“Though Charlotte, by her abandoned conduct, has thrown herself from my protection, I still hold myself bound to support her till relieved from her present condition, and also to provide for the child. I do not intend to see her again, but I will place a sum of money in your hands which will amply supply her with every convenience; but should she require more, let her have it, and I will see it repaid. I wish I could prevail on the poor, deluded girl to return to her friends; she was an only child, and I make no doubt but that they would joyfully receive her; it would shock me greatly to see her henceforth leading a life of infamy, as I should always accuse myself of being the primary cause of all her errors. If she should choose to remain under your protection, be kind to her, Belcour, I conjure you. Let not satiety prompt you to treat her in such a manner as may drive her to actions which necessity might urge her to, while her better reason disapproves them: she shall never want a friend while I live, but I never more desire to behold her: her presence would be always painful to me, and a glance from her eye would call the blush of conscious guilt into my cheek.
“I will write a letter to her, which you may deliver when I am gone, as I shall go to St. Eustatia the day after my union with Julia, who will accompany me.”
Belcour promised to fulfil the request of his friend, though nothing was further from his intentions than the least design of delivering the letter, or making Charlotte acquainted with the provision Montraville had made for her. He was bent on the complete ruin of the unhappy girl, and supposed, by reducing her to an entire dependence upon him, to bring her by degrees to consent to gratify his ungenerous passion.
The evening before the day appointed for the nuptials of Montraville and Julia, the former retired early to his apartment, and, ruminating on the past scenes of his life, suffered the keenest remorse in the remembrance of Charlotte’s seduction. “Poor girl,” said he, “I will at least write and bid her adieu; I will, too, endeavor to awaken that love of virtue in her bosom which her unfortunate attachment to me has extinguished.” He took up the pen and began to write, but words were denied him. How could he address the woman whom he had seduced, and whom, though he thought unworthy his tenderness, he was about to bid adieu forever? How should he tell her that he was going to abjure her, to enter into the most indissoluble ties with another, and that he could not even own the infant which she bore as his child? Several letters were begun and destroyed: at length he completed the following:
“To Charlotte.
“Though I have taken up my pen to address you, my poor, injured girl, I feel I am inadequate to the task; yet, however painful the endeavor, I could not resolve upon leaving you forever without one kind line to bid you adieu—to tell you how my heart bleeds at the remembrance of what you were before you saw the hated Montraville. Even now imagination paints the scene, when torn by contending passions, when struggling between love and duty, you fainted in my arms and I lifted you into the chaise: I see the agony of your mind, when, recovering, you found yourself on the road to Portsmouth: but how, my gentle girl, how could you, when so justly impressed with the value of virtue, how could you, when loving as I thought you loved me, yield to the solicitation of Belcour?
“Oh, Charlotte, conscience tells me it was I, villain that I am, who first taught you the allurements of guilty pleasure; it was I who dragged you from the calm repose which innocence and virtue ever enjoy; and can I, dare I tell you it was not love prompted to the horrid deed? No, thou dear, fallen angel; believe your repentant Montraville when he tells you that the man who truly loves will never betray the object of his affection. Adieu, Charlotte: could you still find charms in a life of unoffending innocence, return to your parents; you shall never want the means of support both for yourself and child. Oh! gracious Heaven! may that child be entirely free from the vices of its father and the weakness of its mother.
“Tomorrow—but no, I can not tell you what tomorrow will produce; Belcour will inform you: he also has cash for you, which I beg you will ask for whenever you may want it. Once more, adieu; believe me, could I hear you was returned to your friends, and enjoying that tranquility of which I have robbed you, I should be as completely happy as even you, in your fondest hours, could wish me. But till then a gloom will obscure the brightest prospects of
After he had sealed this letter he threw himself on the bed and enjoyed a few hours’ repose. Early in the morning Belcour tapped at his door: he arose hastily, and prepared to meet his Julia at the altar.
“This is the letter to Charlotte,” said he, giving it to Belcour: “take it to her when we are gone to Eustatia;13 and I conjure you, my dear friend, not to use any sophilastic arguments to prevent her return to virtue; but should she incline that way, encourage her in the thought and assist her to put her design in execution.”
XXVII
“Like a Fair Lily”
Pensive she mourn’d, and hung her languid head,
Like a fair lily overcharg’d with dew.
Charlotte had now been left almost three months a prey to her own melancholy reflections—sad companions, indeed; nor did anyone break in upon
