 | The coquette, or, The history of Eliza Wharton : a novel, founded on fact |  |
LETTER LXVI.
Hartford.
Oh, my friend! I have a tale to unfold;
a tale which will rend every nerve of
sympathizing pity, which will rack the breast
of sensibility, and unspeakably distress your
benevolent heart! Eliza—Oh the ruined, lost
Eliza!
I want words to express the emotions of indignation,
and grier which oppress me! But
I will endeavor to compose myself; and relate
the circumstances as they came to my
knowledge.
After my last letter, Eliza remained much
in the same gloomy situation as I found her.
She refused to go, agreeably to her promise, to
visit your mamma; and under one pretext
or another, has constantly declined accompanying
me any where else, since my arrival.
Till last Thursday night she slept in the
same bed with me; when she excused herself,
by saying she was restless, and should disturb
my repose. I yeilded to her humor of taking
a different apartment, little suspecting
the real cause! She frequently walked cut;
and though I sometimes followed, I very seldom
found her. Two or three times, when I
happened to be awake, I heard her go down
stairs; and on inquiry in the morning, she
told me that she was very thirsty, and went
down for water. I observed, a degree of hesitancy
in her answers, for which I could not
account. But last night, the dreadful mystery
was developed! A little before day, I heard
the front door opened with great caution.
I sprang from my bed, and running to the
window, saw by the light of the moon, a man
going from the house. Soon after I perceived
a footstep upon the stairs, which carefully
approached and entered Eliza's chamber.
Judge of my astonishment, my surprise, my
feelings, upon this eccasion! I doubted not but
Major Sanford was the person I had seen;
and the discovery of Eliza's guilt, in this infamous
thought and recollection! My blood thrilled
with horror at this sacrifice of virtue! After
a while I recovered myself, and put on
my clothes. But what to do, I knew not;
whether to go directly to her chamber, and
let her know that she was detected; or to
wait another opportunity.
I resolved on the first. The day had now
dawned. I tapped at her door; and she bid
me come in. She was sitting in an easy chair
by the side of her bed. As I entered she
withdrew her handkerchief from her face;
and looking earnestly at me, said, what procures
me the favor of a visit, at this early
hour, Miss Granby? I was disturbed, said I,
and wished not to return to my bed. But
what breaks your rest; and calls you up so
unseasonably, Eliza? Remorse, and despair,
answered she, weeping. After what I have
witnessed, this morning, rejoined I, I cannot
wonder at it! Was it not Major Sanford
whom I saw go from the house some time
ago? She was silent, but tears flowed abundantly.
It is too late, continued I, to deny,
or evade. Answer my question sincerely; for,
believe me, Eliza, it is not malice, but concern
for you, which prompts it. I will answer
you, Julia, said she. You have discovered
a secret, which harrows up my very soul!
A secret, which I wished you to know, but
It was Major Sanford; the man who has
robbed me of my peace; who has triumphed
in my destruction; and who will cause my
sun to sit at noon!
I shudder, said I, at your confession!
Wretched, deluded girl! Is this a return for
your parent's love, and assduous care; for
your friends' solicitude, and premonitory advice?
You are ruined, you say! You have
sacrificed your virtue to an abandoned, despicable
profligate! And you live to acknowledge
and bear your infamy! I do, said she;
but not long shall I support this burden! See
you not, Julia, my decaying frame, my saded
cheek, and tottering limbs? Soon shall I be insensible
to censure and reproach! Soon shall I
be sequestered in that mansion, “where the
wicked cease from troubling, and where the
weary are at rest!” Rest! said I, can you
expect to find rest either in this world, or
another, with such a weight of guilt on your
head? She exclaimed, with great emotion,
add not to the upbraidings of a wounded
spirit! Have pity upon me, Oh! my friend,
have pity upon me!
Could you know what I suffer, you would
think me sufficiently punished! I wish you no
other punishment, said I, than what may effect
your repentance and reformation. But your
mother, Eliza! She cannot long be ignorant of
It will break her widowed heart!
How has she loved; how has she doated upon
you! Dreadful is the requital which you
have made! My mother, rejoined she—Oh,
name her not! The very found is distraction
to me! Oh! my Julia, if your heart be
not shut against mercy and compassion towards
me, aid me through this trying scene!
Let my situation call forth your pity, and induce
you, undeserving as I am, to exert it in
my behalf!
During this time, I had walked the chamber.
My spirits had been raised above their
natural key, and were exhausted. I sat
down, but thought I should have fainted, till
a copious slood of tears gave me relief. Eliza
was extremely affected. The appearance
of calamity which she exhibited would have
softened the most obdurate anger. Indeed, I
feared some immediate and fatal effect. I
therefore seated myself beside her; and assuming
an air of kindness, compose yourself,
Eliza, said I; I repeat what I told you before,
it is the purest friendship, which thus interests
me in your concerns. This, under the direction
of charity, induces me again to offer you
my hand. Yet you have erred against knowledge
and reason; against warning and
counsel. You have forfeited the favor of
your friends; and reluctant will be their forgiveness.
your charges. From the general voice I expect
no clemency. If I can make my peace
with my mother, it is all I seek or wish on
this side the grave.
In your benevolence I conside for this. In
you, I hope to find an intercessor. By the
remembrance of our former affection and happiness,
I conjure you, refuse me not. At present,
I entreat you to conceal from her this distressing
tale. A short reprieve is all I ask.
Why, said I, should you defer it? When
the painful task is over, you may find relief in
her lenient kindness. After she knows my
condition, I cannot see her, resumed she, till I
am assured of her forgiveness. I have not
strength to support the appearance of her
anger and grief. I will write to her what I
cannot speak. You must bear the melancholy
message, and plead for me, that her displeasure
may not follow me to the grave; whither
I am rapidly hastening. Be assured, replied I,
that I will keep your secret as long as prudence
requires. But I must leave you now:
your mamma will wonder at our being thus
closetted together. When opportunity presents,
we will converse further on the subject.
