“Take her away,” said Mrs. Crayton; “she will really frighten me into hysterics; take her away, I say, this instant.”
“And where must I take the poor creature?” said the servant, with a voice and look of compassion.
“Anywhere,” cried she hastily, “only don’t let me ever see her again. I declare she has flurried me so, I shan’t be myself again this fortnight.”
John, assisted by his fellow servant, raised and carried her downstairs. “Poor soul,” said he, “you shall not lay in the street this night. I have a bed and a poor little hovel, where my wife and her little ones rest them; but they shall watch tonight and you shall be sheltered from danger.” They placed her in a chair; and the benevolent man, assisted by one of his comrades, carried her to the place where his wife and children lived. A surgeon was sent for; he bled her; she gave signs of returning life, and before the dawn gave birth to a female infant. After this event, she lay for some hours in a kind of stupor; and, if at any time she spoke, it was with a quickness and incoherence that plainly evinced the total deprivation of her reason.
XXXII
Reasons Why and Wherefore
The reader of sensibility may perhaps be astonished to find Mrs. Crayton could so positively deny any knowledge of Charlotte; it is, therefore, but just that her conduct should in some measure be accounted for.
She had ever been fully sensible of the superiority of Charlotte’s sense and virtue; she was conscious that she had never swerved from rectitude had it not been for her bad precepts and worse example. These were things as yet unknown to her husband; and she wished not to have that part of her conduct exposed to him, as she had great reason to fear she had already lost considerable part of that power she once maintained over him. She trembled whilst Charlotte was in the house, lest the colonel should return; she perfectly well remembered how much he seemed interested in her favor, whilst on their passage from England, and made no doubt but, should he see her in her present distress, he would offer her an asylum, and protect her to the utmost of his power. In that case, she feared the unguarded nature of Charlotte might discover to the colonel the part she had taken in the unhappy girl’s elopement, and she well knew the contrast between her own and Charlotte’s conduct, would make the former appear in no very respectable light. Had she reflected properly, she would have afforded the poor girl protection; and, by enjoining her silence, insured it by acts of repeated kindness; but vice in general blinds its votaries, and they discover their real characters to the world when they are most studious to preserve appearances.
Just so it happened with Mrs. Crayton: her servants made no scruple of mentioning the cruel conduct of their lady to a poor distressed lunatic who claimed her protection; everyone joined in reprobating her inhumanity; nay, even Corydon thought she might at least have ordered her to be taken care of, but he dare not even hint it to her, for he lived but in her smiles, and drew from her lavish fondness large sums to support an extravagance to which the state of his own finances was very inadequate: it can not therefore be supposed that he wished Mrs. Crayton to be very liberal in her bounty to the afflicted suppliant; yet vice had not so entirely seared over his heart but the sorrows of Charlotte could find a vulnerable part.
Charlotte had now been three days with her humane preservers, but she was totally insensible of everything; she raved incessantly for Montraville and her father; she was not conscious of being a mother, nor took the least notice of her child, except to ask whose it was, and why it was not carried to its parents.
“Oh!” said she one day, starting up on hearing the infant cry, “why, why, will you keep that child here; I am sure you would not if you knew how hard it was for a mother to be parted from her infant: it is like tearing the cords of life asunder. Oh! could you see the horrid sight which I now behold—there—there stands my dear mother, her poor bosom bleeding at every vein; her gentle, affectionate heart torn in a thousand pieces, and all for the loss of a ruined, ungrateful child. Save me—save me—from her frown! I dare not—indeed I dare not speak to her.”
Such were the dreadful images that haunted her distracted mind, and nature was sinking fast under the dreadful malady which medicine had no power to remove. The surgeon who attended her was a humane man; he exerted his utmost abilities to save her; but he saw she was in want of many necessaries and comforts which the poverty of her hospitable host rendered him unable to provide; he therefore determined to make her situation known to some of the officers’ ladies, and endeavor to make a collection for her relief.
When he returned home after making this resolution, he found a message from Mrs. Beauchamp, who had just arrived from Rhode Island, requesting he would call and see one of her children, who was very unwell. “I do not know,” said he, as he was hastening to obey the summons, “I do not know a woman to whom I could apply with more hope of success than Mrs. Beauchamp. I will endeavor to interest her in this poor girl’s behalf; she wants the soothing balm of friendly consolation: we may perhaps save her; we will try, at least.”
“And where is she?” cried Mrs. Beauchamp, when he had prescribed something for the child, and told his little pathetic tale, “where is she, sir? we will go to her immediately. Heaven forbid that I should be deaf to the
