“All these distressing scenes, my dear Charlotte,” cried Montraville, “are merely the chimeras of a disturbed fancy. Your parents might perhaps grieve at first, but when they heard from your own hands that you were with a man of honor, and that it was to insure your felicity by an union with him, to which you feared they would never have given their assent, that you left their protection, they will, be assured, forgive an error which love alone occasioned, and when we return from America, receive you with open arms and tears of joy.”
Belcour and mademoiselle heard this last speech, and conceiving it a proper time to throw in their advice and persuasions, approached Charlotte, and so well seconded the entreaties of Montraville, that finding mademoiselle intended going with Belcour, and feeling her own treacherous heart too much inclined to accompany them, the hapless Charlotte in an evil hour consented that the next evening they should bring a chaise to the end of the town, and that she would leave her friends, and throw herself entirely on the protection of Montraville. “But should you,” said she, looking earnestly at him, her eyes full of tears, “should you, forgetful of your promises, and repenting the engagements you here voluntarily enter into, forsake and leave me on a foreign shore—”
“Judge not so meanly of me,” said he. “The moment we reach our place of destination, Hymen shall sanctify our love, and when I shall forget your goodness may Heaven forget me!”
“Ah,” said Charlotte, leaning on mademoiselle’s arm, as they walked up the garden together, “I have forgot all that I ought to have remembered, in consenting to this intended elopement.”
“You are a strange girl,” said mademoiselle: “you never know your own mind two minutes at a time. Just now you declared Montraville’s happiness was what you prized most in the world; and now I suppose you repent having insured that happiness by agreeing to accompany him abroad.”
“Indeed, I do repent,” replied Charlotte, “from my soul; but while discretion points out the impropriety of my conduct, inclination urges me on to ruin.”
“Ruin! fiddlesticks!” said mademoiselle; “am not I going with you? and do I feel any of these qualms?”
“You do not renounce a tender father and mother,” said Charlotte.
“But I hazard my dear reputation,” replied mademoiselle, bridling.
“True,” replied Charlotte, “but you do not feel what I do.” She then bade her good night: but sleep was a stranger to her eyes, and the tear of anguish watered her pillow.
XII
“How Thou Art Fall’n!”
Nature’s last, best gift:
Creature in whom excell’d, whatever could
To sight or thought be nam’d!
Holy, divine! good, amiable, and sweet!
How thou art fall’n!⸺
When Charlotte left her restless bed, her languid eye and pale cheek discovered to Madame Du Pont the little repose she had tasted.
“My dear child,” said the affectionate governess, “what is the cause of the langor so apparent in your frame? Are you not well?”
“Yes, my dear madame, very well,” replied Charlotte, attempting to smile, “but I know not how it was; I could not sleep last night, and my spirits are depressed this morning.”
“Come, cheer up, my love,” said the governess; “I believe I have brought a cordial to revive them. I 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 tomorrow is the anniversary of the happy day that gave my beloved girl to the anxious wishes of a maternal heart, I have requested your governess to let you come home and spend it with us; and as I know you to be a good, affectionate child, and make it your study to improve in those branches of education which you know will give most pleasure to your delighted parents, as a reward for your diligence and attention, I have prepared an agreeable surprise for your reception. Your grandfather, eager to embrace the darling of his aged heart, will come in the chaise for you; so hold yourself in readiness to attend him by nine o’clock. Your dear father joins in every tender wish for your health and future felicity which warms the heart of my dear Charlotte’s affectionate mother.
“Gracious Heaven!” cried Charlotte, forgetting where she was, and raising her streaming eyes as in earnest supplication.
Madame Du Pont was surprised. “Why these tears, my love?” said she. “Why this seeming agitation? I thought the letter would have rejoiced, instead of distressing you.”
“It does rejoice me,” replied Charlotte, endeavoring at composure; “but I was praying for merit to deserve the unremitted attentions of the best of parents.”
“You do right,” said Madame Du Pont, “to ask the assistance of Heaven that you may continue to deserve their love. Continue, my dear Charlotte, in the course you have ever pursued, and you will insure at once their happiness and your own.”
“Oh!” cried Charlotte, as her governess left her, “I have forfeited both forever! Yet let me reflect:—the irrevocable step is not yet taken: it is not too late to recede from the brink of a precipice from which I can only behold the dark abyss of ruin, shame and remorse!”
She arose from her seat, and flew to the apartment of La Rue. “Oh, mademoiselle!” said she, “I am snatched by a miracle from destruction! This letter has saved me: it has opened my eyes to the folly I was so near committing. I will not go,
