"Death and distraction," said he, stamping, "this is too much.

Rise, villain, and defend yourself." Belcour sprang from the bed.
The noise awoke Charlotte; terrified at the furious appearance

of Montraville, and seeing Belcour with him in the chamber,
she caught hold of his arm as he stood by the bed-side, and eagerly

asked what was the matter.
"Treacherous, infamous girl," said he, "can you ask? How came he here?"

pointing to Belcour.
"As heaven is my witness," replied she weeping, 'I do not know.

I have not seen him for these three weeks."
"Then you confess he sometimes visits you?"

"He came sometimes by your desire."
"'Tis false; I never desired him to come, and you know I did not:

but mark me, Charlotte, from this instant our connexion is at an end.
Let Belcour, or any other of your favoured lovers, take you and

provide for you; I have done with you for ever."
He was then going to leave her; but starting wildly from the bed,

she threw herself on her knees before him, protesting her innocence
and entreating him not to leave her. "Oh Montraville," said she,

"kill me, for pity's sake kill me, but do not doubt my fidelity.
Do not leave me in this horrid situation; for the sake of your

unborn child, oh! spurn not the wretched mother from you. "
"Charlotte," said he, with a firm voice, "I shall take care that neither

you nor your child want any thing in the approaching painful hour;
but we meet no more." He then endeavoured to raise her from the ground;

but in vain; she clung about his knees, entreating him to believe
her innocent, and conjuring Belcour to clear up the dreadful mystery.

Belcour cast on Montraville a smile of contempt: it irritated him
almost to madness; he broke from the feeble arms of the distressed girl;

she shrieked and fell prostrate on the floor.
Montraville instantly left the house and returned hastily to the city.

CHAPTER XXIV.
MYSTERY DEVELOPED.

UNFORTUNATELY for Charlotte, about three weeks before this
unhappy rencontre, Captain Beauchamp, being ordered to Rhode-Island,

his lady had accompanied him, so that Charlotte was deprived
of her friendly advice and consoling society. The afternoon on

which Montraville had visited her she had found herself languid
and fatigued, and after making a very slight dinner had lain down

to endeavour to recruit her exhausted spirits, and, contrary to
her expectations, had fallen asleep. She had not long been lain down,

when Belcour arrived, for he took every opportunity of visiting her,
and striving to awaken her resentment against Montraville.

He enquired of the servant where her mistress was, and being
told she was asleep, took up a book to amuse himself:

having sat a few minutes, he by chance cast his eyes towards the road,
and saw Montraville approaching; he instantly conceived the diabolical

scheme of ruining the unhappy Charlotte in his opinion for ever;
he therefore stole softly up stairs, and laying himself by her

side with the greatest precaution, for fear she should awake,
was in that situation discovered by his credulous friend.

When Montraville spurned the weeping Charlotte from him, and left
her almost distracted with terror and despair, Belcour raised her from

the floor, and leading her down stairs, assumed the part of a tender,
consoling friend; she listened to the arguments he advanced

with apparentcomposure; but this was only the calm of a moment:
the remembrance of Montraville's recent cruelty again rushed

upon her mind: she pushed him from her with some violence,
and crying--"Leave me, Sir, I beseech you leave me, for much I fear

you have been the cause of my fidelity being suspected; go, leave me
to the accumulated miseries my own imprudence has brought upon me."

She then left him with precipitation, and retiring to her own apartment,
threw herself on the bed, and gave vent to an agony of grief which it

is impossible to describe.
It now occurred to Belcour that she might possibly write to Montraville,

and endeavour to convince him of her innocence: he was well aware
of her pathetic remonstrances, and, sensible of the tenderness of

Montraville's heart, resolved to prevent any letters ever reaching him:
he therefore called the servant, and, by the powerful persuasion

of a bribe, prevailed with her to promise whatever letters her
mistress might write should be sent to him. He then left a polite,

tender note for Charlotte, and returned to New-York. His first
business was to seek Montraville, and endeavour to convince him

that what had happened would ultimately tend to his happiness:
he found him in his apartment, solitary, pensive, and wrapped

in disagreeable reflexions.
"Why how now, whining, pining lover?" said he, clapping him on

the shoulder. Montraville started; a momentary flush of resentment
crossed his cheek, but instantly gave place to a death-like paleness,

occasioned by painfulremembranceremembranceawakened by that monitor,
whom, though we may in vain endeavour, we can never entirely silence.

