Just as she had by this manner of reasoning brought her mind to some tolerable degree of composure, she was surprised by a visit from Belcour.  The dejection visible in Charlotte’s countenance, her swoln eyes and neglected attire, at once told him she was unhappy:  he made no doubt but Montraville had, by his coldness, alarmed her suspicions, and was resolved, if possible, to rouse her to jealousy, urge her to reproach him, and by that means occasion a breach between them.  “If I can once convince her that she has a rival,” said he, “she will listen to my passion if it is only to revenge his slights.”  Belcour knew but little of the female heart; and what he did know was only of those of loose and dissolute lives.  He had no idea that a woman might fall a victim to imprudence, and yet retain so strong a sense of honour, as to reject with horror and contempt every solicitation to a second fault.  He never imagined that a gentle, generous female heart, once tenderly attached, when treated with unkindness might break, but would never harbour a thought of revenge.

His visit was not long, but before he went he fixed a scorpion in the heart of Charlotte, whose venom embittered every future hour of her life.

We will now return for a moment to Colonel Crayton.  He had been three months married, and in that little time had discovered that the conduct of his lady was not so prudent as it ought to have been:  but remonstrance was vain; her temper was violent; and to the Colonel’s great misfortune he had conceived a sincere affection for her:  she saw her own power, and, with the art of a Circe, made every action appear to him in what light she pleased:  his acquaintance laughed at his blindness, his friends pitied his infatuation, his amiable daughter, Mrs. Beauchamp, in secret deplored the loss of her father’s affection, and grieved that he should be so entirely swayed by an artful, and, she much feared, infamous woman.

Mrs. Beauchamp was mild and engaging; she loved not the hurry and bustle of a city, and had prevailed on her husband to take a house a few miles from New-York.  Chance led her into the same neighbourhood with Charlotte; their houses stood within a short space of each other, and their gardens joined:  she had not been long in her new habitation before the figure of Charlotte struck her; she recollected her interesting features; she saw the melancholy so conspicuous in her countenance, and her heart bled at the reflection, that perhaps deprived of honour, friends, all that was valuable in life, she was doomed to linger out a wretched existence in a strange land, and sink broken-hearted into an untimely grave.  “Would to heaven I could snatch her from so hard a fate,” said she; “but the merciless world has barred the doors of compassion against a poor weak girl, who, perhaps, had she one kind friend to raise and reassure her, would gladly return to peace and virtue; nay, even the woman who dares to pity, and endeavour to recall a wandering sister, incurs the sneer of contempt and ridicule, for an action in which even angels are said to rejoice.”