Mrs. Beauchamp was surprised and affected; she knew not what to say; she foresaw the agony this interview would occasion Mr. Temple, who had just arrived in search of his Charlotte, and yet was sensible that the pardon and blessing of her father would soften even the agonies of death to the daughter.
She hesitated. “Tell me, madam,” cried he, wildly, “tell me, I beseech thee, does she live? shall I see my darling once again? Perhaps she is in this house. Lead, lead me to her, that I may bless her, and then lie down and die.”
The ardent manner in which he uttered these words occasioned him to raise his voice. It caught the ear of Charlotte: she knew the beloved sound: and uttering a loud shriek, she sprang forward as Mr. Temple entered the room. “My adored father.” “My long lost child.” Nature could support no more, and they both sunk lifeless into the arms of the attendants.
Charlotte was again put into bed, and a few moments restored Mr. Temple: but to describe the agony of his sufferings is past the power of anyone, who though they may readily conceive, can not delineate the dreadful scene. Every eye gave testimony of what each heart felt—but all were silent.
When Charlotte recovered, she found herself supported in her father’s arms. She cast on him a most expressive look, but was unable to speak. A reviving cordial was administered. She then asked in a low voice for her child: it was brought to her: she put it in her father’s arms. “Protect her,” said she, “and bless your dying—”
Unable to finish the sentence, she sunk back on her pillow: her countenance was serenely composed; she regarded her father as he pressed the infant to his breast, with a steadfast look; a sudden beam of joy passed across her languid features: she raised her eyes to heaven—and then closed them forever.
XXXIV
Retribution
In the meantime, Montraville having received orders to return to New York, arrived, and having still some remains of compassionate tenderness for the woman whom he regarded as brought to shame by himself, he went out in search of Belcour, to inquire whether she was safe, and whether the child lived. He found him immersed in dissipation, and could gain no other intelligence than that Charlotte had left him, and that he knew not what was become of her.
“I can not believe it possible,” said Montraville, “that a mind once so pure as Charlotte Temple’s should so suddenly become the mansion of vice. Beware, Belcour,” continued he, “beware if you have dared to behave either unjustly or dishonorably to that poor girl, your life shall pay the forfeit:—I will revenge her cause.”
He immediately went into the country, to the house where he had left Charlotte. It was desolate. After much inquiry he at length found the servant girl who had lived with her. From her he learnt the misery Charlotte had endured from the complicated evils of illness, poverty, and a broken heart, and that she had set out on foot for New York on a cold winter’s evening; but she could inform him no further.
Tortured almost to madness by this shocking account, he returned to the city, but before he reached it, the evening was drawing to a close. In entering the town, he was obliged to pass several little huts,19 the residences of poor women, who supported themselves by washing the clothes of the officers and soldiers. It was nearly dark; he heard from a neighboring steeple a solemn toll that seemed to say, some poor mortal was going to their last mansion: the sound struck on the heart of Montraville, and he involuntarily stopped, when from one of the houses he saw the appearance of a funeral. Almost unknowing what he did, he followed at a small distance; and as they let the coffin into the grave, he inquired of a soldier, who stood by, and had just brushed off a tear that did honor to his heart, who it was that was just buried. “An’ please your honor,” said the man, “ ’tis a poor girl that was brought from her friends by a cruel man, who left her when she was big with child, and married another.” Montraville stood motionless, and the man proceeded—“I met her myself, not a fortnight since, one night, all wet and cold in the streets; she went to Madam Crayton’s, but she would not take her in and so the poor thing went raving mad.” Montraville could bear no more; he struck his hands against his forehead with violence, and exclaiming, “poor murdered Charlotte!” ran with precipitation towards the place where they were heaping the earth on her remains. “Hold—hold! one moment,” said he, “close not the grave of the injured Charlotte Temple, till I have taken vengeance on her murderer.”
“Rash young man,” said Mr. Temple, “who art thou that thus disturbest the last mournful rites of the dead, and rudely breakest in upon the grief of an afflicted father?”
“If thou art the father of Charlotte Temple,” said he, gazing at him with mingled horror and amazement—“if thou art her father—I am Montraville.”
Then, falling on his knees, he continued—“Here is my bosom. I bare it to receive the stroke I merit. Strike—strike now, and save me from the misery of reflection.”
“Alas!” said Mr. Temple, “if thou wert the seducer of my child, thy own reflections be thy punishment. I wrest not the power from the hand of Omnipotence. Look on that little heap of earth; there hast thou buried the only joy of a fond father. Look at it often; and may thy heart feel such true sorrow as shall merit the mercy of Heaven.” He turned from him, and Montraville, starting up from the ground where he had thrown himself, and at that instant remembering the perfidy of Belcour, flew like lightning to his lodgings. Belcour was intoxicated; Montraville impetuous; they fought, and the sword
