldier, whose chief hope of future prosperity depended on his suc cess in the field—if such a woman should offen —every barrier is removed, and I should rejoice in a union which would promise so much feli- city But mark me, boy, if, on the contrary, you rush into a precipitate union with a girl of Jittle or no fortune, take the poor creature from a comfortable home, and kind friends, and plunge her into all the evils that a narrow 1n- come and increasing family can inflict, I wil] leave you to enjoy the blessed fruit of your rashness ; for by all that is sacred, neither my interest nor my fortune shall ever be exerted in your favor. JI am serious,” continued he; “therefore imprint this conversation un your memory, and let it influence your future con- duct. 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 af- fection involved in penury and distress, and re- flected that it was your own folly and precipi- tancy had been the p-ime cause of their suf fering ” a ee ere oe ee aeCHARLOTTE TEMELE. 5] As this conversation passed but a few Lours 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 inquire of the Frenchwoman what were Miss lemple’s expectations in regard to fortune. Mademoiselle informed him, that though Charlotte’s father possessed a genteel inde- pendence, it was by no means probable that he could give his daughter more than a thousand pounds ; and in case she did not marry to his liking, it was possible he might not give her a single sous ; nor did it appear the least likely, that Mr. ‘Temple would agree to her union with a young man on the point of embarking for the seat of war. Montraville therefore concluded it was im- possible he should ever marry Charlotte Tem- ple : and what end he proposed to himself by continuing the acquaintance he had com- menced with her, he did not at that moment give himself time to inquire. CHAP. XI. CONFLICT OF LOVE AND DUTY. AtmosT a week was now gone, and Charlotte eontinued every evening to meet Montraville, > iCHARLOTTE ‘TEMPLE og 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 he~; and forgetful of its resolution, pleaded the eause of the enemy so powerfully, that Char lotte was unable to resist. Another and another meeting succeeded; and so well did Montraville improve each opportunity, that the leedless 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 of 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 ?”’ lie ** T hope I do, * said she, blushing and looking nae down; ‘I hope my affection for them will ever keep me from infringing the laws of filial duty.” * Well, Charlotte,” said Montraville,gravely, and Jetting go her hand, ‘ since that is the case, 1 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 besides. I thought that you would for my sake have braved the danvers of the ocear Fe IO EE ROOT OLE e PSL AAP isntCHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 53 —that you would, by your affection and smiles, have softened the hardships of war, and, had it been my fate to fall, that your tenderness would cheer the hour of death, and smooth my passage to another world. But farewell, Char- lotte! I see you never loved me. I shall now welcome the friendly ball that deprives me -{ the sense of my misery.” “Oh, stay, unkind Muntraville,” cried she, satching 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, ensure my own. But { cannot break my mother’s heart, Montraville ; [ must not bring the gray hairs of my doting grandfather with sorrow to the grave, or make my beloved father perhaps curse the hour that gave me birth.” She covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears. “* All these distressing scenes, my dear Char- lotte,” cried Montraville, “are merely the chi- meras 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 honor, and that it was to ensure your felicity by a union with him, to which you feared they would never have given their as- sent, that you left their protection, they will,eaten te ak Meer nner orgie abe eee ser ie 54 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 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, ap- proached Charlotte, and so well seconded the entreaties of Montraville, that finding Made- moiselle intended going with Belcour, and feeling her own treacherous heart too much inclined to accompany them, the hapless Char- lotte consented in an evil hour that the next evening they would bring a chaise to the end of the town, and that she would leave her friends, and throw herself entirely on the pro- tection of Montraville. “But should you,” said she, looking earnestly at him, her eyes full of tears, “ should you, forgetful of your pro- mises, and repenting the engagements you here voluntarily enter into, forsake and leave me on a foreign shore—” “Judge not so meanly of me,” saidhe. “The moment we reach our place of destination, Hy- men shall sanction our love: and when J shall forget your goodness, may heaven forget me.” “Ah,” said Charlotte, leaning on Mademoi- selle’s arm, as they walked up the garden to. gether, “T have forgot all that I ought to have remembered, in consenting to this ‘ntended elopement.”CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 55 “You. are a strange girl,” said Mzdemoiselle: “you never knew your own mind two minttes at atime. Just now you declared Montraville’s happiness was what you prized most in the world; and now I suppose you repent having ensured that happiness by agreeing to accom pany 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 not I going with you? and do I feel any of these qualms ?” ‘You do not renounce a tender father and mother,” said Charlotte. “But I hazard my dear reputation,” replied Mademoiselle, bridling. “True,” replied Charlotte, “but you do not vee] what I do.” She then bade her good night ; but sleep was a stranger to her eyes, and ths tear of anguish watered ber pillow.CHARLOTE TEMPLE. CHAP. XII. Nature’s last, best gift Creature in whom excell’d, whatever could To sight or thonght be named Holy, divine! good, amiable and sweet, How art thou fall’n !———— When Charlotte left her restless bed, het la.guid eye and pale cheek discovered to Ma- dame Du Pont the little repose she had tasted. “My dear child,” said the affectionate go- verness, “what is the cause of the langor so apparent in your frame? Are you not well 2” “Yes, my dear Madam, very well,” replied Charlotte, attempting to smile; “but I know not how it was; 1 could not sleep last night, and my spirits are depressed this morning.” “Come, cheer up, my love,” said the govern- ess; “I believe I have brought a cordial to re- vive them. J have just received 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 uf the happy day that gave my beloved girl to the anx- ious wishes of a maternal heart, I have re- quested your governess to let you come home and spend it with us; and as I know you to be SSIsCHARLOTTE ‘TEMPLE. 57 a good affectionate child, and make it your study ‘o 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, | 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 vonr- self 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, forget- ting where she was, and raising her streaming eyes as in earnest supplication. Madaine 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.” “Tt does rejoice me,” replied Charlotte, en deavoring at composure, “but I was praying for merit to deserve the unremitted attentions of the best of parents.” “You do right,” said Madame Du Pont, “to ask the assistance of heaven that you may con- tinue to deserve their love. Continue, my dear Charlotte, in the course you have ever pursued, and you will ensure at once their happiness and your own.” CrsSAA CHARLOTTE TEMPE. “ Oh!” cried Charlotte, as her governess left her, ‘I have forfeited both forever! Yet let me reflect :—the irrevocable step is not yet ta- ken: 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 apart- “ Oh, Mademoiselle?” said she, ‘‘I am snatched by a miracle from destruc- 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 re- solution is taken, and it is not in your power to I shal] meet tne gentlemen at the ap- pointed hour, and shall not be surprised at any dutrage which Montraville may commit, when he finds himself disappointed. Indeed I should not be astonished, were he to come immediately here, and reproach you for your instability in ‘he hearing of the whole school: and what will ye the consequence ? of having formed the resolution of eloping, and every girl of spirit will laugh at your want of fortitude to put it int- execution, while prudes and fools will load you with reproach and con- You will have lost the » put what money and valuables she pos- sessed in her pocket, and advised Charlotte to do the same; but she refused ; ‘*my resolution '3 fixed,” said she; “I will sacrifice love to duty.”60 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. Mademoiselle smiled internally ; and they proceeded softly down the back stairs and out of the garden-gate. Montraville and Belcourt were ready to receive them “ Now,” said Montraville, taking Charlotte in his arms, ‘‘ you are ine for ever.” “No,” said she, withdrawing from his em- brace, ‘I am come to take an everlasting fare- weil.” It would be useless to repeat the conversa- tion that here ensued; suffice it to say, that Montraville used every argument that had for- merly been successful, Charlotte’s resolution began to waver, and he drew her almost imper- ceptibly towards the chaise. “T cannot go,” said she’ ‘*cease, dear Mon- traville, to persuade. I must not: religion, duty, forbid.” ** Cruel Charlotte,” said he, “if you disap- point 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 Charlotte, “how shall I act ?” ‘¢ Let me direct you,” said Montraville, 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, Der Cr en aeCHARLOTTE TEMPLE CHAP. XIII. CRUEL DISAPPOINTMENT. “ Waar pleasure,” cried Mr. Eldridge, as he stepped into the chaise to go for his grand- daughter, “ what pleasure expands the heart of an old man when he beholds the progeny of a beloved child growing up in every virtue that adorned the minds of her parents. I fuolishly 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 filia’ affection, soothed my soul to peace, and this dear Charlotte has entwined herself round my heart, and opened such new scenes of delight to my view, that I almost forget that I have ever been unhappy.” When the chaise stopped, he alighted with the alacrity of youth; so much do the emotions of the soul influence the body. It was half past eight o’clock: the ladies were assembled in the schoc\room, and Ma- dame Du Pont was preparing to offer the morn- ing sacrifice of prayer and praise, when it was discovered, that Mademoiselle and Charlotte were missing. “ She is busy, no doubt,” said the governess, “in preparixg Charlotte for her little excur-EIR Pe PIU sacs roit 62 CHARLOT IE TEMPLE. sion; but pleasure should never maxe us forget our duty to our Creator. Go, one of you, and bid them both attend prayers.” The lady who went to summon them soun returned, and informed the governess, that the room was locked, and that she had knocked re- peatedly, but obtained no answer. “Good heavens!” cried Madame Du Pont, “this is very strange;” and turning pale with terror, she went hastily to the door and order- ed it to be forced open. The apartment in- stantly discovered that no person had been in it the preceding night, the beds appearing 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 o hear; and every face wore the marks of dis- appointment. Mr. Eldridge was sitting in the parlor, eager- ly expecting his grand-daughter to descend, ready equipped for her journey: he heard the confusion that reigned in the house; he heard the name of Charlotte frequently repeated. *« What can be the matter?” said he, rising and opening the door: “I fear some accident has befallen my dear girl.” The governess entered. The visible agita- tion of her countenance discovered that some- thing extraordinary had happened. Te a ae eeCHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 63 “Where is Charlotte?” said he « Why does not my child come to welcome her dot- ing parent 2?” “ Be composed, my dear sir,” said Madame Du Pont; “do not frighten yourself unneces- sarily. She is not in the house at present ; but as Mademoiselle is undoubtedly with her, she will speedily return in safety; and I hope they will both be able to account for this un- seasonable absence in such a manner as shall remove our present uneasiness.” “‘ Madam,” cried the old man, with an angry look, ‘‘ has my child been accustomed to go out without leave, with no other company or pro- tector than that Frenchwoman? Pardon me, Madam, I mean no reflection on your country, but I never did like Mademoiselle La Rue; I think she was a very improper person to be in- trusted with the care of such a girl as Char- lotte Temple, or to be suffered to take her from under your immediate protection.” “You wrong me, Mr. Eldridge,” said she, “if you suppose I have ever permitted your grand-daughter to go out, unless with the other ladies. I would to heaven I could form any probable conjecture concerning her absence this morning ; but it is a mystery to me which her return can alone unravel.” Servants were now despatched to every place where there was the least hope of hear- ing any tidings of the fugitives, but in vain.b4 CHsRLOTTE TEMPLE. Dreadful were the ho rs of horrid suspense which Mr. Eldridge passed till twelve o’clock, when that suspense was reduced to a shock- ing certainty, and every spark of hope, which till then they had indulged, was in a moment extinguished. Mr. Eldridge was preparing, with a heavy heart, to return to his anxiously éxpecting children, when Madame Du Pont received the following note without either name or date. “‘ Miss ‘Temple is well, and wishes to relieve the anxiety of her parents, by letting them know she has voluntarily put herself under the protection of a man, whose future study shall be to make her happy. Pursuit is needless; the measures taken to avoid discovery are too effectual to be eluded. When she thinks her friends are reconciled to this precipitate step, they may perhaps be informed of her place of residence. Mademoiselle is with her.” As Madame Du Pont read these cruel lines, she turned pale as ashes, her limbs trembled, and she was forced to call for a glass of water. She loved Charlotte truly; and when she re- flected on the innocence and gentleness of her disposition, she concluded that it must have been the advice and machinations of La Rue, which led her to this imprudent action; she recollected her agitation at the receipt of her mother’s letter, and saw it in the :onflict of her mind.65, CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. “Does that letter relate to Charlotte?” said Mr. Eldridge, having waited some time in expectation of Madame Du Pont’s speak- ing. “‘Tt does,” said she. Charlotte is well. but cannot return to-day.” ‘“* Not return, Madam? where is she? who will detain her from her fond expecting pa- rents?” “You distract me with these questions, Mr. Eldridge. Indeed I know not 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 comfort of my aged heart is lost. O wouid to heaven I had died but yesterday.” A violent gush of grief in some measure re- lieved him, and after several vain attempts, he at length assumed sufficient composure to read the note. “And how shall I return to my children?” said he; “how approach that mansion so late the habitation of peace? Alas! my dear Lucy, how will you support these heart-rending ti- dings? or how shall I be enabled to console you, who need so much consolation myself ?” The old man returned to the chaise, but the light step, and cheerful countenance were ro more; sorrow filled his heart and guided his motions; he seated himself in the chaise, hisa ee eT 66 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE venerable head reclined upon his bosom, his hands were folded, his eye fixed on vacancy, and the large drops of sorrow rolled silently down his cheeks. There was a mixture of anguish and resignation depicted in his counte- nance, as if he should say, henceforth whe shall dare to boast his happiness, or even in idea contemplate his treasure, lest in the very moment his heart is exulting in its own felicity, the object which constitutes that felicity should be torn from him? CHAP. XIV. MATERNAL SORROW. Stow 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 re- turn of their father delayed so much beyond the expected time. They were now met in the dining parlor, and several of tne young people who had heen invited, were already ar-= oS CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 67 rived. Each different part of the company was employed in the same manner, looking out at the windows which faced theroad. At length the long-expected chaise appeared: Mrs. Tem- ple ran out to receive and welcome her dar- ling—her young companions flocked round the dour, each one eager to give her joy on the re- turn 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, burst into tears, and sobbed aloud. “She is dead,” cried Mrs. Temple. “Oh my dear Charlotte!” and clasping her hands in an agony of distress, fell into strong hys- terics. Mr. Temple, who had stood speechless with surprise and fear, now ventured to inquire if indeed his Charlotte was no more. Mr. El- dridge 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 whilst he hastily ran over the dreadful lines: when he had finished, the pa- per dropt from his unne ed hand. ‘GraciousRR aR a A Gis Dein fe agg onsen re ees ea aa Searcorecae GE 68 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. heaven !” said he, “ could Charlotte act thus ” Neither ;ear nor sigh escaped him; and he sat the image of mute sorrew, till roused from his stupor by the repeated shrieks of Mrs. Temple. He rose hastily, and rushing into the apartment where she was, folded his arms about her, and saying—* Let us be patient, my dear Lucy.” Nature relieved his almust burst- ing heart by a friendly gush of tears. Should any one, presuming on his own philosophic temper, look with an eye of con- tempt on a man who could indulge a woman’s weakness, let him remember that man was a father, and he will then pity the misery which wrung those drops from a noble and generous heart. Mrs. Temple, beginning to be a little more composed, but still imagining her child was 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 my sufferings, and cheer me with her love.” . “Be calm, my dearest Lucy, and J will ten you all,” said Mr. Temple. ‘* You must not go, indeed you must not: it will be of no use.” Hp ied pie gD, Ee eeeCHARLOTTE TEMPLE. deavor to bear it as I ought.” sxspect—” ** Be not too confident, Lucy.” forget ?” tionate protection of her friends.” Mr. Temple was silent. my fate in those tearful eyes. * Teinple,” said she, assuming a look of firmness and composure. “Tell me tke truth, « beseech you. I cannot bear this dreadful suspense. What misfortune has befallen my child? let me know the worst, and I will en- “‘ Lucy,” replied Mr. Temple, “ imagine your daughter alive, and in no danger of death: what misfortune would you ‘hen dread ?” “There is one misfortune which is worse than death. But I know my child too well to ““Oh heavens!” said she, “what horrid images do you start: is it possible she could “She has forgot us all, my love; she has preferred the love of a stranger, to the affec ‘* Not eloped!” cried she eagerly. ‘You cannot contradict,” said she, “I see Charlotte! how ill have you requited our tenderness! But, Father of mercies,” con- tinuei she, sinking on her knees, and raising her sreaming eyes and clasped hands to hea- ven, “‘this once vouchsafe to hear a fond, a distracted mother’s prayer. Oh, let thy boun- teuus Providence watch over and protect the dear, thoughtless girl, save her from the miseries10 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE which I fear will be her portion, and oh! of thine infinite mercy, make her not a mo- ther, lest she should one day feel what I now suffer.” The last words faltered on her tongue, and she fell fainting into the arms of her husband, who had involuntarily dropped on his knees beside her. A mother’s anguish, when disappointed in her tenderest hopes, none but a mother can conceive. Yet, my dear young readers, I would have you to 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 in- gratitude, the peace of the mother who bore you: remember the tenderness, the care, the unremitting anxiety with which she has at- tended to all your wants and wishes, from ear- liest infancy to the present day; behold the mild ray of affectionate applause that beams from her eye on the performance of your duty; listen to her reproofs with silent attention; they proceed from a heart anxious for your fu- ture felicity: you must love her; nature, all- powerful nature has placed the seeds of filial affection in your bosoms. ‘hen once more read over the sorrows 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 teCHARLOTTE TEMPLE 71 yaur Maker and yourself, forsake the paths ot virtue, for those of vice and folly. CHAP. XV. EMBARKATION. {[r was with the utmost difficulty that the united efforts of Mademoiselle and Montrz.ville could support Charlotte’s spirits during their short ride from Chichester to Portsmouth, where a boat waited to take them immediately on board the ship in which they were to em- bark for America. As soon as she became tolerably composed, she entreated pen and ink to write to her pa- rents. This she did in the most affecting, art- less manner, entreating their pardon and bless- ing, 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 (perhaps delusive) idea she indulged, of being 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 to72 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. lay down her pen; but when the task was completed, and she had committed the letter to the care of Montraville, to be sent to the post- office, she became more calm, and indu'ging the delightful hope of soon receiving an answer that would seal her pardon, she in some meae sure assumed her usual cheerfulness. But Montraville knew too well the conse- quences that must unavoidably. ensue, should this letter reach Mr. Temple: he, therefore, eraftily resolved to walk on the deck, tear it to pieces, and commit the fragments to the care of Neptune, who might or might not, as it suited his convenience, convey them on shore. All Charlotte’s hopes and wishes were now centred in one, namely, that the fleet might be detained at Spithead till she might receive a letter from her friends; but in this she was disappointed ; for the second morning after she went on board, the signal was made, the fleet weighed anchor, and in a few hours (the wind being favorable) they bid adieu to the white cliffs of Albion. In the mean time every inquiry that could be thought of, was made by Mr. and Mrs. Temple: for many days did they indulge the fond hope that she was merely gone off to be rnarried, and that when the indissoluble knot was once tied, she would return with the partner she had chosen, and entreat their blessing and forgive- hessre CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. a “And shall we not forgive her?” said Mr. Temple. “Forgive her!” exclaimed the mother,—* Oh yes, whatever be her errors, is she not our child? and though bowed even to the earth with shame and remorse, is it not our duty to raise the poor penitent, and whisper peace and comfort to her desponding soul? would she but return, with rapture would I fold her to my heart, and bury every remembrance of her faults in the dear embrace.” But still day after day passed on, and Char- lotte did not appear, nor were any tidings to be heard of her: yet each rising morning was welcomed by some new hope—the evening brought with it disappointment. At length hope was no more; despair usurped her place ; and the mansion which was once the mansion of peace, became the habitation of pale dejected melancholy. The cheerful smile that was wont to adorn the face of Mrs. Temple, was fled, and had it not been for the support of unaffected piety, and a consciousness of having ever set before her child the fairest example, she must have sunk under this heavy affliction. “Since,” said she, ‘the severest scrutiny cannot charge me with any breach of duty, to have deserved this severe chastisement, I will bow before the power who inflicts it with hum- hle ‘esignation to his will; nor shall the duty Det Cl ARLOT.‘E TEMPLE. of a wife be totally absorbed in the feelings ut the mother; I will endeavor to seem more cheerful, and by appearing in some measure to have conquered my own sorrow, alleviate the sufferings of my hnsband, and rouse him from that torpor into which this misfortune has plunged him. My father, too, demands my care and attention: I must not, by a selfish indulgence of my own grief, forget the interest those two dear objects take in my happiness or misery: I will wear a smile on my face, though the thorn rankles in my heart: and if by so doing I contribute in the smallest degree to restore their peace of mind, I shall be amply rewarded for the pain the concealment of my own feelings may occasion.” Thus argued this excellent woman: and in the execution of so laudable a resolution, we shall leave her, to follow the fortunes of the hapless victim of imprudence and evil counsel: lors. CHAP. XVI. NECESSARY DIGRESSION. On board of the ship in which Charlotte and Mademoiselle were embarked, was an officer of large unencumbered fortune and elevated rank, and whom [ shall cal] Crayton.CHARLOTTE TEMPLE, be He was one of those men, who, having travelled in their youth, pretend to have con- tracted a peculiar fondness for every thing foreign, and to hold in contempt the productions of their own country; and this affected par- tiality extended even to the women. With him, therefore, the blushing modesty and unaffected simplicity of Charlotte passed unnoticed ; but the forward pertness of La Rue, the freedom of her conversation, the elegance of her person, mixed with a certain engaging Je ne sais quoi, perfectly enchanted him. The reader, no doubt, has already developed the character of La Rue: designing, artful, and selfish, she accepted the devoirs of Bel- cour, because she was heartily weary of the retired life she led at the school, wished to be released from what she deemed a slavery, and to return to that vortex of folly and dissipation which had once plunged her into the deepest misery : but her plan, she flattered herself, was now better formed: she resolved to put her- self under the protection of no man, till she had first secured a settlement; but the clan- destine manner in which she left Madame Du Pont’s, prevenved her putting this plan into execution, though Belcour solemnly protested he would make her a handsome settlement the moment they arrived at Portsmouth. This he afterward contrive | to evade by a pretended hurry of business La Rue readily conceivinghe never meant to fulfil his promise, dztermin- ed to change her battery, and attack the heart She soon discovered the partiality he entertained for her nation; and having imposed on him a feigned tale of dis- tress, represented Belcour as a villain who had seduced her from her friends under the promise of marriage, and afterward betrayed her, pre- tending great remorse for the errors she had committed, and declaring that whatever her af. fection might have been, it was now entirely extinguished, and she wished for nothing more than an opportunity to leave a course of life which her soul abhorred ; but she had no friends to apply to; they had all renounced her, and guilt, and misery would undoubtedly be her future portion through life. Crayton was possessed of many amiable qualities; though the peculiar trait in his cha- racter, which we have already mentioned, in a great measure threw a shade over them. was beloved for his humanity and benevolence by all who knew him; but he was easy and unsuspicious himself, and became a dupe to of Colonel Crayton. the artifice of others. He was, when very young, united to an amiable Parisian lady, and perhaps it was his affection for her that laid the foundation for the partiality he ever retained for the whole nation. He had by her one daughter, who entered into the world but a few hours before 76 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 2 HeCHARLOTTE TEMPLE. ne ’ her mother left it. This lady was universally beloved and admired, being endowed with al] the virtues of her mother, without the weak ness of her father: she was married to Major Beauchamp, and was at this time in tne same fleet with her father, attending her husband te New-York. Crayton was melted by the affected contri tion and distress of La Rue: he would converse with her for hours, read to her, play cards with her, listen to all hei 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 tha‘ might turn out te her advantage ; and in this aim she was but too successful, for before the voyage was finished, the infatuated Colone’ gave her from under his hand a promise of marriage on their arrival at New-York, unde forfeiture of five thousand pounds. And how did our poor Charlotte pass he; time during a tedious and tempestuous pas- sage? Naturally delicate, the fatigue and sickness which she endured, rendered her sc weak as to be almost entirely confined to her bed: yeu the kindness and attention of Mon- traville in some measure contributed to allevi- ate her sufferings, and the hope of hearing from her friends soon after her arrival, kept up her spirits, and cheered many a gloomy night.See 75 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. But during the voyage a great revolution took place, not only in the fortune of La Rue, but in the bosom of Belcour: whilst in pursuit of his amour with Mademoiselle, he had at- tended little to the interesting, unobtrusive charms of Charlotte; but when, cloyed by pos- session, and disgusted with the art and dissi- mulation of the one, he beheld the simplicity and gentleness of the other, the contrast became too striking, not to fill him at once with surprise and admiration. He frequently eonversed with Charlotte ; he found her sensi- ble, well intormed, but diffident and unassum- ing. The langor which the fatigue of her body and perturbation of her mind spread over her delicate features, served only, in his opin- ion, to render her more lovely: he knew that Montraville did not design to marry her, and he formed a resolution to endeavor to gain her himself, whenever Montraville should leave her.’ Let not the reader imagine Belcour’s designs were honorable. Alas! when once a woman has forgot the respect due to herself, by yield- ing to the solicitations of illicit love, she loses all her consequence, even in the eyes of the man whose art has betrayed her, and for whose sake she has sacrificed every valuable cun- sideration. The heedless Fair, who stoops to guilty joys, A man may pity—but he must despise.CHAR .TTE TEMPLE. 79 Nay, every libertine will think he has a night to insult her with his licentious passion ; and should the unhappy creature shrink from the insolent overture, he will sneeringly taunt her with pretence of modesty. CHAP. XVII A WEDDING. On the day before their arrival at New- York, --fter dinner, Crayton arose from his seat, and placing himself by Mademoiselle, thus ad- dressed the company— “As we have now nearly arrived at our destined port, I think it but my duty to inform you, my friends, that this lady,” (taking her hand,) *‘has placed herself under my protec tion. I have seen and severely felt the an guish of her heart, and through every shade which cruelty or malice may throw over her, can discover the most amiable qualities. I thought it but necessary to mention my esteem for her before our disembarkation, as it is my fixed resolution, the morning after we land, to give her an undoubted title to my favor and protection by honorably uniting my fate to hers. { would wish every gentleman here, therefore, to remember that her honor hence-en OE 80 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE« forth is mine; and,” continued he, looking a Belcour, ‘should any man presume to speak in the least disrespectfully of her, I shall not hesitate to pronounce him a scoundrel.” Belcour cast at him a smile of contempt, and bowing profoundly low, wished Made- moiselle much joy in the proposed union; and assuring tne Colonel that he need not be in the least apprehensive of any one throwing the least odium on the character of his lady, shook him by the hand with ridiculous gravity, and left the cabin. The truth was, he was glad to be rid of La Rue, and so he was but freed from her, he cared not who fell a victim to her infamous arts. The inexperienced Charlotte was astonished at what she heard. She thought La Rue had, like herself, only been urged by the force of her attachment to Belcour, to quit her friends, and follow him to the seat of war; how won- derful then, that she should resolve to marry another man! It was certainly extremely wrong. It was indelicate. She mentionec ner thoughts to Montraville. 