With the benignant aspect of an angel of mercy did Mrs. Beauchamp listen
to the artless tale: she was shocked to the soul to find how large

a share La Rue had in the seduction of this amiable girl, and a tear fell,
when she reflected so vile a woman was now the wife of her father.

When Charlotte had finished, she gave her a little time to collect
her scattered spirits, and then asked her if she had never written

to her friends.
"Oh yes, Madam," said she, "frequently: but I have broke their hearts:

they are either dead or have cast me off for ever, for I have never
received a single line from them. "

"I rather suspect," said Mrs. Beauchamp, "they have never had
your letters: but suppose you were to hear from them, and they were

willing to receive you, would you then leave this cruel Montraville,
and return to them?"

"Would I!" said Charlotte, clasping her hands; "would not
the poor sailor, tost on a tempestuous ocean, threatened every

moment with death, gladly return to the shore he had left to trust
to its deceitfulcalmness? Oh, my dear Madam, I would return,

though to do it I were obliged to walk barefoot over a burning desart,
and beg a scanty pittance of each traveller to support my existence.

I would endure it all chearfully, could I but once more see my dear,
blessed mother, hear her pronounce my pardon, and bless me before I died;

but alas! I shall never see her more; she has blotted the ungrateful
Charlotte from her remembrance, and I shall sink to the grave loaded

with her's and my father's curse."
Mrs. Beauchamp endeavoured to sooth her. "You shall write to them again,"

said she, "and I will see that the letter is sent by the first packet
that sails for England; in the mean time keep up your spirits,

and hope every thing, by daring to deserve it."
She then turned the conversation, and Charlotte having taken a cup

of tea, wished her benevolent friend a good evening.
CHAPTER XXII.

SORROWS OF THE HEART.
WHEN Charlotte got home she endeavoured to collect her thoughts,

and took up a pen in order to address those dear parents, whom,
spite of her errors, she still loved with the utmosttenderness,

but vain was every effort to write with the least coherence;
her tears fell so fast they almost blinded her; and as she

proceeded to describe her unhappy situation, she became so
agitated that she was obliged to give over the attempt and retire

to bed, where, overcome with the fatigue her mind had undergone,
she fell into a slumber which greatly refreshed her, and she arose

in the morning with spirits more adequate to the painful task she
had to perform, and, after several attempts, at length concluded

the following letter to her mother--
TO MRS. TEMPLE.

NEW-YORK.
"Will my once kind, my ever beloved mother, deign to receive a letter

from her guilty, but repentant child? or has she, justly incensed
at my ingratitude, driven the unhappy Charlotte from her remembrance?

Alas! thou much injured mother! shouldst thou even disown me,
I dare not complain, because I know I have deserved it: but yet,

believe me, guilty as I am, and cruelly as I have disappointed the hopes
of the fondest parents, that ever girl had, even in the moment when,

forgetful of my duty, I fled from you and happiness, even then I loved
you most, and my heart bled at the thought of what you would suffer.

Oh! never, never! whilst I have existence, will the agony of that moment
be erased from my memory. It seemed like the separation of soul and body.

What can I plead in excuse for my conduct? alas! nothing!
That I loved my seducer is but too true! yet powerful as that passion

is when operating in a young heart glowing with sensibility,
it never would have conquered my affection to you, my beloved parents,

had I not been encouraged, nay, urged to take the fatally imprudent step,
by one of my own sex, who, under the mask of friendship,

drew me on to ruin. Yet think not your Charlotte was so lost
as to voluntarily rush into a life of infamy; no, my dear mother,

deceived by the specious appearance of my betrayer, and every
suspicion lulled asleep by the most solemn promises of marriage,

I thought not those promises would so easily be forgotten.
I never once reflected that the man who could stoop to seduction,

would not hesitate to forsake the wretched object of his passion,
whenever his capricious heart grew weary of her tenderness.

When we arrived at this place, I vainly expected him to fulfil
his engagements, but was at last fatally convinced he had never

intended to make me his wife, or if he had once thought of it,
his mind was now altered. I scorned to claim from his humanity what I

could not obtain from his love: I was conscious of having forfeited
the only gem that could render me respectable in the eye of the world.

I locked my sorrows in my own bosom, and bore my injuries in silence.
But how shall I proceed? This man, this cruel Montraville,

for whom I sacrificed honour, happiness, and the love of my friends,
no longer looks on me with affection, but scorns the credulous girl

whom his art has made miserable. Could you see me, my dear parents,
without society, without friends, stung with remorse, and (I feel

the burning blush of shame die my cheeks while I write it)
tortured with the pangs of disappointed love; cut to the soul

by the indifference of him, who, having deprived me of every
other comfort, no longer thinks it worth his while to sooth

the heart where he has planted the thorn of never-ceasing regret.
My daily employment is to think of you and weep, to pray for your

happiness and deplore my own folly: my nights are scarce more happy,
for if by chance I close my weary eyes, and hope some small

forgetfulness of sorrow, some little time to pass in sweet oblivion,
fancy, still waking, wafts me home to you: I see your beloved forms,

I kneel and hear the blessed words of peace and pardon.
Extatic joy pervades my soul; I reach my arms to catch your dear embraces;

the motion chases the illusive dream; I wake to real misery.
At other times I see my father angry and frowning, point to

horrid caves, where, on the cold damp ground, in the agonies of death,
I see my dear mother and my revered grand-father. I strive to raise you;

you push me from you, and shrieking cry--"Charlotte, thou hast
murdered me!" Horror and despair tear every tortured nerve;

I start, and leave my restless bed, weary and unrefreshed.
"Shocking as these reflexions are, I have yet one more

dreadful than the rest. Mother, my dear mother! do not let
me quite break your heart when I tell you, in a few months I

shall bring into the world an innocentwitness of my guilt.
Oh my bleeding heart, I shall bring a poor little helpless creature,

heir to infamy and shame.
"This alone has urged me once more to address you, to interest

you in behalf of this poor unborn, and beg you to extend your
protection to the child of your lost Charlotte; for my own part I

have wrote so often, so frequently have pleaded for forgiveness,
and entreated to be received once more beneath the paternal roof,

that having received no answer, not even one line, I much fear you
have cast me from you for ever.

"But sure you cannot refuse to protect my innocent infant:
it partakes not of its mother's guilt. Oh my father, oh beloved mother,

now do I feel the anguish I inflicted on your hearts recoiling
with double force upon my own.

"If my child should be a girl (which heaven forbid) tell her
the unhappy fate of her mother, and teach her to avoid my errors;

if a boy, teach him to lament my miseries, but tell him not who
inflicted them, lest in wishing to revenge his mother's injuries,

he should wound the peace of his father.
"And now, dear friends of my soul, kind guardians of my infancy, farewell.

I feel I never more must hope to see you; the anguish of my heart
strikes at the strings of life, and in a short time I shall be at rest.

Oh could I but receive your blessing and forgiveness before I died,
it would smooth my passage to the peaceful grave, and be a blessed

foretaste of a happy eternity. I beseech you, curse me not,
my adored parents, but let a tear of pity and pardon fall to the memory