| | 1 | Author: | Rowson
Mrs.
1762-1824 | Add | | | Title: | Charlotte  | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “ARE you for a walk,” said Montraville to
his companion, as they arose from table;
“are you for a walk? or shall we order the chaise
and proceed to Portsmouth?” Belcour preferred
the former; and they sauntered out to view the town,
and to make remarks on the inhabitants, as they returned
from church. “As to-morrow is the anniversary of the happy
day that gave my beloved girl to the anxious wishes
of a maternal heart, I have requested your governess
to let you come home and spend it with us; and as
I know you to be a good affectionate child, and
make it your study to improve in those branches
of education which you know will give most
pleasure to your delighted parents, as a reward
for your diligence and attention I have prepared
an agreeable surprise for your reception. Your
grand-father, eager to embrace the darling of his
aged heart, will come in the chaise for you: so
hold yourself in readiness to attend him by nine
o'clock. Your dear father joins in every tender
wish for your health and future felicity, which
warms the heart of my dear Charlotte's affectionate
mother, And am I indeed fallen so low,” said Charlotte,
“as to be only pitied? Will the
voice of approbation no more meet my ear? and
shall I never again possess a friend, whose face will
wear a sinile of joy whenever I approach? Alas!
how thoughtless, how dreadfully imprudent have
I been! I know not which is most painful to endure,
the sneer of contempt, or the glance of compassion,
which is depicted in the various countenances of
my own sex: they are both equally humiliating.
Ah! my dear parents, could you now see the child
of your affections, the daughter whom you so dearly
loved, a poor solitary being, without society,
here wearing out her heavy hours in deep regret
and anguish of heart, no kind friend of her own sex
to whom she can unbosom her griefs, no beloved
mother, no woman of character will appear in my
company, and low as your Charlotte is fallen, she
cannot associate with infamy.” “Will my once kind, my ever beloved mother,
deign to receive a letter from her guilty, but
repentant child? or has she, justly incensed at my
ingratitude, driven the unhappy Charlotte from her
remembrance? Alas! thou much injured mother!
shouldst thou even disown me, I dare not complain,
because I know I have deserved it: but yet, believe
me, guilty as I am, and cruelly as I have disappointed
the hopes of the fondest parents, that ever
girl had, even in the moment when, forgetful of
my duty, I fled from you and happiness, even
then I loved you most, and my heart bled at the
thought of what you would suffer. Oh! never,
never! whilst I have existence, will the agony of
that moment be erased from my memory. It
seemed like the separation of soul and body. What
can I plead in excuse for my conduct? alas! nothing!
That I loved my seducer is but too true!
yet powerful as that passion is when operating in a
young heart glowing with sensibility, it never
would have conquered my affection to you, my
beloved parents, had I not been encouraged, nay,
urged to take the fatally imprudent step, by one of
my own sex, who, under the mask of friendship,
drew me on to ruin. Yet think not your Charlotte
was so lost as to voluntarily rush into a life
of infamy; no, my dear mother, deceived by the
specious appearance of my betrayer, and every
suspicion lulled asleep by the most solemn promises
of marriage, I thought not those promises would
so easily be forgotten. I never once reflected that
the man who could stoop to seduction, would not
hesitate to forsake the wretched object of his passion,
whenever his capricious heart grew weary of
her tenderness. When we arrived at this place,
I vainly expected him to fulfil his engagements,
but was at last fatally convinced he had never intended
to make me his wife, or if he had once
thought of it, his mind was now altered. I scorned
to claim from his humanity what I could not obtain
from his love: I was conscious of having forfeited
the only gem that could render me respectable
in the eye of the world. I locked my sorrows
in my own bosom, and bore my injuries in
silence. But how shall I proceed? This man,
this cruel Montraville, for whom I sacrificed honour,
happiness, and the love of my friends, no
longer looks on me with affection, but scorns the
credulous girl whom his art has made miserable.
Could you see me, my dear parents, without
society, without friends, stung with remorse, and
(I feel the burning blush of shame die my cheeks
while I write it) tortured with the pangs of disappointed
love; cut to the soul by the indifference
of him, who, having deprived me of every other
comfort, no longer thinks it worth his while to
sooth the heart where he has planted the thorn of
never-ceasing regret. My daily employment is to
think of you and weep, to pray for your happiness
and deplore my own folly: my nights are scarce
more happy, for if by chance I close my weary
eyes, and hope some small forgetfulness of sorrow,
some little time to pass in sweet oblivion, fancy,
still waking, wafts me home to you: I see your
beloved forms, I kneel and hear the blessed words
of peace and pardon. Extatic joy pervades my
soul; I reach my arms to catch your dear embraces;
the motion chases the illusive dream; I
wake to real misery. At other times I see my father
angry and frowning, point to horrid caves,
where, on the cold damp ground, in the agonies
of death, I see my dear mother and my revered
grand-father. I strive to raise you; you push me
from you, and shrieking cry—“Charlotte, thou
hast murdered me!” Horror and despair tear
exery tortured nerve; I start, and leave my restless
bed, weary and unrefreshed. “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 endeavour, I could
not resolve upon leaving you for ever without
one kind line to bid you adieu, to tell you how my
heart bleeds at the remembrance of what you was, before
you saw the hated Montraville. Even now imagination
paints the scene, when, torn by contending
passions, when, struggling between love and duty,
you sainted in my arms, and I lifted you into
the chaise: I see the agony of your mind, when,
recovering, you sound 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 solicitations of Belcour? “When we left our native land, that dear
happy land which now contains all that is dear to
the wretched Charlotte, our prospects were the
same; we both, pardon me, Madam, if I say, we
both too easily followed the impulse of our treacherous
hearts, and trusted our happiness on a tempestuous
ocean, where mine has been wrecked and lost
for ever; you have been more fortunate—you are
united to a man of honour and humanity, united
by the most sacred ties, respected, esteemed, and
admired, and surrounded by innumerable blessings
of which I am bereaved, enjoying those pleasures
which have fled my bosom never to return; alas!
sorrow and deep regret have taken their place. Behold
me, Madam, a poor forsaken wanderer, who
has not where to lay her weary head, wherewith to
supply the wants of nature, or to shield her from
the inclemency of the weather. To you I sue, to
you I look for pity and relief. I ask not to be received
as an intimate or an equal; only for charity's
sweet sake receive me into your hospitable mansion,
allot me the meanest apartment in it, and let me
breath out my soul in prayers for your happiness;
I cannot, I feel I cannot long bear up under the
accumulated woes that pour in upon me; but oh!
my dear Madam, for the love of heaven suffer me
not to expire in the street; and when I am at peace,
as soon I shall be, extend your compassion to my
helpless offspring, should it please heaven that it
should survive its unhappy mother. A gleam of joy
breaks in on my benighted soul while I reflect that
you cannot, will not refuse your protection to the
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