This was touching Charlotte in the most vulnerable part: she rose from her seat, and taking mademoiselle’s hand—“You know, my dear La Rue,” said she, “I love you too well to do anything that would injure you in my governess’ opinion: I am only sorry we went out this evening.”
“I don’t believe it, Charlotte,” said she, assuming a little vivacity; “for, if you had not gone out, you would not have seen the gentleman who met us crossing the field, and I rather think you were pleased with his conversation.”
“I had seen him once before,” replied Charlotte, “and thought him an agreeable man, and you know one is always pleased to see a person with whom one has passed several cheerful hours. But,” said she pausing and drawing a letter from her pocket, while a gentle suffusion of vermillion tinged her neck and face, “he gave me this letter; what shall I do with it?”
“Read it, to be sure,” returned mademoiselle.
“I am afraid I ought not,” said Charlotte: “my mother has often told me I should never read a letter given me by a young man without first giving it to her.”
“Lord bless you, my dear girl,” cried the teacher, smiling, “have you a mind to be in leading strings all your lifetime. Prithee, open the letter, read it, and judge for yourself; if you show it your mother, the consequence will be, you will be taken from school, and a strict guard kept over you; so you will stand no chance of ever seeing the smart young officer again.”
“I should not like to leave school yet,” replied Charlotte, “till I have attained a greater proficiency in my Italian and music. But you can, if you please, mademoiselle, take the letter back to Montraville, and tell him I wish him well, but can not, with any propriety, enter into a clandestine correspondence with him.”
She laid the letter on the table, and began to undress herself.
“Well,” said La Rue, “I vow you are an unaccountable girl: have you no curiosity to see the inside now? For my part, I could no more let a letter addressed to me lie unopened so long than I could work miracles: he writes a good hand,” continued she, turning the letter to look at the superscription.
“ ’Tis well enough,” said Charlotte, drawing it toward her.
“He is a genteel young fellow,” said La Rue, carelessly, folding up her apron at the same time; “but I think he is marked with the smallpox.”
“Oh, you are greatly mistaken,” said Charlotte, eagerly; “he has a remarkable clear skin and fine complexion.”
“His eyes, if I could judge by what I saw,” said La Rue, “are gray, and want expression.”
“By no means,” replied Charlotte; “they are the most expressive eyes I ever saw.”
“Well, child, whether they are gray or black is of no consequence: you have determined not to read his letter; so it is likely you will never either see or hear from him again.”
Charlotte took up the letter, and mademoiselle continued—
“He is most probably going to America; and if ever you should hear any account of him it may possibly be that he is killed; and though he loved you ever so fervently, though his last breath should be spent in a prayer for your happiness, it can be nothing to you: you can feel nothing for the fate of the man whose letters you will not open, and whose sufferings you will not alleviate, by permitting him to think you would remember him when absent and pray for his safety.”
Charlotte still held the letter in her hand: her heart swelled at the conclusion of mademoiselle’s speech, and a tear dropped upon the wafer that closed it.
“The wafer is not dry yet,” said she, “and sure there can be no great harm—” She hesitated. La Rue was silent. “I may read it, mademoiselle, and return it afterward.”
“Certainly,” replied mademoiselle.
“At any rate, I am determined not to answer it,” continued Charlotte, as she opened the letter.
Here let me stop to make one remark, and trust me, my very heart aches while I write it; but certain I am that when once a woman has stifled the sense of shame in her own bosom, when once she has lost sight of the basis on which reputation, honor, everything that should be dear to the female heart, rests, she grows hardened in guilt, and will spare no pains to bring down innocence and beauty to the shocking level with herself: and this proceeds from that diabolical spirit of envy which repines at seeing another in the full possession of that respect and esteem which she can no longer hope to enjoy.
Mademoiselle eyed the unsuspecting Charlotte, as she perused the letter, with a malignant pleasure. She saw that the contents had awakened new emotions in her youthful bosom: she encouraged her hopes, calmed her fears, and before they parted for the night, it was determined that she should meet Montraville the ensuing evening.
VIII
Domestic Pleasures Planned
“I think, my dear,” said Mrs. Temple, laying her hand on her husband’s arm, as they were walking together in the garden, “I think next Wednesday is Charlotte’s birthday: now, I have formed a little scheme in my own mind to give her an agreeable surprise; and if you have no objection, we will send for her home on that day.”
Temple pressed his wife’s hand in token of approbation, and she proceeded—
“You know the little alcove at the bottom of the garden, of which Charlotte is so fond? I have an inclination to deck this out in a fanciful manner, and invite all her little friends to partake of
