LUME II

CHAPTER XVIII.

REFLECTIONS.

"AND am I indeed fallen so low," said Charlotte, "as to be only pitied?
Will the voice of approbation no more meet my ear? and shall I never
again possess a friend, whose face will wear a smile of joy whenever I
approach? Alas! how thoughtless, how dreadfully imprudent have I been! I
know not which is most painful to endure, the sneer of contempt, or the
glance of compassion, which is depicted in the various countenances
of my own sex: they are both equally humiliating. Ah! my dear parents,
could you now see the child of your affections, the daughter whom you so
dearly loved, a poor solitary being, without society, here wearing out
her heavy hours in deep regret and anguish of heart, no kind friend of
her own sex to whom she can unbosom her griefs, no beloved mother, no
woman of character will appear in my company, and low as your Charlotte
is fallen, she cannot associate with infamy."

These were the painful reflections which occupied the mind of Charlotte.
Montraville had placed her in a small house a few miles from New-York:
he gave her one female attendant, and supplied her with what money she
wanted; but business and pleasure so entirely occupied his time, that
he had little to devote to the woman, whom he had brought from all her
connections, and robbed of innocence. Sometimes, indeed, he would steal
out at the close of evening, and pass a few hours with her; and then so
much was she attached to him, that all her sorrows were forgotten while
blest with his society: she would enjoy a walk by moonlight, or sit
by him in a little arbour at the bottom of the garden, and play on the
harp, accompanying it with her plaintive, harmonious voice. But often,
very often, did he promise to renew his visits, and, forgetful of his
promise, leave her to mourn her disappointment. What painful hours
of expectation would she pass! She would sit at a window which looked
toward a field he used to cross, counting the minutes, and straining her
eyes to catch the first glimpse of his person, till blinded with tears
of disappointment, she would lean her head on her hands, and give free
vent to her sorrows: then catching at some new hope, she would again
renew her watchful position, till the shades of evening enveloped every
object in a dusky cloud: she would then renew her complaints, and, with
a heart bursting with disappointed love and wounded sensibility, retire
to a bed which remorse ha