CONFLICT OF LOVE AND DUTY.
ALMOST a week was now gone, and Charlotte continued every evening to
meet Montraville, and in her heart every meeting was resolved to be the
last; but alas! when Montraville at parting would earnestly intreat one
more interview, that treacherous heart betrayed her; and, forgetful
of its resolution, pleaded the cause of the enemy so powerfully, that
Charlotte was unable to resist. Another and another meeting succeeded;
and so well did Montraville improve each opportunity, that the heedless
girl at length confessed no idea could be so painful to her as that of
never seeing him again.
“Then we will never be parted,” said he.
“Ah, Montraville,” replied Charlotte, forcing a smile, “how can it be
avoided? My parents would never consent to our union; and even could
they be brought to approve it, how should I bear to be separated from my
kind, my beloved mother?”
“Then you love your parents more than you do me, Charlotte?”
“I hope I do,” said she, blushing and looking down, “I hope my affection
for them will ever keep me from infringing the laws of filial duty.”
“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 any thing in the world beside. I thought that you would for my sake
have braved the dangers 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 farewel, 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 was 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 cannot break my mother's heart, Montraville; I must
not bring the grey hairs of my doating grand-father 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. Your parents might
perhaps grieve at first; but when they heard from your own hand that you
was with a man of honour, and that it was to insure your felicity by an
union with him, to which you feared they would never have given their
assent, that you left their protection, they will, be assured, forgive
an error which love alone occasioned, and when we return from America,
receive you with open arms and tears of joy.”
Belcour and Mademoiselle heard this last speech, and conceiving it
a proper time to throw in their advice and persuasions, approached
Charlotte, and so well seconded the entreaties of Montraville, that
finding Mademoiselle intended going with Belcour, and feeling her own
treacherous heart too much inclined to accompany them, the hapless
Charlotte, in an evil hour, consented that the next evening they should
bring a chaise to the end of the town, and that she would leave her
friends, and throw herself entirely on the protection of Montraville.
“But should you,” said she, looking earnestly at him, her eyes full
of tears, “should you, forgetful of your promises, and repenting the
engagements you here voluntarily enter into, forsake and leave me on a
foreign shore--” “Judge not so meanly of me,” said he. “The moment we
reach our place of destination, Hymen shall sanctify our love; and when
I shall forget your goodness, may heaven forget me.”
“Ah,” said Charlotte, leaning on Mademoiselle's arm as they walked up
the garden together, “I have forgot all that I ought to have remembered,
in consenting to this intended elopement.”
“You are a strange girl,” said Mademoiselle: “you never know your
own mind two minutes at a time. Just now you declared Montraville's
happiness was what you prized most in the world; and now I suppose
you repent having insured that happiness by agreeing to accompany him
abroad.”
“Indeed I do repent,” replied Charlotte, “from my soul: but while
discretion points out the impropriety of my conduct, inclination urges
me on to ruin.”
“Ruin! fiddlestick!” said Mademoiselle; “am I not going with you? and do
I feel any of these qualms?”
“You do not renounce a tender father and mother,” said Charlotte.
“But I hazard my dear reputation,” replied Mademoiselle, bridling.
“True,” replied Charlotte, “but you do not feel what I do.” She then
bade her good night: but sleep was a stranger to her eyes, and the tear
of anguish watered her pillow.