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 ar-CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 81 rived 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 his mind,” said Montraville, “and then you know the case is altered.” Charlotte looked at him attentively for a moment. i disapprobation. I mean not to ex- tenrate the faults of those unhe ppy women whe fall victims to guilt and folly; but surely when we reflect how many errors we ourselves are subject to, how many secret faults lie hid in the recesses of our hearts, which we would blush to have brought into open day (and yet those faults require the lenity and pity :f a benevolent judge, or awful woul! be our pros- pect of futurity) I say, my dear Madam, when I I ee oe eea et eee ees 88 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. we consider this, we surely may pity the faulta of others. Believe me, many an unfcrtunate female, who has once strayed into the thorny paths of vice, would gladly return to virtue, was 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 very unfeeling world, and does not deserve half the blessings, which a bounti- ful Providence showers upon ‘t. Oh, thou benevolent Giver of all good! how shall we, erring mortals, dare to look up to thy mercy in the great day of retribution, if we now uncharitably refuse to overlook the errors, or alleviate the miseries of our fellaw c eatures. CHAP. XIX. A MISTAKE DISCOVERED. Jutia FRANKLIN was the only child of a man of large property, wo left her independent mistress of an unencu nbered income of seven hundred a year, at the age of eighteen; she was a girl of lively disposition, and humane, sus- ceptible heart: she resided in New-York with en uncle, who oved her too well, apd had toosociety, and the universal toast. jent :— Sir, till I come to you again ;” CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. high an opinion of her prudence, to scrutinize her actions so much as would have been neces- Sary with many young ladies, who were not blest with her discretion: she was at the time Montraville arrived at New-York, the life of was introduced to her by the following acci- One night when he was upun guard, a dread- ful fire broke out near Mr. Franklin’s house, which in a few hours reduced that and several others to ashes; fortunately no lives were lost, and by the assiduity of the soldiers much valu- able property was saved from the flames. the midst of the confusion, an old gentleman came up to Montraville, and putting a small box into his hands, cried—* Keep it, my good and then rush- ing again into the thickest of the crowd, Mon- traville saw him no more’ _ He waited till the fire was quite extinguished, and the mob dis- persed ; but in vain: the old gentleman did not appear to claim his property; and Montraville fearing to make an inquiry, lest he should meet with impostors who might lay claim without any legal right, to the box, carried it to his lodgings, and locked it up: he naturally ima- gined, that the person who committed it to his’ care, knew him, and would in a day or two res claim it; but several weeks passed on, and no inquirv being made, he began to be uneasy, andlait erica men eee epee 10. CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 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 re- store 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 fora bracelet. On examining the picture, he thought he had somewhere seen features very like it, but could not recollect where. A few days after, being at a public assembly, he saw Miss Franklin and the like- ness was too evident to be mistaken; he in- quired among his brother-officers if any of them knew her, and found one who was upon terms of intimacy with the family: “then introduce me to her immediately,” said he, “ for I am certain I can inform her of something which will give her peculiar pleasure.” He was immediately introduced, found she was the owner of the jewels, and was invited to breakfast the next morning, in order to their restoration. ‘This 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 saying every thing that was polite and tender te Julia. But. on retir- ing, recollection returned.—* What am I] about?” said he, “though I cannot marry Charlotte, I cannot be villain enough to forsake he-, nor must I dare to trifle with the heart ofCHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 9) Julia Fianklin.- I will return this box,” said he, ‘* which has been the source of so much un- easiness already, and in the evening pay a visit to my poor melancholy Charlotte, and endeavor (o forget this fascinating Julia.” He arose, dressed himself, and taking ths picture out, “I will reserve this from the rest,” said he, ‘¢and by presenting it to her when she thinks it is lost, enhance the value of the obli- gation.” Fle repaired 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.” “‘ But where is the picture, Sir ?” said Julia. “ Here, Madam, I would not willingly part with it.” “It is the portrait of my mother,” said she, taking it from him: “tis all that remains.” She pressed it to her lips, and a tear trembled in her eyes. Montraville glanced his eyes on her gray night gown and black ribbon, and his own feelings prevented a reply. Julia Franklin was the very reverse of Char- lotte Temple: she was tall, elegantly shaped, and possessed much of the air and manner of a woman of fashion: her complexion was a clear brown, enlivened with the glow of health ; her eyes, full, black, and sparkling, darted their in-92 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. telligené glances through long silken laskes; her hair was shining brown, and her features regular and striking; there was an air of inno- cent gayety that played about her countenance, where good humor sat triumphant. ““] have been mistaken,” said Montraville, “T imagined I loved Charlotte; but alas! 1 am too late convinced my attachment to her was merely the impulse of the moment. I fear I have not only entailed lasting misery on that poor girl, but also thrown a barrier in the way of my own happiness, which it will be impossi ble to surmount. I feel I love Julia Franklin with ardor and sincerity ; yet when in her pre- sence, I am sensible of my own inability te offer a heart worthy her acceptance and re« main silent.” Full of these painful thoughts, Montraville walked out to see Charlotte: she saw him ap- proach, 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. “‘T thought you had forgot me, Montraville,” said she, “and was very unhappy.” “‘T shall never forget you, Charlotte,” he ree plied, pressing her hand. The uncommon gravity of his countenance, and the brevity of his reply, alarmed her. “You are not well,” said she; “your hand 's hot: your eyes are heavy; you are very ill.”CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 93 *T am a villain.” said he, mentally, as he turned from her to hide his emotions. “But come,” continued she, tenderly, you shall go to bed, and I will sit by and watch you: you will be better when you have slept.” Montraville was glad to retire, and by pre- tending sleep, conceal the agitation of his mind from her penetrating eye. Charlotte watched by him till a late hour, and then lay- ing softly down by his side, sunk into a pro- found sleep, from which she awoke not till late the next morning. CHAP; XX. Virtue never appears so amiable as when reaching forth her hand to raise a fallen sister. Chapter of Accidents. Wuen Charlotte awoke, she missed Mon- traville ; 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, found these words— “My dear Charlotte must not be surprised if she does not see me again for some time: unavoidable business will prevent me that plea- sure: be assured I am quite well this morning ; and whit your fond imagination magnified inte aa oc mop Lg94 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. ilinesa, was nothing more than fatigue, whicl a few hours rest has entirely removed. Mak yourself happy, and be certain of the unalter able friendship of MONTRAVILLE.” “ Fyiendship !” said Charlotte emphatically as she finished the note, “is it come to this at last? Alas! poor forsaken Charlotte! thy doom is now but too apparent. Mon’ raville is no longer interested in thy happiness 5 and shame, remorse, and disappointed love will henceforth be thy only attendants.” Though these were the ideas that involun- tarily rushed upon the mind of Charlotte as she perused the fatal note, yet after a few hours had elapsed, the siren hope again took possession of her bosom, and she flattered her- self she could, on the second perusal, discover an air of tenderness in the few lines he had left, which had at first escaped her notice. “He certainly cannot be so base as to leave me,” said she; ‘and in styling himself my friend, does he not promise to protect me? J 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.” 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 Charlette’sSHARLOTTE TEMPLE. countenance her swollen eyes and neglected attire, at once told him she was unhappy: he made no doubt Montrayville had, by his coldness, alarmed her Suspicions, and was resolyed if possible, to souse her to jealousy, urge her te reproach him, and by that means occasion a breach between them. “If J can once con- vince her that she has a rival,” said he, “she will listen to my passion, if it is only to re- venge 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 retain so strong a sense of honor, as to reject with horror and contempt every solicitation to a Second fault. He never imagined that a gentle, generous fe male heart, once tenderly attached, when treated with unkindness, might break, but would never harbcr a thought of revenge. 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 now return 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 remonstrance was vain; her temper was violent, and to the Colonel’s great misfortune he had conceived aSc em ee 96 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. sincere affection for her; she saw her own power, and with theart of a Circe, made every action appear to him in what light she pleased: his acquaintance laughed at his blindness, his friends pitied his infatuation, his amiable daugh- ter, Mrs. Beauchamp, 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 engaging; she loved not the hurry and bustle of a city, and had prevailed on her husband to take a house a few miles from New-York. Chance led her into the same neighborhood with Char- lotte: 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 recol- lected her interesting features; she saw the melancholy so conspicuous in her countenance, and her heart bled at reflecting, that perhaps deprived of honor, friends, and all that was 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 merci- less world has barred the doors of compassion against a poor weak girl, who, perhaps, had she one kind friend to raise and reassure her, would gladly return to peace and virtue. NaySS Oe eS saad ee CHARLOTTE TEMPLE, 9? even the woman who dares to pity, vor to recall a wandering sister, sneer of contempt and ridicule, 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 J pour into your heart the balm of consolation, | were it not for the fear of derision.” | But an accident soon happened, which made | her resolve to brave even the scoffs of the world, rather than not to enjoy the heavenly satisfac- t10n of comforting a desponding fellow-creature. Mrs. Beauchamp was an early riser. She was one morning walking in the garden, leaning on her husband’s arm, when the sound of a harp attracted their notice: they listened attentively, and fteard a soft, melodious voice, distinctly sing the following stanzas :— and endea- incurs the for an action in | Thou glorious orb, supremely bright Just rising from the sea, | To cheer all nature with thy light, What are thy beams to me? In vain thy glories bid me rise, To hail the new-born day ; ” Alas! my morning sacifice, & still to Weep and pray.eee See ee ee RAS en cc eee CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 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. Beauchamp, the pellucid drop of humanity stealing down her cheek. Major Beauchamp was alarmed at her emo- tion—“ What Charlotte?” said he: “do you know her ?” In the accent of a pitying angel, did she dis- close to her husband, Charlotte’s unhappy situ- ation, and the frequent wish she had formed of being serviceable to her. “TI 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 la- ments. Who knows, my dear,” laying her hand affectionately on his arm, “ who knows, but she has left some kind, affectionate parents 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 r2fletion would it be for me,CHARLO TK LEMPLE. 99 | could I be the happy instrument of restoring her—Her heart may not be depraved, Beau- champ.” “ Kixalted woman!” eried Beauchamp, em- bracing her, ‘how dost thou rise every moment in my esteem. Follow the impulse of thy generous heart, my Emily. Let prudes and | | fools censure if they dare, and blame a sensi- bility 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 fel- low-creatures.” A beam of exulting joy played round the ani- mated countenance of Mrs. Beauchamp, at these encomiums bestowed on her by a beloved nusband; the most delightful sensations per vaded her heart, and having breakfasted she prepared to visit Charlotte. CHAP. XXI Teach me to feel another’s wo; To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to me.—Pope. A BENEVOLENT VISIT. Wuen Mrs. Beauchamp was dressed, she began to feel embarrassed at thought of beeae aah Fe eee SOR RE 100 SHARLOTTE TEMPLE. ginning an acquaintance with Charlotte, ana was distressed how to make the first visit. “I cannot go without some introduction,” 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 vermilloned Charlotte’s face as Mrs. Beauchamp entered. “You will pardon me, Madam,” said she, “for not having before paid my respects to so amiable a neighbor; but we English people always keep up, wherever we go, that reserve which is the characteristic of our nation. I have taken the liberty to bring you a few cucumbers.’ for I observed you had none in your garden.” Charlotte, though naturally polite and well bred, was so confused she could hardly speak. Her kind visiter endeavored to relieve her by not noticing her embarrassment. ‘I am come, Madam,” continued she, “to request you to spend the day with 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 word, I am no stranger to Mrs BeauCHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 10) champ’s goodness of heart, and known human ity: 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 «in- happy, 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. Beauchamp con- tinued—* My heart was interested in your be- half the first moment I saw you: and I only la- ment I had not made earlier overtures, towards an acquaintance ; but I flatter myself you will henceforth consider me as your friend.” “Oh, Madam!” cried Charlotte, “I have forfeited the good opinion of all my friends; I have forsaken them, and undone myself.” “Come, come, my dear,” said Mrs. Beau- champ, “you must not indulge these gloomy thoughts: you are not, I hope, so unhappy as you imagine yourself: 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 confidence in me, I am ready to convince you that it shall not be abused.” She then arcse and bade her good morning. ee ~ 3 BOO gost = Ste I ae Maes het hae ee SL Lin tae briacomcrermeeeecmresnemcnasemete Sora aR 102 CHARLUTTE TEMPLE. At dining hour, Charlotte repaired to Mra Beauchamp’s, and during dinner, assumed ag composed an aspect as possible: but when the cloth was removed, she summoned all her reso. lution, and determined to make Mrs. Beau- champ acquainted with every circumstance preceding her elopement, and the earnest de- sire she had to quit-a way of life so repugnant to her feelings. With the benignant aspect of an angel of mercy, did Mrs. Beauchamp listen to the artless tale; she was shocked to the soul to find how large a share La Rue had in the seduction of this amiable girl, and a tear fell when she re- flected 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 scat- tered spirits, and then asked her if she had written to her friends ? “Oh, yes, Madam,” said she, “ frequently ; but I have broken their hearts, they are all either dead, or have cast me off for ever, for J have never received a Single line from them.” “T rather suspect,” said Mrs. Beauchamp, “they have never had your letters: but suppose you were to hear from them, and they were will'ng to receive you, would you then leave this cruel Montrayille, and return to them ?” “Would I!” said Charlotte, clasping he: hands: “ would not the poor sailor, tost on a tempestuous ocean, threatened every moment esCHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 103 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 } were obliged to walk barefooted, and beg a scanty pittance of eacn traveller to support my existence. I would endure it all cheerfully could I but once more see my dear blessed mo. ther, hear her pronounce my pardon, and bless me before I died; but, alas! I] shall never see her more ; she has blotted the ungrateful Char- lotte from her remembrance, and I shall sink to the grave loaded with her’s and my father’s curse.” Mrs. Beauchamp endeavored to sooth her— “You shall write to them again,” said she, ‘and I will see that the letter is sent by the first packet that sails for England; in the mean time keep up your spirits, and hope for every thing, by daring to deserve it.” She then turned the conversation, and Chars lotte having taken a cup of tea, wished her be- nevolent friend a good evening. CHAP. XXII SORROWS OF THE HEART. Wuen Charlotte returned home, she endea- tored ta collect her thoughts, and took up a penSn ae pangs RRA SON eS 104 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. in order to address those dear parents, whon), spite of her errors, she still loved with the ut most tenderness; but vain was every etfort to w ite with the least coherence; her tears tell so fast, they almost blinded her: and as she proceeded to describe her unhappy situation, she became so agitated, that she was obliged to give over the attempt, and retire to bea, where, overcome with the fatigue her mind had undergone, she fell into a slumber, which great- ly refreshed her. She arose in the morning with spirits more adequate to the painful task she had to perform, and, after several attempts, at length concluded the following letter to her mother: To Mrs. TEMPLE. New-York, “Will my once kind, my ever-beloved mo- ther 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, besause I know I have deserved it ; but yet, believe me, guilty as I am, and cruelly as I have disap- pointed the hopes of the fondest parents that ever girl had, even in the moment when, forget- ful of my duty, I fled from you and happiness, even then I loved you most, ard my heart b edJHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 105 at the thoug it of what you would suffer. Oh! never, never! while I have existence, will the agony of that moment be erased from my me- mory. It seemed like the separation of soul and body. What can I plead in excuse for my conduct? alas! nothing! That I loved my seducer is but too true! yet powerful as that passion is, when operating in a young heart glowing with sensibility, it never would have conquered my affection to you, my beloved pa- rents, 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 infa- my. No, my dear mother, deceived by the spe- cious appearance of my betrayer, and every sus- picion lulled asleep by the most solemn pro- mises of marriage, I thought not those promises would so easily be forgotten. I never once re- flected that the man who could stoop to seduc- tion, would not hesitate to forsake the wretched object of his passion, whenever his capricious heart grew weary of her tenderness. Wher we arrived at this place, I vainly expected lim to fulfil his engagements ; but was at last fatal- ly 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 humanity, what I could not obtain from his love: E 2bad eee eee a ee a ee 106 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. I was conscious of having forfeited the only gem that could render me respectable in the eyes of the world. I locked my sorrows in my own bosom, and bore my injuries in silence. 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 cre- dulous girl whom his art has made miserable. Could you see me, my dear parents, without so- ciety, 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 disappointed love; cut to the soul by the indifference of him, who, having deprived me of every other comfort no longer thinks it worth his while to sooth .he heart where he has planted the thorn of never-ceasing regret. My daily employment is to think of you and weep, to pray for your happiness, and deplore my own folly: my nights are scarce more hap py ; for if by 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 be- loved forms; I kneel and hear the blessed words of peace and pardon. LEestatic joy per- vades my soul: I reach my arms to catch the dear embraces; the motion chases the illusive dream; I wake to real misery. At other times U see my father angry and frowning, point toCHARLOTTE TEMPLE: 107 horrid caves, where on the cold, damp ground in the agonies of death, I see my dear mother and my reverend grandfather. | Strive to raise Jou; you push me from you, and shrieking ery— “ Charlotte, thou hast murdered me!” Horror and despair tear every tortured nerve; I start and leave my restless bed, weary and unre freshed. “Shocking as these reflections are, I have yet one more dreadful than the rest. Mother, my dear mother! do not let me quite break your heart when I tell you, 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 creature, heir to infamy and shame. “This alone, has urged me once more to ad- dress you, to interest you in behalf of this poor unborn, and beg you to extend your protection to the child of your lost Charlotte: for my own part, I have wrote so often, so frequently have pleaded for forgiveness, and entreated to be re- ceived once more beneath the paternal roof, that having received no answer, nor even one line, I much fear you have cast me from you for ever. ‘But sure you cannot refuse to protect my wnocent infant ; it partakes not of its mother’s guilt. Oh! my father, oh! my beloved mother, now do I feel the anguish inflicted on your hearts recoiling with double force on my own ,ah Ac er eee Ce ee 108 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. “Tf my child should be a girl (which heaven “srbid,) 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 revenge 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 ne- ver more must hope to see you; the anguish of my heart strikes at the strings of life, and ina short time I shall be at rest—Oh! could I but receive your blessing and forgiveness before I die, it would smvoth my passage to the peace- ful 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 a, var. don fall to the memory of your lost CHARLOTTE.” CHAP. XXIII. AMAN MAY SMILE, AND SMILE, AND BE A VILLAIN. Wuite Charlotte was enjoying some small degree of comfort in the consoling friendship cf Mrs. Beauchamp, Montraville was advancing rapidly in his affection towards Miss Franklin. Julia was an amiable girl, she saw only the fair side of his character; she possessed an in-CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 109 pendent fortune, and resolved to be happy with the man of her heart, though his rank and fortune were by no means so exalted as she had a right to expect; she saw the passion which Montraville struggled to conceal! she wonder- ed at his timidity, but imagined the distance fortune had placed between them occasioned his backwardness. She therefore made every ad- vance which strict prudence and a becoming modesty would permit. Montraville saw with pleasure he was not indifferent to her; but a spark of honor which animated his bosom wonld not suffer him to take advantage of her partial- ity. He was well acquainted with Charlotte’s situation, and he thought there would be a dou- bie cruelty in forsaking her at such a time ; and to marry Miss Franklin, while honor, human ity, every sacred law, obliged him still to pro- tect and support Charlotte, was a baseness at which his soul shuddered. Ife communicated his uneasiness to Belcour: t was the very thing his pretended friend had wished. “And do you really,” said he, laugh- ing, “ hesitate at marrying the lovely Julia, and becoming master of her fortune, because a little foolish, fond girl, chose to leave her friends and run away with you to America? Dear Mon- traville, act more like a man of sense; this whining, pining Charlotte,. who occasions you so much uneas‘ness, would have eloped with soinebody else if she had not with you.” eee aE IEE: a a en a ene ems Se ca ae ree cert na gai ete ager ees 110 CHARLOTTE TE/APLE, “Would to heaven,” said Montieville, 1] had never seen her ; my regard for her was but the momentary passion of desire ; but I feel ] shall love and revere Julia Franklin as long as I live; yet to leave poor Charlotte in her pres sent situation, would be cruel beyond descrip- tion.” **Qh, my good sentiments’ friend,” said Bel- cour, “do you imagine that nobody has a right to provide for the brat but yourself.” Montraville started. ‘ Sure,” said he, vou cannot mean to insinuate that Charlotte ig false.” “J don’t insinuate it,” said Belcour, “I know it.” Montraville turned pale as ashes. there is no faith in woman,” said he. “While I thought you attached to her,” said Belcour, with an air of indifference, “I never wished to make you uneasy by mentioning her perfidy ; but as I know you love and are beloved by Miss Franklin, I was determined not to let these foolish scruples of honor step between you and happiness, or your tenderness 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 “ Then -———}-———____ eS Noone ane ee you certain of what you say, Belcour.” piper ree EECHARLUTTE TEMPLE. ll; “So far,” replied he, “that I my self have received advances from her, whic 1 I would not take advantage of, out of regard to you; but hang it, think no more about her. I dinea 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 within your reach.” Montraville was too much agitated to pass a happy evening, even in the company of Julia Franklin: he determined to visit Charlotte ear- ly the 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 Charlotte : it was near four o’clook in the after- noon when he arrived at her cottage: she was not in the parlor, and without calling her ser- vant, he walked up stairs, thinking to find her in her bedroom. He opened the door, and the first object that met his eyes, was Charlotte asleep on the bed, and Belcour by her side. “ Death and distraction,” said he, stamping, “this is too much. Rise, villain, and defend yourself.” Belcour sprang fromthe bed. The noise awoke Charlotte: terrified , em t Troe Bein 5 Sanabria aba SRR PE,CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 157 aot 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 bless- ings on those whose pity has soothed the aft flicted heart, and made easy even the bed of pain and sickness.” She was exhausted by this fervent address to the throne of mercy, and though her lips stilt moved, her voice became inarticulate; she lay for some time as it were in a dose, and then recovering, faintly pressed Mrs. Beauchamp’s hand, and requested that a clergyman might be sent for. On his arrival, she joined fervently in the pious office, frequently mentioning her ingrati- tude to her parents as what lay most heavy at her heart.—When she had performed the last solemn duty, and was preparing to lie down, a little bustle outside the door occasioned Mrs. Beauchamp to Open it and inquire the cause. A man, in appearance about forty, presented himself, and asked for Mrs. Beauchamp. “That is my name, sir,” said she.—“ Oh, then, my dear Madam,” cried he, “tell me where | may find my poor, ruined, but repentant child.” Mis. Beauchamp was Surprised and much af- fected ; she knew not what to Say ; she foresaw tle agony this interview would occasion Mr. Temple, who had just arrived in search of his Charlotte, and yet was sersible that the pardonieee ce ne Oe eT 158 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. and blessing of the father would soften even the agonies of death to the daughter. She hesi- tated.—“* Tell me, Madam,” cried he, wildly, ‘tell me, I beseech thee, does she live? shall I see my darling once again? Perhaps she is in this house. Lead, lead me to her, that I may bless her, and then lie down and die.” The ardent manner in which he uttered these words occasioned him to raise his voice. It caught the ear of Charlotte: she knew the be- loved sounds; and uttering a loud shriek, she sprang forwardas Mr. Temple entered the room. “My adored father!” ‘My long-lost child!” Nature could support no more, and they both sunk lifeless into the arms of the 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 may readily conceive, we cannot delineate the dreadful scene. Every eve gave testimony of what each other felt— but all were silent. When Charlotte recovered, she found her- self supported in her father’s arms. She cast apon him a most expressive look, but was un- able to speak. A reviving cordial was admi- nistered.—She then asked in a low voice for her child: it was brought to her: she put it in her father’s arms. ‘Protect her, (said she) and bless your dying-—”CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 159 Unable to finish the sentence, she sunk back on her pillow; her countenance was serenely composed ; she regarded her father as he press- ed the infant to his breast with a steadfast look ; a sudden beam of joy passed across her languid features, she raised her eyes to heaven—and then closed them for ever. CHAP. XXXIV. RETRIBUTION. In the meantime, Montraville having re ceived orders to return to New-York, arrived, and having still some remains of compassionate tenderness for the woman whom he regarded as brought to shame by himself, he went in search of Belcour, to inquire whether she was safe, and whether the child lived. He found him immersed in dissipation, and could gain no dther intelligence, than that Charlotte had left him, and that he knew not what had become of her. ‘‘T cannot believe it possible,” said Montra ville, “that a mind once so pure as Charlotte "lemple’s, should so suddenly become the man- sion of vice. ‘¢ Beware, Belcour,” continued he, “‘ beware. if you have dared to behave either unjustly or dishonorably to that poo” girl, youNa cose, sptiomen em ao eee Se ieee Peer meet ata ee iitnen .60 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. life shall pay the forfeit: I will avenge her cause.” He immediately went into th, country, to the house where he had left Charlotte. It was desolate. After much inquiry, he at length found the servant girl who had lived with her. From her he learned the misery Charlotte had endured from the complicated evils of illness, poverty and a broken heart, and that she had set out on foot for New-York, on a cold winter’s evening; but she could inferm him no further. Tortured almost to madness by this shocking account, he returned to the city; but before he reached it, the evening was drawing to a close. In entering the town, he was obliged to pass several little huts, the residence of poor wo- men, who supported themselves by washing the elothes of the officers and soldiers. It was nearly dark: he heard from a neighboring stee ple, a solemn toll that seemed to say, some poor mortal was going to their last mansion; the sound struck on the heart of Montraville, and he involuntarily stopped, when, from one of the houses he saw the appearance of a funeral Almost unknowing what he did, he followed a1 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 byCHARLOTTE TEMPLE- 16\ a cruel man, who left her when she was big with child, and married another.” Mentraville stood motionless, and the man proceeded—‘ ] met her myself not a fortnight since, one night ell wet and cold in the street; she went to Ma- dam Crayton’s, but she would not take her in. and so the poor thing went raving mad.” Mon- traville could bear no more; he struck his hands against his forehead with violence: and exclaiming “poor murdered Charlotte Ye yan with precipitation towards the place where they were heaping the earth on her remains. “ Hold, | hold! ove moment,” said he. ‘Close not the grave of the injured Charlotte Temple till I have taken vengeance on her murderer.” “Rash young man,” said Mr. Temple, “ who art thou, that thus disturbest the last mournful - rites of the dead, and rudely breakest in upon the grief of an afflicted father “Tf thou art the father of Charlotte Temple,” said he, gazing at him with mingled horror and arcazement—*if thou art her father—I am Montraville.” Then falling on his knees, he continved,—* Here is my bosom. I bare it to receive the stroke I merit. Strike—strike now, and save me from the misery of reflectivn.” “ Alas!” said Mr. Temole, “ if thou wert the seducer of my child, thy own reflections be thy punishment. I wrest not the power from the hand of Omnipotence. Look on that little heap of earth, tliere hast thou buried the only joy o1De aaa Te 162 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. a fond father. Look at it often; and may thy heart feel such true sorrow as shall merit the mercy of heaven.” He turned from him; and Montraville start‘ng up from the ground where he had thrown himself, and that instant re- membering the perfidy of Belcour, flew like lightning to his lodgings. Belcour was intoxi- cated ; Montraville impetuous: they fought, and the sword of the latter entered the heart of his adversary. He fell, and expired almost in- stantly. Montraville had received a slight wound ; and overcome with the agitation of his mind and loss of blood, was carried in a state of insensibility to his distracted wife. A dan- gerous illness and obstinate delirium ensued, during which he raved incessantly for Char- lotte ; but a strong constitution, and the tender assiduities of Julia, in time overcame the dis- order. He recovered; but to the end of his life was subject to severe fits of melancholy, and while he remained in New-York, frequent- ly retired to the churecnyard, where he would weep over the grave, and regret the untimely fate of the lovely Charlotte Temple. ROMER AS Sagat ee a aCHARLOTTE TEMPLE. CHAP. XXXV. CONCLUSION. Saori y after the interment of his daughter, Mr. Temple, with his dear little charge and her aurse, 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 heart of sensibility can easily conceive their feelings. After the first tumult of grief was subsided, Mrs. Temple gave up the chiet of her time to her grandchild, and as she grew ap and improved, began almost to fancy she again possessed her Charlotte. It was about ten years after these painful events, that Mr. and Mrs. Temple, having bu- ried their father, were obliged to come to Lon- don on particular business, and brought the lit- tle Lucy with them. They had been walking one evening, when on their return they found a poor wretch sitting on the steps of the door. She attempted to rise as they approached ; but from extreme weakness was unable, and after several fruitless efforts fell back in a fit. Mr. Temple was not one of those men who stand tc cons der whether by assisting an object in dis tress they shal! not inconvenience themselves =a Fein et ACCC ATEPRIN RR OTT Nee Kt Toor hae ee : aie vs et ee et eee nee een Eo 164 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. but instigaied by a noble, feeling heart, in.me- dately ordered her to be carried into the house, znd proper restoratives applied. She soon re- covered; and fixing her eye on Mrs. Temple, etied—“ you know not, Madam, what you do; you know not whom you are relieving, or you would curse me in the bitterness of your heart. Come nut near me, Madam; I shall contaminate you. Iam the viper that stung your peace. ] am the woman who turned the poor Charlotte out to perish in the street. Heaven have mer- ey! I see her now,” continued she, looking at Lucy; “such, such was the fair bud of inno- cence, that my vile arts blasted ere it was half blown.” It was in vain that Mr. and Mrs. Temple en- treated her to be composed and take some re- freshment. She only drank half a glass of wine; and then tola them that she had been separated from her husband seven years, the chief of which she had passed in riot, dissipa- tion, and vice, till, overtaken by poverty and sickness, she had been reduced to part with every valuable, and thought only of ending her life in prison, when a benevolent friend paid her debts and released her; but that her illness in- creasing, she had no possible means of support- ing herself, and her friends were weary of re- lieving her. “I have fasted,” said she, ‘* two days, and last night laid my aching head on the cold pavement; indeed it was but just that |CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. 