“Madame,” cried the old man, with an angry look, “has my child been accustomed to go out without leave, with no other company or protector than that French woman? Pardon me, madame, I mean no reflections on your country, but I never did like Mademoiselle La Rue; I think she was a very improper person to be entrusted with the care of such a girl as Charlotte Temple, or to be suffered to take her from under your immediate protection.”
“You wrong me, Mr. Eldridge,” replied she, “if you suppose I have ever permitted your granddaughter 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 which her return can alone unravel.”
Servants were now dispatched to every place where there was the least hope of hearing any tidings of the fugitives, but in vain. Dreadful were the hours of horrid suspense which Mr. Eldridge passed till twelve o’clock, when that suspense was reduced to a shocking 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-expecting 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 reflected 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 in it the conflict of her mind.
“Does that letter relate to Charlotte?” said Mr. Eldridge, having waited some time in expectation of Madame Du Pont’s speaking.
“It does,” said she. “Charlotte is well, but can not return today.”
“Not return, madame? Where is she? Who will detain her from her fond, expecting parents?”
“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! Oh, would to heaven I had died but yesterday.”
A violent gush of grief in some measure relieved 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 heartrending tidings? or how shall I be enabled to console you, who need so much consolation myself?”
The old man returned to the chaise, but the light step and cheerful countenance were no more; sorrow filled his heart and guided his emotions.
He seated himself in the chaise; his venerable head reclined upon his bosom, his hands were folded, his eye fixed on vacancy, and the large drops of sorrow rolled silently down his cheeks. There was a mixture of anguish and resignation depicted in his countenance, as if he would say:
“Henceforth, who shall dare to boast his happiness, or even in idea contemplate his treasure, lest in the very moment his heart is exulting in its own felicity, the object which constitutes that felicity should be torn from him?”
XIV
Maternal Sorrow
Slow and heavy passed the time while the carriage was conveying Mr. Eldridge home; and yet, when he came in sight of the house, he wished a longer reprieve from the dreadful task of informing Mr. and Mrs. Temple of their daughter’s elopement.
It is easy to judge the anxiety of these affectionate parents, when they found the return of their father delayed so much beyond the expected time. They were now met in the dining parlor, and several of the young people who had been invited were already arrived. Each different part of the company was employed in the same manner, looking out at the windows which faced the road. At length the long-expected chaise appeared. Mrs. Temple ran out to receive and welcome her darling: her young companions flocked around the door, each one eager to give her joy on the return of her birthday. The door of the chaise was opened. Charlotte was not there. “Where is my child?” cried Mrs. Temple, in breathless agitation. Mr. Eldridge could not answer; he took hold of his daughter’s hand and led her into the house; and sinking on the first chair he came to, 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 hysterics.
Mr. Temple, who had stood speechless with surprise and fear, now ventured to enquire if indeed his Charlotte was no more. Mr. Eldridge led him into another apartment; and putting the fatal note into his hand, cried: “Bear it like a Christian!” and turned from him, endeavoring to suppress his own too visible emotions.
It would be vain to attempt describing what Mr. Temple felt whilst he hastily ran over the dreadful lines. When he had finished, the paper dropped from his unnerved hand. “Gracious Heaven!” said he,
