18. CHAPTER XVIII
REFLECTIONS
"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 smile 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."
These were the painful reflections which occupied the mind of
Charlotte. Montraville had placed her in a small house a few
miles from New-York: he gave her one female attendant, and
supplied her with what money she wanted; but business and
pleasure so entirely occupied his time, that he had little to devote
to the woman, whom he had brought from all her connections, and
robbed of innocence. Sometimes, indeed, he would
steal out at the close of evening, and pass a few hours with her;
and then so much was she attached to him, that all her sorrows
were forgotten while blest with his society: she would enjoy a
walk by moonlight, or sit by him in a little arbour at the bottom
of the garden, and play on the harp, accompanying it with her
plaintive, harmonious voice. But often, very often, did he promise
to renew his visits, and, forgetful of his promise, leave her to
mourn her disappointment. What painful hours of expectation
would she pass! She would sit at a window which looked toward
a field he used to cross, counting the minutes, and straining her
eyes to catch the first glimpse of his person, till blinded with
tears of disappointment, she would lean her head on her hands,
and give free vent to her sorrows: then catching at some new
hope, she would again renew her watchful position, till the
shades of evening enveloped every object in a dusky cloud: she
would then renew her complaints, and, with a heart bursting
with disappointed love and wounded sensibility, retire to a bed
which remorse had strewed with thorns, and court in vain that
comforter of weary nature (who seldom visits the unhappy)
to
come and steep her senses in oblivion.
Who can form an adequate idea of the sorrow that preyed
upon the mind of Charlotte? The wife, whose breast glows with
affection to her husband, and who in return meets only indifference,
can but faintly conceive her anguish. Dreadfully painful is
the situation of such a woman, but she has many comforts of
which our poor Charlotte was deprived. The duteous, faithful
wife, though treated with indifference, has one solid pleasure
within her own bosom, she can reflect that she has not deserved
neglect—that she has ever fulfilled the duties of her station with
the strictest exactness; she may hope, by constant assiduity and
unremitted attention, to recall her wanderer, and be doubly
happy in his returning affection; she knows he cannot leave her
to unite himself to another: he cannot cast her out to poverty and
contempt.
She looks around her, and sees the smile of friendly
welcome, or the tear of affectionate consolation, on the face of every
person whom she favours with her esteem; and from all
these circumstances she gathers comfort: but the poor girl by
thoughtless passion led astray, who, in parting with her honour,
has forfeited the esteem of the very man to whom she has sacriiced
every thing dear and valuable in life, feels his indifference
in the fruit of her own folly, and laments her want of power to recall
his lost affection; she knows there is no tie but honour, and
that, in a man who has been guilty of seduction, is but very feeble:
he may leave her in a moment to shame and want; he may
marry and forsake her for ever; and should he, she has no redress,
no friendly, soothing companion to pour into her
wounded mind the balm of consolation, no benevolent hand to
lead her back to the path of rectitude; she has disgraced her
friends, forfeited the good
opinion of the world, and undone her-self; she feels herself a poor solitary being in the midst of surrounding
multitudes; shame bows her to the earth, remorse
tears her distracted mind, and guilt, poverty, and disease close
the dreadful scene: she sinks unnoticed to oblivion. The finger of
contempt may point out to some passing daughter of youthful
mirth, the humble bed where lies this frail sister of mortality;
and will she, in the unbounded gaiety of her heart, exult in her
own unblemished fame, and triumph over the silent ashes of the
dead? Oh no! has she a heart of sensibility, she will stop, and
thus address the unhappy victim of folly—
"Thou had'st thy faults, but sure thy sufferings have expiated
them: thy errors brought thee to an early grave; but thou wert a
fellow-creature—thou hast been unhappy—then be those errors
forgotten. "
Then, as she stoops to pluck the noxious
weed from off the
sod, a tear will fall, and consecrate the spot to Charity.
For ever honoured be the sacred drop of humanity; the angel
of mercy shall record its source, and the soul from whence it
sprang shall be immortal.
My dear Madam, contract not your brow into a frown of
disapprobation. I mean not to extenuate the faults of those unhappy
women who fall victims to guilt and folly; but surely, when we
reflect how many errors we are ourselves subject to, how many
secret faults lie hid in the recesses of our hearts, which we
should blush to have brought into open day (and yet those faults
require the lenity and pity of a benevolent judge, or awful would
be our prospect of futurity) I say, my dear Madam, when we consider
this, we surely may pity the faults of others.
Believe me, many an unfortunate female, who has once
strayed into the thorny paths of vice, would gladly return
to virtue, was any generous friend to endeavour to raise and re-assure
her; but alas! it cannot be, you say; the world would deride and
scoff. Then let me tell you, Madam, 'tis a very unfeeling world,
and does not deserve half the blessings which a bountiful Providence
showers upon it.
Oh, thou benevolent giver of all good! how shall we erring
mortals dare to look up to thy mercy in the great day of retribution,
if we now uncharitably refuse to overlook the errors, or alleviate
the miseries, of our fellow-creatures!
