Should anyone, presuming on his own philosophic temper, look with an eye of contempt on the 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, 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. Charlotte 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 I will tell you all,” said Mr. Temple. “You must not go; indeed you must not; it will be of no use.”
“Temple,” said she, assuming a look of firmness and composure, “tell me the truth, I beseech you! I can not bear this dreadful suspense. What misfortune has befallen my child? Let me know the worst, and I will endeavor to bear it as I ought.”
“Lucy,” replied Mr. Temple, “imagine your daughter alive, and in no danger of death: what misfortune would you then dread?”
“There is one misfortune which is worse than death. But I know my child too well to suspect—”
“Be not too confident, Lucy.”
“Oh, Heavens!” said she, “what horrid images do you start? Is it possible she should forget?”
“She has forgot us all, my love; she has preferred the love of a stranger to the affectionate protection of her friends.”
“Not eloped!” cried she, eagerly.
Mr. Temple was silent.
“You can not contradict it,” said she. “I see my fate in those tearful eyes. Oh, Charlotte! Charlotte! how ill have you requited our tenderness! But, Father of Mercies,” continued she, sinking on her knees and raising her streaming eyes and clasped hands to Heaven, “this once vouchsafe to hear a fond, a distracted mother’s prayer. Oh, let thy bounteous Providence watch over and protect the dear, thoughtless girl, save her from the miseries which I fear will be her portion; and, oh! of Thine infinite mercy, make her not a mother, 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 read this scene with attention, and reflect that you may yourselves one day be mothers.
Oh, my friends, as you value your eternal happiness, wound not, by thoughtless ingratitude, the peace of the mother who bore you: remember the tenderness, the care, the unremitting anxiety with which she has attended to all your wants and wishes from earliest 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 future felicity: you must love her; nature, all-powerful nature, has planted the seeds of filial affection in your bosoms.
Then once more read over the sorrows of poor Mrs. Temple; and remember, the mother whom you so dearly love and venerate will feel the same, when you, forgetful of the respect due to your Maker and yourself, forsake the paths of virtue, for those of vice and folly.
XV
Embarkation
It was with the utmost difficulty that the united efforts of mademoiselle and Montraville could support Charlotte’s spirits during their short ride from Chichester7 to Portsmouth, where a boat waited to take them immediately on board the ship in which they were to embark for America.
As soon as she became tolerably composed, she entreated pen and ink to write to her parents. This she did in the most affecting, artless manner, entreating their pardon and blessing, and describing the dreadful situation of her mind, the conflict she suffered in endeavoring to conquer this unfortunate attachment, and concluded with saying her only hope of future comfort consisted in the (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 to 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 indulging the delightful hope of soon receiving an answer that would seal her pardon, she in some measure assumed her usual cheerfulness.
But Montraville knew too well the consequences that must unavoidably ensue should this letter reach Mr. Temple: he, therefore, wisely resolved to walk on the deck, tear it in 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 concentered in one, namely, that the fleet might be detained at Spithead till she could 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 fleet8 weighed anchor, and in a few hours (the wind being favorable) they bade adieu to the white cliffs of Albion.
In the meantime every enquiry that could be thought of was
