To Charlotte.

“Though I have taken up my pen to address you, my poor injured girl, I feel I am inadequate to the task; yet, however painful the endeavour, I could not resolve upon leaving you for ever without one kind line to bid you adieu, to tell you how my heart bleeds at the remembrance of what you was, before you saw the hated Montraville.  Even now imagination paints the scene, when, torn by contending passions, when, struggling between love and duty, you fainted in my arms, and I lifted you into the chaise:  I see the agony of your mind, when, recovering, you found yourself on the road to Portsmouth:  but how, my gentle girl, how could you, when so justly impressed with the value of virtue, how could you, when loving as I thought you loved me, yield to the solicitations of Belcour?

“Oh Charlotte, conscience tells me it was I, villain that I am, who first taught you the allurements of guilty pleasure; it was I who dragged you from the calm repose which innocence and virtue ever enjoy; and can I, dare I tell you, it was not love prompted to the horrid deed?  No, thou dear, fallen angel, believe your repentant Montraville, when he tells you the man who truly loves will never betray the object of his affection.  Adieu, Charlotte:  could you still find charms in a life of unoffend-ing innocence, return to your parents; you shall never want the means of support both for yourself and child.  Oh! gracious heaven! may that child be entirely free from the vices of its father and the weakness of its mother.

“To-morrow—­but no, I cannot tell you what to-morrow will produce; Belcour will inform you:  he also has cash for you, which I beg you will ask for whenever you may want it.  Once more adieu:  believe me could I hear you was returned to your friends, and enjoying that tranquillity of which I have robbed you, I should be as completely happy as even you, in your fondest hours, could wish me, but till then a gloom will obscure the brightest prospects of Montraville.”

After he had sealed this letter he threw himself on the bed, and enjoyed a few hours repose.  Early in the morning Belcour tapped at his door:  he arose hastily, and prepared to meet his Julia at the altar.

“This is the letter to Charlotte,” said he, giving it to Belcour:  “take it to her when we are gone to Eustatia; and I conjure you, my dear friend, not to use any sophistical arguments to prevent her return to virtue; but should she incline that way, encourage her in the thought, and assist her to put her design in execution.”

CHAPTER XXVII.

     Pensive she mourn’d, and hung her languid head,
     Like a fair lily overcharg’d with dew.