University of Virginia Library

LETTER LXVII.

All is now lost; lost, indeed! She is
gone! Yes, my dear friend, our beloved Eliza, is
gone! Never more shall we behold this once amiable
companion, this once innocent and happy
girl. She has forsaken, and, as she says, bid
an everlasting adieu to her home, her afflicted
parent and her friends! But I will take up
my melancholy story where I left it in my last.

She went, as she told me she expected, into
the garden, and met her detestable paramour.
In about an hour she returned, and went directly
to her chamber. At one o'clock I went
up, and found her writing, and weeping. I
begged her to compose herself, and go down
to dinner. No; she said, she could not eat;
and was not fit to appear before any body.
I remonstrated against her immoderate grief;
represented the injury she must sustain by the
indulgence of it, and conjured her to supress
the violence of its emotions.

She entreated me to excuse her to her mamma;
said she was writing to her, and found
it a task too painful to be performed with any
degree of composure; that she was almost
ready to sink under the weight of her affliction;
but hoped and prayed for support,
both in this, and another trying scene, which
awaited her. In compliance with her desire, I
now left her; and told her mamma that she
was very busy in writing; wished not to be interrupted
at present; but would take some
refreshment, an hour or two hence. I visited
her again, about four o'clock; when she appeared
more calm and tranquil.

It is finished, said she, as I entered her
apartment, it is finished. What said I, is
finished? No matter, replied she; you will
know all to morrow, Julia. She complained
of excessive fatigue, and expressed an inclination
to lie down; in which I assisted her,
and then retired. Some time after, her mamma
went up, and found her still on the bed.
She rose, however, and accompanied her down
stairs. I met her at the door of the parlor,
and taking her by the hand, inquired how she
did? Oh, Julia, miserably indeed, said she.
How severely does my mother's kindness reproach
me! How insupportably it increases my
self-condemnation! She wept; she wrung
her hands, and walked the room in the greatest
agony! Mrs. Wharton was exceeding

distressed by her appearance. Tell me, Eliza,
said she, tell me the cause of your trouble!
Oh, kill me not by your mysterious concealment!
My dear child, let me, by sharing,
alleviate your affliction! Ask me not, madam,
said she; O my mother, I conjure you
not to insist on my divulging to night, the satal
secret which engrosses and distracts my
mind! To morrow I will hide nothing from
you. I will press you no further, rejoined her
mamma. Chuse your own time, my dear;
but remember, I must participate your grief,
though I know not the cause.

Supper was brought in; and we endeavored
to prevail on Eliza to eat, but in vain.
She sat down, in compliance with our united
importunities; but neither of us tasted food.
It was removed untouched. For a while,
Mrs. Wharton and I gazed in silent anguish
upon the spectacle of woe, before us! At
length, Eliza rose to retire. Julia, said she,
will you call at my chamber, as you pass to
your own? I assented. She then approached
her mamma, fell upon her knees before
her, and clasping her hand, said, in broken
accents, Oh madam! can you forgive a
wretch, who has forseited your love, your
kindness, and your compassion? Surely,
Eliza, said she, you are not that being! No,
it is impossible! But however great your
transgression, be assured of my forgiveness,

my compassion, and my continued love!
Saying this, she threw her arms about her
daughter's neck, and affectionately kissed her.
Eliza struggled from her embrace, and looking
at her with wild despair, exclaimed, this is
too much! Oh, this unmerited goodness is
more than I can bear! She then rushed
precipitately out of the room, and left us overwhelmed
in sympathy and astonishment!

When Mrs. Wharton had recovered herself
a little, she observed, that Eliza's brain
was evidently disordered. Nothing else, continued
she, could impel her to act in this extraordinary
manner. At first she was resolved
to follow her; but I dissuaded her
from it, alledging, that as she had desired me
to come into her chamber, I thought it better
for me to go alone. She acquiesced; but
said she should not think of going to bed;
but would, however, retire to her chamber, and
seek consolation there. I bade her good
night; and went up to Eliza, who took me
by the hand and led me to the toilet, upon
which she laid the two inclosed letters, the one
to her mamma, and the other to me. These,
said she, contain what I had not resolution to
express. Promise me, Julia, that they shall
not be opened till to morrow morning. I
will, said I. I have thought and wept, continued
she, till I have almost exhausted my
strength, and my reason. I would now obtain

a little respite, that I may prepare my mind
for the account I am one day to give at a higher
tribunal than that of earthly friends. For
this purpose, what I have written, and what I
shall yet say to you, must close the account between
you and me. I have certainly no balance
against you, said I. In my breast you
are fully acquitted. Your penitential tears
have obliterated your guilt, and blotted out
your errors with your Julia. Henceforth, be
they all forgotten. Live, and be happy.
Talk not, said she, of life. It would be a vain
hope, though I cherished it myself.

