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 downstairs, assumed the part of a tender, consoling friend; she listened to the arguments he advanced, with apparent composure; but this was only the calm of the moment: the remembrance of Montraville’s recent cruelty again rushed upon her mind: she pushed him from her with some violence, 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 apartments, 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 endeavor 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 endeavor 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 reflections.
“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 deathlike paleness, occasioned by painful remembrance—remembrance awakened by that monitor, whom, though we may in vain endeavor, we can never entirely silence.
“Belcour,” said he, “you have injured me in a tender point.”
“Prithee, Jack,”12 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 hers 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 courtesied as she passed, and with the bewitching smile of modest cheerfulness, 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 daylight faintly streaked the western sky, while the moon with pale and virgin luster 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 honors; 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
