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so pure as Charlotte Temple's, should so suddenly become the mansion
of vice. Beware, Belcour," continued he, "beware if you have

dared to behave either unjust or dishonourably to that poor girl,
your life shall pay the forfeit:--I will revenge her cause."

He immediately went into the country, to the house where
he had left Charlotte. It was desolate. After much enquiry

he at length found the servant girl who had lived with her.
From her he learnt the misery Charlotte had endured from the complicated

evils of illness, poverty, and a broken heart, and that she
had set out on foot for New-York, on a cold winter's evening;

but she could inform him no further.
Tortured almost to madness by this shockingaccount, he returned to

the city, but, before he reached it, the evening was drawing to a close.
In entering the town he was obliged to pass several little huts,

the residence of poor women who supported themselves by washing
the cloaths of the officers and soldiers. It was nearly dark:

he heard from a neighbouring steeple a solemn toll that seemed
to say some poor mortal was going to their last mansion: the sound

struck on the heart of Montraville, and he involuntarily stopped,
when, from one of the houses, he saw the appearance of a funeral.

Almost unknowing what he did, he followed at a small distance;
and as they let the coffin into the grave, he enquired of a soldier who

stood by, and had just brushed off a tear that did honour to his heart,
who it was that was just buried. "An please your honour," said the man,

" 'tis a poor girl that was brought from her friends by a cruel man,
who left her when she was big with child, and married another."

Montraville stood motionless, and the man proceeded--"I met her myself
not a fortnight since one night all wet and cold in the streets;

she went to Madam Crayton's, but she would not take her in,
and so the poor thing went raving mad." Montraville could bear

no more; he struck his hands against his forehead with violence;
and exclaiming "poor murdered Charlotte!" ran with precipitation

towards the place where they were heaping the earth on her remains.
"Hold, hold, one moment," said he. "Close not the grave of the injured

Charlotte Temple till I have taken vengeance on her murderer."
"Rash young man," said Mr. Temple," "who art thou that thus disturbest

the last mournful rites of the dead, and rudely breakest in upon
the grief of an afflicted father."

"If thou art the father of Charlotte Temple," said he, gazing at him with
mingled horror and amazement--"if thou art her father--I am Montraville."

Then falling on his knees, he continued--"Here is my bosom.
I bare it to receive the stroke I merit. Strike--strike now,

and save me from the misery of reflexion."
"Alas!" said Mr. Temple, "if thou wert the seducer of my child, thy own

reflexions be thy punishment. I wrest not the power from the hand
of omnipotence. Look on that little heap of earth, there hast thou

buried the only joy of a fond father. Look at it often; and may thy
heart feel such true sorrow as shall merit the mercy of heaven."

He turned from him; and Montraville starting up from the ground,
where he had thrown himself, and at that instant remembering

the perfidy of Belcour, flew like lightning to his lodgings.
Belcour was intoxicated; Montraville impetuous: they fought,

and the sword of the latter entered the heart of his adversary.
He fell, and expired almost instantly. Montraville had received

a slight wound; and overcome with the agitation of his mind and loss
of blood, was carried in a state of insensibility to his distracted wife.

A dangerous illness and obstinate delirium ensued, during which
he raved incessantly for Charlotte: but a strong constitution,

and the tender assiduities of Julia, in time overcame the disorder.
He recovered; but to the end of his life was subject to severe

fits of melancholy, and while he remained at New-York frequently
retired to the church-yard, where he would weep over the grave,

and regret the untimely fate of the lovely Charlotte Temple.
CHAPTER XXXV.

CONCLUSION.
SHORTLY after the interment of his daughter, Mr. Temple,

with his dear little charge and her nurse, set forward for England.
It would be impossible to do justice to the meeting scene between him,

his Lucy, and her aged father. Every heart of sensibility can easily
conceive their feelings. After the first tumult of grief was subsided,

Mrs. Temple gave up the chief of her time to her grand-child,
and as she grew up and improved, began to almost fancy she again

possessed her Charlotte.
It was about ten years after these painful events, that Mr. and

Mrs. Temple, having buried their father, were obliged to come to London
on particular business, and brought the little Lucy with them.

They had been walking one evening, when on their return
they found a poor wretch sitting on the steps of the door.

She attempted to rise as they approached, but from extreme weakness
was unable, and after several fruitless efforts fell back in a fit.

Mr. Temple was not one of those men who stand to consider
whether by assisting an object in distress they shall not

inconvenience themselves, but instigated by the impulse of a noble
feeling heart, immediately ordered her to be carried into the house,

and proper restoratives applied.
She soon recovered; and fixing her eyes on Mrs. Temple,

cried--"You know not, Madam, what you do; you know not whom
you are relieving, or you would curse me in the bitterness of

your heart. Come not near me, Madam, I shall contaminate you.
I am the viper that stung your peace. I am the woman who turned

the poor Charlotte out to perish in the street. Heaven have mercy!
I see her now," continued she looking at Lucy; "such, such was the fair

bud of innocence that my vile arts blasted ere it was half blown. "
It was in vain that Mr. and Mrs. Temple intreated her to be composed

and to take some refreshment. She only drank half a glass of wine;
and then told them that she had been separated from her husband

seven years, the chief of which she had passed in riot,
dissipation, and vice, till, overtaken by poverty and sickness,

she had been reduced to part with every valuable, and thought
only of ending her life in a prison; when a benevolent friend

paid her debts and released her; but that her illness encreasing,
she had no possible means of supporting herself, and her friends

were weary of relieving her. "I have fasted," said she, "two days,
and last night lay my aching head on the cold pavement:

indeed it was but just that I should experience those miseries
myself which I had unfeelingly inflicted on others."

Greatly as Mr. Temple had reason to detest Mrs. Crayton, he could
not behold her in this distress without some emotions of pity.

He gave her shelter that night beneath his hospitable roof,
and the next day got her admission into an hospital; where having

lingered a few weeks, she died, a striking example that vice,
however prosperous in the beginning, in the end leads only to

misery and shame.
F I N I S.




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