165 shoul ! experience those miseries myself, which [ had unfeelingly inflicted on others.” Greatly as Mr. Temple had reason to detest Mrs. Crayton, he could not behold her in this distress without some emotions of pity. He gave her shelter that night beneath his hospita- vle roof. and the next day got her admission into an hospital; where, having lingered a few weeks, she died, a striking example, that vice, however prosperous in the beginning, in the end leada only to misery and shame. o “INSY fle Vy Wy Vf yy / 7 “7 LT = oe ty A, C a ate cine anna aI LUCY TEMPLE ee ee re 5 YY ey f e aSs a LUCY TEMPLE. ONE OF THE THREE OR PHANS. A Sequel to Charlotte, Té mple. —_——__ The, } BY SUSANNAH ROWSON, Author of Reb cca, the lnquisttor. Leuben and Leachel, Victoria &e. &c, ee NEW YORK: Wm. L. ALLISON, PUBLISHER, ——$—$_—____ No. 93 CHamBers NesEOE eT ON i j 3 \ ‘ t Ce anennenea i me SARNIACHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, THE THREE ORPHANS. CHAPTER I. % FALSE PRIDE AND UNSOPHISTICATED INN JENCE, “ Wuat are you doing there, Lucy?” said Mrs. Cavendish to a lovely girl, about fifteen years old. She was kneeling at the feet of an old man sitting just within the door of a small thatched cottage situated about five miles from Southampton, on the coast of Hampshire. ‘t What are you doing there, child?” said she, in rather a sharp tone, repeating her question. “Binding up Sergeant Blandford’s leg,-ma’am,” said the kind-hearted young creature, looking up in the face of the person who spoke to her. At the same time, rising on one knee, she rested the same limb on a stool, on which was a soft cushion, which this child of benevolence had provided for the old soldier. 1° (5)Dre ee nee Cp EE a Ae ESN CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, “ And was there no one but you, Miss Blakeney who could perform such an office? You demean yourself strangely.’ degradation,” replied Lucy, “to perform an act of kindness to a fellow creature; but I have done ’ eyntinued she, rising, ‘(and will walk home with you, ma'am, if you please.” She then wished the sergeant a good-night, and tying on her bon- net, which had been thrown on the floor during nent, she took Mrs. Cavendish’s arm, and they proceeded to the house of the Rector of “There! Mr. Matthews,” exclaimed the lady on entering the parlor, “ there! I have brought home Miss Blakeney, and where do you think I found her, and how employed?” “Where you found her,” replied Mr. Matthews, smiling, “I will not pretend to say ; for she is a sad rambler, but I dare be bound that you did not find her either foolishly or improperly employed.” “TJ found her in old Blandford’s cottage, swath- «And how, my good madam,” inquired Mr. Matthews, ‘ could innocence be better employed, than in administering to the comforts of the defender of his country ?” “Well, well, you always think her right; but we shall hear what my sister says to it. Mrs. Mat- thews, do you approv and fortune making herself familiar with all the beggars and low people in the place?” ‘By no means,” said the stately Mrs. Matthews, ‘and I am astonished that Miss Blakeney has not a higher sense of propriety and her own conse- ing up his lame leg.” «Dear me, maa, to make myself of consequence that I did it: for Lady Mary, here at home, says I am nobody, an iusignificant Miss Mushroom, but Sergeant Bland- ‘“T did not think it was any e of a young lady of rank interrupted Lucy, ‘‘it wasTHE THREE ORPHANS. 7 ford calls me his guardian angel, his comforter ; and I am sure those are titles of consequence. ” ‘“ Bless me,’’ said Mrs. Cavendish, ‘‘ what plebeian ideas the girl has imbibed: itis lucky for you, child, that you were so early removed from those people.” “IT hope, madam,” replied Lucy, ‘‘you do not mean to say that it was fortunate for me that I was so early deprived of the protection of my dear grandfather? Alas! it was a heavy day for me; he taught me that the only way to become of real consequence, is to be useful to my fellow creatures.” Lucy put her hand before her eyes to hide the tears she could not restrain, and courtesying respectfully to. Mr. Matthews,*his wife and sister, she left the room, ‘‘ Well, I protest, sister,” said Mrs. Cavendish, ‘that is tho most extraordinary girl I ever knew; with a vast number of low ideas and habits, she can sometimes assume the Aauteur and air of a dutchess. In what a respectful, yet independent manner she went out of the room, I must admit.” Mrs. Matthews was too much irritated to reply with calmness, she therefore wisely continued s1- lent. Mr. Matthews was silent from a different cause, and supper being soon after announced, the whole family went into the parlor; Lucy had dried her tears, and with a placid countenance seated herself by her reverend friend, Mr. Matthews. ‘You, I hope, are not angry with me, sir?” said she, with peculiar emphasis, ‘No, my child,” he replied, pressing the hand she had laid upon his arm, ‘‘No, I am not angry; but my little Lucy must remember that she is now advancing towards womanhood, and that it is not always safe, nor perfectly proper, to be rambling about in the dusk of the evening without a companion.” ‘Then, if you say so, sir, 1 will never do it again ; but indeed you do not know how happy my visits ae ee et rorae 8 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, make old Mr. Blandford; you know, sir, he 1s very poor; so Lady Mary would not go with me if I asked her; and he is very lame, so if Aura went with me, she is such a mad-cap, perhaps she might laugh at him; besides, when I sometimes ask Mrs. Matthews to let her walk with me, she has some- ef thing for her to do, and cannot spare her.” Bit “Well, my dear,” said the kind-hearted old gen- { tleman, ‘when you want to visit him again, ask Ce me to go with you.” ‘Oh! you are the best old ! man in the world,” cried Lucy, as rising, she put b her arms round his neck and kissed him. ‘ There ‘ 5 now, there is a specimen of low-breeding,” said Mrs. Cavendish, “you ought to know, Miss Blake- ney, that nothing can be more rude than to call a person old.” “I did not mean to offend,” said Lucy. “No! Iam sure you did not,” replied Mr. Matthews, ‘ath ‘and so let us eat ube for when a man or rt woman, sister, is turned of sixty, they may be (4 termed old, without much exaggeration, or the smallest breach of politeness.” But the reader, will perhaps, like to be intro- mi duced to the several individuals who compose this ei family. CHAPTER II. a THE LITTLE HEIRESS, AND THE MASTER OF THE MANSION, Lucy Buaxeyey had, from her earliest infancy, been under the protection of her maternal grand- father; her mother had ushered her into life at the expense of her own, and Captain Blakeney, of the navy, having been her godfather, she was baptized by the name of Blakeney, in addition to her own a a ek re eetpounds sterling. THE THREE ORPHANS. family name. Captain Blakeney was the intimate friend of her grandfather; he had loved her mother as his own child, and dying a bachelor when Lucy was ten years old, he left her the whole of the pro- perty he had acquired during the war which had given to the United States of America, rank and consequence among the nations of the earth; and during which period, he had been fortunate in tak- ing prizes, so that at the time of his death, his property amounted to more than twenty thousand This he bequeathed to his little favorite, on condition that she took the name and bore the arms of Blakeney; indeed, she had never been, called by any other name; but the will re- quired that the assumption should be legally au- thorized, and a further condition was, that whoever married her, should change his own family name to that of Blakeney; bat on a failure of this, the original sum was to go to increase the pensions of the widows of officers of the navy, dying in actual service, Lucy only retaining the interest which might have accumulated during her minority. About two years after this rich bequest, Lucy literally became an orphan, by the death of both her grand-parents, within a few months of each other. She inherited from her grandfather a hand- h to support and educate her hout infringing on the bequest of Captain Blakeney, the interest of which yearly accumulating, would make her, by the time she was twenty-one, a splendid heiress. The Rev. Mr. Matthews had lived in habits of intimacy with both the grandfather of Lucy and Captain Blakeney, though considerably younger than either; he was nominated her guardian in conjunction with Sir Robert Ainslie, a banker in London, a man of strict probity, to whom the management of her fortune was intrusted, some patrimony, enou In a very superior st10 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, To Mr. Matthews, the care of her person was consigned; he had promised her grandfather that she chould reside constantly in his family, and under his eye receive instruction in the accomplish- ments becoming the rank she would most probably fill in society, from the best masters; whilst the cultivation of her mental powers, the formation of ker moral and religious character, and the correc- tion of those erring propensities which are the sad kc inheritance of all the sons and daughters of Adam, } he solemnly promised should be his own peculiar elias 4 care. ey Mr. Matthews was, what every minister of the Gospel should be, the profound scholar, the finished ee ee gentleman, and the sincere, devout Christian. Plain a and unaffected in his address to his parishioners, on Wy the Sabbath-day, or any day set apart for devotional Ht exercises, he at all other times exemplified in his hiae own conduct, the piety and pure morality he had a from the pulpit forcibly recommended to others. ’ Liberal as far as his circumstances would allow, without ostentation; strictly economical, without meanness; conscientiously pious, without bigotry or intolerance; mild in his temper, meek and gentle t in his demeanor, he kept his eye steadily fixed on his Divine Master, and in perfect humility of spir.t aa endeavored as far as human nature permits, to i tread in his steps. 5 ¥ mere ne apenas Alfred Matthews, the youngest son of a younger branch of an honorable but reduced family, rceeived his early education at Eton, or. rather, the founda- tion of it, after which, he removed to Cambridge, where he finished his studies, and received the honors of the university; his moral character, ae steady deportment, and literary abilities had raised him so high in the esteem of the heads of the college, that he was recommended as private tutor, and afterwards became the travelling companion to the epi cee eee eee EE eae SaS7THE THREE ORPHANS, 11 young Earl of Hartford and his brother, Lord John Milcombe. Returning from this tour, he for a con- siderable time became stationary as domestic chap- lain in the family of the Earl. “This nobleman had two sisters, the children of his mother by a former marriage, both by several years his seniors. The elder, Philippa, was of a serious cast, accomplished, sensible, well informed, pleasing in her person, and engaging in her manners, Constantia, the younger of the two, had been celebrated for her beauty ; she was stately, somewhat affected, and very dictato- rial; they were both highly tinctured with family pride, thinking the name of Cavendish might rank almost with royalty itself; but withal. so strongly attached to each other, that whatever one resolved to do or say, the other upheld as unquestionably right. : ‘To both these ladies Mr. Matthews was an ac- ceptable companion, and from the society of both he reaped the most unaffected pleasure. He ad- mired their talents, and esteemed their virtues: but his heart felt no warmer sentiment, till from several concurring circumstances he could not but perceive that the amiable Philippa evinced a tenderer at- tachment than her sister. On some subjects she could never converse with him without hesitation and blushes, while Constantia was easy and unem- barrassed upon all topics. This discovery awakened his gratitude, but honor told him that the sister of his patron was in too elevated a station for him to hope to obtain her brother’s consent to their union; he therefore requested permission to retire from the family. ‘Iam sorry to lose you from our family circle, Mr. Matthews,” said the Earl, when he mentioned this desire; “ but it is natural that you should wish to have a fireside of your own, and it is probable that you may also wish for a companion to makeome, Be IN ANEMONE IT PO fo OAR ATO PN IN OA TOE ME eat aera ae nee eee ee ee Stee ane a eee er ae Pod the ka ere it At % % j } 4 { + 12 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; OR, that fireside cbeerful, I must beg you to accept the Rectory of L , which has lately become vacant, and is in my gift, till something better can be offered.” Everything being arranged for his leay- ing the family, it was mentioned the next evening, at supper. Philippa felt her color vary, but she neither looked up nor spoke; Constartia, turning towards him, with vivacity, inquired ‘‘ How long he had taken the whim of keeping bachelor’s hall ; though I beg your pardon for the suggestion,” said she; ‘‘perhaps some fair lady’—here she stopped, for Philippa’s agitation was evident, and Constantia perceived that her brother noticed it. When the ladies had retired, the Earl suddenly addressed his friend, “If I am not very much mis- taken, Mr. Matthews, one of my sisters would have no objection to break in upon your bachelor scheme. Come, be candid, is the inclination mutual? “I hope, my lord,” rephed Mr. Matthews, “ that you do not suspect me of the presumption.” ‘‘I see no presumption in it, my friend,” rejoined the Earl, “your family, your education, your talents, set you upon an equality with any woman, and though Philippa is not rich, yet her fortune and your income from the Rectory will supply the comforts, conveniences, and many of the elegancies of life.”’ The conversation continued till the hour of re- pose, when, after taking counsel of his pillow, Mr. Matthews resolved to solicit the favor of Miss Cavendish, and proved a successful wooer—a few months after, he became master of the Rectory— had a fireside of hisown, and an amiable companion to render that fireside cheerful. In the course of twenty years many changes had taken place; the Earl of Hartford had married a beautiful, but very dissipated woman, who, though she brought him but a very small fortune, knew extremely well how to make use of his, and diffuseTHE THREE ORPHANS. 13 its benefits in a most elegant and fashionable style. Her profusions knew no bounds, and, the Earl being taken off by a rapid fever, his affairs were found in so embarrassed a state that his sisters’ fortunes, which had never been paid. though they had regularly received the interest, were reduced to less than one half their original value, which was twenty thousand pounds. With this comparatively small portion, Mrs, Matthews, and Mrs. Constantia Cavendish, were obliged to be content, Mr. Matthews coutinued Rector of L , but no change of circumstances could lead him to accept a plurality of livings. It was a point of conscience with him to be paid for no more duty than he was able to perform himself, and as he was not able to allow a curate a liberal stipend, he employed none. When Mrs. Constantia argued with him on the sub- ject, as she sometimes would, and wondered that he would perform all offices of the Rectorship himself. when he might have a curate, who would think himself well paid by fifty pounds a year, and who would take the most troublesome part upon himself, ‘I should be sorry, sister,” he would reply, “to consider any part of my duty a trouble, and what right have I to expect another to do for fifty pounds, what I am paid five hundred for doing? Every clergyman is, or should be, a gentleman, and I think it highly disgraceful for one minister of the gospel to be lolling on velvet cushions, rolling in his car- riage, and faring sumptuously every day, while many, very many of his poor brethren, laborers in the same vineyard, bowed with poverty, burthened with large families, would, like Lazarus, be glad to feed on the crumbs that fall from the rich man’s table.” But Mr. Matthews was an old-fashioned person, and perhaps will not be thought very entertaining, so I will bring forward the young ladies, 2Pa tee oe eee TE a a et RS atten a re = ail Fee ee pera eS ig a he . ere 4 sig ess necananennea one Re Ae ¥ eee ree aot Seaton cape as sk 14 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; OR, CHAPTER III. THE THREE ORPHANS, We have already announced Lucy Blakeney, and if what has been said, does not give a competent idea of her character, we must leave it to time to develope; as to her person, it was of the middle size, perfectly well proportioned, and her figure and limbs had that roundness, which, in the eye of an artist, constitutes beauty. Her complexion was rather fair than dark, her eyes open, large, full hazel, her hair light brown, and her face animated with the glow of health and the smile of good humor, Lady Mary Lumly had lost her mother a few years previous to the commencement of our story. She was an only child and had been indulged to a degree of criminality by this doatingly fond but weak mother, so thatshe had reached her sixteenth year without having had one idea impressed upon either head or heart that could in the least qualify her for rational society, or indeed for any society, but such as her fancy had created, from an indiscri- minate perusal of every work of fiction that issued from the press. Her father died when she was an infant; his estates, which had never been adequate to his expenses, passed with the title to a male branch of the family, her mother retired to her jointure house in Lancashire. II] health secluded her from company, and finding her dear Mary averse from study, she sought in a governess for her daughter, more an easy companion for herself than a conscientious, able instructress for her child. The common elements of education, reading, writingTHE THREE ORPHANS, 15 and English grammar, a hittle dancin sic, and a trifling knowledge of th constituted the whole of her accomplishments ; when, at the death of her mother, the guardian to whom the care of her little fortune had been intrust- ed, entreated Mrs. Matthews to receive her into her family There was some relationship in the case, and Mrs. Cavendish thinking, that with her roman- tic ideas, and uninformed mind, a boarding-school, such as her income could afford, would not be a proper asylum for her, prevailed on her sister to accede to the proposal, When scarcely past the age of childhood, or in deed infancy, she had been allowed to sit beside her mother, while the tale of misfortune, of love or folly, was read dloud by the governess, and being pos- sessed of a quick apprehension, strong sensibility, and a fertile imagination, she peopled the world, to which she was in effect a stranger, with lords and ladies, distressed beauties, and adoring lovers, to the absolute exclusion of every natural character, every rational idea, and truly moral or Christian- like feeling. Wealth and titles. which were sure to be heaped on the hero or heroine of the tale, at last, she considered as-the ultimatum of all subly- nary good. Her mother had been a woman of high rank, but small fortune; she had therefore, amongst other weak prejudices, imbibed a strong predilec- tion in favor of ancient nobility, and not to have a particle of noble blood flowing through one’s veins was, in her opinion, to be quite insignificant, This orphan of quality was as handsome as flaxen hair, light eyebrows, fair skin, blooming cheeks, and large glossy blue eyes could make her. The features of her face were perfectly regular, but there was no expression in them, her smile was the smile of innocence, but it was also the smile of vacancy. She was tall, her limbs were long and g, a little mu- 1e French language,16 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER ; OR, her figure flat and lean; yet she thought herself a perfect model for a statuary. Her temper was | naturally good, but the overweening pride and | morbid sensibility, which were the fruits of the imprudent system of her education, rendered her quick to take offence where no offence was meant, and not uulrequently bathed her in tears, without any real cause, At the period when we introduced | her to our readers, she was nearly seventeen years i old, and had been under the care of Mr. Matthews re tor the last four years. ie f Aura Melville completed the trio of fair orphans. ee Aura was the only child of a poor clergyman, to ete whom Mr. Matthews had been, during a long and \ painful ilness, an undeyiating friend; she was ten Verte years old, when death released her father from a Hee state of suffering—her mother had been dead sev- eral years previous to this event. i It was an evening towards the end of July, the . pale light of a moon, just entered on its second quarter, shone faintly into the chamber of the fee- ble invalid, a chamber to which he had been confined for more than eight months; the casement was open and the evening breeze passing through the bloom- ; inz jessamine, that climbed the thatch of the hum- ble cottage, wafted its refreshing perfume to cool ‘l the hectic cheek of the almost expiring Melville. Ile was seated in an easy chair, Mr. Matthews by i his side, and the little Aura on a cushion at his . feet. ‘Look my own papa,” said she, ‘‘ how beau- | Sin ar Se Sane an Deanne > Sg a neem ae ST tifully the moon shines; does not this cool breeze make you feel better? 1 Jove to look at the moon beik a when it is new,” continued she, ‘I do not know Bal why, but it makes me feel so pleasantly, and yet Fi sometimes I feel as if I could cry; and I say to Het myself what a good God our God is, to give us such ae a beautiful light to make our nights pleasant and id cheerful, that, without it, are so dark and gloomy. a ET et Se Er Daag amie aneTHE THREE ORPHANS. 1 Oh! my own dear papa, if it would but please our good God to make you well!” Melville pressed her hand, Mr. Matthews felt the drop of sensibility rise to his eye; but neither of them spoke. The child, finding both remain silent, continued, ‘‘T hope you will be better, a great deal better, before next new moon,” “J shall be well, quite well, my darling, in a very little time,” said her father, ‘for before this moon is at the full, I shall be at rest?” “You will rest a good deal before that. I hope,” said she, with tender simplicity ; then peueine 4 moment, she sprang up, and throwing er arms round his neck, she exclaimed, ‘Ah! [ unders‘and you now: Oh, my own, dear papa! what will become of Aura? Oh, Iny good God, if it please you to let me die with my papa! for when he is gone, there will be no one to love or care for his poor Aura.” Her sobs impeded farther utter- ance. Mellville had clasped the interesting child in his arms, his head sunk on her shoulder, her cheek rested on his. Mr. Matthews, fearing this tender scene would be too much for his debilitated frame, went towards them and endeavored to with. draw her from his embrace. At the slightest effort, his arme relaxed their hold, his head was raised from her shoulder, but instantly falling back against the chair, Mr. Matthews, shocked to the very soul, perceived that Aura was an orphan. The poor child’s anguish when she discovered the truth, is not to be described. ‘She shall never want a protector,” said he, mentally, as he was leading hee from the house of death to his own mansion, “Philippa,” said he, presenting Aura to his wife, ‘‘ Providence has sent us a daughter. Be a mother to her, my dear companion; love her, cor- rect her, teach her to be like yourself; she will then be most estimable,” O*ee ee ne OT at oD eee meee icine N S ‘ \ x x y Ny nN AY ‘S x re cae ae ate ete caper a Decne tt Ae eae Se eRe 18 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, Mrs. Matthews, with all her family pride, pos- sessed a kind and fecling heart; that heart loved most tenderly Alfred Matthews; could she do otherwise than comply with his request? She took the poor girl to her bosom, and though she experienced not the most tender affection, yet Aura Melville found in her all the care and solici- tude of a mother. Her father had laid a good foundation in her innocent mind, and Mr. Matthews carefully com- pleted the education he had begun, and at the age of nineteen, the period when first she appears in our pages, she was a pleasing, well informed young woman, highly polished in her manners, yet with- out one showy accomplishment. She knew enough of music to enjoy and understand its simple beauties, but she performed on no instrument. She moved gracefully, and could, if called upon, join a cotillion or contra dance, without distressing others; her understanding was of the highest order, and so well cultivated that she could converse with sense and propriety on almost any subject. Yet unob- trusive, modest and humble, she was silent and retired, unless called forth by the voice of kindness and encouragement. She was beloved in the family; industrious, discreet, cheerful, good-hu- mored, grateful to her benefactors, and contented with her lot; she won the regard, and without exacting it, gained ihe respect of all who knew her,THE THREE ORPHANS. CHAPTER Tv. ROMANCE, PIETY, SENSIBILITY, Lucy, after the gentle reproof she received from Mr. Matthews, was careful not to go out in the evening without a companion; she frequently visited the cottages of the poor class of industrious peasants, and as her allowance for clothes and pocket-money was liberal, and her habits by no means expensive, she had many opportunities of relieving the distresses of some, and adding to the comforts of others. Sometimes she would tempt Lady Mary to ramble with her; but that young lady but little understood the common incidents and necessities of life; and even had she compre- hended them ever so well, she was so thoughtless in her expenditure on dress and trifles, that she seldom had anything te bestow. Aura Melville was, therefore, her usual associate and adviser in these visits of charity. Her bosom sympathized in their sufferings, and her judgment suggested the relief likely to be of most benefit. One evening Lady Mary had been walking with a young lady in the neighborhood, whose tastes and feclings resembled her own, when, just as the family were preparing to take their tea, she rushed into the parlor and in a flood of tears exclaimed, ‘Oh, my dear sir, my kind Mr. Matthews, if you do not help me, I shall lose my senses.” ‘ How, my dear?” said he, approaching the seat on which shehad thrown herself in an attitudeof the utmost distress. ‘‘Oh, sir,” said she, sobbing, ‘‘I must have five guineas directly, for 1 wanted so manyek. cereale sor, Seine Rx ns epee enlbcte araaanimataa dee setae i i a ee ee ne Oa ee ae 20 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, things when you paid me my last quarter’s allow- ance, that I have not a guinea left.’ ‘I am sorry for that,” replied Mr. Matthews, “for you know that it will be six weeks before another payment is due.” ‘‘Oh yes, I know that, but I thought you would be so good as to lend it to me on this very, very urgent occasion!” ‘‘And pray what may the very, very urgent occasion be?’ asked he, smiling ; and placing a chair near the tea-table, he motioned with his hand for her to draw nigh and partake the social meal, for which the rest of the family were now waiting. “T cannot eat, indeed I cannot, sir,” she replied with an hysterical sob, “I can do nothing till you comply with my request.” ‘That I certainly shall not do at present, child. I must understand for what this sum is required, and how you meant todispose of it. Five guineas, Lady Mary, is a considerable sum; it should not be hastily or unadvisedly lavished away. It mig'it rescue many suffering individuals from absolute want.” “Yes, sir; it is for that-1 want it; | know you will let me have it.” ‘I am not quite so sure about that. Butcome, Mary Lumly,” for so the good man was wont to call her when he was pleased with her, “come; draw nigh and take your tea, after which you shall tell your story, and to-morrow morning we will see what can be done.”’ ‘To-morrow! sir—to-morrow!” exclaimed she wildly, ‘‘to-morrow, it may be too late; they are suffering the extremity of want; and are you so cold-hearted as to talk of to-morrow?” Miss Blakeney and Aura Melville exchanged looks with each other. Mr. Matthews sat down and began his tea. ‘‘ You must permit me to tcll you, Lady Mary Lumly,” said Mrs. Cavendish, in her stately manner, ‘that this is very unbecoming )THE THREE ORPHANS. Ot behavior. You call it, no doubt, sensibility; but you give it too dignified aname, It is an affecta- tion of fine feeling. It arises more from a wish to display your own humanity, than from any genu- Ine sympathy The heart has little to do with it. You have spoken rudely to my brother Matthews: he, worthy man, knows what true sensibility is, and is actuated by its dictates, though you, dis- respectful girl, have called:him cold-hearted.” Resentment at being spoken to in so plain a style, soon dried Lady Mary’s tears, She seated herself at the tea-table, took her cup, played with her spoon, poured the tea into the saucer, then back into the cup; in short, did everything but drink it. The tea-service removed, Mr. Matthews said, ‘Come hither, Mary Lumly; and now let us hear your tragical tale.” Lady Mary’s excessive enthu- siasm had by this time considerably abated, but she felt somewhat vexed at the plain, well-meant reproof of Mrs. Cavendish. However, she seated herself on the sofa beside Mr. Matthews, and ina conciliatory tone, began, ‘‘I am afraid that I have not been so respectful as I ought to be, sir, but my feelings ran away with me.” ‘ Your impetuosity, you should say, child,” interrupted Mrs. Cavendish. Lady Mary colored highly. ‘“ The evening is really very fine,” said the good Rector, ‘‘come, Mary, you and I will go and inhale the sweets of the flowers.” Then drawing her arm under his, he led her into the garden. ‘‘So you have been taking a ramble with Miss Brenton this afternoon?” “Yes sir, and we went farther than we intended, for we went through the little copse, and took a path which neither of us had any knowledge of, and having walked a considerable way without seeing any house, or meeting any one, we began toSon a emer mentee ae CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, feel alarmed.” “I think you were very imprudent, Mary ; you might have encountered ill-bred clowns or evil minded persons, who would have insulted rou. ae I know it, sir; but I am very glad I went, for all that.” ‘How so?” ‘Why, just as we began to feel a little fright- ened, we heard a child cry, and following the sound, we came to a very wretched hovel—for it could not be called even acottage. At the door sat a child about four years old, crying, ‘What is the matter, child?’ said Miss Brenton. ‘Mammy is sick, and granny fell out of her chair, and daddy a’n’t come home yet.’ We both of us were in the hut in a moment. Oh! dear sir, I never shall forget it; on the bed, as they called it, but it was only some straw laid upon a kind of shelf made of boards and covered with a ragged blanket, so dirty that I was almost afraid to go near it and—and— on this wretched bed lay a poor, pale woman with a little, very little baby on her arm.” Lady Mary’s lip quivered, Mr. Matthews pressed her hand and said, ‘‘ But the poor old granny ? you have not told me about her.” “She had been up all the preceding night with her daughter, and not having any help all day, or much nourishment, I believe, she had fainted and fell out of her chair; the little girl, whose crying had brought us to the place, had run out in great alarm; but when we entered the house, the old woman had recovered, and was sitting, pale asa ghost and unable to articulate, by the handful of fire, over which hung an iron pot.” “ Why this is a most deplorable tale, my dear Mary.” “But I have not told you the worst, sir.”THE THREE ORPHANS. oa ‘Why, 1 suppose the worst was, you had no money to give them.” ‘‘No; I had a crown in my purse, and I gave it to the old woman, who, as she looked at it, burst into tears, and recovering her speech, said, ‘God forever bless you.’ ”’ ‘But had Miss Brenton nothing to give?” “Oh no, sir; she said her sensibility was so great she could not stay in the hovel, and they were so dirty, that she was afraid of contracting some infectious disorder,” ‘Then that was the worst; for I suppose she ran away and left you?” ‘Yes, she did; and said she would wait for me by the roadside; so while 1 was inquiring what they most wanted, and the poor sick woman with the baby, said, ‘everything, a rough looking man with two boys and a girl, came in; he went to the sick woman, asked her how she did, and then turning to the old woman, said, ‘ Mother, is there anything for supper?’ ‘ Yes, thank God,’ said the mother, ‘I have summut for ye, John, which a kind-hearted Christian man gave me this morn.’ She then opened the pot, took cut a small piece of meat, and two or three turnips, and said, ‘ There John, is a nice piece of mutton, and Sally has supped a little of the broth; oh! ‘twas a great comfort to her; and here, dears,’ taking up some of the water in which the meat had been oiled: in poringers, ‘here’s a nice supper for ye all.’ She then gave the children each a piece of bread, so black, that I ran out of the place, ashamed that my curiosity had kept me there so long, when I had so little to give.’ “Tt was not curiosity, Mary, it was a better feeling; but had you been mistress of five guineas, and had them in your purse at that moment, would you haye given them?”24 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER 3 OR, ‘Oh yes, ten, if I could have commanded them; but now, sir, that you know the whole, you will, I ain sure, lend me the money.” ‘‘ We will see about it to-morrow; your crown will for the present, provide a few necessaries: so rest in quiet, my good girl, for believe me, the bit of boiled mutton and turnips were heartily relished by the man; and the water, as you call it, the children, who I suppose had been out at work all day, ate with a keener appetite than you would have partaken of the most delicate ~Zands.” The next morning Lady Mary, who was not an early riser, and did not generally make her appear- ance till the rest of the family were seated at the break fast-table, was surprised, upon entering the Eloy to find Miss Blakeney and Miss Melville iad. just returned from a walk in which they had been accompanied by their guardian, their hair dis- ordered by the morning breeze, and their coun- enances glowing with health and pleasure, “You are an idler, Mary Lumly,” said Mr. Matthews, ‘' but exerciseis so necessary to preserve health that I am resolved that you shall accompany me in @ round of yisits to some of my parishioners this morning.” This was an invitation he frequently gave to one or the other of the fair orphans under his protection, The morning was fine, and Lady Mary, hoping he would take the path through the copse, readily assented, and be- ing soon equipped for her walk, gaily tripped by his side till she found that he took a directly opposite path to what she had expected. ‘I was in hopes you would have gone with me to visit the poor people I mentioned,” said she in rather a supplicating voice. ‘ All in good time, child,” he replied, “I have several poor and sick persons to visit." The first cottage they entered, they saw a pale-looking woman at her spinning;ae ee THE THREE ORPHANS. 