26. CHAPTER XXVI
WHAT MIGHT BE EXPECTED
In the mean time the passion Montraville had conceived for Julia
Franklin daily encreased, and he saw evidently how
much he was beloved by that amiable girl: he was likewise
strongly prepossessed with an idea of Charlotte's perfidy. What
wonder then if he gave himself up to the delightful sensation
which pervaded his bosom; and finding no obstacle arise to oppose
his happiness, he solicited and obtained the hand of Julia.
A few days before his marriage he thus addressed Belcour:
"Though Charlotte, by her abandoned conduct, has thrown
herself from my protection, I still hold myself bound to support
her till relieved from her present condition, and also to provide
for
the child. I do not intend to see her again, but I will place a
sum of money in your hands, which will amply supply her with
every convenience; but should she require more, let her have it,
and I will see it repaid. I wish I could prevail on the poor deluded
girl to return to her friends: she was an only child, and I
make no doubt but that they would joyfully receive her; it would
shock me greatly to see her henceforth leading a life of infamy,
as I should always accuse myself of being the primary cause of
all her errors. If she should chuse to remain under your protection,
be kind to her, Belcour, I conjure you. Let not satiety
prompt you to treat her in such a manner, as may drive her to actions
which necessity might urge her to, while her better reason
disapproved them: she shall never want a friend while I live, but
I never more desire to behold her; her presence would be always
painful to me, and a glance from her eye
would call the blush of
conscious guilt into my cheek.
"I will write a letter to her, which you may deliver when I am
gone, as I shall go to St. Eustatia the day after my union with Julia,
who will accompany me."
Belcour promised to fulfil the request of his friend, though
nothing was farther from his intentions, than the least design of
delivering the letter, or making Charlotte acquainted with the
provision Montraville had made for her; he was bent on the complete
ruin of the unhappy girl, and supposed, by reducing her to
an entire dependance on him, to bring her by degrees to consent
to gratify his ungenerous passion.
The evening before the day appointed for the nuptials of
Montraville and Julia, the former refired early to his apartment;
and ruminating on the past scenes of his life, suffered the keenest
remorse in the remembrance of Charlotte's seduction.
"Poor
girl, " said he, "I will at least write and bid her adieu; I will too
endeavour to awaken that love of virtue in her bosom which her unfortunate
attachment to me has extinguished." He took up the
pen and began to write, but words were denied him. How could
he address the woman whom he had seduced, and whom,
though he thought unworthy his tenderness, he was about to
bid adieu for ever? How should he tell her that he was going to
abjure her, to enter into the most indissoluble ties with another,
and that he could not even own the infant which she bore as his
child? Several letters were begun and destroyed: at length he
completed the following:
TO CHARLOTTE.
"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 fainted in my arms, and I lifted you into the
chaise: I see the agony of your mind, when, recovering, you
found 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?
"Oh Charlotte, conscience tells me it was I, villain that I am,
who first taught you the allurements of guilty pleasure; it was I
who dragged you from the calm repose which innocence and virtue
ever enjoy; and can I, dare I tell you, it was not love
prompted to the horrid deed? No, thou dear, fallen angel, believe
your repentant Montraville, when he tells you the man
who truly loves will never betray the object of his affection.
Adieu, Charlotte: could you still find charms in a life of unoffending
innocence, return to your parents; you shall never want the
means of support both for yourself and child. Oh! gracious
heaven! may that child be entirely free from
the vices of its father
and the weakness of its mother.
"To-morrow—but no, I cannot tell you what to-morrow will
produce; Belcour will inform you: he also has cash for you,
which I beg you will ask for whenever you may want it. Once
more adieu: believe me could I hear you was returned to your
friends, and enjoying that tranquillity of which I have robbed
you, I should be as completely happy as even you, in your
fondest hours, could wish me, but till then a gloom will obscure
the brightest prospects of
MONTRAVILLE."
After he had sealed this letter he threw himself on the bed,
and enjoyed a few hours repose. Early in the morning Belcour
tapped at his door: he arose hastily, and prepared to meet his Julia
at the altar.
"This is the letter to Charlotte," said he, giving it to Belcour:
"take it to her when we are gone to Eustatia;
[5]
and I
conjure you,
my dear friend, not to use any sophistical arguments to prevent
her return to virtue; but should she incline that way, encourage
her in the thought, and assist her to put her design in execution.