In the mean time, keep yourself as composed
as possible, if you would avoid suspicion. She
raised her clasped hands, and with a piteous
look, threw her handkerchief over her face,
word. I returned to my chamber, and endeavored
to dissipate every idea which might
tend to disorder my countenance, and break
the silence I wished to observe, relative to what
had happened.
When I went down, Mrs. Wharton desired
me to step up, and inform Eliza that
breakfast was ready. She told me she could
not yet compose herself sufficiently to see her
mamma; and begged me to excuse her absence
as I thought proper. I accordingly returned
for answer to Mrs. Wharton, that
Eliza had rested but indifferently, and being
somewhat indisposed, would not come down,
but wished me to bring her a bowl of chocolate,
when we had breakfasted. I was obliged
studiously to suppress even my thoughts
concerning her, left the emotions they excited
might be observed. Mrs. Wharton conversed
much of her daughter, and expressed
great concern about her health and state of
mind. Her return to this state of dejection,
after having recovered her spirits and cheerfulness,
in a great degree, was owing, she
feared, to some cause unknown to her; and
she entreated me to extract the secret, if
possible. I assured her of my best endeavors,
and doubted not, I told her, but I should
be able in a few days to effect what she wished.
Eliza came down and walked in the garden
herself much better than I expected. She
said that a little ride might, she imagined, be
of service to her; and asked me if I would
accompany her a few miles in the afternoon.
Her mamma was much pleased with the
proposition; and the chaise was accordingly
ordered.
I observed to Eliza, as we rode, that with
her natural and acquired abilities, with her
advantages of education, with her opportunities
of knowing the world, and of tracing
the virtues and vices of mankind to their
origin, I was surprised at her becoming the
prey of an insidious libertine, with whose
character she was well acquainted, and whose
principles she was fully apprised would prompt
him to deceive and betray her. Your surprise
is very natural, said she. The same will
doubtless be felt and expressed by every one
to whom my sad story is related. But the
cause may be found in that unrestrained levity
of disposition, that fondness for dissipation
and coquetry which alienated the affections
of Mr. Boyer from me. This event fatally
depressed, and enseebled my mind. I embraced
with avidity the consoling power of
friendship, ensnaringly offered by my seducer;
vainly inferring from his marriage with a virtuous
woman, that he hadseen the error of his
ways, and forsaken his licentious practices, as
he affirmed, and I, fool that I was, believed it!
It is needless for me to rehearse the persidious
arts, by which he insinuated himself
into my affections, and gained my confidence.
Suffice it to say, he effected his purpose! But
not long did I continue in the delusive dream
of sensual gratification. I soon awoke to a
most poignant sense of his baseness, and of
my own crime and misery. I would have
fled from him; I would have renounced
him for ever; and by a life of sincere humility
and repentance, endeavored to make my
peace with heaven, and to obliterate, by the
rectitude of my future conduct, the guilt I had
incurred; but I found it too late! My circumstances
called for attention; and I had no
one to participate my cares, to witness my distress,
and to alleviate my sorrows, but him. I
could not therefore prevail on myself, wholly
to renounce his society. At times I have admitted
his visits; always meeting him in the
garden, or grove adjoining; till of late, the
weather, and my ill health induced me to
comply with his solicitations, and receive him
into the parlor.
Not long, however, shall I be subject to
these embarrassments. Grief has undermined
my constitution. My health has fallen a sacrifice
to a disordered mind. But I regret
not its departure! I have not a single wish
to live. Nothing which the world affords
can restore my former serenity and happiness!
The little innocent I bear, will quickly disclose
its mother's shame! God Almighty
grant it may not live as a monument of my
guilt, and a partaker of the infamy and sorrow,
which is all I have to bequeath it!
Should it be continued in life, it will never
know the tenderness of a parent; and, perhaps,
want and disgrace may be its wretched
portion! The greatest consolation I can have,
will be to carry it with me to a state of eternal
rest; which, vile as I am, I hope to obtain,
through the infinite mercy of heaven, as revealed
in the gospel of Christ.
I must see Major Sanford again. It is necessary
to converse further with him, in order
to carry my plan of operation into execution.
What is this plan of operation, Eliza? said I. I
am on the rack of anxiety for your safety. Be
patient, continued she and you shall soon be informed.
To morrow I shall write my dreadful
story to my mother. She will be acquainted
with my future intentions; and you shall know,
at the same time, the destination of your lost
friend. I hope, said I, that you have formed no
resolution against your own life. God forbid,
rejoined she. My breath is in his hands, let
him do what seemeth good in his sight!
Keep my secret one day longer, and I will
never more impose so painful a silence upon
you.
By this time we had reached home. She
drank tea with composure, and soon retired
to rest. Mrs. Wharton eagerly inquired
whether I had found out the cause of Eliza's
melancholy. I have urged her, said I, on the
subject; but she alledges that she has particular
reasons for present concealment. She has,
notwithstanding, promised to let me know, the
day after to morrow. Oh, said she, I shall
not rest till the period arrives. Dear, good
woman, said I to myself, I fear you will never
rest afterwards!
This is our present situation. Think what
a scene rises to the view of your Julia! She
must share the distresses of others, though
her own feelings, on this unhappy occasion,
are too keen to admit a moment's serenity!
My greatest relief is in writing to you; which
I shall do again by the next post. In the
mean time, I must beg leave to subscribe myself,
sincerely yours,
| The coquette, or, The history of Eliza Wharton : a novel, founded on fact | |