25 near her, two children seated on a stool, held a spelling-book between them, and in an old high- backed arm-chair sat a man, the very picture of misery; his feet and hands were wrapped in coarse flannel. Everything around them indicated ex- treme poverty, yet everything was perfectly clean ; the children’s clothes were coarse, but not ragged, the mother preferring a patch of a different color, to a hole or rent “ How are you, neighbor?” said Mr. Matthews, ‘and how are you, my good dame, and how do you contrive to keep allso tight and orderly, when you have a sick husband to attend, and nothing but your own labor to support him, yourself and your children?” ‘Oh, sir,’ said the woman, rising, ‘‘ we have much to be thankful for. The good Sir Robert Ainslie has ordered his steward to let us live in this cottage, rent free, till my husband shall get better, and the housekeeper, lets little Bessy here have a pitcher of milk anda plate of cold meat every now and then; so, please ‘our reverence, we are not so bad off as we might e. “ What is the matter with your husband ?” asked Lady Mary, with a look of wonder at the woman’s expression of contentment, when there was 80 much apparent wretchedness around her. “Why, your ladyship, Thomas, though he be an industrious, kind husband, was never over strong; he worked too hard, and last summer took a bad fever ; and when he was getting better, he would co to work again before he had got up his strength ; the season was very wet, and he was out late and early, so, you see, he got abad cold, and his fever came on worse than ever, and the rheumatics set in, and ever since he has been a cripple like, not being able to use his hands or feet.” “ Dear me, thatisvery terrible,” said Lady Mary, 326 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; OR, “how can you possibly live ?—how do you get time to work ?” ‘“T gets up early, my lady, and sits up late; sometimes I can earn, one way or another, three and sixpence a week, and sometimes, but not very often, five shillings.” ‘ Five shillings!” repeated the astonished Mary; ‘can four people live on five shillings a week?” “Mr. Matthews had been, during this time, talking with the invalid, but catching her last words, he replied, ‘‘ Aye, child, and many worthy, honest Christians with larger families are obliged to do with less,” ‘We, I am sure,” said Thomas, “ought not to complain, thanks be to God and my good dame, we are in the main comfortable ; but I fear me, your reverence, she will kill herself, she washes and mends our clothes when she ought to be resting, after spinning all day, or going out to work, to help the peutlatolicg servants to wash and clean house. I sometimes hope and pray that I may soon recover the use of my hands and feet, or that it will please my Maker to lay me at rest. “No! no! Heaven forbid, Thomas; I can work very well, I can be content with anything, so yoa are spared, and you will get well by and by, and then we shall all be happy again.” The tears which had for some time trembled in Lady Mary’s eyes, nowrushed down her cheeks, she drew forth herempty purse and looked beseech- ingly at Mr. Matthews. He did not particularly notice her, but asked, ‘* Does the doctor attend you regularly? Is he kind and considerate ? “Oh yes, sir, and we gets all the physic and such stuff from the Potticary without paying, thanks to you, reverend sir; then the housekeeper at the great house sent us some oatmeal and saga, a nutmeg and a whole bottle of wine, and that hasTHE THREE ORPHANS. OF made poor Thomas comfortable for above a month ast. Oh, we have 80 many blessings.” Mr. Matthews gave the woman an approving smile, and presenting her with half a crown, said, “This young lady desires me to give you this; it may enable you to add a little to your comforts. Good morning! continue this humble, contented frame of mind, and rely on your Heavenly Father; He will in His own good time relieve you from your difficulties, or enable you to support them with patience.” “ My dear sir,” said Lady Mary when they had left the cottage, “ what a trifle you gave to that distressed family.” “Mary,” replied the Rector, ‘it is not the be- stowing large sums that constitutes real benevo- lence, nor do such donations ultimately benefit the persons on whom they are bestowed; they rather serveto paralyze the hand of industry, while they lead the individual to depend on adventitious cir- cumstances for relief, instead of exerting his own energies to soften or surmount the difficulties with which be may be surrounded.” Many other calls were made in the course of the morning, till at length they stopped at a very small cottage, and on entering, Mary was struck with the appearance of an elderly man and woman both seemingly past the period of being useful either to themselves or others. A few embers were in the grate, over which hung a teakettle, and on a deal table stood a pewter teapot, some yellow cups and saucers and a piece of the same kind of bread, the sight of which had filled her with dis- gust the evening before; little dark brown sugar and about a gill of skimmed milk completed the reparation for their humble meal. “Why, you are early at your tea, or late at your breakfast, Gammer,” said Mr. Matthews, as here Meticaeraeaaeainn cauecrmar me rremgumme in 28 CHARLOTTE'S DAUGHTER; oR, entered. The old dame laid down the patchwork with which she had been employing herself, and her husband closed the Bible in which he was reading. ‘“ Bless you, good sir,” said he, “tea ig often all our sustenance, and serves for breakfast, dinner and supper; but we are old, and can take but little exercise, so a little food suffices ; if sometimes we can get a morsel of bacon or a crumb of cheese to relish our bread, it is quite a treat, and a herring laid on the coals is a feast indeed ; but it is long since we have known better times, and we be got used to thechange, I wish indeed, sometimes, that I had something to comfort my poor old dame, but since the death of our little darlings, what sustains our tottering frames is of little consequence ; we are thankful for what we have.” “ Thankful,” said Lady Mary internally, “ thank- ful for such a poor shed to keep them from the weather, such a miserable looking bed to rest their old limbs upon, and some black tea and dry bread for their only meal,” Mr. Matthews saw that she was struck, and wil- ling to give her time for rumination, sat down be- side the old man on a stool. The only yacant wooden chair being dusted by the dame, Lady Mary seated herself, and pursuing her train of thought, audibly said, “ I should think poor woman, you had cause for repining and discontent rather than thankfulness,” ‘ Ah, no lady,” she replied, ‘ what right have I to expect more than others? how many thousands in this kingdom have not even a hovel to shelter them, scarcely a rag to cover them, and only the bare grouud to sleep on, whilst their poor children beg their daily bread from door to door.” “ Dreadful!” said Lady Mary, and her cheeks assumed a marble hue,——_<$_$<—<$<—— THE THREE ORPHANS. 29 “But that is not the worst,’’ continued the woman, ‘‘many of these poor souls are asignorant as the blackamoors of Africa; they cannot read their Bibles; they donot know that idleness is next to thieving; they do not know the God who made them, or the Saviour whoredeemed them. How much happier are we! This is a poor place, to be sure, but it is our own, and if our bed is hard, we can lie down with quiet consciences ; if we have but little food, we eat it with thankfulness; and when we are low-spirited, our frames feeble and our hearts oppressed, we can read the word of consola- tion in God’s own book. Oh, lady, these are great blessings.” “ But I understood from what your husband said, that you had seen better days; how can you bring your mind to bear the ills of age and poverty with- out complaint.” “Ttis because I know that He who has allotted my portion, knows what is best for me. It is be- cause I am fully sensible that His bounties are far beyond my deserts.” “ What? such poor fare! such a hut! and youa good, well-conducted woman, and these wretched accomodations more than you deserve ?”’ “Yes lady, had the best of us no more than we deserve, our portion would be hard indeed. You say I have seen better days; so I have. But I weary you, andl beg your pardon, too, reverend Ait. “You have it, dame; go on, tell the story to that young lady ; I have much to say to your good man.” Thus encouraged, Gammer Lounsdale again ad- dressed her attentive auditor. ‘ When l married my good man there, I had three hundred pounds, which had been left me by my grandfather, and my husband had scraped together about as much |cepa Se ee SE IPP sit! CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, So we stocked a farm, and for years went on quite well; we never had but one child; it was , and, God forgive us! we were very proud of her, for Alice Lounsdale grew up a very pretty young woman. I taught her to be domestic, and to use her needle, but alack-a-day, I did not teach her to know herself. There was our first great fault, and when the people praised her beauty or her singing, (for Alice sung sweetly, lady,) we used to join in the praise, and her father, poor man, would chuck her under the chin, and g in good time we shall see our girl either a squire’s or @ parson’s lady. So Alice grew vain and conceited, ard in an eyil hour, we consented that she should pay a visit to a neighboring market-town, and attend a dancing-school, for as we had settled it in our weak heads that she was to be a lady, it was but right that she should learn to dance, her visit to Dorking, (for at that period we lived in Surrey,) she became acquainted witha young man, the son of a reputable tradesman in to see her; and, to make short of my story, when she was eighteen, with the consent of both his parents and her own, Alice became his wife. We gave her five hundred pounds, his father gave him seven hundred, which furnished a small house neatly in Croyden, where he connections, and stocked ashop in the grocery line. ‘For some time, things went on smoothly ; and when her father and I visited after their marria before-hand. He appeared to be industrious and attentive, and Alice was cheerful and happy. I staid with my good girl during her first confine- asvery proud of the little grandson she presented me. After this I saw ay, aye! aye! a8 now turned of fifteen, and during After her return, he sometimes called had some family them about a year 8@, we thought they were gettingTHE THREE ORPHANS. 31 her nomore for two years, but I used to fancy tha her letters were not so sprightly as formerly. However, [ knew that when a woman becomes a wile and mother, the vivacity of girlhood is sobered. However, some reports having reached us that her husband was become unsteady, and that it was thought he was much involved in debt, my good man took a journey to inquireabout it. He found things worse than had been represented. Alice was pale, dejected and miserable ; her husband had got acquainted with a set of worthless beings, who called themselves honest fellows ; frequented clubs, and acted private piays, which being done once in the hall of a public house and money taken for admission, they were all taken up and had to pay a heavy fine. ‘My husband had rot been many days in Croy- den, before he had reason to think that Alice was injured in the tenderest point, and that with her own domestic ; but she made no complaint, and while her father was considering what he should do that might best promote her happiness, Lewis, for that was her husband’s name, was arrested for fifteen hundred pounds, on his rote which he had given for stock, and as we afterwards learnt, sold at under price to supply his extravagance. Alice pleaded with her father to assist him ; her situation was delicate, and old Mr. Lewis being sent for, his affairs were compromised, the two fathers being bound to him. ‘My good man then returned home, where he had not been more than a month, when one even- ing just at dusk, a chaise stopped at the gate, and in a few moments, Alice, leading her little boy, ran up the walk, and throwing herself into my arms with an hysterical sob, fainted. It was long before she could articulate. At length she told us old Mr, Lewis was dead, his property was not suf-SOR IP Uses eeepc sate tang ie a ee ee a Sas, t if 1g a ie Hh it * if 8 an." i ae te oe 2A ; << eN a CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, ficient to pay his debts, that her heartless husband had taken what valuables he could collect, and raised money upon everything that was not already mortgaged, and absconded with the aban- doned woman I told you about. He had told Alice that he was going to Dorking to look into his late father’s affairs. Ah, lady, he had been there before, and gleaned all he could from the wreck, even to the leaving his old widowed mother destitute. The same night the woman who lived with Alice, having asked leave to g6 out, never returned, and upon examination it was found that she had taken her clothes, to which she had added some of the most valuable belonging to her mistress. “The next day the furniture of the house was taken by a man who said he had advanced money upon it, and my poor girl was literally turned into the street. In this distress, the landlord of a large inn had compassion on her. He advanced her a few guineas and sent her in his own chaise to her father, her best and only friend. “I found upon inquiry that my child had not been altogether faultless; she had been thoughtless in her. expenses, and never haying been controlled in her youth, she could not practise the necessary patience and forbearance which her situa’ion required ; so that instead of weaning her unhappy partner from his pursuits, she perhaps irritated his temper and made him more dissipated. A few days after her return, my paabandl was arrested upon the note, and being unable to pay so large a sum, his stock upon his farm was seized, and not being able to meet his rent, which from various circumstances had run for six months, we were obliged to quit the farm and take a cottage a little way from Croyden. Here Alice gave birth to a daughter, and a few days after was laid at rest inTHE THREE ORPHANS. 33 the grave. But our misfortunes were not ended. Though by Working hard and living poor, we kept free from debt, yet it was a struggle to Maintain the two children. “ But we managed to keep them clean and tidy, so that they went to school, and lovely babies they were, and my vain, proud heart made them idols, but it was God’s will that I should be humbled to the very dust. One night the thatch of our cottage caught fire, and we awoke almost suffocated with smoke. We sprang up; I caught up the girl and ran out, but before my husband could escape with the boy, a rafter fell, and T thought I had lost them both, but with great struggling he got out, though greatly bruised and burnt. The child was so hurt that he was a cripple as long as he lived. ‘“We-were now houseless, penniless and naked: neither of us very young, my health not good, and my husband likely to be confined months before he could go to work, if indeed he should be ever able to work again. A cottager who lived about a mile from us, who had got up early to carry something to Croyden market, saw the fire, and calling his son, they ran to our assistance, but nothing was saved, He took my husband on hig back; the lad took the boy ; both father and son had pulled off their outer Jackets to wrap them round me and my little girl; and we proceeded as well as we could to neighbor Woodstock’s cottage, “ They did all they could for us, but they were poor themselves, However, on applying to the squire, of whom we had rented the hut we had lived in, he bade his housekeeper send us some old clothes. She not only obeyed him in that, but brought us some little comforts, and with her came a sweet boy about the age of little Alice. When this dear child went back, he told his father, who34 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR 3 was then visiting the squire, how poor and how i sick we were, and the next day brought him to Be see us. “Sir Robert Ainslie, for it was he himself, P spoke to us kindly, gave us money to purchase some clothing, and procured a doctor to visit my husband and grandson; he also spoke to the min- ue ister about us, and he came to console and pray rE with us. Oh, lady, that was the greatest charity of all: for we did not know where to look for . consolation till he taught us. We had never con- y ' sidered that a good and all-wise Father has a right | to chastise his children when and how He pleases; i) we had been full of complaining and discontent before. But he read to us and prayed with us, and at length convinced us that it was possible to Hy be happy, though poor. ‘When my husband got able to move about, the dear boy, Master Ainslie, came with his father one day, and laying a folded paper on my lap, said, ‘Papa gives you that.’ So 1 opened it and found ; it was a gift of this place we now live in, and a re } promise of five guineas a year as long as I lived. ant “T could not speak to thank him. He told me ne a that he had lately purchased an estate in Hamp- shire: that he had been to look at it and have it ut in repair, just before he came into Surrey ; that he recollected this cottage, and had written to his steward to have it got ready for us, and that he : would have us sent to it free of all expense. “Well, in a short time we moved here and were happier than we had ever been in our lives before, for Sir Robert wrote about us to our good Rector ‘ here, who has comforted and strengthened our ee minds. Our dear Alice grew apace; she earned a little towards clothing herself, and then she was so dutiful to her grandfather and me, and so kind to her crippled brother. But seven years agone last ti co Sa eae ane cen Re P pierre phiTHE THREE ORPHANS, 35 Lammas, the small-pox came into the neighbor- hood. The boy took it first. Nothing could sepa- rate his sister from him, and jn one short week I followed both my darlings to the grave.” The old woman stopped a moment, put her hand to her forehead, then looking up meekly, cried in an undertone, ‘Thy will be done! It will not be long before I go to them, but they can never re- turn tome. It was the hand of mercy that took them, for what had they to make life desirable? The boy’s inheritance was decrepitude and poverty, and poor Alice had all her mother’s beauty, and who knows what snares might have been laid, what temptations might have assailed her. Sho might have been lost, both soul and body. Now, thanks be to God! she is safe in the house ‘of her Heavenly Father.” ‘“Come, child, itis time for us to be walking,” exclaimed Mr. Matthews; so taking leave of the old people, he led her out of the cottage. Perceiy- ing her cheeks wet with tears which she was en- deavoriag to conceal, “ These are good tears,” said he, “ indulge them freely; they flow from pity and admiration.” ‘‘ From pity, indeed,” she replied, ‘“ but I can- not admire what I do not rightly understand.” Then pausing a moment, she continued, “REY, Sin are not these people Methodists?” ‘What do you mean by a Methodist ?” “I hardly know how to explain myself, but I know I have often heard my mamma and govern- ess laugh about some folks that lived in our neigh- borhood, who use to talk a great deal about reli- gion, and pray and sing psalms, even when they were in trouble, and they called them Methodists!” ‘Ts it then,’ said Mr. Matthews gravely, “a ridiculous thing to say our prayers, or praise the name of Him from whom all our bles sings proceed ?” aa on he hat BEDS POOR AED tie Bi ROS inal i BS hs AROS in Roe teehein ratte RSee I mannan = seas Sm Dee a ae ee ee os 36 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER 5 OR, ‘No sir,” but when He has taken from us those we love, it is difficult to feel perfectly resigned. I am sure I could not praise Him when my mamma died.”’ ‘But you could pray to Him, I hope?” ‘No, indeed | could not; I thought Him very cruel, ‘Poor child,” said he, tenderly, “what a barren waste thy mind was at that time.” ‘But you have made me better, sir.” “T hope God will make you wiser, my love! And now, Mary, let me advise you never to use the term Methodist in this way again. Dame Lounsdale and her husband are good, pious mem- bers of the church of England; they are what every Christian should be humble, devout, and grateful, but let the mode in which they worship be what it may, if they are sincere, they will be accepted: there are many roads to the foot of the cross, and whichever may be taken, if it is pursued with a pure and upright heart, is safe, and He who suf- fered on it, will remove every burthen from us, whether it be earthly afflictions, or sorrow for com- mitted offences.” While Mr. Matthews was speak- ing, asudden turn in the road made Lady Mary start, for she beheld just before her, the identical cottage to which she had been so desirous to come when they first began their ramble.THE THREE ORPHANS. CHAPTER V. A LESSON, CHANGE OF SCENE. ‘Ag TI live, sir,” said she, indelight, “there is the place I wanted to visit.” “Then we will go in andsee how the poor people are,” said Mr. Matthews. They entered; but how changed was the scene, a clean, though coarsely furnished bed stool in one corner of the room; the old wooden frame had been removed; the room was neatly swept and sanded, a new saucepan was by the fire, in which gruel was boiling, the sick woman and her infant were in clean clothes befitting their station, and the old mother also appeared in better habiliments, whilst a healthy looking young woman was busied about some domestic concerns. Everything wore such a look of comfort, that Lady Mary thought she had mistaken the place. But the old woman recognized her, and rising, began to say how lucky her good ladyship’s visit had been to them all, for that morning two beauti- ful young ladies came to see them. ““Mayhap,” continued she, “ they be your sisters, though they were so good-natured and condescend- ing, they seemed more like angels than aught else; and it was not more than two hours after they went away, that a man came to the door with a cart, and what should be in it, think ye, but that nice bedstead and bed, with blankets, and sheets, and coverlet, and some clothes for Sally and her baby, and he brought that good young body to tend she till she be up again; dear heart! how John will be surprised when he comes home, he wont know =38 his place, not he, but will think the fairies have been here.” “Ah |’ said Lady Mary, looking at Mr. Matthews, ‘“T fancy I know who the fairies were.”’ The Rector put his finger on his lip, and telling the woman that he was glad to find they were so well provided for, he led his ward from the cottage. ‘Now, Mary,” said he, smiling, ‘“‘how much do you think those fairies, whom you so shrewdly giess at, expended for all the comforts_and conve- niences these poor people seem to have acquired since last evening?” “Oh! a great deal,” said she, “more than five guineas, I daresay. First thereis a bed—" “That is not a bed, but asecond-hand mattress, which, though a good one, cost little or nothing. The blankets and coverlet, came from my house, and are, with the bed-linen, Jentonly. If we find the woman on her recovery, industrious, clean, and well-behaved, they will be given to her. The rest was very trifling, a little tea, oatmeal, sugar, and materials for brown bread, half a cheese, half a side of.bacon, some coals and candles, were all purchased for less than a guinea and a-half. Had you given the sum you intended, they would have squandered it away, and not made themselves half so comfortable. Imake a point of inquiring the characters of any poor who are my parishioners, before I give them any relief, and this morning while Lucy and Aura were visiting your proteges, I investigated their character. The man is an honest, hard-working fellow; his wife, I find from good authority, is idle, and by no meanscleanly in her habits. You, child, have no idea how much the prosperity and comfort of a poor man, and often of a rich man, too, depends on the conduct of his wife. Theold woman is his wife’s mother ; she is old and feeble, can do but little, and often, by a CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; OR,THE THREE ORPHANS. 39 querulous temper, makes things worse than they would otherwise be. You say the children were ragged and dirty ; I shall see that they are com- fortably clothed, and if I find that the clothes are kept whole and clean, I will befriend the family farther; but if they are let run to rags, without washing or mending, I shall do no more.” Thus, in walking, chatting, making various calls, and commenting on the scenes they witnessed, time passed unobserved by Lady Mary, At length Mr. Matthews, drawing out his watch, ex- claimed, *‘ I protest, it is almost four o’clock.” “Indeed!” said Mary, ‘I am afraid we shall have dinner waiting.” The Rector’s hour cf din- ing was half-past three. “T do not think they will wait,” he replied, “I have frequently requested they would not wait for me; for you know I am frequently detained by a sick bed, or an unhappy person, whose mind is depressed.” They had now a mile to walk, and Lady Mary assured the Rector that she was ‘‘ very, very hun- ry!” Arriving at home, they discovered that the family had dined, and the ladies gone out on some articular purpose. A cloth had been therefore laid in the study for the ramblers. “Come,” said Mr. Matthews, ‘sit down, Mary ; you say your are hungry; we will waive ceremony on this occasion, and you shall dine in your morn- ing dress. What have we here?” he continued, raising a cover, and discovering part of a boiled leg of mutton, which had been kept perfectly hot, and on a dish beside it, stood a few turnips, not mashed. “Are there no capers, John?” “No gir: the cook did not recollect that they were out till it was too late to get any, and my mistress said she was sure you would excuse it.”—$$ 40 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; OR, ‘Well, well; we must do as well as we can,” , said he, laying a slice of mutton and one of the i turnips, on Lady Mary’s plate. ee She did not wait for other sauce than a keen fea! appetite, but having dispatched two or three slices . I of the meat, with a good quantity of the vegeta- ble and bread, declared she never had relished a ie dinner so well in her life. RES" “You will have a bit of tart?” said the Rector, ‘Tl warrant John can find one, or a bit of cheese | and biscuit.” ‘ “Oh no! my dear sir, I have eaten so heartily.” eae _ “ Poor, dear young woman!’’ said Mr. Matthews, in an affected tone of sensibility, ‘‘how my heart i) | aches for you, out ail the morning, walking from ef cottage to cottage, coming home hungry and weary, Be i and had nothing to eat but a bit of boiled Bie th mutton and turnips, and to wash it down, a glass of cold water.’ Here Mr. Matthews pretended to sob; when Lady Mary, comprehending the ridicule, burst out a laughing. rit “ You see, my child,” said he, assuming his own Ay hi, kind and gracious manner, ‘‘ how misplaced sensi- ae be bility is, when it fancies anything more than MVE: wholesome fare, however plain or coarse it may be, ny is necessary to satisfy the appetite of those whom Ha es exercise or labor have rendered really hungry. ae | Where, indeed, there is a scanty quantity, it should . awaken our good feelings, and lead us to extend ‘ the hand of charity.” : ‘Dear sir,’ said Lady Mary, ‘‘you have this : day taught me a lesson that I trust through life I shall never forget.” Month after month, and year after year, passed on while Mr. Matthews was endeavoring to cul- «" tivate the understandings, fortify the principles, Ee and, by air and excercise, invigorate the frames of his fair wards, During the six pleasantest months, OEE, ra ee teh ee ne ee ee ee Oe saTHE THREE ORPHANS. Al masters in music and drawing, from Southampton, attended Lady Mary and Miss Blakeney, and the other six, they employed themselves in imparting what. they had gained to Aura Melville, in her leisure hours, Thus they were improved in a far greater de- gree, by the attention necessary to bestow on every acquirement in which they were desirous to in- struct her. There were many genteel families in the neighborhood, but none visited on a more in- timate footing, than that of Sir Robert Ainslie. His son Edward had become a great favorite at the Rectory ever since they had known the story of old Dame Lounsdale and the cottage; but as he was pursuing his studies at Oxford, they saw him but seldom. It was in the summer of 1794, when Lucy had just entered her twentieth year, that Mrs, Caven- dish proposed that, to change the scene, and give the young people a glimpse of the fashionable world, a ae weeks should be spent in Brighton, and that, the ensuing winter, thee should go to London. Mr. and Mrs. Matthews were fondly at- tached to the place where they had passed so many happy years, yet, sensible that Lucy in particular, should be introduced properly into a world where she would most likely be called upon to act a pro- minent part, they consented, and about the latter part of Tih they commenced their journey. Sir Robert Ainslie and his son were to meet them there, for Edward was to be their escort to public places, when Mr. Matthews felt disinclined to mix in the gay scenes of fashionable life, their attendant in the walks upon the Stiene or excur- sions in the beautiful environs of Brighton. This was very pleasant to the whole party. The elderly ladies were fond of the society of Sir Ro- bert, Mr. Matthews regarded him as an old and 4.*Se eee. A a eee ee te ee i ie if os, CORE Rate aR orn 4,2 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, esteemed friend, and the young ones as a kind of parent, and his son as their brother. Lady Mary, indeed, could have fancied herself in. love with Edward, and often in the most pathetic terms la- mented to her young companions that he was not nobly born, he was so handsome, so generous, so gallant. “Yes,” said Aura, with an arch glance from under her long eyelashes, ‘so generally gallant that no one can have the vanity to suppose herself a particular favorite.” ‘No, indeed, that is true, and I should lament to find myself particularized by him, as you know my poor mother used to say she could not rest in her grave if she thought I should ever match myself with any one below the rank of nobility.” “I think,” said Aura, laughing, “you need be under no apprehension, unless indeed it should be from the fear that should he offer, you might not be able to keep your resolution.” They were soon settled in their new abode at Brighton, their names enrolled on the books at the rooms, libraries, &c., and the unaffected manners of the three fair orphans, their simple style of dress, unobtrusive beauty, and the general report that they were all three heiresses, drew numerous ad- mirers and pretenders around them. But the grave and gentlemanly manners of Mr. Matthews, the stately hauteur of Mrs. Cavendish, with the brotherly attention of Edward Ainslie, kept im- pertinence and intrusion at an awful distance, Edward felt kindly to all, but his heart gave the preference to Lucy, though he feared to give way to its natural impulse, lest the world, nay, even the object of his tenderness, should think him in- terested, Sir Robert Ainslie had two sons and a daughter by a former marriage; these were married andTHE THREE ORPHANS. 43 settled, and were too much the seniors of the pre- sent young party to ever have been in habits ot in- timacy with them. The mother of Edward had survived his birth but a few years, and he became the consoler, delight, and darling of his father. The youth was endowed with fine talents, a mind of the strictest rectitude, and perhaps a remark that his cool, calculating eldest brother once made, that it would be a fine spec for Ned, if he could catch the handsome heiress, led him to put acurb on that sensibility and admiration which might other- wise have led him to appear as her professed lover. One fine morning, as they were strolling on the Stiene, an elegant youth, in military uniform, ac- costed him with ‘“‘ Ainslie, my dear lad, how are you? This is a lucky encounter for me; for 1 hope you spend some time here ; my regiment is here on duty for six months.’ Edward received his proffered hand with great cordiality, and presenting him to the ladies as Lieutenant Franklin, of the re- giment, named to his friend each of the fair trio, and he joining the party, they sauntered on the sands an hour longer, waited on the ladies to Mr. Matthews’ door, and then both gentlemen bade them good-morning. “ Why, you are in luck’s way, Ned,” said the officer, ‘‘ to be on such easy terms with the graces; for really I must say your three beauties are worthy that appellation. Are you in any way related to either of them ?” ‘‘By no means,” he replied; ‘‘ my father is guar- dian to one, whois a splendid heiress, and in habits of great intimacy with the reverend Mr. Matthews, who is guardian to the other two.” ‘‘ Heiresses also, eh! Ned?” ‘Not exactly so; one has a genteel independence, the other, poor girl, is an orphan, whose family is only known to her guardian, and whose fortune,re ae ee eae BN a ence ee eee ee ene & ¥ Bi ft? ' & 44, CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, if report says true, depends entirely on his kind- ” ' ness. ‘But which is the heiress ?”’ ‘That I shall leave to your sagacity to discover: but I hope you do not mean to set out in life with interested views in the choice of a partner?” ‘Oh no; my good grandfather took care I should have no occasion to do that; he left me enough for comfort, and even elegance, with prudent man- agement, and as I have no propensities for gaming, racing, or other fashionable follies, I shall look out for good-nature, good sense, and discretion in a wife, in preference to wealth. To be sure, a little beauty, and a handsome address would, though not indispensable, be very acceptable qualities.” Lieutenant Franklin was the eldest of four sons, his father was an officer of artillery, had seen some hard service, passed a number of years abroad, and during that period had accumulated a large fortune. He had married the only daughter of a wealthy man, resident in the part of the world where he was stationed; was intrusted by govern- ment with providing military stores, &., during a seven years war, for a large army in actual ser- vice, and when the war was ended, returned to his owu country ; which he had left nine years before, a captain of artillery, with little besides his pay, an honorable descent, and fair character, to re- ceive the thanks of royalty for his intrepidity, and to dash into the world of splendor and gayety. His house was one of the most elegant in Portland Place, his equipage and establishment, such as might have become a nobleman of the first rank. sellevue, a large estate near Feversham in Kent, consisting of a large, handsome and commodious mansion, several well tenanted farms, pleasure grounds, fish-ponds, green and hot-houses, was pur- chased for his summer residence.THE THREE ORPHANS. 45 Promoted to the rank of colonel of artillery, and having held the office of chief engineer during his service abroad, the father of Lieutenant Franklin stood in an elevated rank, had associated with the first personages in the kingdom. His eldest son, as has been mentioned, was amply provided for, and had chosen the army for his profession. The others, as yet little more than boys, were finishing their education at some of the best establishments near London. His two daughters, Julia and Har- riet, were attended by masters at home, under the superintendence of an excellent governess. From the moment of his introduction to the fa- mily of Mr. Matthews, Sir Robert Ainsle having spoken of him in high terms, Mr. Franklin became a frequent, and always a welcome guest. Though Miss Blakeney was known to have an independent fortune, its extent was not confined even to her- self; for Mr. Matthews knew that wealth attracts flattery, and good as he believed Lucy’s heart to be, he feared for the frailty of human nature, if exposed to the breath of that worst of mental pol- sons, injudicous and indiscriminate adulation. A cursory observer would never havetaken Lucy for the independent heiress ; the retired modesty of her manners, the respectful deference which she paid her guardian and his family, united to an Intuitive politeness and real affection with which she €ver distinguished Aura Melville, would have led any one to think she was the dependent. Lady Mary was afraid of Aura; her wit, though in general harmlessly playful, was sometimes sar- castic, and the vain girl of quality often smarted under its lash, and if she met the steady eye of Aura at atime when she was displaying airs of self-complacency, her own would sink under it. The seniors of the family encouraged this involun- tary respect paid to their protege, and by their —~)aA ee ee ee ; eS ee 4 t 46 own manner towards her, gave their visitors reason to think that they were receiving, rather than con- ferring a favor, by her residence among them. Thus every circumstance coincided to establish the general idea entertained that Aura w.s the independent heiress, Lady Mary, a young person of rank, with only a moderate fortune, and Lucy Blakeney, the orphan, depending on the kindness of Mr. Matthews. Another circumstance contri- buted to the mistake. Miss Blakeney, though her guardian allowed her a very handsome stipend for clothes and pocket-money, was yet extremely sim- ple in her attire, her apparel was ever of the best quality, but it was unostentations; no display of splendor, no glitter or finery disfigured her inter- esting person ; and she scarcely ever purchaced a handsome article of dress for public occasions, without presenting something of the same kind, perhaps more elegant or of a finer texture than her own, to her friend Miss Melville, yet she contrived to do this without its being observed, for in all their little ehopping parties, Aura was uniformly purse-bearer, as Lucy used laughingly to say, to save herself trouble, but in reality to hide her own liberality. Franklin, then, easily fell into the common error: and charmed with the person and manners of Miss Blakeney, feeling how proud and happy he should feel to raise so lovely a young woman from de- pendence to a state of comparative affluence, he determined to scrutinize her conduct, mark her dis- position, and should all agree with the captivating external, to offer her his hand, and devote his life to her happiness, Lucy Blakeney, had she been really a destitute orphan, would, when she perceived Franklin’s attentions to be serious, and supposed that he imagined her to be an heiress, have in- sisted on Mr, Matthews’ explaining her real situa- CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR,THE THREE ORPHANS, 47 tion; but when the reverse was the case, what woman but would have felt highly flattered by the attention of one of the handsomest officers of the corps to which he belonged—a man of honor, and pertect rectitude of conduct, high in the esteem of personages of the first rank, and known to be in possession of a handsome fortune, who thus avow- edly loved her for herself alone? Mr. Matthews had a little spice of romance in his composition, and although he did not with- draw the veil from Miss Blakeney’s situation, he would have shrunk with horror from the idea of obtaining a splendid alliance for Aura upon the false supposition of her being an heiress. But there was no immediate call on the integ- rity of the conscientious guardian on this account. Though numerous were the moths and summer flies who, in expectation of a rich remuneration. flitted round Aura Melville, she kept them at such a dis- tance, that they neither disturbed her peace or an- noyed her in any way. They were all treated alike, sometimes listened to with perfect nonchal- ance, sometimes laughed at, and often mortified with an hauteur which bordered on contempt. —_—— CHAPTER VI. A RECONTRE, A BALL, LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. It was on one of those mornings when the visit- ants of Brighton sally forth to ransack libraries, torment shopkeepers, and lounge upon the Stiene, when Kdward Ainslie taking Lucy under one arm and Lady Mary under the other, having taken a walk upon the downs, strolled into one of the pub-seem 48 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; oR, lic libraries, where raffles, scandal and flirtation were going forward amongst an heterogeneous crowd, assembled there. At the upper end of the room sat an elderly gentleman in a military undress, apparently in very ill health ; beside him stood an elegant, fash- ionable woman, evidently past the meridian of life, but still bearing on her countenance traces of beauty and strong intellectual endowments, Ains- lie and his party had been conducted by the mas- ter of the shop to seats near these persons. ‘‘T wonder where Mr. Franklin is?” said Lady Mary, as she seated herself: “he has neglected us all last evening and this morning, and I shall scold him well when I see him again,” “I have no doubt,” said Lucy, “ but Mr. Frank- lin can give a very good account.” “Heavens!” exclaimed the lady who stood by the military invalid. ‘“ What is the matter, my dear? Ch! pray make way; let him have air; he is very weak.” Lucy looked round; the veteran had sunk upon the shoulder of his wife, pale and almost lifeless, Having some eau de Luce in her hand which she had just before purchased, Lucy stepped forward and presented it to the languid sufferer. The vo- latile revived him, he opened his eyes; and gazing wildly on Lucy, pushed her hand away, exclaiming: ‘Take her away ; this vision haunts me forever: sleeping or waking, it is still before me.” At that moment Lieutenant Franklin broke through the crowd that filled the room, and giving Ainslie and the ladies a slight bow of recognition, helped the poor invalid to rise, and assisted by the lady, led him to a carriage which waited at the door of the shop, the footman helped him in, and Franklin, handing in the lady, sprang in after them, and it drove off.ia. THE THREE ORPHANS. 49 “Who is he?’. “What is the matter?’ was the general inquiry. Ainslie’s party merely heard that 1t was a brave veteran, who had served many years abroad, and received a wound, from the ef- tects of which he still continued to suffer, and that he sometimes labored under slight fits of insanity, Lucy’s eyes filled. She thought of Sergeant Bland- ford, ‘But what is his disabled limb?” said she mentally, ‘compared to the sufferings of this brave oficer? Blandtord has but a poor cottage and the pay of an invalid, ’tis true; but he is cheerful, and even happy. This poor gentleman appears to be surrounded with affluence, but yet is misera- ble.” Ainslie sighed as he led them from the library, but made no remark. While Lady Mary said, “Dear! what a pity that a man who has so beautiful an equipage, should be so sick and un- happy. Only think how elegant his liveries were, and how richly the arms were emblazoned on the panels of the carriage.’ Lady Mary had become skilful in the language of heraldry, under the tui- tion of her mother, who doated on rank, pedigree, &c.,and could have held forth for hours on the crest, supporters, mottoes, and heraldic bearings of most of the noble families in England. Who was that young lady who offered your father the eau de Luce, and to whom you bowed this morning, Jack?” asked the mother of Franklin, as he sat tete-a-tete with her, after a melancholy dinner, on the eveniag of the day in which the events just related took place. ‘A Miss Blakeney—a very amiable girl, under the protection of the Rev. Mr. Matthews, who, with his wife and her sister, the honorable Mrs. Cavendish, and two young ladies to whom he is guardian, are passing a few weeks in Brighton. They are a charming family. I wish my father’s 5ares “esa Se Se oe yargo = TORR. 7 Rp ance: oe ene “ace Xv eh see eee ah eae AE 50 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; OR, health would permit my bringing you acquainted with them.” “Tt is impossible,” said his mother, sighing, «for besides that the health of your dear father is in a very precarious state, I fear that he has some- thing heavy at his heart; he is much altered, Jack, within the last few months ; his rest is disturbed, and indeed, it is only by powerful opiates that he obtains any, and by them alone the smallest exhil- aration of spirits.” : (His wound is no doubt very painful, my dear madam,” replied the son, “but we will hope that change of scene, and strict attention to the advice of the medical gentlemen who attend him, will in time restore him.” At that moment the Colonel's bell summoned his servant, and the mother of Franklin flew to the apartment of her husband, to strive to alleviate his sufferings by her tenderness, and cheer him by her conversation. “ Where was I, Julia,” said the Colonel, ‘‘ when that faintness seized me ?” «At the library near the Stiene, my dear. Do es not recollect the interestiny girl who presented er smelling bottle?” The Colonel put his hand to his head, spoke a few words in an under voice, and leaning back on a sofa on which he was seated, closed his eyes, and his wife continuing silent, he dropped into a per- turbed slumber. « We will return to London,” said he on awak- ing; ‘‘we will set off to-morrow, and then make an excursion to Margate and Ramsgate; from thence to Bellevue, where we will finish the sum- mer.” “Why not go to your sister’s for a few weeks? She will be much disappointed if we do not make her a visit this season.”oo THE THREE ORPHANS. 51 ‘What, to Hampshire? No! no!I cannot go to Ham shire.” The next morning, Mr. Franklin haying break- fasted with and taken leave of his parents, they set off fr>m Brighton, where they had been but three days, in the vain hope that another place would contribute to restore the health and spirits of the Colonel. As the delicacy of every member of Mr. Mat- thews’ family forbade the smallest recurrence to the recontre in the library with the invalid officer, who, they had learnt, was the father of Lieutenant Franklin, when two days after he mentioned the departure of his parents from Brighton, no remark was made, but the kind wish offered that his health might soon be restored. The officers upon duty at Brighton having re- ceived many civilities from numerous families of distinction, temporary residents there, determined, asit drew near the close of the season. to give a splendid ball. Mr. Matthews family were among the invited guests. Lady Mary was wild with de- heht, even Lucy felt somewhat exhilarated at the idea of a ball where all the splendor and fashion of the place would assemble, and where it was ex- pected some personages of exalted rank would make their appearance. Aura Melville was the most stoical of the trio, though it must be confessed her heart did palpitate a little qnicker than usual, when Edward Ainslie requested to be her partner the two first dances. Perhaps those guickened pulsations will in some measure account for the perfect indifference with which she had listened to all her admirers. Balls in anticipation, and indeed in reality, are very pleasdnt to those engaged in them, but most insufferably dull in detail, It will, therefore, beNS te eg eae Sea aah ees Sa cmp rencat pare eine, eae! al a at ere ee nn eT am Si 7 ACRE EEE Telagr G AE: “Pe vi irre a 52 CHARLOTTE S DAUGHTER; OR, sufficient to say that our three orphans enjoyed themselves extremely well. The attentions of Franklin to Lucy were very pointed. So much so, that Mr. Matthews was re- solved, should they continue, and the Lieutenant follow them into Hampshire, to call upon him for an explanation of hisintentions, and candidly state to him Miss Blakeney’s real situation, in order that, should an union take place, such settlements might be made as should secure to her independ- ence for life, whatever events might hereafter happen. The morning after the ball, Lady Mary held forth for afull hour upon the splendid appearance, gal- lant manners, and evident admiration of a young baronet, who had danced, flirted and flattered, till he had stirred up a strange commotion in her little vain heart. Lucy heard her, and smiled. Aura smiled, too, but it was with a look of arch meaning, while she replied to the often repeated question of, “Do you not own he is very handsome ite “Why, yes, as far as tolerable features, good eyes and teeth, with more than tolerable dress, goes, I think he is passable; but my dear Lady Mary, he has no noble blood in his veins: his grandfather was only Lord Mayor of London, and you know, you told me your mother would not rest in her grave if you matched with aught below nobility. Now Sir Stephen Haynes’ father, and his father before him, were only stalioners and booksellers— and who knows, my pretty Mary—Lady Mary, I beg your pardon—who knows but this very Sir Stephen Haynes may on the female side be a col- Jateral descendant of the renowned Whittington, who made such a fortunate voyage to St. Helena with bis cat.” “ How do you know it was to St. Hclena, Aura?” gaid Mr. Matthews looking up, for he had been Ts oe | ‘THE THREE ORPHANS. 53 reading in the parlor, where the young folks were talking over the events of the preceding evening. “Oh! I only surmised, sir because I read in some geographical work that the island of St. He- lena was infested with rats, so that the inhabitants could neither raise nor preserve grain of any kind upon it, in which case, a cat must have been avery valuable animal.” Lady Mary would have left the parlor in a pet, but that she hoped the baronet would call in the course of the morning. He did so, and exercised the art of flattery so successfully, that Mary Lumly totally forgot the expressions of her dying mother about her degrading herself by a plebeian marriage, and began to think she could be well content to be Lady Mary Haynes, though her husband was not a sprig of nobility. Mr. Matthews had the interest and happiness of each of the orphans under his guardianship much at heart. Hethought that Mary Lumly had many good natural qualities ; he saw they had been in- jured by the injudicious conduct of her mother; he had endeavored to rectify some of her romantic notions, and in some measure he had succeeded; but he knew enoughofhumantature, to be quite aware that when love and romance unite in the mind of a volatile young woman, there is scarcely a possi- bility of restraining her from taking her own way. Yet he felt it his duty to inquire into the circum- stances of the baronet. In three months Lady Mary would be her own mistress, and though her fortune was but trifling, yet settled on herself, it might secure to her those comforts and conveniences of life to which she had ever been accustomed. He found upon inquiry, that Sir Stephen Haynes, though the only son of a wealthy city knight, had pretty well dissipated his patrimony, and of the many thousand pounds by*i a mn ee ee ee a ee ject. For what will her seven thousand pounds 54 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, and hundred acres he had inherited from his father, all that remained was Walsteid Hall, a handsome seat in Wiltshire, with gardens, pinery, and farms for pasturage and tillage annexed, but which was deeply mortgaged ; so that his whole income at that veriod would not amount to seven thousand pounds @ year. ‘“Mary Lutnly has good sense,” said he to him- self, ‘‘I will speak to her upon this momentous sub- do? It will not clear him of incumbrances, and when it is gone, what is she to do? Mary,” said he, addressing her one morning when she was alone with him in the break‘a‘t-parlor, ‘‘ does this young man, who is such a favorite with you, as- pire to your hand ?” “He loves me, sir,” replied she, ‘‘ he has a noble estate in Wiltshire, isthe only son of a good family, and is willing to make any honorable arrange- ments previous to our union,” ‘You have, then, agreed to accept him ?” Lady Mary looked foolish. I—I have not refused Bini. sr,” ‘“ Well Mary, allow me to tell you that he isa bankrupt in both fortune and character. He has lost large sums at the gaming table, has associated with abandoned women, and unprincipled men. Can you hope for happiness in an union with such @ person ?” ‘“TTe may, and I have no doubt will reform, sir.” ‘“* May is barely possible, will hardly probable. Men who in early life have associated with profli- gate women, form their opinion of the sex in gen- eral from that early knowledge. They will not believe any woman capable of resisting tempta- tion, or practising self-denial on principle, because they have found dissolute wives, and easy con- quest in young women who are void of religionTHE THREE ORPHANS. 55 and virtue. Such men, Mary, may from passion, or from interest, protest that they love you: but, the passion gratified, the interested motives either complied with or disappointed (’tis of no conse- quence which) the stimulus loses its force, and the ardent lover sinks into the domestic tyrant, or the unfeeling savage.” “T cannot think, sir,” said Lady Mary, “ that Sir Stephen will degenerate into either.” “JT would hope, Mary Lumly,” he replied ‘ that you will not take a step of such consequence to your future peace as a matrimonial union, without exercising, not only your own understanding, but consulting me, the guardian under whom you were placed, and whose knowledge of the world will enable him to direct you to avoid those rocks and quicksands on which the voyagers of youth and inexperience are liable to be wrecked. 1 am very earnest in this cause; I know the delicacy with which you have been brought up; I am well ac- quainted with the dangerous, I had almost said weak sensibility to which you too frequently yield. It is my duty as your guardian, to take care that a proper settlement be made before you are mar- ried.” “ T shall not marry directly, sir,” said she, ‘‘and I believe in ashort period the law will consider me of an age to dispose of my own person, and take care of my own interest. “That is very true,’ said Mr. Matthews, with a sigh, ‘“‘ but let me conjure you, Lady Mary, not to be precipitate. Consult yourfriends. Be advised by those wholove you. Ill could you support the deprivations a dissipated, heartless husband may bring upon you: dreadful would be the pangs that would agonize your heart when that husband should treat with contempt and coldness the woman he now pretends to idolize.”PE PORTE a as TINE A Delite nee Sr eas Rie Gs a ae Ce ee \ iF - j MEET Bone OT 56 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, ‘‘I cannot believe either possible, sir.” “May you never find the suggestion realized, my poor child. I will, however, see Sir Stephen, and speak to him,” continued Mr. Matthews. ‘ I must beg you will not,” said the young lady petulantly; “Sir Stephen’s views must be disinter- ested. What is my paltry fortune to his estates and possessions? He says he doesnot want a shil- ling with me.” “Then, Mary, let him prove the truth of his as- sertion by settling the whole of your fortune on yourself,” ‘What, sir! when his mind is liberal, shall I aye myself a narrow-minded, selfish wretch, who as no confidence in the man she is about to make her husband? No, sir; when I make him master of my person, I shall also give him possession of my property; and I trust he is of too generous a disposition ever to abuse my confidence.” Lad Mary left the room, almost in tears, and Mr. Mat- thews, in order to compose his temper, which had been somewhat irritated by this unpleasant discus- sion, walked towards the Stiene. “What is the matter, Lady Mary?” said Miss Blakeney, as she encountered her young associate on the stairs. “Oh, nothing very particular; only my guardian has been lecturing me about Haynes, as if a young woman nearly twenty-one was not competent to conduct herself and judge of her own actions.” “Way; ‘as. to. that,’ replied Lucy, smiling, as they entered the drawing-room together, “some women are not adequate to the task at forty ; but jesting aside, I sincerely hope you will not take any decided step in this business contrary to the advice of Mr. Matthews. You have scarcely known Nir Stephen Haynes a fortnight, and are almost a stranger to his temper, habits and principles,”THE THREE ORPHANS. AT “You are nearly as much a strenger to Lieuten- ant Franklin, and yet I do not think that you would refuse him if he offered himself.” “You are mistaken, Lady Mary; I have no idea of romantic attachments, and laugh when I hear of love at first sight. I should never accept of any one without the approbation of Mr. Matthews, or my guardian, Sir Robert Ainslie; and I must have taken leave of my senses, before I should en- ter into engagements with a young man not quite twenty; for | understand Mr. Franklin is nearly a year younger than myself.” Were the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the elder ladies and Aura Melville; pleasurable engagements occupied the remainder of the day, and no incidents of consequence took place while they continued at Brighton. About the middle of September, they returned to their delightful residence near Southampton, and for two months, Ainslie, Haynesand Franklin, appeared not in the family circle. The first at- tended his father to London; the second was on the turf, dashing away upon the credit of intend- ing soon to marry Lady Mary Lumly, whom he represented as a rich heiress ; and the third con- ined to Brighton by his remaining term of duty,La nT eam eee f CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, CHAPTER VII. FOLLY, RECTITUDE, A VISIT TO SERGEANT BLAND- FORD. ‘“Where in the world can Mary Lumly be,” said Mrs. Cavendish, as the evening drew in, and the chill air of October reminded the*inmates of Mr. Matthews’ mansion that no one could be walking for pleasure at that hour. Lady Mary had gone out in the morning, expressing her inten- tion of spending the day with Miss Brenton. Now as it was customary for Mrs. Brenton’s servant to attend the young lady homeif she staid to a late hour, the family did not feel much alarmed until ten o’clock approached. Mr. Matthews broke off a game of chess he was playing with Lucy, and looked at his. watch, Aura paced the room, and the two elder ladies expressed much uneasiness. At length a ring at the gate made them start. Mr. Matthews, in his anxiety, preceded the servant to the door, and was well convinced by the pre¢ipi- tate retreat of the person who accompanied Lady Mary that it was no menial; nay, he fancied that he saw him kiss her hand, as he opened the door for her admittance. “You are imprudent, Mary,” said the anxious guardian, ‘‘to be out so late on this chilly evening and with such slight covering. Who was the person who parted from you at the door?” ‘“A gentlemen who dined at Mrs Brenton’s.”’ “And does Lady Mary Lumly allow herself ta be escorted the distance of nearly a mile, in an un- frequented road, at this hour, by a stranger ?” ‘‘ He was no stranger to Mrs, Brenton, sir.” ’THE THREE ORPHANS, 59 “Nor to you, Mary, or I am mistaken.” ‘‘T have seen him before,” said she, hesitating ; “I have met him several times;” and taking a light from the sideboard where several were placed, she left the room. “Mary will throw herself away,” said Mrs. Matthews. “Then she must abide the consequences,” replied Mrs, Cavendish. Ah, much 1 fear.” rejoined her sister, ‘‘ the punishment will exceed the offence. That may be committed in a moment of romantic folly ; but the bitter repentance that will succeed, may last through a long and miserable life.” Soon after Christmas, which no circumstances whatever would have prevented Mr. Matthews ftom celebrating in his own mansion and at his own church, the family removed to London, where a handsome ready-furnished house in Southampton street, Bloomsbury Square, had been taken for them by Sir Robert Ainslie. Here Sir Stephen Haynes renewed his visits, but generally took care to call when he was sure of meeting other company, and assiduously avoided giving Mr. Matthews an oppor- tunity of speaking to him alone. His manners to Lady Mary were polite, but distant, and her guar- dian began to surmise that he had altered his plans, and had some wealthier prize in view; he was therefore thrown off his guard, and determined to take no further notice of the subject to his fair ward, The seventeenth of February was Lady Mary’s birth-day, that ardently desired day which freed her from the trammels of restraint, and made her, as she joyously expressed, when Lucy and Aura affectionately kissed her and gave their congratu- lations, a free and independent agent. ‘‘Then,” said Aura, seriously, ‘I hope you willeee a cee ne ne eee =< eee er 80 capable of deciding upon what would constitute the happiness of a young and beautiful woman, But Theresa Brenton, in abetting the elopement had overreached herself. She had no idea that when she received, by Lady Mary’s order, the whole of her little fortune from Sir Robert Ainslie, that the innocent, confiding girl meant to give it unconditionally to her husband before he had made the promised settlements, which even at that time she had no doubt that he had the pewer to make. But when she found it impossible to per- suade her from so doing, she strongly urged her to retain the five hundred pounds in her own hands, When dinner was announced, and the ladies inet Sir Stephen, Lady Mary strove tosmile Miss Pren- ton wasremarkably cheerful, and when the cloth was removed, he made a proposal to visit Alnwick Castle that aiternoon. The smiles naturally re- turned to the face of his bride, and the carriage being ordered, they proceeded to the stately mansion of the Percys. Sir Stephen knew when he made the proposal, that some of the family being at that time in Northumberland, it was not likely that they would be admitted to view the Castle, and when he re- ceived for answer, on applying for admittance at the porter’s lodge, that there was company there at present, turning to Lady Mary, he said, ‘“ Well, it can’t be helped, but we will take a drive round to view a little romantic spot which I am sure you will be pleased with; when I went out this morning, I met a friend I had not seen for many years, who now lives within a short distance of Alnwick ; I walked with him to his house, where he resides with his mother, and from thence. on one of his horses, accompanied him on a ride in this delightful country, where there is so much to gratify both the taste and the judgment.” CHARLOTTE S DAUGHTER; OR,THE THREE ORPHANS. 81 As they rode along, Sir Stephen was uncom- monly attentive and entertaining. Atan opening from a wood, he pointed out a cottage, built in the antique style, with a garden gay with early spring flowers, and surrounded by a small patch of ground in which were a variety of beautiful flowering shrubs, though they now only showed th ir under green leaves. The ladies both exclaimed, “Well, what a lovely place it is; just a situa- tion to realize the idea of love in a cottage.” Sir Stephen bade the postilion drive up to the gate. ‘‘ Come,” said he, ‘we will alight and get some tea here. There will be a fine moon this evening, and we shall have a pleasant drive afterwards.” But Miss Brenton observed, ‘ that she thought the road they had come was very lonely ; they had seen but few passengers, and those not very prepossess- ing in their looks.” “ Besides,” said Lady Mary, “this is certainly not a house of entertainment.” ‘We shall try that,” said he, jumping out; and insisting. on the ladies alighting, he led the way up to an old-fashioned porch, over which climbed the woodbine and sweet brier, just bursting into vegetation, An elderly woman opened the door and ushered them into a not inelegant, but small parlor. ‘Where is Mr. Craftly ?” asked Sir Stephen. ‘‘T expect him in every moment, your honor!” said the woman, whom we will call Janet, ‘and he told me should your honor arrive before him, to show the ladies their rooms, and obey their or- ders in everything.” The ladies were struck almost dumb with aston- ishment. ‘Our rooms? Why, are we to remain here all night?” faintly articulated Lady Mary. “Your lady, Sir Stephen, has no night-clothes Seenya rar wba pete ae Sn a tae se cece ecrteee et ee OE Stee Deasrion nies eee : art ; § oF “f 82 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, here,” said Miss Brenton, with rather more firm- ness of voice, ‘‘ and how can we be accommodated in this little place?” ‘“Pho! Theresa,” he replied, half jocularly, ‘‘don’t raise obstacles where none really exist. I have ordered the trunks to be brought. I did not hike our situation at the inn, and my friend having offered me the use of this cottage for a short period, I concluded it would just suit Lady Mary’s taste; and you know you both declared just now it was exactly the situation to realize the idea of love wn a cottage.” “True,” said Lady Mary, with a slight degree of acrimony, “but 1 do not know how I shall like the cottage without the love.” At this moment Craftly entered, and Sir Ste- en taking his arm, walked into the little shrub- ery. What can this mean, Theresa?” inquired the fae and agitated bride. Miss Brenton shrugged er shoulders, but remained silent; and they con- cluded to go and inspect the apartments. The cottage consisted of two parlors, a kitchen and four bed-chambers, neatly, but not elegantly furnished. ‘“T wont stay here,” said Lady Mary. “But how shall we get away?” rejoined her companion, ‘for I believe the carriage is gone in which we came. But be patient, dear Mary ; this may only be a frolic of Sir Stephen’s, to try your temper. Take no notice, ask no questions, endea- vor to be cheerful, and all may be well, yet. He knew your mother’s attachment to rank and splendor; he may fear that you inherit her family pride.” ue I wish to Heaven I had!” she ardently replied, ‘IT should never have fallen into this humiliating situation.”THE THREE ORPHANS. 