Charlotte had now been left almost three months a prey to her own melancholy reflexions—­sad companions indeed; nor did any one break in upon her solitude but Belcour, who once or twice called to enquire after her health, and tell her he had in vain endeavoured to bring Montraville to hear reason; and once, but only once, was her mind cheered by the receipt of an affectionate letter from Mrs. Beauchamp.  Often had she wrote to her perfidious seducer, and with the most persuasive eloquence endeavoured to convince him of her innocence; but these letters were never suffered to reach the hands of Montraville, or they must, though on the very eve of marriage, have prevented his deserting the wretched girl.  Real anguish of heart had in a great measure faded her charms, her cheeks were pale from want of rest, and her eyes, by frequent, indeed almost continued weeping, were sunk and heavy.  Sometimes a gleam of hope would play about her heart when she thought of her parents—­“They cannot surely,” she would say, “refuse to forgive me; or should they deny their pardon to me, they win not hate my innocent infant on account of its mother’s errors.”  How often did the poor mourner wish for the consoling presence of the benevolent Mrs. Beauchamp.

“If she were here,” she would cry, “she would certainly comfort me, and sooth the distraction of my soul.”

She was sitting one afternoon, wrapped in these melancholy reflexions, when she was interrupted by the entrance of Belcour.  Great as the alteration was which incessant sorrow had made on her person, she was still interesting, still charming; and the unhallowed flame, which had urged Belcour to plant dissension between her and Montraville, still raged in his bosom:  he was determined, if possible, to make her his mistress; nay, he had even conceived the diabolical scheme of taking her to New-York, and making her appear in every public place where it was likely she should meet Montraville, that he might be a witness to his unmanly triumph.

When he entered the room where Charlotte was sitting, he assumed the look of tender, consolatory friendship.  “And how does my lovely Charlotte?” said he, taking her hand:  “I fear you are not so well as I could wish.”

“I am not well, Mr. Belcour,” said she, “very far from it; but the pains and infirmities of the body I could easily bear, nay, submit to them with patience, were they not aggravated by the most insupportable anguish of my mind.”

“You are not happy, Charlotte,” said he, with a look of well-dissembled sorrow.

“Alas!” replied she mournfully, shaking her head, “how can I be happy, deserted and forsaken as I am, without a friend of my own sex to whom I can unburthen my full heart, nay, my fidelity suspected by the very man for whom I have sacrificed every thing valuable in life, for whom I have made myself a poor despised creature, an outcast from society, an object only of contempt and pity.”