As Madame Du Pont read these cruel lines, she turned pale as ashes, her limbs trembled, and she was forced to call for a glass of water.  She loved Charlotte truly; and when she reflected on the innocence and gentleness of her disposition, she concluded that it must have been the advice and machinations of La Rue, which led her to this imprudent action; she recollected her agitation at the receipt of her mother’s letter, and saw in it the conflict of her mind.

“Does that letter relate to Charlotte?” said Mr. Eldridge, having waited some time in expectation of Madame Du Pont’s speaking.

“It does,” said she.  “Charlotte is well, but cannot return today.”

“Not return, Madam? where is she? who will detain her from her fond, expecting parents?”

“You distract me with these questions, Mr. Eldridge.  Indeed I know not where she is, or who has seduced her from her duty.”

The whole truth now rushed at once upon Mr. Eldridge’s mind.  “She has eloped then,” said he.  “My child is betrayed; the darling, the comfort of my aged heart, is lost.  Oh would to heaven I had died but yesterday.”

A violent gush of grief in some measure relieved him, and, after several vain attempts, he at length assumed sufficient composure to read the note.

“And how shall I return to my children?” said he:  “how approach that mansion, so late the habitation of peace?  Alas! my dear Lucy, how will you support these heart-rending tidings? or how shall I be enabled to console you, who need so much consolation myself?”

The old man returned to the chaise, but the light step and cheerful countenance were no more; sorrow filled his heart, and guided his motions; he seated himself in the chaise, his venerable head reclined upon his bosom, his hands were folded, his eye fixed on vacancy, and the large drops of sorrow rolled silently down his cheeks.  There was a mixture of anguish and resignation depicted in his countenance, as if he would say, henceforth who shall dare to boast his happiness, or even in idea contemplate his treasure, lest, in the very moment his heart is exulting in its own felicity, the object which constitutes that felicity should be torn from him.

CHAPTER XIV.

Maternal sorrow.

Slow and heavy passed the time while the carriage was conveying Mr. Eldridge home; and yet when he came in sight of the house, he wished a longer reprieve from the dreadful task of informing Mr. and Mrs. Temple of their daughter’s elopement.

It is easy to judge the anxiety of these affectionate parents, when they found the return of their father delayed so much beyond the expected time.  They were now met in the dining parlour, and several of the young people who had been invited were already arrived.  Each different part of the company was employed in the same manner, looking out at the windows which faced the road.  At length the long-expected chaise appeared.  Mrs. Temple ran out to receive and welcome her darling:  her young companions flocked round the door, each one eager to give her joy on the return of her birth-day.  The door of the chaise was opened:  Charlotte was not there.  “Where is my child?” cried Mrs. Temple, in breathless agitation.