83 “Well, what is done cannot be undone,” said Theresa with a nonchalance surprising to her friend. At tea, though Mary was calm, she could not be cheerful. Miss Brenton was rather silent and observant. Crattly stayed the evening, and after supper, challenged Sir Stephen toa game at piquet. Tae ladies retired to their cllambers, where they found their truaks; but on looking round, Lady Mary missed her dressing-case, in which were her jewels and all her money except about twenty-five guineas, which were in Theresa’s purse. She had inquired into the establishment of the cottage, and found it consisted only of the elderly person she had first seen, who acted as cook and housekeeper, and a rude country girl, who was to attend the ladies and take care of the chambers, a half-grown boy, to clean knives and atten at meal times, and a poor old crone, who occasionally came to superintend the garden and grounds, The girl, accustomed to early hours, was gone to bed; the woman thought her work was fisished when the supper table was cleared, and the boy expressed his discontent when he found he must sit up to wait on the gentlemen. When, therefore, Lady Mary, on retiring to her room, found no one to assist her in undressing, or to go to Sir Stephen to inquire for her dressing- case, Miss Brenton, who felt more alarmed than she was willing to own, snatched up the candle— for there was but one in the apartment, and with- out apology, hastened back to the parlor. : ‘Sir Stephen,” said she, throwing open the door, “your lady’s dressing-case 1s not come.” ‘ Well,” he replied; ‘‘what of that? I suppose she can do without it for one night; lend her some of your things, Theresa, for I believe they are come,”ey ee an alae nea ee RTE i Pik : ay; Bh | Be af € st 2 ABy fre pe s ! ' R eae ‘ ‘ Rt ye N 5 fo x : < SN oct ‘ * eke ; iN cies x N fit a | aS Fipk Et N ae Pe N Sates Bigs ge > ak i geo : iN er a ph FY i be pF ‘ i Poe & iS f t S yi Bie iN i vi N & Hy ne Os E ? ba a hive ; Cree ae ea Fi. Part A Piet 1 Aegan. fet ie ice ti é ie pies eee oe} Nia eral t tae: eae f ey ee ay * ks i rn id Fe ‘ we it ® ‘ et 84 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER} OR, “They may be; but I was so disturbed upon missing this valuable case, (for it belonged to your lady’s mother, and she prizes it very highly,) that I did not look for, or even think of my own things.” ‘Well, well; I dare say it is safe enough ; I will see about it to-morrow; so, good Theresa, do go now, and leave us to play our game in peace.” ‘“What a fool I have been, and how I have mis- led poor Lady Mary,” said Miss Brenton, mentally, as she ascended the stairs. But endeavoring to suppress her feelings, and look cheerful as she en- tered the room where her friend was undressing, she said, “The box will be here to-morrow; you must condescend, dear Mary, to use my dressing appa- ratus to-night, and in the morning, I hope we shall prevail on Sir Stephen to give up the wild scheme of staying any time in this cottaye, and commence a journey, if not to London, at least into Hampshire, where 1 am sure my mother will be happy to receive you till Sir Stephen can look round and settle in a proper habitation.” After a few remarks, not very pleasant to either party, the ladies seperated; but though they re- tired to bed, sleep visited neither of them till nearly daylight. When it did overtake them, it was so profound that they did not wake till after nine in the morning. Lady Mary, on looking round, soon perceived Sir Stephen had not been in bed all night. A vague sensation of desolateness struck upon her heart; she started up, searched for a bell; no bell was to be found. She opened the chamber door and called aloud for Theresa, and in a few moments, wrapped only in a dressing-gown, her friend entered the room, “Sir Stephen has not been in his apartment allTHE THREE ORPHANS. been ready above an hour. Miss Brenton, as calmly as she could. hand.” the seal, and read as follows, ‘““mo MISS THERESA BRENTON: night, Theresa; what can be the meaning of this?” she exclaimed, wildly. Before Miss Brenton could reply, Janet, who had been listening, hearing the ladies speak, came up to say that breakfast had ‘Where is your master, good woman?” asked “My master? Mr. Craftly, does your ladyship mean? He walked vut with his honor, Sir Stephen, before five o’clock, and said he should not return to breakfast ; but Dora, when she was cleaning the parlor, where their honors played cards last night, sawed this bit of paper; but what it’s about, we can’t tell, for neither she nor I can read joining Before Janet had finished her harangue, Theresa had snatched the note from her hand, eagerly broke “You cannot be surprised Theresa, after the explanation which took place between Lady Mary and myself yesterday, that I should declare my utter inability to make those settlements which I talked of before our excursion to the North. Imust beg you to make my acknowledg- ments to the dear, generous girl, for all marks of fa- yor and kindness bestowed by her on her unwor- ty, humble servant; but my finances are in such a state, that it is totally impossible for me to take a journey to Wilts, as proposed, or to solicit her company to France, whither I must repair as speed- ily as possible, to rusticate, whilst my affairs in England are put in train to restore me to some comparative degree of affluence. My friend, Rich- ard Oraftly, Esq., has offered the cottage to you and your lovely friend as long as you may please to occupy it. He is, Miss Brenton, a man of goodON et ee eee ae te we | hd a bs ey ie E i j fe a ry Weer Week ta 4 beget tae x iP } & N ibs bie REN $a) t $ OR Bal Weeks ‘ i Poteet Fi : AeA Be Vs hie z fae ‘ hee a RS ie Ba f Pi te i bey iy i : an ws | Bot ae es fiGy Reaite TRE ‘ vibe tit aus > SNE TH Hey i Et. ioe : 86 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; OR, abilities, amiable disposition, and possessed of a small, but genteel and unincumbered estate, which, upon the death of his mother will be augmented He will call on you this afternoon. I recommend hum to your notice. My best wishes attend you and your fair associate, Lady Mary. “ T am, Dear Theresa, “Your obliged friend, &e. &e. ‘“ STEPHEN HAYNES,” “Give it me; give me that letter, Theresa!” ex- claimed Lady Mary, snatching it from Miss Brenton. Her frenzied eye glanced rapidly over its contents, and muttering, “Friend! Associate! Yes; it flashes on my mind ; I have no certificate ; he gives me no name, I am undone! undone! Oh! my Guardian! my dear, kind Lucy.” The letter fell from her hand; she clasped her fingers tightly across her forehead, and before the terrified and humane Janet could step forward to catch her, she fell lifeless on the floor, CHAPTER 1X, THE LETTER, THE BIRTH-DAY. Ocroper had almost expired; Lucy Blakeney began to count the hours when she should be re- lieved from the state of suspense, which, notw ith- standing her well regulated mind and subdued feel- ings, was very painful. She had occasionally heard through the Ainslie family of Franklin’s health, and that his father still remained in a weak andTHE THREE ORPHANS. 87 sometimes deranged state. Her mind was harassed; she even no longer took pleasure in visiting Bland- ford’s cottage. “T cannot account for it, Aura,” said she one day to Miss Melville, ‘but though my curiosity was awakened by the manner in which the old sergeant commenced his story, yet I cannot sum- mon resolution to ask him to tell it me; a certain terror spreads through my frame, and I wish to hear no more of it till 1 can hear it in company with Mr. Frankiin.” “ Alas, and a-well-a-day!” replied Aura, laugh- ing, ‘‘what a sad thing this tender something is, which we hardly dare own, and know not how to describe.” “Well, I will not deserve to be laughed at, Aura: for I willact upon principle, and am resolved to partake and enjoy all the comforts and innocent pleasures of life that may fallin my path, though one little thorn may pierce my foot in my pilgrim- age.” “Your foot, eee ee heart, Lucy ?” “Why, my good Aura, I shallstrive to keep it as far from my heart as I can.” “Do you remember, Lucy, what day next Thursday is?” asked Mr. Matthews, one morning as he sat at breakfast with his family. “Tt is my birth-day sir, is it not?” “Byen so, my good little girl;” for with Mr. Matthews, everything that was held very dear by him, was denominated litile. “Well,” continued he, ‘‘ and what shall we do to celebraté the day? I have no doubt but all the beaus and misses in the environs of Southampton, have long been anticipating splendid doings on the day when Miss Blakeney obtains her majority.” “ ] mean to have very splendid doings, sir.” * Indeed !” ’ae ee Or eet eae ee ae Deo ok eh Cee rat ee =, ORT LINP ON asta rset het a eh cpa aininir write apne es a ri ere BE er ete 88 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; OR ‘*'Yes—”’ “I wonder, then, Miss Blakeney, you did not give my brother and sister intimation of your in- tent,” said Mrs. Cavendish, “ that proper prepara- tions might have been made, without the hurry which must now ensue.” ‘Oh, my dear madam,” said Aura, “Lucy and I have been busy these two months past in prepar- ing for this interesting occasion ; and indeed, our invitations are already sent out, and every one, I do assure you, accepted.” “ Very extraordinary conduct, I think,” said the consequential old lady. “I wish you had given a little more time.” said Mrs. Matthews, mildly; ‘but, however, we will see what can be done. But what is it to be? A ball and supper, or a breakfast in fashionable style ?”’ “Oh, neither, madam, though I hope to make some dance, and some sing who are not much in the habit of doing such things,” Mrs. Cavendish had taken a large pinch of snuff, and having wiped the poudre tabac, from her up- per lip with one of the finest colored silk hand- kerchiefs, which, together with her elegant snuff- box she deposited in a filagree work-basket, which always stood beside her, and opening her delicate white cambric one, and laying it on her lap, was beginning to speak, when Mr. Matthews said, ‘‘ These girls are only playing tricks with us, sister. Lucy no more intends to have a party, than I intend to take a voyage to the moon.” ‘Don’t you be too sure, my dearsir,’” said Lucy, laying her hand playfully on his arm. ‘TI have really invited a party of forty to dine here on Thursday next, and all I have to ask is, that you will lend me the hall, and that Mrs. Matthews will have the goodness to order John to lay the 3THE THREE ORPHANS. 89 cloth in a simple manner for my guests, and permit the cook and housekeeper for all day on Wednesday to obey my injunction.” ‘Well, children,” said Mrs. Matthews, ‘I be- lieve you must have your way this once. It shall be, Lucy, as you wish.” ‘Bat come, Lucy,” said Mr. Matthews, “ lead us somewhat into the secret ; I suspect you will want a little cash to carry your fine plans into ef- fect.” ‘Not a doit, dear sir, till Thursday morning, when I shall want one hundred pounds in guineas, half guineas, crowns and half crowns.” “kixtravagant baggage,” he replied, his fine, venerable countenance glowing with pleasure. ‘ Now tell us the arrangements of the day.” “Oh! they are very simple. You know, my ever venerated Mr. Matthews, on that day I ex- pect to read a letter, the contents of which will most probably determine the hue of my future fate.’ She spoke with solemnity, and a slight con- vulsive tremor passed over her intelligent features. ‘If you please, let that letter remain uninyesti- gated till I retire for the night. I would enjoy the innocent festivities I have projected for the day. And now,” she continued, with more hilarity of manner, ‘‘I will tell you my plan. About twelve o'clock I expect my guests to begin to assemble; they will consist of a few of the oldest and most respected poor of your parish, with children and yrand-children. Auraand myself will receive them in the large sitting-parlor, when yourself, with whom I shall deposit my hundred pounds, shall portion 1f out amongst them, according to your judgment; for you must be the most proper per- son to decide upon their necessities and merits, You have ever been so liberal in your allowance to me, that having laid by a little hoard, Aura and g*ee eee a ae eae Pi en hah eT ee ee CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: oR, rm, the youngest and most delicate, and presents for the rest,” 2, ho!’ said Mr, Matthews, “so now the secret of the cause of the many jaunts to South- ampton lately, and the long conferences held in the dressing-room of a morning early, to which none but a few industrious young women were ‘‘Kven so, sir; for while we were gratifying our own whims, it was but just that they should not be ments, we employed those young persons to make iat they might be benefitted by forward- ing our scheme, without feeling the weight of obli- gation which I should think was a feeling most Tepugnant to the young and active. They have none of them been let into the secret of the use for which these garments are designed; but some of them, if not all, will partake of our festivi- Mrs. Cavendish had during this explanation, sat 1 her eyes fixed on Miss Blakeney’s face; she had folded and unfolded her cambric handker- chief several times, her eyes twinkled, she hemmed, applied the before mentioned silk handkerchief to her nose, and at length, reaching her hand across the table, she said, in no very firm voice, ‘“‘ You are certainly a most extraordinary young lady, and I begin to think I have never rightly understood Pardon me, child; I fear I have this morning been both illiberal and rude,” “So well acquainted as I am with Mrs. Cayen- dish’s good understanding and highly cultivated mind,” said Lucy, gracefully taking the extended hand, ‘it would be next to impossible that I could suspect her of ever being intentionally either illi- beral or rude,” provided garments for the oldest and so when Aura and I had cut the gar- “Well, well,” replied the old lady,THE THREE ORPHANS. 91 with one of her most knowing nods, “I trust I shall know you better in future.” On the Wednesday following, several good sur- loins of beef were roasted, hams boiled, pies baked, and on the Thursday morning “plum puddings boiled for the expected regale. It was scarcely twelve o'clock when the company began to assem- ble; the young brimful of joy, and the old antici- pating they hardly knew what, but all were cheerful and blithe with the most delightful sensa- tions. Amongst the first, arrived old Alice Louns- dale and her good man, brought by one of their neighbors whom Lucy had engaged for the pur- pose, in a chaise; nor were Thomas, who had now recovered the use of his limbs, with his good dame and children, forgotten, while the family who had excited so warmly Lady Mary Lumly’s romantic enthusiasm, were the blithest among the blithe, in the happy group, that not only filled the Rector’s eating-parlor, but partially filled the benches in the great hall; for Lucy’s forty, when children, grand-children, and in some cases great-grand-children were collected, amounted to about sixty. Dishes of common cake were handed round, with cheese and ale for the men, and wine- sangaree for the women. Mr. Matthews then, with a discriminating hand, portioned out the bounty of the heiress, according to the necessities of all, and many were that day provided with the means of passing through the ensuing winter with com- fort, who else must have been pinched, both for fuel and sustenance. At half. past two, tae tables, were plentifully spread, at which amongst the elder guests Mr. and Mrs. Matthews presided, and at that with the younger, sat Lucy and Aura, while Mrs. Caven- dish walked round, looked at their happy faces, and took her pinch of snuff with more exhilaratednn ieee Cee ee eee eau EE EEE innepeitein es sanig te Mig nmme gus Pn eh a re ne 92 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER} OR, feelings than she had experienced for years bo- fore, After dinner, Lucy and Aura invited the matrons to their own apartments, which adjoined each other, where each received a present of clothing adapted to her age, circumstances and family. The young ones sported cheerfullly in the grounds, the old men talked in groups round the hall chimney, where blazed an old-fashioned large and cheerful fire. At six, a regale of coffee, tea, and simple cakes, with bread and butter, were set forth; and before eight, all had retired to seek their homes, under the light of a brilliant full moon, And how did Lucy feel when all were departed ? She felt as a Christian ought to feel; she had cheered and lightened the hearts of many ; she had herself enjoyed the purest felicity during the whole day, and she mentally ejaculated, as taking the let- ter from her guardian, she sought her own apart- ment, “If I have now a bitter cup to drain, let me not repine. Ihave much, very much, to be grate- ful for, and what right have I to expect to walk over beds of roses without feeling the briers which surround the stalks on which those beautiful and fragrant flowers blossom.” She entered her chamber, bidding Aura good- night at the door, which closing, she sat down, the Jetter in her hand, which though unsealed, she had not the courage to open: at length, rallying her spirits, she unfolded the paper and read ‘TO MISS LUCY T, BLAKENEY, “To be delivered on the day she attains the age of twenty-one. “From the hour when I closed the eyes of your beloved, ill-fated mother, you, my dear Lucy, have been the delight and solace of your grandmotherTHE THREE ORPHANS. 93 and myself; and your amiable disposition has led us to hope that you may in future be the happy inheritress of the estate and property on which we have lived above thirty-five years; happy, my child, in bestowing comfort on others, and doubly happy in the enjoyment of reflected joy from grateful hearts. ‘You are in possession of independence from the bequest of Captain Blakeney, but you will find by my will, that itis my wish that not a far- thing of that bequest, either principal or interest, should be expended on you during your minority. The income arising from your heriditary estate, &c., being amply sufficient to clothe, board, and educate you in the style of agentlewoman. You are by law, entitled to the name and arms of Blake- ney, but there was a clause annexed to your god- father’s will which gave your dear grandmother and myself some uneasiness. It is that which in- sists that your future husband should change his own name to that of Blakeney, or the whole of the original bequest will be forfeited, and the accumu- lated interest only be yours. ‘My lamented wife, in her last hours, Lucy, said to me, ‘I wish, love, you may live to see our lovely child of an age when you may advise her never to shackle her sensibility by feeling as if she were obliged toreject the man whom she may love, and who might make her very happy, because himself or his friends should object to a change of name. I, myself have such a predilection for fam- ily names, that had it not been for particular cir- cumstances, and that the name of a female must at some time or other in all probability be changed, I should never have consented to our Lucy assum- ing the name of Blakeney. Should you be called hence before she is of a proper age to understand and be entrusted with every necessary communl-See o , . ne aceon A . OSE a a a eae ee ree tiie 94 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, cation on the subject of her birth, and other inter- esting circumstances, I must entreat you will b very explicit with her guardians, and letter addressed to herself.’ “Soon after this conversation, the companion and friend of my life, the heightener of all my joys, the consoler of al] my sorrows—the only woman I ever loved—left this transitory sphere for a more blissful region. From that moment ihe world, my Lucy, has appeared a blank, Not even your endearing cheerfulness, your affectionate sympathy, could call me back to any enjoyment in life. I have endeavored several times to nerve my feelings to the performance of this task, and have blamed myself for thus procrastinating it. But from several symptoms of failure in my mental and bodily vigor, I feel it will not be long before I follow my regretted partner into the world of spirits, ‘I expect to see Mr. Matthews in the course of a few weeks; I shall then make him the confidant of many sorrows, which have sunk deep into my heart, and drank its vital energies earlier than, perhaps, time might have impaired them. I en. treat, my Lucy, my last earthly treasure, that in no Mmomentous concern of your life you will act without consulting him, and when you hay sulted, abide entirely by his decision, “As it regards a matrimonial connection, let not the clause of your god-father’s will have an influence Your own patrimony will yield four hundred pounds a year ; this must half be settled on yourself. The accumalation of the interest on my friend Blakeney’s bequest will be very consid- erable in eleven years, This js your own, to be settled or disposed of as yourself may direct, I have, by insisting on halt your patrimony being settled on yourself previous to the day of marriage also leave a e€ con-THE THREE ORPHANS 95 secured to you the comforts and conveniences of life, as long as iife may be continued; for the rest, I leave you in charge of a good and heavenly Protector, who will never leave those to perish who rely on His Providence. ‘There is one thing, my ever dear child, I am very anxious about, and on which my charge to you will be very solemn. It is, that you will never marry any of the name of N x Here the stroke of death arrested the hand which held the pen, and the good old gentleman shies found, as already mentioned, dead in his easy chair. “ What can I think? how must I act?” said Lucy, as with stunned faculties she still gazed on the open letter on the table before her. I will deter- mine on nothing till 1 know the opinion of my guardian on the subject; in the meantime, | will implore the guidance and protection of HIM who knoweth best what is good for his children, and leave the event totime.’’ So concluding, she folded the letter, performed her nightly devotions, and retired to her bed. Lieutenant Franklin was now in London; his father, whose health was still very feeble, had, with his family, taken up their residence in their house in Portland Place. He had counted the days with anxiety, till the arrival of Lucy’s birth-day ; after that, time seemed to have added lead to his pin- ions, and every hour and day wereas an hundred. At length, he received the following letter from Mr. Matthews ? ‘‘ mo LIEUTENANT JOHN FRANKLIN. ‘T have sat down, my dear sir, to ful- fil a most unpleasant task in communicating to you, by the desire of our lovely and esteemed friend,ei tae a OE OE EE TE Ie CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; OR, Miss Blakeney, a copy of her grandfather’s letter, which I enclose, thinking it best to keep the origi- nal in my possession. “You perceive that the old gentleman was by no means averse to her marrying to please her- self, though it might be to the diminution of her That there were some unhappy circum- stances attending the birth of Miss Blakeney, I have every reason to conclude; though, what those circumstances were, I never could ascertain. For though my respected old friend frequently promised to impart them to me, the communication was deferred from time to time, till with him, poor man, time was no more. “You will perceive that there is some particular family into which he had strong objections to her marrying, but the unfinished capital, which I am at a loss to decide whether meant for N, an M, or an A, leads to no direct conclusion. I know he had a peculiar dislike to a family of the name of Lewis, the descendants of which in one branch are Mertons, in another Northalertons. There was a person also of the name of Allister, who gave him much trouble by a law-suit. But I hardly could think my old friend was so little of a Christian as to let his prejudice descend from gen- eration to generation. However, be that as it may, there is nothing in the unfinished capital that looks like F, Miss Blakeney is well, has kept her birth-day in a most novel and splendid manner. I wish you could have seen her presiding amongst her guests ; but I presume it will not be long before we see you at the Rectory, when you will hear from every tongue—yes, even from sister Caven- dish, her eulogium. “T am, Dear Sir, “Yours, with Esteem, “ALFRED MATTHEWS,”THE THREE ORPHANS. 97 The evening after Mr. Matthews had despatched this letter, he entered the sitting-parlor, where his family were assembled, some at work, some reading, and Aura Melville, strumming, as she called it, on the guitar. He took a morocco case from his waistcoat pocket, and seated himself by a work-table where Lucy was elaborately plying the needle’s art, without having any definite end for which the work was designed, when completed. He opened the case ; a miniature ofa lady, set in wrought gold, and suspended by a superb chain, was taken from it, and throwing the chain over Lucy’s neck, he said, ‘This, my little girl, should have been a birth- day present; but you were so happy on that day, I thought you should not have too much satisfaction at once; if is good and prudent to portion out pleasure by degrees. If we are too lavish of it, the sense of enjoyment becomes torpid.” Lucy had taken the picture; it was that of a lovely female, not more than sixteen years old; on the reverse, was a braided lock of brown hair, sur- mounted by the initials C. T——, in fine seed earl. ‘‘ Who is this lovely creature?” said Lucy. “Come to the glass, my child, and tell me who it is ike,” said Mr. Matthews, leading her to the glass, and raising a candlé near her face. Lucy looked, and hesitated. “Only,” at length she said, ‘only, that it is much handsomer, and the eyes are blue, I should think—” ‘‘That it was like yourself,” said Mr. Matthews, leading her to the sofa, where Aura, having laid aside her instrument, was ready to receive her. “Tt is the portrait of your mother, Lucy. It was taken, your grandfather informed me, about threes years previous to your birth, and was con- Leeme ee eee en = Oe Sea ete ee ee tee EE ee ae Sacre REE EEE Presale Si Satie ns anni prin teehee ich jens re airs 98 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER ; OR, stantly worn by your grandmother, till some deeply afflicting occurrences, to which I am a stran- ger, induced her to lay it aside.” Lucy pressed the fair semblance of youth and innocence to her lips—to her heart; tears rushed from her eyes, and depositing the portrait in her bosom, she rested her head on the shoulder of Aura, and perfect silence for several minutes pervaded the apartment. “So here is our friend Franklin!” said the good Rector, a few mornings after, presenting the young Lieutenant to the busy groups drawn round the fireside in the breakfast-parlor. Franklin bowed, and with a face half doubting, half delighted took a chair beside Lucy, She smiled, blushed, broke off her thread, unthreaded her needle, threaded it again, and worked most assiduously, without one single idea of why or wherefore. Asked when he left London? What was the state of his father’s health? When he last saw Edward Ainslie? till, without being perceived by them, separately and silently, every person but themselves had left the room. Of all the scenes to be repeated in narrative, love scenes are the most sickening, silly, and uninstruc- tive. Suffice it to say that in an hour after they found themselves alone, Lucy had resolved to relin- quish the principal of Blakeney’slegacy, Franklin with entire satistaction, according to the terms of settling half her paternal inheritance on herself, and receiving the accumulated interest of eleven years on twenty thousand pounds, as a fortune to be disposed of according as his judgment should direct. Friendship, love, and harmony, now took up their residence in the Rectory; the unostentatious, though silently progressing preparations making for the wedding of Miss Blakeney, furnished occu-THE THREE ORPHANS. 99 pation for every female of the family. Even Mrs. Cavendish relaxed her stern, yet really handsome features into smiles as she gave her opinion upon some new purchase, or told to the young persons whom Lucy chose to employ on this occasion, how such and such a dress was made and trimmed when she was some few years younger. It was one of Miss Blakeney’s eccentricities, that nothing that could be performed by the in- dustrious young women in the immediate vicinity of the Rectory, should be sent for from London ; and one morning when Mrs. Matthews and Mrs, Cavendish argued that her outward garments might be more tasteful and fashionable if made in the metropolis, she replied, “But 1 am so vain as to think I should not look any handsomer in them, and I am sure I should not feel so happy. I know these good young women; some of them have aged parents to support; some, young brothers and sisters to edu- cate and put in a way to get their own bread. [ am very sensible that, with the assistance of Miss Melville, and our female domestics, more than two-thirds of the work that is to be done, might be performed without any additional expense. But it has been a principle with me, ever since I was capable of reflecting on the subject, that those who can afford to pay for their clothes, &. being made, defraud the industrious of what is their due by making those articles themselves. I have also another odd fancy ; I will not always employ those in the highest class of their profession, because having some taste of my own, and not being very fond of finery, or going to the extreme of fashion, I can generally give such directions as shall cause my clothes to be madein aneat, becoming manner ; and when I go to town, it will be time enough to purchase whatever splendid dresses I may requireakncgetaeseas at dy, eel ee al 100 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; oR, for making my entrance into the gay world, so as not to disgrace the family, or impeach the judgment of Mr. Franklin.” A month had flitted by on rapid wings, when just at the close of a cold, dismal November day, as Franklin, having dined with the family at the Rectory, was proposing a game of chess with Mr. Matthews, a letter was delivered him by a servant, who said it was brought by one of ‘Sir Robert Ainslie’s grooms, who had ridden past from Lon- don, not stopping for anything but slight refresh- ment, and to change horses. Lucy watched his countenance as, having apolo- gized to the company, he eagerly broke the seal and read it. Thecolor fled trom his cheeks, hig lips quivered, and putting his hand to his forehead, he faintly articulated: “ My poor father! my poor mother!” “Are they ill? Has anything happened to either of them ?” asked Lucy, as pale and agitated as himself, “Something very dreadful has befallen them,” he replied, ‘‘ but of what nature, I cannot tell. These are a few, almost incoherent lines from Ed- ward Ainslie, requesting I will not lose a moment in setting off for London; he will meet me a few miles from town, and explain what he did not choose to commit to paper. I shall set off for Southampton immediately on horseback, and from thence to my father’s house, as fast as a chaise and four horses can carry me.” “ You will let us hear from you?” said Mr. Mat- thews. “As early as the state of affairs will permit,” was the reply. “You know you have friends here who will not desert you in the day of adversity,’ said Mrs. Mat- thews, with one of her most benevolent looks.THE THREE ORPHANS. 101 The pale lips of Miss Blakeney moved, but no sound passed them; she held out her cold hand to Franklin, which having tenderly pressed, and re- spectfully kissed, he hastily said, ‘‘God bless you all!” and hurried out of the room. In a moment, his horse was heard going at a quick pace down the avenue, and anxiety and sus- pense became the inmates of the bosoms of Lucy and her sympathizing friends. ee CHAPTER X. MANCUVRING, ESTABLISHMENT FORMED, CHANGE OF CIRCUMSTANCES ALTERS CASES, Ir cannot be supposed but that in the length of time elapsed since Lady Mary Lumly left the pro- tection of her friends to trust to the honor of a profligate, many conjectures had been formed con- cerning her situation, and the treatment she met with from her husband. All the family at the Rec- tory were anxious to hear from her, but how to direct their inquiries they were entirely at a loss. Mr. Matthews once or twice, called on Mrs. Bren- ton, but the old lady could give them no intelli- gence. The last letter she received from Theresa, was dated from Alnwick, and that was above seven months since; in that, she said Sir Stephen and his lady talked of making a short trip to the Con- tinent, and if they invited her to accompany them, she should certainly go. The old lady did not express any uneasiness, concluding they were in France, and as Theresa never was a very attentive correspondent to her mother, supposed her time was too much absorbed in pleasure to think mucn about her old mother. Q*re ‘ fl ie) i Ait 1) Lip! + et } fo. § see ee 2 it ' é ; Be at ; is ii Ee ; Seah faite eee EE MEER EEE that i tee tee ee er Te OT 102 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; oR, Mrs, Cavendish then wrote to some of Lady Mary’s relations on the mother’s side, to inquire if they had heard from her: but they, offended at her imprudent conduct, and the marriage connec- tion she had formed, answered, that “They nei- ther knew, nor wished to know anything about her” The uneasiness of the family was much increased, when a day or two after Mr. Franklin's departure, a gentleman lately returned from France called to deliver letters to Mr. Matthews, and staying to dinner, mentioned having seen Nir Ste- phen Haynes in Paris some little time since. “Was his lady with him?” asked Mrs, Caven- dish. “ There certainly was a lady with him,” replied the gentleman, ‘‘but 1 did not understand she was his wife. I saw her several times, but never in his company, She wasa bold looking woman, of exceedingly free manners, and was said to lead a very gay life.” ‘That was not our poor Mary,” whispered Aura to Miss Blakeney. Lucy shook her head, and the subject was dropped. We left this victim of self-will, and ill-directed sensibility at a cottage not many miles distant from Alnwick Castle, under the care of Mr Craftly ; but so ignorant were both Lady Mary and her friend of the country in which’ the cottage was situated, that they would have been unable to directa servant, had any been allowed them, to find a post-town or village by which means to transmit a letter to their friends. But for weeks after the departure of Sir Stephen, Lady Mary was in no state to write, or hardly to think, being ill with a slow nervous fever, and at times delirious. Her highly excited state of feeling, her keen dis- appointment, added to a degree of self-accusation which her ingeneous mind could not Suppress, was Se a aaa aeTHE THREE ORPHANS. 103 more than she could support, and she had nearly sunk under it—perhaps would have done so, but that Craftly, who, though he considered her as an imprudent young woman, pitied her suffering and interested his mother and sister in her behalf. These truly virtuous, respectable women, did not think that the commission of one fault was sufficient to banish a human being from society, or excuse in others the want of humanity or kind- ness. ‘They went to the cottage, they hovered over her like guardian angels, and when in her wan- derings she would call for Lucy, Aura or Mrs. Mat- thews, they would one or the other present them- selves at her bedside, soothe her, administer her medicines, talk of Sir Stephen’s return, of her re- union with her friends, and by degrees brought her back to health and a comparative degree of comfort. Miss Brenton, taking her tone from these kind- hearted women, was tender and attentive. Lady Mary revived as to external appearance, but her warm, enthusiastic heart had been chilled, the bright prospects of youth, to her were shrouded, - and the sweet blossoms of hope were crushed for- ever. Who and what was Craftly? A man of no mean capacity, nor bad feelings, who had been brought up to the profession of the law. He had lost his father early in life, but that father had secured to his wife and daughter, who was ten years the sen- lor of her brother, a decent competency, and a genteel house in the vicinity of Alnwick. The residue of his estate and property he left to his son. There was considerable ready money. Craft- ly wished to taste the pleasures of London during that winter; being young and inexperi- enced, he became the prey of sharpers and- game- sters, and among the rest, became a debtor to Siree ka ae ear 104 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, Stephen Haynes. His money was run out, the few and trifling rents he had to receive had not become due, and the only security he had to offer, was the mortgage of a small cottage and grounds he held in Northumberland. When, therefore Haynes met Craftly upon his return from the North with his newly made, lovely bride, it occurred to his unprincipled mind that he might make him subservient to his views in getting free from Lady Mary, and enjoying his intended tour to the Continent in company witha dissolute woman, who had persuaded him that though married and the mother of two lovely chil- dren, her invincible attachment to him had in- duced her to sacrifice all at the shrine of her illicit love. This woman Sir Stephen Haynes had set up in his heart as a paragon of perfection; he did not feel that it was her blandishments that drew him first from the paths of rectitude; he did not know that a profligate, unprincipled woman, is the bane of man’s peace, both here and hereafter. Mary Lumly was agreeable in her person, sport- ive in her manners, and easily assailed by flattery. Her fortune had been represented as more than treble its value. He sought to obtain that fortune, but shrunk from proclaiming her as his wife, Pos. sessed of her little patrimony, his thoughts reverted to the woman who had enslaved his youthful mind, and leaving his confiding victim to what chance or time might produce, he took his adulterous paramour with him on his journey to France, Lady Mary, recovered by the care of her un- known friends, began to think of living, and when she discovered she was likely to become a mother, life itself became more endeared to her. Lady Mary Lumly. however headstrong in her resolves, however misled by the spirit of romance, and theTHE THREE ORPHANS. 