I hope, sir, your prejudices are now removed in regard to the probability of my story? Oh, they are. Well, then, with your leave, I will proceed. The distance from the house which our suffering heroine occupied, to New York, was not very great; yet the snow fell so fast, and the cold so intense, that, being unable from her situation to walk quick, she found herself almost sinking with cold and fatigue before she reached the town; her garments, which were merely suitable to the summer season, being an undress robe of plain white muslin, were wet through; and a thin, black cloak and bonnet, very improper habiliments for such a climate, but poorly defended her from the cold. In this situation she reached the city, and inquired of a foot soldier whom she met, the way to Colonel Crayton’s.
“Bless you, my sweet lady,” said the soldier, with a voice and look of compassion, “I will show you the way with all my heart; but if you are going to make a petition to Madame Crayton, it is all to no purpose, I assure you: if you please, I will conduct you to Mr. Franklin’s: though Miss Julia is married and gone now, yet the old gentleman is very good.”
“Julia Franklin,” said Charlotte; “is she not married to Montraville?”
“Yes,” replied the soldier, “and may God bless them, for a better officer never lived, he is so good to us all; and as to Miss Julia, all the poor folks almost worshiped her.”
“Gracious Heaven!” cried Charlotte, “is Montraville unjust then to none but me?”
The soldier now showed her Colonel Crayton’s door, and with a beating heart she knocked for admission.17
XXXI18
Subject Continued
When the door was opened, Charlotte, in a voice rendered scarcely articulate, through cold and the extreme agitation of her mind, demanded whether Mrs. Crayton was at home; the servant hesitated: he knew that his lady was engaged at a game of picquet with her dear Corydon, nor could he think she would like to be disturbed by a person whose appearance spoke her of so little consequence as Charlotte; yet there was something in her countenance that rather interested him in her favor, and he said his lady was engaged; but if she had any particular message he would deliver it.
“Take up this letter,” said Charlotte, “tell her the unhappy writer of it waits in the hall for an answer.”
The tremulous accent, the tearful eye, must have moved any heart not composed of adamant. The man took the letter from the poor suppliant, and hastily ascended the staircase.
“A letter, madam,” said he, presenting it to his lady; “an immediate answer is required.”
Mrs. Crayton glanced her eye carelessly over the contents. “What stuff is this?” cried she, haughtily; “have not I told you a thousand times that I will not be plagued with beggars and petitions from people one knows nothing about? Go tell the woman I can’t do anything in it. I’m sorry, but one can’t relieve everybody.”
The servant bowed, and heavily returned with this chilling message to Charlotte.
“Surely,” said she, “Mrs. Crayton has not read my letter. Go, my good friend, pray, go back to her; tell her it is Charlotte Temple who requests beneath her hospitable roof to find shelter from the inclemency of the season.”
“Prithee, don’t plague me, man,” cried Mrs. Crayton, impatiently, as the servant advanced something in behalf of the unhappy girl. “I tell you I don’t know her.”
“Not know me!” cried Charlotte, rushing into the room (for she had followed the man upstairs), “not know me—not remember the ruined Charlotte Temple, who, but for you, perhaps might still have been innocent, still have been happy. Oh! La Rue, this is beyond everything I could have believed possible.”
“Upon my honor, miss,” replied the unfeeling woman with the utmost effrontery, “this is a most unaccountable address: it is beyond my comprehension. John,” continued she, turning to the servant, “the young woman is certainly out of her senses; do pray take her away, she terrifies me to death.”
“Oh, God!” cried Charlotte, clasping her hands in an agony, “this is too much; what will become of me? but I will not leave you; they shall not tear me from you; here on my knees I conjure you to save me from perishing in the street; if you really have forgotten me, O, for charity’s sweet sake, this night let me be sheltered from the winter’s piercing cold.”
The kneeling figure of Charlotte, in her affecting situation, might have moved the heart of a stoic to compassion; but Mrs. Crayton remained inflexible. In vain did Charlotte recount the time they had known each other at Chichester; in vain mention their being in the same ship; in vain were the names of Montraville and Belcour mentioned. Mrs. Crayton could only say she was sorry for her imprudence, but could not think of having her own reputation endangered by encouraging a woman of that kind in her own house; besides, she did not know what trouble and expense she might bring upon her husband by giving shelter to a woman in her situation.
“I can at least die here,” said Charlotte. “I feel I can not long survive this dreadful conflict. Father of mercy, here let me finish my existence.” Her agonizing sensations
