He arose, dressed himself, and taking the 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 obligation.” He 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 eye on her gray nightgown and black ribbon, and his own feelings prevented a reply.
Julia Franklin was the very reverse of Charlotte 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 intelligent glances through long silken lashes; her hair was shining brown, and her features regular and striking; there was an air of innocent gayety that played about her countenance where good humor sat triumphant.
“I have been mistaken,” said Montraville. “I imagined I loved Charlotte: but, alas! I am now 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 impossible to surmount. I feel I love Julia Franklin with ardor and sincerity; yet, when in her presence, I am sensible of my own inability to offer a heart worthy her acceptance, and remain silent.”
Full of these painful thoughts, Montraville walked out to see Charlotte: she saw him approach, 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.
“I thought you had forgotten me, Montraville,” said she, “and was very unhappy.”
“I shall never forget you, Charlotte,” he replied, 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 is hot; your eyes are heavy; you are very ill.”
“I 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 pretending to sleep, hide the agitation of his mind from her penetrating eye. Charlotte watched by him till a late hour, and then, lying softly down by his side, sunk into a profound sleep, from which she awoke not till late the next morning.
XX
Virtue—When Most Amiable
“Virtue never appears so amiable as when reaching forth her hand to raise a fallen sister.”
Chapter of Accidents
When Charlotte awoke she missed Montraville; but thinking he might have arisen 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 pleasure: be assured I am quite well this morning; and what your fond imagination magnified into illness, was nothing more than fatigue, which a few hours’ rest has entirely removed. Make yourself happy, and be certain of the unalterable friendship of
“Friendship!” 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. Montraville is no longer interested in thy happiness; and shame, remorse, and disappointed love will henceforth be thy only attendants.”
Though these were the ideas that involuntarily 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 herself she could on a second perusal discover an air of tenderness in the few lines he had left, which at first had escaped her notice.
“He certainly can not be so base as to leave me,” said she; “and in styling himself my friend, does he not promise to protect me. I will not torment myself with these causeless fears; I will place a 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 Charlotte’s countenance, her swollen eyes and neglected attire, at once told him she was unhappy: He made no doubt but Montraville had, by his coldness, alarmed her suspicions, and was resolved, if possible, to rouse her to jealousy, urge her to reproach him, and by that means occasion a breach between them. “If I can once convince her that she has a rival,” said he, “she will listen to my passion, if it is only to revenge 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