105 flattery of pretended friends, had naturally a good heart, and an understanding above medioc- rity. The time she had passed in the family of Mr. Matthews had been of infinite service to her. The principles and habits of the individuals who formed that family, were such as had taught her that the neglect of duty in others, was no excuse for the same neglect in ourselves. ‘I am forsaken,” she mentally argued, “ deceived, plundered of fortune and good name; but if my misconduct is the cause of a human being coming into the world, a being dependent on me for every- thing, it is my duty to submit to the evils I have brought upon myself, and be to the little innocent, father! mother! all. How we are to be supported, God alone can tell; but my revered guardian used to tell me that our Heavenly Father would main- tain the cause of the orphan, and be the judge of the widow. Alas, for me! I am more desolate than a widow—my infant, if it ever sees the light, unless its father be led to do us justice, more wretched than an orphan.” It may be asked why she did not write to those friends she now knew how to appreciate. She did write, but Craftly had received orders to for- ward no letters whatever; he had therefore re- quested his mother and sister, before he agreed to their attending the sick-bed of Lady Mary, to give all letters, whether written by her or Miss Bren- ton, to him; alleging as a reason, that he could conveniently send them to the post-office, without trouble to them. It may be remembered that Haynes has repre- sented Theresa Brenton to Craftly, as an object, in regard to fortune, worthy of pursuit, and had intimated to that lady that Craftly was an indepen- dent man. A genteel establishment was the aim OOOO106 CHARLOTTE'S DAUGHTER; OR, of the lady; a little ready money would be very acceptable to the gentleman; therefore, mutual civilities, condescension, and uniform politeness, was scrupulously practised between them, He asserted that Sir Stephen Haynes said he was not the husband of Lady Mary ; that she was a thought- less, romantic girl of fashion, who was so madly in love with him that she had thrown herself upon his protection, without waiting for those forms which her friends would have insisted on, and which he had no inclination to submit to. Theresa knew this in part to be true, but she also knew that the marriage ceremony had passed at Gretna Green, and that Mary Lumly was in her Own opinion, though perhaps not in the eye of the law, the wife of Sir Stephen Haynes. But Lady Mary was now poor, Where was the use of her (Theresa’s) irritating Sir Stephen? It would do her poor, misguided friend no good, and might be of in- jury to the plans she had formed for herself Miss tt. Be ie Brenton, then, became in externals an entire new ue character; she had entirely developed the pure, unassuming characters of Mrs. Craftly and her | daughter, Brought up in the country, mixing fal with but little society, though that little was se- lect; of plain, good understandings, they were ur- ae os bane in their manners, without being highly pol- _ a ished: and very pleasant companions, without being EM a thought wits, or aiming to appear deeply learned, Pe sat Of strict principles, both as it regarded religious Bi ia duty and moral rectitude; cheerful, without levity, ie and grave, without affected sanctity; their own Het ta minds, actuated by unsuspicious simplicity, thought bik no evil of others until positive facts obliged them aa to believe it. a With the son and brother, they had ever lived es 1), in harmony; for he was the idol of both: and they Y Be either did not, or could not perceive a fault in him, inn reheat et ile El PBR TINE WOU assent aeterers las TyeTHE THREE ORPHANS, 107 He, on his part, had so much regard for their peace, as to guard against any of his misconduct reaching them, or giving them any disturbance, Theresa Brenton, then, to his family appeared everything that was amiable, She was concilia- ting to the Craftlys; would talk most sagely upon economy, domestic concerns, quiet seclusion, love of mental improvement; and when the gentleman was present, would descant on the beauties of her mother's seat near Southampton, without betray- ing that it was only a hired place, and that its chief beauties consisted in the neat, snug appear- ance of a small house and the garden surrounding it, and a view of the bay from the upper windows. Then she would pathetically lament poor Lady Mary’s misfortune, speak of her as a young woman of impetuous feelings, which had never been kept under any restraint, and conclude with a sigh: ‘She fully believes herself Sir Stephen’s wife, and it will be as well not to contradict her; in her present delicate state of health, it might produce fatal consequences. Though what is to become of her, I cannot think; for, by her not hearing from her friends, I fear they have cast her off. I, myself, feel uneasy sometimes, at not hearing from my mother; but elderly persons are not very fond of writing: so I do not think so much of it as I otherwise should.” Lady Mary endeavored to obtain from Craftly her husband’s address, but he always pretended that he believed him to be so unsettled that a let- ter would have little chance of finding him. All letters addressed to any member of Mr. Mat- thew’s family were condemned to the flames, or thrown by in a drawer amongst waste paper; nor was he more careful of those written by Theresa to her mother, though to own the truth, she did not trouble him with many. He well knew that to re SOLES CORN SC ROSSeee ee eee ee Ce ne ae ETT CENT OT a a ag poe a rie OE We se ech ee erate CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; OR, send intelligence to Mrs. Brenton, was furnishing a direct clue to the discovery of Lady Mary; and this he had promised his friend Haynes should not be made in less than six months after his departure. theught Craftly, ‘Theresa might mention my attentions to her mother, and if I bring myself to marry the girl, I might be plagued from that quarter about a settlement, and subject myself to have inquiries made which it may be neither easy nor convenient to answer, ‘I have been thinking, my dear Theresa,” he one evening, as seated in the porch, they were enjoying the full splendor ofa harvest moon, ‘‘ | have been thinking and wishing—indeed, it is the wish also of my mother and sister; they think it would be for the happiness of all concerned, to unite our hands, as I trust our hearts are already in unison with each other, and form our establishment before the winter commences.” He then proceeded to explain his actual fortune and his expectations, and made it appear that his annual income was above five hundred pounds a year ; but in this he included the cottage, without one word ofthe mortgage which Sir Stephen Haynes still held, though he had agreed to give up the in- terest which might arise from it for eighteen months to come, if Craftly would oblige him in the manner we have already seen he did. silent, the lover then went on to say, ‘You will have no objection, my dear girl, to making this cottage our residence for the present. My mother will undoubtedly give us an invitation to pass part of the winter with her in Alnwick, which I do assure you is a very lively and genteel lute affording many rational and pleasant amuse- the society they mix in, is of the most respectable class.” ‘“‘T can have no objection to pass a few weeks or Finding the lady saidTHE THREE ORPHANS, 108 months with Mrs, and Miss Craftly,” said Theresa, interrupting him, “but as to agreeing to make this Gothic cottage a place of residence, except for a few months, in the heat of summer, I can never agree toit. I expect, at least the first winter after our marriage, that you will permit me to partake in your society the pleasures of either York or London. I should prefer the latter. Indeed, it will be almost impossible to give my little fortune into your hands without a Journey to the metro- polis; we can then also make a visit to my mother who, I am afraid, must begin to think me very negligent ” “Well!” thought Craftly, “this is moderation with a vengeance! A winterin London! [I have had enough of winters in London. I must per- suade her out of this nection, or there is an end of the matter. She cannot be rich enough to justify such a piece of extravagance,” Putting on, there- fore, one of his most engaging smiles, he replied, “But, my dear Theresa, have you duly consid- ered the expense of a London winter, or even a winter in York? The whole of my yearly income would not pay our expenses, living in barely decent style. And though I do not know the amount of your fortune, yet I will take upon me to say, that the greater part of it might be run out ina single winter in London, without enabling either of us to be considered somebody. You are certainly too well versed in economy not to consider it better to spend only our income in cutting a good figure in the respectable town of Alnwick for many win- ters, than to spend half our fortunes in cutting no igure at all in the great city of London one winter. Think better of that project, I entreat you, my Theresa,.”’ There was reason in this. Determined, however, not to be too easily thwarted, she made some 10 SRAAQVA VSI y110 further attempts to carry her point; but finding the gentleman growing rather cool and distant during the several days that she held out, she prudently yielded, and the preparations for the marriage were commenced with great alacrity. CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER: OR, CHAPTER XI. FRUITS OF ERROR. LIEvTENANT FRANKLIN did not meet his friend Ainslie on the road to London as he had expected. On_his arrival in town, he hastened to Portland Place. The blinds of his father’s splendid mansion were closed, and everything about wore an aspect vf gloom. The door was opened by a servant, whose countenance indicated some terrible calam- ity. Franklin hastened towards his mother’s apart- ment, but was met on the stairs by one of his bro- thers, who had been summoned home from Eton. From him he learnt that his father lay apparently at the point of death, having ruptured a blood ves- sel; that his mother had been by his bedside almost incessantly since the accident had happened, and that the whole family were in astate of the greatest alarra and trepidation. As he entered the sick chamber, the closed win- dows, the low whisperings of the attendants, the odors of medicinal preparations, and most of all, an occasional stifled sob from one of the children who was permitted to be in the apartment for afew moments, brought home to his bosom the conviction aeTHE THREE oORP that he was about approached the bed. His fath like some kind angel, with and untiring. An indiffer read upon the marble fore of the patient, noble and manding talents—a prom with severest affliction one wl] ing the hand of his mother, wa At length, he slowly opene low voice, « My dear boy, I thinking of you. It gives me h ber how soon you are to be bl have not been so tr her. I think I could re mise of your happiness In peace.” tears of mingled loy in the same moment, it occurre could aimost accomplish his wish tionless and silent, with closed e the partner of all his Sorrows, wl of one you love, and who desery HANS, to become fatherless, He er lay ler s d his eyes, and fixin them on his son with a faint smile, h was this moment appiness to remem- est with the society es your affection. anquil for years as I am just now, in this thought. I wish that I could see ad in her features the pro- , and then go to my account Franklin pressed his father’s hand. The big e, gratitude and sorrow, coursed down his cheeks. He could not speak He saw by his father’s countenance, tl too late to comply literally with |} , by sl the miniature of Lucy’s mother, which. he had playfully taken from her on the day of his depar- yes, Watched by 10 bent over him a ministry unremitted ent gazer might have head and classic features generous feelings, com- ise of everything that was excellentin character and desirabl all blighted by once yielding to tl guilty passion.” The wife and the so but the mysterious hand of Proy 1¢ impulse of n saw nothing idence, Visiting 10m they had ever regarded with reverence and love. Franklin placed himself near the bed ited in unutterable Suspense the moment when his fat] 13 request; but d to him that he Tia perfectly mo- ein fortune— , and press- hould awake. og : 5 e spoke, in a in reply. 1at it was 10wing him SOONeg ee cee ee eae at ee ae eee RR SIP PO eset St sa ia sa Pp tinin oping ti iy 112 ture, and in his haste ‘and alarm at the su den summons, had forgotten to restore. “ Thave a picture of her mother,” said he, put- ting his hand in his bosom; “itis a good resem- blance of herself.” He drew forth the miniature, and held it up be- fore his father, who rose up, seized it with a con- vulsive grasp te moment the light fell onthe fea- tures, and looking upon the initials on the back of it, shrieked out, : “It is—it is come again, to blast my vision in my last hour! The woman you would marry is my own daughter !—--Just Heaven !—Oh ! that I could have been spared this! Go, my son! go to my private desk—you will there find the re- cords of your father’s shame, and your own fate !” Nature was exhausted by the effort. He fell back on the bed, supported by his trembling wife, and in a few moments the wretched Franklin, the once gay, gallant, happy Montraville, was no more. CHARLOTTE’S DAUGIITER; OR, CHAPTER XII. DISCLOSURES. THE obsequies of Colonel Franklin were at- tended with the circumstances of pomp and state which his rank required, and the journals of the day proclaimed his patriotism and public worth while his family mourned in secret over the ruin caused by his unbridled passions, Closeted with his bosom friend, Edward Ainslie, young Franklin laid before him the manuscript which he had found by his father’s direction. ItTHE THREE ORPHANS. 113 had been written in a season of deep remorse, and its object was evidently to redeem from undeserved obloquy, the memory of the unfortunate Charlotte Temple, the mother of Lucy Temple Blakeney. Probably Colonel Franklin had intended to trans- mit it to her friends. Indeed, a direction to that effect was found on a loose paper, in the desk. He took the whole blame of her ill-fated elope- ment upon himself. He disclosed circumstances which he had discovered after her decease, which proved her faithfulness to himself, and lamented in terms of the deepest sorrow, that it was in his ower to make her no better reparation for all her (fe and all her injuries, than the poor one of thus bearing testimony to her truth and his own cruelty and injustice. He had never intended this paper to be seen until after his decease. He could not bear to make these full disclosures and afterwards look upon the countenances of his children; and he mentioned that the reason why he had so readily complied with the wish of a rich relation of his wife, that he should change his famil name of Montraville for that of Franklin, was, that under that name he had taken the fatal step which destroyed his peace—to use his own forcible ex- ression, “he would willingly have lost all recol- Foca of what he was, and changed not his name only, but himself,” “Edward!” said the unfortunate youth, when the reading of this terrible record was finished, “ I have disclosed to you the story of my ruined, blasted hopes. Receive this as the strongest mark of my friendship and confidence, Go to her/’” he could not utter the name of Lucy. “Tell these dreadful truths in such a manner as your own feel- ing heart shall direct. She isa Christian. This is her great trial, sent to purify and exalt her soul and fit her for a brighter sphere of existence, I LFONES) RAT ote eae ape mee Helen oop see { ii Mies «iy t ‘ ae | ae te! PE pe i sl eee et = . en BS fd it aah bet +15) 7 te i a4 ee Be ei say Re j Poe Be a4 a a ee ree Te alae te cic eee ee 114 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; OR, cannot—I dare notsee her again. I cannot even give you for her any other message than a imple, heartfelt ‘God bless her /’ I have caused myself to be exchanged into a regiment which is ordered to India, and to-morrow I bid farewell to England!” Edward promised implicitly to obey his friend’s directions, and receiving from him the fatal min- iature, he took leave of him for that day, and re- turned to his father’s residence to dispatch a letter to Mr. Matthews, promising to be .with him in a few days, and bring full intelligence of all that re- lated to these unfortunate occurrences. The next day he attended his friend for the last time, and witnessed the final preparations for his departure. There was a firmness, a sternness of purpose in Franklin’s countenance which indi- cated that his thoughts were fixed on some high and distant object; and though he spoke not of his future prospects, Edward, who knew the force of his character, mentally predicted that his name would be found in the records of military renown. There was an impatience to be gone, apparent in some of his movements, as if he feared to lin- ger a moment on English ground. But this was inadvertently displayed, and he took leave of his mother, family and friend, with that deep emotion which must ever effect a feeling heart on such an occasion. Edward was surprised at one circumstance, which was, that Mrs. Franklin seemed to approve of her son’s purpose to leave the kingdom. He had expected to find her very anxious to retain him, as a protector to herself. But he had not attributed to that lady all the judgment and firm- ness which belonged to her character. He had witnessed her enduring affection, and her noble example of all the passive virtues. Her energy and decision was yet to appear.LL. THE THREE ORPHANS, 115 When the carriage which bore his friend to the place of embarkation, had disappeared, he turned to the widow and made a most cordial tender of his services in whatever the most active friendship could perform for her in her new and trying situation. He mentioned his purpose of going to Hampshire, and offered to return and await her commands as soon as the purpose of his journey was accomplished. Thig friendly offer was very gratefully acknowledged, but the tender of his services in the city was declined. It was not her purpose, she said, to remain in London : but shioala any circumstances occur which would render it necessary to avail herself of his kind offer, she should not fail to do it, in virtue of the claim which his friendship for her gon gave her, At any rate, he should be apprised of the future movements of the family by some one of its mem- bers. Satisfied with this arrangement Ainslie, retired, CHAPTER XIII. AN ARRIVAL. It may well be supposed that the fimily at the Rectory were in a state of great anxicty at the departure of Franklin. The air of mystery which attended his hasty summons to town, served to in- crease their distress, Lucy struggled severely, but vainly, to preserve an appearance of composure. Much of her time was spent in the retirement of her chamber, and when she was with the family and apparently deriving a temporary relief from — SOAS SOCAN EUOOUURR NU SUOS OS SEE Loe SS yoe, et eae ee mene ete eet ene ae eg ‘ ; tie N Eee A ry $e N if phic | S Peay 4 i Pik j is fF Ae : + ‘ + SF f Lt § ¥ + a iari icant taints naiphesmninbnitiTuni shies eases arene Ce ea Fe ed ae 116 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; ok, her sorrows by joining in the usual occupations of the busy little circle, a sigh would escape from her in spite of all her efforts to preserve an appearance of calmness. It seemed to her that a known calamity, however terrible and irredeemable in its nature, would have been much more easy to be borne than this state of suspense. Alas! she was soon, too soon to be un- deceived on this point. The third day brought a hasty lefter from Ains- lie to Mr. Matthews, simply stating the sudden demise of Colonel Franklin without any mention of the attending circumstances This was a re- hef; a melancholy one, indeed; but still, Lucy felt it as a relief, because it seemed to set some bounds to her apprehensions, It seemed natural too, that Ainslie should be employed to write at such a moment. The sudden affliction might have rendered Franklin incapable of the effort. Lucy now awaited the result with comparative tranquillity. But the second letter of Edward, written after the disclosure made by his friend, which spoke of ‘painful and peculiarly unfortunate circumstances, which he would explain on his arrival,” threw her into a new state of suspense. Here was more mystery. The first letter which summoned Frank- lin away, had appeared to be unnecessarily dark and doubtful. The last renewed all the wretched doubts and fears of Lucy. On the sécond day after the receipt of this letter, Lucy was sitting alone by the parlor fire. It was late in the alternoon; Mr. Matthews and Aura were absent, administering to the wants of the poor, and distributing clothing to the destitute, in anticipation of the approaching inclement season. Mrs. Matthews and her sister were busied about their household affairs, Lucy was musing on theTHE THREE ORPHANS, LT Memory of past joys, and painfully endeavoring to conjecture the reason of Franklin’s mysterious silence, when the door opened and Edward Ainslie stood before her, haggard and weary. with his journey, and_ evidently suffering under mental perplexity and distress. At that moment he would have given the world for the relief of Mr. Mat- thews’ presence. He felt as though possessed of some guilty secret, and his eye was instantly averted when he met her searching glance. He had hoped to encounter some other member of the family first, and instantly felt his mistake in not having sent for Mr. Matthews to meet him elsewhere. But retreat was now impossible. He felt that he must stand and answer, Lucy had advanced and presented her hand as usual, but with such a look of distressful inquiry as went to his inmost soul. With an old and tried friend like Ainslie, ceremony was out of the question. k “Where is Franklin? Is he well? Is he safe?” “He is well. Be composed, Lucy. Do not look so distressed.” Ainslie knew not what to say. ‘“‘Is he well? Then why—oh, why are you alone, Edward ?” “There are certain painful circumstances, which have prevented his accompanying me, You shall know them—but—” “Ch, tell, 1 entreat you, tell me all. I have borne this terrible suspense long enough. Any- thing will be preferable to what I now suffer. "I have firmness to bear the worst certainty, but I have not patience to endure these doubts, If he is lost to me, say so, I charge you.” There was a vehemence, a solemnity in her man- ner, an eagerness in her look, a deep pathos in her voice, which Edward could no longer with- stand, He trusted to the strength of her character, yka ee eee er eee ee ee SOE ASNT a Stee Meanie otitis tee peers 118 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; OR, and determined to disclose the worst. With averted eyes, and a low, and hardly audible voice, he re- plied, ‘“‘ Alas! he is indeed lost to you!” She did not shriek nor faint, nor fall into con- vulsions, but placing her hand upon her Lrow, reclined against the mantlepiece a moment, and then left the apartment. Ainslie lost no time in finding Mrs. Matthews, and apprising her of what had passed, and that lady instantly followed her young friend to her apart- ment. She had overestimatedsher own strength. The sufferings of this last week had reduced her almost to exhaustion, and this stroke completed the prostration of her system. A violent fever was the consequence, and for several days, her life was de- spaired of. The distress of Ainslie during this period may be imagined. CHAPTER XIV. ACTIVE BENEYVOLENCE THE BEST REMEDY FOR AF- FLICTION. On Ainslie’s communicating to Mr. Matthews the circumstances which he had learnt from Frank- lin, and bitterly lamenting his precipitate disclo- sure of them to Lucy, that good man appeared anxious to alleviate his unavailing regret and to bring forward every palliation for what, at the worst, was no more than an error in judgment. He could not permit his young friend to con- sider himself responsible for the consequences,THE THREE ORPHANS. 119 since the stroke could not have been averted, and could scarcely have been made to descend more gently upon the heart of the devoted girl. A further disclosure was yet to take place, and never in the whole course of his ministration among the wounded spirits that had required his care and kindness, had this worthy Pastor been more severely tried than on this occasion. He meditated, communed with his friends, sought for Divine assistance in prayer, and when at last the returning health of his tender charge rendered it not only advisable, but necessary that she should know the whole, he came to the trial with fear and trembling. What was his joy to find that she received tne disclosure which he had so much dreaded to make, not with resignation, merely, but with satisfaction, It brought a balm to her wounded spirit to know that she had not been voluntarily abandoned—that the man on whom she had placed her affections had yielded to a stern necessity, a terrible fate, in quitting her without even a last farewell. She approved his conduct. She regarded him as de- voted to his country, herself as set apart for the holy cause of humanity; and in accordance with this sentiment, she resolved to pass the remainder of her life in ministering to the distressed, and promoting the happiness of her friends. Nor did she delay the commencement of this pious undertaking. Aided by her reverend friend the Pastor, she entered upon her schemes of active benevolence with an alacrity which, while it surprised those who were not intimately acqainted with her character, and justified the exalted esteem of her friends, served effectually to divert her mind from harrowing recollections and useless regrets. : Among the earliest of her plans for ameliora- SSCS SUSS LAREDO SUNN OER ENE a Apte seen Saino ~~CoeNS a seeyee nie ate aaa Ar ry ony se eee mee a eg te, Dene ee at ee Tea Ta rea te A kk wae eae sae aaa) a Se NT) ATES A WN anor ae 120 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER ; OR, ting the condition of the poor, was the founding of a little seminary for the education of female chil- dren. She chose a pleasant spot near the Rectory, a quiet littl nook, bosomed among the wooded hills and commanding a view of the village and a wide expanse of soft meadow scenery, and there she caused to be erected a neat little building, a specimen, one might almost say a model of Ionic architecture. Its chaste white pillars and modest walls peeping through the surrounding elms were just visible trom her own window, and many were the tranquil and comparatively happy mo- ments which she spent, sitting by that window and planning in her own mind the internal ar- rangement and economy of the little establishment, She had it divided into several apartments, and placed an intelligent and deserving young woman in each, to superintend the different parts of edu- cation which were to be taught. In one, the most useful kinds of needlework, in another, the common branches of instruction in schools, and in another, the principles of morality and the plain- est truths and precepts of religion; while over all these, there was asort of High School, to which a few only were promoted who gave evidence of that degree of talent and probity which would fit them for extended usefulness. These, under the instruction of the preceptress of the whole estab- lishment, were to receive a more finished education than the rest. Into every part of the arrangement of these mat- ‘ers, Lucy entered with an interest which surprised herseif. She delighted in learning the natural bent and disposition of the young pupils, and would spend whole hours in conversing with them, listen- ing with a kind interest to their artless answers and opinions, and often discovering, or supposing that she discovered in them the elements of tasteTHE THREE ORPHANS. 121 and fancy, or the germ of acute reasoning or strongly inventive power. Bat it was in developing their affections and moral capabilities that she chiefly delighted, There was a field of exertion in which the exam- ple of the patroness was of infinite value to the instructors. Her own education, her knowledge of human character and of nature, her cultivated and refined moral taste, and, above all, the healing and religious light which her admirable submis- sion to the trying hand of Providence had shed over the world and all its concerns, as they ap- peared to her view; all these things served to fit her for this species of ministry to the minds and hearts of these young persons. In these pursuits it is hardly necessary to say that she found a tranquillity and satisfaction which the splendid awards of fortune and famecan never impart. CHAPTER XV. CHURCH AND STATE, EDWARD ArnsLIE had finished his studies at the University, where he had so distinguished himself as to afford the most favorable anticipations of his future success. He was in some doubt as to the profession which he should embrace. Inclination prompted him to devote himself to the church. His father was anxious that he should become a politi- cal character, probably being somewhat influ- enced by an offer which he had had from one of 11 SOOCUS GUANA CANS OREN UO UNE OO CURR CG SEE LIS fsree ee eee Te ee Seat Le ee a ata ee ee eR ramos 122 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; OR, the ministry of a diplomatic appointment for his son. This interesting subject was under consider- ation at the very time when the events which we have just been recording, transpired. Edward had returned to London after witnessing the perfect re- covery of Lucy, and the discussions concerning his future career were renewed with considerable interest, On the evening after his return, he was sitting in the parlor of his father’s splendid mansion. All the family except his father and himself had retired. They lingered a few moments to confer on the old subject. “Well, Edward,” said his father, ‘‘I hope you are ready now to oblige our friends in a certain quarter, and strengthen the hands of govern- ment,” ‘Indeed, sir, my late visit to the country, has served rather to increase my predilection for the life of a country parson.” ‘“My Lord Courtly says it is a thousand pities your talents should beso thrown away; and though I should not regard the thing in that light, yet I think that your country has some claims upon you. Let the livings of the church be given to the thou- sands who are unfit for, or unable to attain the pro- motion that is offered to you. If you accept a living, it is ten to one you disappoint some equally worthy expectant.” ‘Perhaps I shall do the same if I accept this diplomatic appointment.” ‘Little danger of that, I fancy, when the ap- pointment is so freely offered you—when, in fact, you are solicited to accept it. Let me tell you, Edward, you know not how splendid a career you may be refusing to enter upon.” ‘‘T fear, my dear father, that you have not dulyTHE THREE ORPHANS, 123 considered the cares and anxieties of a political life. It is a constant turmoil and struggle for distinction, All the sterner feelings of our nature are brought into action. All the generous emotions and amia- ble weaknesses of humanity are regarded as fatal to Ones success. A blunder in state affairs is consid- ered worse than a crime,” “T think there is no profession,” said the Baro- net, “‘in which a crime is not more fatal to success, in the long run, than a blunder. However, we are wandering from thesubject. In one word, Edward, I think that you may carry all your strict moral principles and your high-and generous sense of honor into public life, without in the least endan- gering your success.” “What you say may be strictly true, sir; but I have feelings and partialities which cannot fail to prove a hindrance. I shall sigh for seclusion and domestic enjoyment amidst the splendor of foreign courts, and never pen a dispatch to be sent to old England, without longing to see its fair prospects of green fields and smiling cottages. I love to converse with nature in her still retreats, and if I must mingle with my fellow men, let it not be in the vain strife for power and distinction, but rather in the delightful intercourse of social life, or in the more interesting relation of one who cares for their eternal welfare. If I were rich, the character I should most wish to figure in, would be that of a useful, benevolent and religious coun- try gentleman, as the advice and instruction, which I could thus impart, would not arise simply from official duty, and might be rendered doubly efficient by acts of benevolence. Since that may not be, I am content with the humbler office of a country parson.” At this period of the conversation, a servant en- tered with a letter directed to the Baronet, saying RVV.VoO ow NONNRS Oe eaSeton Sette nee See ane en eee a le tai tare cartoon a Tee Cr 124 that it had been brought by an express. He opened it, and hastily running it over, exclaimed, “Well, my boy, you can have your wish now. See there!” handing him the open letter. It was from the executor of a distant relation, who had taken a fancy to Edward ir his child- hood, and had now bequeathed him the whole a his large estate, situated in the North of Eng- and, Astonishment and gratitude to the Divine Dis- poser of events were visible in the countenance of the youth as he silently lifted up his eyes in thanks- giving, After a few minutes pause, his father said; “Well you will visit your property immediately, of course?” ‘Yes, sir; but I wish to visit Hampshire for a few days, before I set off for the North.” And so saying, he bade his father good-night and re- tired. CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER} OR, CHAPTER XVI. AN ENGAGEMENT, BerorE leaving London, Ainslie called at the late residence of Mrs. Franklin, and was surprised to find the house in other hands. On making fur- ther inquiries of his father, he learnt that she had embarked for New York, with the whole of her family. On reflection, he wassatisfied that this was the most natural and proper course for her. Amer- ica was the land of her nativity, and the scene of all the happiness she had enjoyed in early life.THE THREE ORPHANS. 