SUBJECT CONTINUED.
WHEN the door was opened, Charlotte, in a voice rendered scarcely
articulate, through cold and the extreme agitation of her mind, demanded
whether Mrs. Crayton was at home. The servant hesitated: he knew that
his lady was engaged at a game of picquet with her dear Corydon,
nor could he think she would like to be disturbed by a person whose
appearance spoke her of so little consequence as Charlotte; yet there
was something in her countenance that rather interested him in her
favour, and he said his lady was engaged, but if she had any particular
message he would deliver it.
“Take up this letter,” said Charlotte: “tell her the unhappy writer of
it waits in her hall for an answer.” The tremulous accent, the tearful
eye, must have moved any heart not composed of adamant. The man took the
letter from the poor suppliant, and hastily ascended the stair case.
“A letter, Madam,” said he, presenting it to his lady: “an immediate
answer is required.”
Mrs. Crayton glanced her eye carelessly over the contents. “What stuff
is this;” cried she haughtily; “have not I told you a thousand times
that I will not be plagued with beggars, and petitions from people one
knows nothing about? Go tell the woman I can't do any thing in it. I'm
sorry, but one can't relieve every body.”
The servant bowed, and heavily returned with this chilling message to
Charlotte.
“Surely,” said she, “Mrs. Crayton has not read my letter. Go, my
good friend, pray go back to her; tell her it is Charlotte Temple who
requests beneath her hospitable roof to find shelter from the inclemency
of the season.”
“Prithee, don't plague me, man,” cried Mrs. Crayton impatiently, as the
servant advanced something in behalf of the unhappy girl. “I tell you I
don't know her.”
“Not know me,” cried Charlotte, rushing into the room, (for she had
followed the man up stairs) “not know me, not remember the ruined
Charlotte Temple, who, but for you, perhaps might still have been
innocent, still have been happy. Oh! La Rue, this is beyond every thing
I could have believed possible.”
“Upon my honour, Miss,” replied the unfeeling woman with the utmost
effrontery, “this is a most unaccountable address: it is beyond my
comprehension. John,” continued she, turning to the servant, “the
young woman is certainly out of her senses: do pray take her away, she
terrifies me to death.”
“Oh God,” cried Charlotte, clasping her hands in an agony, “this is too
much; what will become of me? but I will not leave you; they shall
not tear me from you; here on my knees I conjure you to save me from
perishing in the streets; if you really have forgot me, oh for charity's
sweet sake this night let me be sheltered from the winter's piercing
cold.” The kneeling figure of Charlotte in her affecting situation might
have moved the heart of a stoic to compassion; but Mrs. Crayton remained
inflexible. In vain did Charlotte recount the time they had known each
other at Chichester, in vain mention their being in the same ship, in
vain were the names of Montraville and Belcour mentioned. Mrs. Crayton
could only say she was sorry for her imprudence, but could not think of
having her own reputation endangered by encouraging a woman of that kind
in her own house, besides she did not know what trouble and expense
she might bring upon her husband by giving shelter to a woman in her
situation.
“I can at least die here,” said Charlotte, “I feel I cannot long
survive this dreadful conflict. Father of mercy, here let me finish
my existence.” Her agonizing sensations overpowered her, and she fell
senseless on the floor.
“Take her away,” said Mrs. Crayton, “she will really frighten me into
hysterics; take her away I say this instant.”
“And where must I take the poor creature?” said the servant with a voice
and look of compassion.
“Any where,” cried she hastily, “only don't let me ever see her again. I
declare she has flurried me so I shan't be myself again this fortnight.”
John, assisted by his fellow-servant, raised and carried her down
stairs. “Poor soul,” said he, “you shall not lay in the street this
night. I have a bed and a poor little hovel, where my wife and her
little ones rest them, but they shall watch to night, and you shall be
sheltered from danger.” They placed her in a chair; and the benevolent
man, assisted by one of his comrades, carried her to the place where his
wife and children lived. A surgeon was sent for: he bled her, she gave
signs of returning life, and before the dawn gave birth to a female
infant. After this event she lay for some hours in a kind of stupor; and
if at any time she spoke, it was with a quickness and incoherence that
plainly evinced the total deprivation of her reason.