Charlotte Temple

“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.

Montraville was a lieutenant in the army: Belcour was his brother officer; they had been to take leave of their friends previous to their departure for America, and were now returning to Portsmouth, where the troops waited orders for embarkation. They had stopped at Chichester to dine; and knowing they had sufficient time to reach the place of destination before dark, and yet allow them a walk, had resolved, it being Sunday afternoon, to take a survey of the Chichester ladies as they returned from their devotions.

They had gratified their curiosity, and were preparing to return to the inn without honoring any of the belles with particular notice, when Madame Du Pont, at the head of her school, descended from the church. Such an assemblage of youth and innocence naturally attracted the young soldiers: they stopped; and, as the little cavalcade passed almost involuntarily pulled off their hats. A tall, elegant girl looked at Montraville and blushed; he instantly recollected the features of Charlotte Temple, whom he had once seen and danced with at a ball at Portsmouth.

“I can not think we have done exactly right in going out this evening, mademoiselle,” said Charlotte, seating herself, when she entered her apartment: “nay, I am sure it was not right; for I expected to be very happy, but was sadly disappointed.”

“It was your own fault, then,” replied mademoiselle: “for I am sure my cousin omitted nothing that could serve to render the evening agreeable.”

“True,” said Charlotte: “but I thought the gentlemen were very free in their manner: I wonder you would suffer them to behave as they did.”

“Prithee, don’t be such a foolish little prude,” said the artful woman, affecting anger: “I invited you to go in hopes it would divert you, and be an agreeable change of scene; however, if your delicacy was hurt by the behavior of the gentlemen, you need not go again; so there let it rest.”

“I do not intend to go again,” said Charlotte, gravely, taking off her bonnet, and beginning to prepare for bed: “I am sure, if Madame Du Pont knew we had been out tonight, she would be very angry; and it is ten to one but she hears of it by some means or other.”

“Nay, miss,” said La Rue, “perhaps your mighty sense of propriety may lead you to tell her yourself: and in order to avoid the censure you would incur, should she hear of it by accident, throw the blame on me: but I confess

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.”

“Well, Charlotte,” said Montraville gravely, and letting go her hand, “since that is the case, I find I have deceived myself with fallacious hopes. I had flattered my fond heart that I was dearer to Charlotte than anything in the world besides. I thought that you would for my sake have braved the danger of the ocean, that you would, by your affection and smiles, have softened the hardships of war, and had it been my fate to fall, that your tenderness would cheer the hour of death, and smooth my passage to another world. But farewell, Charlotte! I see you never loved me. I shall now welcome the friendly ball that deprives me of the sense of my misery.”

“Oh, stay, unkind Montraville,” cried she, catching hold of his arm, as he pretended to leave her⁠—“stay; and to calm your fears, I will here protest, that were it not for the fear of giving pain to the best of parents, and returning their kindness with ingratitude, I would follow you through every danger, and in studying to promote your happiness, insure my own. But I can not break my mother’s heart, Montraville; I must not bring the gray hairs of my doting grandfather with sorrow to the grave, or make my beloved father perhaps curse the hour that gave me birth.” She covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

“All these distressing scenes, my dear Charlotte,” cried Montraville, “are merely the chimeras of a disturbed fancy.

“Good Heaven!” cried Madame Du Pont, “this is very strange:” and turning pale with terror, she went hastily to the door, and ordered it to be forced open. The apartment instantly discovered the fact that no person had been in it the preceding night, the beds appearing as though just made. The house was instantly a scene of confusion: the garden, the pleasure grounds, were searched to no purpose; every apartment rang with the names of Miss Temple and mademoiselle; but they were too distant to hear; and every face wore the marks of disappointment.

Mr. Eldridge was sitting in the parlor, eagerly expecting his granddaughter to descend, ready equipped for her journey: he heard the confusion that reigned in the house; he heard the name of Charlotte frequently repeated.

“What can be the matter?” said he, rising, and opening the door: “I fear some accident has befallen my dear girl.”

The governess entered. The visible agitation of her countenance discovered that something extraordinary had happened.

“Where is Charlotte?” said he. “Why does not my child come to welcome her doting parent?”

“Be composed, my dear sir,” said Madame Du Pont; “do not frighten yourself unnecessarily. She is not in the house at present; but as mademoiselle is undoubtedly with her, she will speedily return in safety; and I hope they will both be able to account for this unseasonable absence in such a manner as shall remove our present uneasiness.”

“Madame,” cried the old man, with an angry look, “has my child been accustomed to go out without leave, with no other company or protector than that French woman?