125 England, the country where she had known nothing but misfortune and trial. Her young sons tov, would be able to figure with great advantage in the new country and its existing friendly rela- tions with that to which her oldest son owed alle- giance, and this prevented her feeling any uneasiness on the score of his present employment in the India service, Kdward’s father also informed him that Mrs. Franklin’s affairs in England were intrusted to the most responsible agents. Being satisfied that there was nothing further which friendship required of him in that quarter, he set out for Hampshire with rather different feelings from those which oppressed him on his last visit there. We will not attempt to analyze his feelings at this time, but rather follow him to the Rectory, whither he hastened after a half hour spent at his father’s seat. On entering the parlor, he found Mrs. Matthews and Mrs. Vavendish, and learned from them that the young ladies were gone to visit Lucy’s favorite school. He determined to take a short cut to this place, and accordingly strolled along a shaded pathway which led from the garden towards the spot. The sun was just approaching the horizon, and shed a rich splendor over a pile of massy clouds which reposed in the West. As he passed rapidly along, a turn in the path revealed to him the solitary fig- ure of Aura Melville, in strong relief against the western sky, as she stood on the edge of a bank and gazed upon the last footsteps of the retiring sun. He approached unobserved, and just as he was on the point of speaking, heard her say in a low voice, as though thinking aloud, “ How beautiful! How much more beautiful it would be, if a certain friend were with me, to pro- nounce it so!” ii? MOO OSS SCARSDALE yee eee See ae setae cocina alco mececteoe er Te DTT Te . a ae ts eee ee 126 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; OR, Laying his hand gently upon her arm, he mur- mured in the same soliloquizing tone, ‘‘ How happy should I be if I might flatter myself that I were that friend!” She turned, and the ‘orient blush of quick sur- prise,’ gave an animation to her features which made her lover own to himself that he had never seen her half so lovely. We have already hinted at Aura’s partiality for Edward, and when we apprise the reader that he had long loved her with a respectful and: devoted attachment, which he had only been prevented from declaring by his dependent situation and un- certainty with regards to his pursuits in life, it will readily be supposed that they were not many minutes after this in coming to a perfect under- standing. With lingering steps and many a pause, they turned towards the Rectory long after the shadows Fa of twilight had begun to fall. The rapture of a aer those moments, the ardent expression of the youth, seat the half uttered confessions, the timid glances and ae Ee averted looks of the maiden, and the intervals of ey ce silence—silence full of that happiness which is bv never known but once—all these must be imagined i . by the reader. Cie ie On their arrival at the Rectory, they found that 5 Luey, who had been left at the school by Aura, had returned by the more frequented road, and the Bite 624 family were waiting their coming, while the smok- He ing tea urn sent forth its bubbling invitation to Rees ga the most cheerful, if not the most sumptuous of all Rb iy cig entertainments,THE THREE lutions, and that you were Petersburg, Perhaps you |} us a farewell visit, and are North.” off for the North, but shall of the Czars this winter.” ‘To Berlin, perhaps?” “Poo far: sin.” brither Scots.’ I am to so] weeks among the lakes and once, any court in that quarter, Mab.” there.” ‘‘T never heard your fath any estates in Cumberland,” “But my great-uncle Ba member the old gentleman father, and take me with ORPHANS, CHAPTER XVII. TEA-TABLE CONVERSATION, ‘WELL, Edward,” said the gcod Rector, as he slowly sipped his favorite beverage, “this is an unexpected pleasures. I had supposed that the wishes of your father and the rhetoric of the min- ister had prevailed over your philosophical reso- already half way to St. lave only come to pay soon to set off for the ‘Indeed, sir,” replied Ainslie, ‘I am soon to set hardly reach the court “ Peradventure to Copenhagen.” “Hardly so far, sir, as the ‘Land o’ cakes an ourn for the next few hills of Cumberland.” “Cumberland !” exclaimed three or four voices at ‘For what purpose can you be going to Cum- berland,” said Lucy Blakeney. ‘I never heard of except that of Queen “I am going to look after a little property er say that he owned said the Rector. rsteck did. You re- who used to visit my him in all his strollssapnicony Seamrrincnan: nis ous sell tiaecatind diners tacieneierc ecm caateeee Pee ge be ue eS : OP ALT a to pee i LET EIEN GH ia 128 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; OR, about the pleasant hills and meadows here. He has long been declining in health, and the letter which brought us the melancholy intelligence of his decease, brought also the information that he has remembered his old favorite. I could have wished to be enriched by almost any other event than the loss of so good a friend.” The remembrance of his relative’s early kind- ness came over him with such force at this moment, that he arose and turned away to the window, and it was some minutes before he was sufficiently com- posed to resume the conversation, in which he in- formed his friends that he had given up all thoughts of public life, and resolved to devote him- self to more congenial pursuits amidst the roman- tic scenery of t2e lake country. It may readily be supposed that this determina- tion was highly approved by the worthy Pastor, and that in the private interview which he had with Edsvard the next day, it had no small influ- ence in procuring his approbation of the suit which he then preferred for the hand of his fair ward. After a few delightful days spent in the society of his friends at the Rectory, Edward set forward on his iourney to the North. CHAPTER XVIII. AN ADVENTURE. Epwarp’s estate was in the vicinity of the ro- mantic vale of Keswick. The mansion house lately inhabited by his uncle, was an old-fashioned but comfortable house, situated on the southern de- clivity of the mountain Skiddaw, with a beautifuleo THE THREE ORPHANS. 129 garden and extensive but uneven grounds, laid out in a style entirely suited to the surrounding Bcenery. The view from the balcony in front of the house, was one of singular beauty and sublim- ity. A: long valley stretched away to the South, disclosing in the distance the still glassy surface of Derwent-water, and terminated by the bold and fantastic mountains of Borrowdale. On the East the lofty steeps of Wallow-crag and Lodore seemed to pierce the very heavens, whilst the towering heights of Newland bounded the view on the West, displaying the Picturesque varieties of mountain foliage and rocks, The cottages and farm-houses of his tenants were scattered about in such points of view as to afford a pleasing sort of embellishment to the land- scape. Many of them were constructed of rough, unhewn stone, and roofed with thick slates, and both the coverings and sides of the houses were not unfrequently overgrown with lichens and mosses, as well as surrounded with larches and sycamores. Edward made it his first business, on his arrival, to visit his tenantry, and he found no little pleasure In studying the characters of these humble-minded people, whose residences amongst these sequestered mountain regions had preserved their primitive manners from the tide of refinement and corrup- tion which had swept over less fortunate portions of the country, As he was taking his customary ride on horse- back one afternoon, he arrived at a part of his es- tate remote from the mansion house, and where he had not before been, when he was struck with the picturesque appearance of one of the stone cottages which we have mentioned above. It was of a very irregular shape, and seemed to have received additions and improvements from several generations of its occupants,rd eet ae ee ee ee a ree Pee alien ee ee f t ' Rex 5 [eee oes ig ns accra Os i ie ata Foe 130 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER 3 OR, The orchard, too, had its trees of all ages, and one craggy-looking apple tree, which stood before the door, seemed by its accumulation of moss, and its frequently protruded dry branches, to be coeval with the house itself. There was a little garden, with its shed full of bee-hives, and its narrow beds of herbs and borders of flowers, and a small, but noisy rill, that came dashing down from the.rocks in the rear of the cottage, and sent a smile of ver- dure and a fairy shout of melody over the whole scene. ; Edward alighted and entered the cottage, where he was received with a hearty welcome. The farmer himself, was away among the hills; but the good dame was ‘‘ main glad to see his honor, and hoped his honor was coming to live among them, as i worship’s honor that was dead and gone had always done.’ He assured her that such was his intention. “ T am glad your honor has come here this after- noon,” she proceeded, ‘‘ for more reasons than one. Your honor must know there is a poor, distressed young creature in the other room, who wandered ee yesterday after a weary, long journey. Sheis come of gentle blood, and talks of her relations, who seem to be all lords and ladies. But sure enough, the poor thing is quite besides herself, and a wolul sight she was when she came to our door yesterday, with nothing in the world but an oper- work straw bonnet on her head, and a thin shawl over her shoulders, poor soul, in such a biting cold day. Would not your honor please to be so good as just to speak a kind word to her? I'm thinking she’s come from the South, and would be cheered at the sight of one from her own part of the country, and of her own degree, too.” It will be already supposed that Edward express- ed a desire to see her, and he was accordingly con-THE THREE ORPHANS. 131 ducted from the neat sitting-room, into which he had first been invited, into a small back room, where, to his no small astonishment, he saw, seated in an easy-chair by the fire, and attended by a lit- tle girl, the unfortunate Lady Mary, the wife of Sir Stephen Haynes, Her attire consisted of a soiled traveling-dress, which had once been rich and showy—her counte- nance, though thin and wasted, was flushed and feverish, and there was a wildness in her eyes which told the saddest tale of all, that not only was the wretched lady forsaken by friends and fortune, but at least partially deprived of the blessed light of reason. She started at the sight of Edward, and exclaimed, “Ha! so you have come at last. Well, there, I - have been crying here all this livelong morning! My husband, the Duke, is to he beheaded on Tower Hill to-morrow morning, for high treason ! But,” said she, grasping Edward’s arm, and whispering vehemently in his ear, ‘I came within an ace of being queen, for all that.” ‘Then, too,” she continued, weeping bitterly, ‘‘they have imprisoned me here, and the constable of the castle has taken away my jewels, and sent away my waiting-maid, and left nobody but this simple maiden here to attend upon me. I could have forgiven them all this, but they have taken away my child, my pretty boy, with his bright eyes and his golden locks. Oh, why do they let me live any longer?” And she wrung her hands. as one not to be comforted. ‘Poor creature!” whispered the good woman of the house, ‘“‘she has not been so raving be- fore.” “I am acquainted with the unfortunate lady,” replied Edward, in a low yoice, “but she does not seem to know me,”settee os Seta te Sa apr i ie } i i | et | i ait | ae Mee | Se See ae. A Ri TRIAD Bt TED deta cone eheGimscrunreeinaementeieme Sptaisilemis tee iii: . SRF BUD Pie ascent itches ss ante 132 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; OR, “Know you!” shrieked Lady Mary, catching his last words, ‘‘ yes, I do know you, Edward Ainslie, and I know, too, what you arecome herefor. You have come to preach to me on the folly of ambi- tion—to upbraid me for deserting my friends and pee But you may spare yourself the trouble. shall answer for all to-morrow. I will die with my husband.” She said this with great energy, and then, after pausing a moment and looking thoughtfully on the floor, she burst into tears again, exclaiming, ‘but my poor boy! what will become of him? I pray Heaven they may not destroy him. Surely he has done no injury to the state. ifthe king could look upon his innocent little face, surely he would spare him.” Edward, perceiving that his presence could be of no service to her, left the apartment, and directed that every attention should be paid to her, and promised ample remuneration to the family for their trouble. Then hastily mounting his horse, he rode to the nearest medical attendant, whom he despatched to the cottage before he returned home. CHAPTER XIX, THE CONSEQUENCES OF IMPRUDENCE. For several days after the occurrence which we have described in the last chapter, Lady Mary con- tinued in a high fever, and the physician gave little hopes of her recovery. Edward visited te cottage every day to inquire after her, and was at length happy to learn that by the unremittel kindness and care of the worthy family, she was safely pastTHE THREE ORPHANS. 133 the crisis of her disorder; that her reason was re- stored, but her weakness wag such, that she had not been permitted to attempt giving any account of the manner in which she came into the miserable state in which she was found. She was assured that she was under the care of a friend who had known her in early life, and would visit her as soon as her strength would per- mit. Satisfied with this assurance, she recovered rapidly, and, in a month from the time of Ed- ward's first visit to the cottage, was able to sit up ral part of the day, and to receive a visit from im. The interview, as may readily be supposed, wag an affecting one to both parties. Poor Lady Mary seemed to be thoroughly humbled by misfortune, and was desirous of nothing so much as to see her early friends, and receive their pardon for her un- worthy conduct in deserting them. Edward as- sured her that their affection for her was the same as ever; that they had regarded her as misled by designing and artful persons, and that nothing would afford them such heartfelt pleasure, ag to welcome her once more to their hospitable home. Thus soothed and encouraged, she informed him of the events which we have already narrated con- cerning her elopement, and the subsequent deser- tion of her husband. She proceeded to say that she had lost her child, a beautiful boy, born at the Gothic cottage of which we have so frequently spoken; that after the marriage of Craftly and Theresa, which out of regard to that young lady’s taste, was celebrated with considerable parade, she had continued to reside with then in the cottage, in a state of indescribable wretchedness from the neglect of her husband. She said, that one day when the rest of the family 12 ot be EE Node,I ae thi ne a Saint at nba Rate ital sg een a Se rm ee ee ae ee aia ei pcbaaparie cman aE: < ; ri i 134 CHARLOTTE S DAUGHTER; OR, were out on an afternoon visit, she went into one of the chambers to look for a book which The- resa had told her as she went out, might be found in a drawer there. She pulled out one drawer of the bureau after another in vain, till she came to the lower one, which came out with considerable difficulty. When at last she succeeded in drawing it out, what was her astonishment to find a great part of the letters which she had. written to her husband and friends, tumbled into it, after being broken open. There were a great many more let- ters, and some among them directed to Craftly, in her husband’s hand writing. . Convinced that she was suffering by some vile conspiracy, she felt herself justified in taking the whole to her room, after first closing the drawer to avoid a speedy discovery. Beside her own and Sir Stephen’s letters, there were severtl of Theresa’s to her mother. Before the family returned, Lady Mary had read through the greater part of them, and notwithstanding the bewildering and oppressive emotions which im- peded her progress and distracted her mind, she was able to ake out pretty clearly what her situa- tion was. Her husband was living in Paris, immersed in dissipation, Craftly had been instructed by him, and was repeatedly charged in the letters, to suffer no communication between her and her friends, and, what shocked the unfortunate lady most of all, and deprived her of recollection for some moments, was a Pier tnation expressed in one of the letters never to see her again, accompanied with the decla- ration, that although she supposed herself so, she was not really his wife. After recovering from her fainting fit, she hurried through the remainder of the letters, with many tears and many prayers to Heaven for support,THE THREE ORPHANS, 135 “Never in my life,” said she, “did I pass an afternoon of such complete and thorough wretch- edness, I thought myself lost beyond all hope. Surrounded with enemies, and without a single protector or friend. Before the family returned, I restored the greater part of the letters to the drawer, and when desired to join them at tea, I sent an excuse, and was glad to be left neglected and undisturbed in my room until the next morning. “During this time I had considered all the cir- cumstances of my situation. It was apparent from the suppression of Theresa’s letters, that she had not from the first been a full participator in the plot against me. Yet it was not possible for me to give her my confidence, now that she had be- come the wife of Craftly, who was the chief lnstru- ment of the conspiracy. The mother and sister of this hypocrite were so fully persuaded of his honor, that they would have considered me a maniac or a calumniator, if I had disclosed the truth to them, I had found out by the letters, that Craftly was paid for my support by my husband, who relin- quished the interest of a mortgage on Craftly’s estate as payment. This I regarded as a tacit acknowledgement that I was his wife. But the evidence of Theresa, which I supposed could be drawn from her at some future time by my friends, I considered of still greater value, “I had no reason to fear that I should be left in absolute want, or that I should be treated with open unkindness by any of the family. But it was dreadful to me to know that I was living under the roof of a man who had conspired to de- prive me of everything that is valuable in life. I could not look upon him without a secret shudder running through my frame. After revolving the circumstances of my situation for several days, during which I with difficulty preserved an out-136 ward appearance of composure, I at length came to the resolution to seek shelter with Mr. Mat. thews, and endeavor to recover the favor of my relations. “ Bat how to effect my escape, with any pros- pect of reaching my friends, was a difficult ques- tion. I had no money nor jewels of any consider- able value; but there were a few valuable laces which I might dispose of for enough to defray my travelling expenses. I accordingly packed them up with great care, and learning that there was to be a fair in the neighborhood, I determined to dis- pose of them there. On the morning of the fair, | informed the family that I intended to take a ae walk, and spend the day in visiting the cottages ie | in our neighborhood ; I hope the deception will be a forgiven me. I put on my traveling-dress, con- cealed my treasure, and set forward, with mingled | hole a emotions of gladness and apprehension. I sold . Py SP ee the laces without difficulty, though for considera- ‘ ee bly less than their value, and I have reason to be- i lieve that I was mistaken for one of those persons i who gain a subsistence by smuggling articles of " this kind from the Continent. This, however, was fo a trifling consideration; I could have consented to a Veg pass for a gypsy or a fortune-teller in order to es- may te cape from my persecutors. Pee ie aoe “ My next object was to secure a passage in the ae mail-coach, which went South. Here was a greater ie at trial of my courage, since this exposure was a iret Pa continued one, while my other was but momentary. bea) I played my part, however, as confidently as I Bis could, and although my unprotected state exposed Uae te ean ine Lo suspicions, which the innkeeper, his wife and cee) ce even the servants were at no great pains to conceal, pela cd yet I was enabled to bear up against it all without be a tear, and arrived at the end of the first stage peru pts without any accident, CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER; OR, COEUR EGE To a OI attri ene CII er atneotpe oregon ya emi137 ‘The fatigues of the last two days, however, were 80 great, that 1 was nearly overcome when Wwe arrived at the inn which was at the termina- tion of this stage, and I retired toa room apart, as Soon as we arrived. I observed a newspaper lying in the window-seat, and after refreshing myself with a cup of tea, I took it up, half hoping to see the name of some friend in its columns, Judge of my horror on reading the fatal record of my hus- band’s death. He had fallen in a duel in Paris. I had loved him, oh, too well!” Here Lady Mary became too much affected to proceed with her narrative. Indeed, she had little more to relate; for the shock had proved too great for her reason, and from that moment she recol- lected little more than that she had wandered from village to village, pitied and relieved by some, and derided by others, until she found herself in her present asylum, restored to perfect recollection by the care of the good people around her. Edward had listened to her narrative with the deepest interest and compassion, and assured her of the protection and support of her friends, what- ever might be the determination of her relations. He gave directions for her further accommodation at the cottage during her convalescence, and it was arranged that as soon as her strength would poate she should take up her residence at his own ouse, Having been delayed only by his desire to learn all that related to her, and to provide for her com- fort, Edward set off for the South as soon as these arrangements had been completed, leaying Lady Mary under the care of the worthy family at the fottage. THE THREE ORPHANS. 12*fs Oia em Er OO a i at oe foe roe oy Ie Dalai a CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER ; OR, CHAPTER XX. AN OLD-FASHIONED WEDDING, Tue time would fail us to enumerate the multix plied works of charity in which Lucy Blakeney ens gaged herself. She was not content with occa- sionally visiting the poor and administering to their more urgent wants : but she made the true economy of benevolence her study. Her know- ledge, her taste, her wealth, were all rendered sub- servient to the great cause. Without officiously intermeddling with the charities of others, she be- came a bright example to them. Her well-timed assistance was a stimulus and an encouragement to the industrious poor, and her Silent and stead perseverance was a strong appeal to the better feel ings of the rich. She received the blessing of him that was ready to perish, and the unheard praise and unsolicited imitation of those who had abund- ance of wealth and influence. As the nuptials of her friend Aura Melville ap- proached, her attention was directed to th mode of honoring that event, and at thes rendering it memorable among those who had long regarded both these young persons as the joint guardians of their happiness. Mr. and Mrs, Mat- thews and Mrs, Cavendish, too, were al] for having the marriage celebrated after the fashion of the good old times, when the poor not only looked up to the gentry for protection and friendship, but took a lively interest in their domestic affairs, and were depressed at their misfortunes, and proud and happy in the fame and happiness of their pa- trons. Nor was Edward Ainslie backward in promo-THE THREE ORPHANS. 139 ting this design. Accordingly, the preparations for the marriage were made with a view to in- terest and gratify, rather than to dazzle the guests. The bridal array was rather plain than sumptuous, the carriages and horses of Edward and his family were decked with ribbons, and the church orna- namented with flowers and evergreens, prepared by the pupils of Lucy's establishment, who also walked in procession and had their dance upon the green, to the music of the pipe and tabor. The villagers crowded the church to witness the ceremony, and repaired to the Rectory to partake of the bride-cake, while the poor who had been in- vited to celebrate Lucy’s birth-day, found an en- tertainment not less substantial and exhilarating than the former one, prepared for them at her friend’s wedding. A long summer’s day was spent in the festivi- ties of this happy occasion, and when late in the evening the full moon was seen rising behind the church tower and shedding his quiet lustre over hill and valley, streamlet and grove, the music was still sounding, and the merry laugh of the light-hearted guests was heard in parlor and hall, None seemed to enjoy the day more deeply and feelingly than Lucy. She had learned the great secret of woman’s happiness, to enjoy the happi- ness of others. Selfish gratification was no con- cern of hers. She had entered into the previous arrangements with all her heart, and as her object had been not to lay her friends under heavy obligations and astonish the guests by show and parade, but to promote the zeal and heartfelt pleasure of all concerned, she succeeded; and none derived more satisfaction from parts of this festival of true joy than she did from its prepara- tion. Se enMier Ceram LEM ee AO SALT Be pe yaa eID pee pgp a cle Cacia eee EE ae 140 When, on the following morning, Edward and his bride set off for the North, she with the rest of the family bade them a tender adieu, and re- turned to her usual benevolent Occupations with that tranquil and calm spirit, that firm reliance on the Righteous Disposer of all things, which, in every situation of life, is indeed the pearl of ines- timable value. CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER $ oR, * CHAPTER XXI CONCLUSION, SEVERAL years rolled away after the event re- corded in the last chapter, without affording any- thing worthy the attention of the reader. The persons to whom our narrative relates, were enjoying that calm happiness which, as has fre- quently been remarked, affords so little matter for history. We must accordingly conclude the story with the incidents of a somewhat later pe- riod, : It was the season of the Christmas holidays. Edward and his blooming wife, with their two lovely children, were on a visit to his father, and had come to pass an evening at the Rectory. Lady Mary, too, was there. She had recovered from the wreck of her husband’s property enough to sup- port her genteely, and had found an asylum with her old preceptor and guide, in the only place where she had ever enjoyed anything like solid happiness, The Rector, now rapidly declining into the vale of years, afforded a picture of all that is venerable in goodness; his lady retained her placid andTHE THREE ORPHANS. 141 amiable virtues, although her activity was gone; and the worthy Mrs. Cavendish, still stately in her carriage, and shrewd and decisive in her re- marks, presented no bad counterpart to her milder sister. Last, but not least interesting of the cheerful group which was now assembled around the fireside of the Rector, was Lucy Blakeney. Her beauty, unimpaired by her early sorrows, and preserved by the active and healthful discharge of the duties of benevolence, had now become matured into the fairest model of lovely womanhood. It was not that beauty which may be produced by the exqui- site blending of pure tints on the cheek and brow, by fair waving tresses and perfect symmetry of out- line—it was the beauty of character and intellect: the beauty that speaks in the eye, forms every gesture and look, and carries to the heart at once the conviction that in such a one we behold a lovely work of the Creator, blessed by His own hand and pronounced good. The Rector was delighted to find the three or- phans once more met under his own roof, and ap- parently enjoying the blessings of this world in such a spirit as gave him no painful apprehensions concerning the fu‘ure. ‘I cannot express to you,” he said, “how happy I am to see you all here again once more betore my departure. It has long been the de- sire of my heart. It is accomplished, and I can now leave my blessing with you and depart in ESCO, 5s. ‘“You cannot enjoy the meeting more highly than we do, I am sure,” said Aura; ‘‘the return to this spot brings back a thousand tender and delightful associations to my mind, and I regard among the most pleasing circumstances which attend .our meeting, the degree of health and SSaaah ee CO Er nee rere en ee eee a eae abgsehbctmcteeer pik nag com oe realheabieenceoeks 142 CHARLOTTE’s DAUGHTER; oR, enjoyment in which we find all our old friends at the Rectory. But how do all our acquaiut- ances among the cottagers? Is the old sergeant living?” “He is in excellent health,” replied the Rector, “and tells all his old stories with as much anima- tion as ever.” } “And your proteges, Lady Mary ?—the distressed family which you found out,” rejoined Aura. “They are well, and quite a happy, industrious, family,” answered Lady Mary, with a slight dlush. “ How goes on the school, Lucy?” said Edward; “IT regard that as the most effective instrument of benevolent exertion.” ‘‘T hope it has effected some good,” answered Lucy. ‘There has been aconsiderable number from the school who have proven useful and respect- able, so far; several of the pupils are now married, and others are giving instruction in different parts of the country. A circumstance which has efor: ed us considerable gratification is, that a pupil, whose merit has raised her to a high station in life, has visited us lately, and presented a handsome donation towards rendering the establishment per- manent,” After a short pause in the conversation, Mr. Matthews expressed a wish that they might have some intelligence from their absent friends, ‘I have this day received a letter from America,” said Edward, taking it from his pocket and looking inquirinzly at Lucy. ‘I think you may venture to read it to us,” said she. It was from Mrs. Franklin, and informed him that she had purchased a beautiful seat on the banks of the Delaware, and was living there in the enjoyment of all the happiness which was toTHE THREE ORPHANS, 143 be derived from the society of her family and the delightful serenity of nature. One circumstance only had happened since her departure from En. gland to mar this enjoyment, the account of which must be given in her own words - ‘‘ My oldest son, your friend—no doubt you have often heard from him, He soon grew tired of the andia service, and was at his own desire exchanged into a regiment which had been ordered to join the army in Spain. There, his career was marked with the heroism and generosity which had ever distinguished his character. A young officer ig now visiting me, who accompanied him in his last campaign. He informs me, that my noble son never lost an opportunity either of signalizing himself in action or relieving the distresses of those who suffered the calamities of war. ‘In one of the severest battle fought upon the peninsula, it was the fortune of my son to receive a severe wound, while gallantly leading his men to a breach in the walls of a fortified town. The English were repulsed, and a French officer, pass- ing over the field a few hours after, with a detach- ment, had the barbarity to order one of his men to fix his bayonet in him. His friend, who was also wounded and lay near him, saw it, but was too helpless himself to raise an arm in defence. ‘The same night, the town was taken by storm, When the English force advanced, the unfortunate officers were both conveyed to safe quarters, and my poor son lived thirty-six hours alter the cap- ture of the place. During this time, the story of his inhuman treatment reached the ears of the commander-in-chief. Fired with indignation, he hastened to the quarters of the wounded officers. “Poor Franklin,’ says his friend, ‘was lyin in the arms of his faithful servant and breathing heavily, when the illustrious Wellington enteredac ruracuus rar eae chron aeree acre Oe aeons et te Sere viphansemiteny: ini ee eee aah —.) ; i Be IR oy en x Ro iH F : j 4 n Peel ee H ee eS aes A ine rae } jee es leat baa ; Wee iY oad ‘ = i : f sc 3 pee its BN t fi t & al i he it ‘ be i 14.4 CHARLOTTE’S DAUGHTER, the room. it was apparent to all that he had but a few moments to live. “*Tell me,’ said the General, ‘exert but strength enough to describe to me the villain who inflicted that unmanly outrage upon you, and I swear by the honor of a soldier that in one hour his life shall answer it.’ “Never did I see the noble countenance of Franklin assume such an expression of calm mag- nanimity as when he replied, ‘“*T am not able to designate him, and if I could do it with certainty, be assured, Sir, that I never would,’ ‘These were his last words, and in afew minutes more, his spir't flel to a brighter region.” If there are sorrows which refuse the balm of sympathy, there are also consolations which those around us “can neither give nor take away.” Through the remaining years of her life, the or- phan daughter of the unfortunate Charlotte Tem- ple evinced the power and efficiency of those ex- alted principles, which can support the mind un- der every trial, and the happiness of those pure emotions and lofty aspirations whose objects are raised far above the variable contingencies of time and sense. In the circle of her friends she seldom alluded to past events. When the summons came which re- leased her pure spirit from its earthly tenement, and the history of her family was closed with the life of its last representative, those who had witnessed in her mother’s fate, the ruin resulting from once yielding to the seductive influence of passion, acknowledged, in the events of the daughter's life, that benignant power which can bring out of the most bitter end and blighting disappoint- ments, the richest fruits of virtue and happiness. JHE. ENDSSSe ee Ce Ee i ‘ ; a { > A 3 : K ; x see i ae fe FrASeae eg te y Fe cia as ee eshte pilates paises os ALDERMAN LIBRARY f this book is due on the date The return O indicated below DUE DUE j + be Be 3 Bho & == < t . to CG BG inl ec t for two weeks, but Usually books are lent ou there are exceptions and the borrower should note carefully the date stamped above. Fines are charged for over-due books at the rate of five cents a day; for reserved books there are Books must be special rates and regulations. presented at the desk if renewal is desired.Se ZOE ee CeCe ey a a aa ey Drei as Pe AP nes AEA SRE SN SV LVS SSS