"Belcour," said he, "you have injured me in a tender point."
"Prithee, Jack," replied Belcour, "do not make a serious matter of it:

how could I refuse the girl's advances? and thank heaven she is
not your wife."

"True," said Montraville; "but she was innocent when I first knew her.
It was I seduced her, Belcour. Had it not been for me, she had

still been virtuous and happy in the affection and protection
of her family."

"Pshaw," replied Belcour, laughing, "if you had not taken advantage
of her easy nature, some other would, and where is the difference, pray?"

"I wish I had never seen her," cried he passionately, and starting
from his seat. "Oh that cursed French woman," added he with vehemence,

"had it not been for her, I might have been happy--" He paused.
"With Julia Franklin," said Belcour. The name, like a sudden spark

of electric fire, seemed for a moment to suspend his faculties--
for a moment he was transfixed; but recovering, he caught

Belcour's hand, and cried--'Stop! stop! I beseech you, name not
the lovely Julia and the wretched Montraville in the same breath.

I am a seducer, a mean, ungenerous seducer of unsuspecting innocence.
I dare not hope that purity like her's would stoop to unite itself

with black, premeditated guilt: yet by heavens I swear, Belcour,
I thought I loved the lost, abandoned Charlotte till I saw Julia--

I thought I never could forsake her; but the heart is deceitful, and I
now can plainly discriminate between the impulse of a youthful passion,

and the pure flame of disinterested affection."
At that instant Julia Franklin passed the window, leaning on her

uncle's arm. She curtseyed as she passed, and, with the bewitching
smile of modest chearfulness, cried--"Do you bury yourselves

in the house this fine evening, gents?" There was something in
the voice! the manner! the look! that was altogether irresistible.

"Perhaps she wishes my company," said Montraville mentally,
as he snatched up his hat: "if I thought she loved me, I would confess

my errors, and trust to her generosity to pity and pardon me."
He soon overtook her, and offering her his arm, they sauntered to pleasant

but unfrequented walks. Belcour drew Mr. Franklin on one side and entered
into a political discourse: they walked faster than the young people,

and Belcour by some means contrived entirely to lose sight of them.
It was a fine evening in the beginning of autumn; the last remains

of day-light faintly streaked the western sky, while the moon,
with pale and virgin lustre in the room of gorgeous gold and purple,

ornamented the canopy of heaven with silver, fleecy clouds,
which now and then half hid her lovely face, and, by partly concealing,

heightened every beauty; the zephyrs whispered softly through the trees,
which now began to shed their leafy honours; a solemn silence reigned:

and to a happy mind an evening such as this would give serenity, and calm,
unruffled pleasure; but to Montraville, while it soothed the turbulence

of his passions, it brought increase of melancholy reflections.
Julia was leaning on his arm: he took her hand in his,

and pressing it tenderly, sighed deeply, but continued silent.
Julia was embarrassed; she wished to break a silence so unaccountable,

but was unable; she loved Montraville, she saw he was unhappy,
and wished to know the cause of his uneasiness, but that innate modesty,

which nature has implanted in the female breast, prevented her enquiring.
"I am bad company, Miss Franklin," said he, at last recollecting himself;

"but I have met with something to-day that has greatly distressed me,
and I cannot shake off the disagreeableimpression it has made

on my mind. "
"I am sorry," she replied, "that you have any cause of inquietude.