You have forgiven me, Julia; my mother
has assured me of her forgiveness, and what
have I more to wish? my heart is much lightened
by these kind assurances; they will be
a great support to me in the dreadful hour
which awaits me! What mean you, Eliza? said
I. I fear some desperate purpose labors in your
mind. Oh, no, she replied; you may be
assured your fear is groundless. I know not
what I say; my brain is on fire; I am all confusion!
Leave me, Julia; when I have had a
little rest, I shall be composed. These letters
have almost distracted me; but they are written,

and I am comparatively easy. I will not
leave you, Eliza, said I, unless you will go
directly to bed, and endeavor to rest. I will,
said she, and the sooner the better. I tenderly
embraced her, and retired, though not to
bed. About an hour after, I returned to her
chamber, and opening the door very softly,
found her apparently asleep. I acquainted
Mrs. Wharton with her situation, which was
a great consolation to us both; and encouraged
us to go to bed. Having suffered much
in my mind, and being much fatigued, I soon
fell asleep; but the rattling of a carriage,
which appeared to stop at a little distance
from the house, awoke me. I listened a moment,
and heard the door turn slowly on its
hinges. I sprang from my bed, and reached
the window just in time to see a female handed
into a chaise by a man who hastily followed
her, and drove furiously away! I at once
concluded they could be no other than Eliza
and Major Sanford. Under this impression
I made no delay, but ran immediately
to her chamber. A candle was burning on
the table; but Eliza was not there! I thought
it best to acquaint her mamma with the melancholy
discovery; and steping to her apartment
for the purpose, found her rising.
She had heard me walk, and was anxious to
know the cause. What is the matter, Julia,
said she; what is the matter? Dear madam,
said I, arm yourself with fortitude! What
new occurrence demands it? rejoined she.
Eliza has left us! Left us! what mean you? She
is just gone! I saw her handed into a chaise,
which instantly disappeared!

At this intelligence she gave a shriek, and
fell back on her bed! I alarmed the family,
and by their assistance soon recovered her. She
desired me to inform her of every particular
relative to her elopement, which I did; and
then delivered her the letter which Eliza
had left for her. I suspect, said she, as she
took it; I have long suspected, what I dared
not believe! The anguish of my mind has
been known only to myself, and my God!
I could not answer her, and therefore withdrew.
When I had read Eliza's letter to me,
and wept over the sad fall; and, as I fear, the total
loss of this once amiable and accomplished
girl, I returned to Mrs. Wharton. She was
sitting in her easy chair; and still held the fatal
letter in her hand. When I entered, she
fixed her streaming eyes upon me, and exclaimed,
O Julia, this is more than the bitterness
of death! True, madam, said I, your
affliction must be great; yet that all-gracious
Being, who controls every event, is able, and
I trust, disposed to support you! To Him,
replied she, I desire humbly to resign myself;
but I think I could have borne almost any
other calamity with greater resignation and

composure than this. With how much
comparative ease could I have followed her to
the grave, at any period since her birth! Oh,
my child, my child! dear, very dear hast
thou been to my fond heart! Little did I
think it possible for you to prepare so dreadful
a cup of sorrow for your widowed mother!
But where, continued she, where can the poor
fugitive have fled? Where can she find that
protection and tenderness, which, notwithstanding
her great apostacy, I should never
have withheld? From whom can she receive
those kind attentions, which her situation demands.

The agitation of her mind had exhausted
her strength; and I prevailed on her to refresh,
and endeavor to compose herself to
rest; assuring her of my utmost exertions to
find out Eliza's retreat, and restore her to a
mother's arms.

I am obliged to suppress my own emotions;
and to bend all my thoughts towards the alleviation
of Mrs. Wharton's anxiety and grief.

Major Sanford is from home, as I expected;
and I am determined, if he return, to see
him myself, and extort from him the place
of Eliza's concealment. Her flight, in her
present state of health, is inexpressibly distressing
to her mother; and, unless we find her
soon, I dread the effects!

I shall not close this, till I have seen or

heard from the vile miscreant who has involved
a worthy family in wretchedness!

Friday Morning—Two days have elapsed
without affording us much relief. Last evening,
I was told that Major Sanford was
at home. I immediately wrote him a billet,
entreating and conjuring him to let me know
where the hapless Eliza had fled. He returned
me the following answer.

“Miss Granby need be under no apprehensions,
respecting the situation of our beloved
Eliza. She is well provided for, conveniently
accommodated, and has every thing
to make her happy, which love or affluence
can give.

Major Sanford has solemnly sworn not to discover
her retreat. She wishes to avoid the
accusations of her friends, till she is better able
to bear them.

Her mother may rest assured of immediate
information, should any danger threaten her
amiable daughter; and also of having seasonable
notice of her safety.”

Although little dependence can be placed
upon this man; yet these assurances have, in a
great degree, calmed our minds. We are, however,
contriving means to explore the refuge
of the wanderer; and hope, by tracing his
steps, to accomplish our purpose. This we
have engaged a friend to do.

I know, my dear Mrs. Sumner, the kind

interest you will take in this disastrous affair.
I tremble to think what the event may be!
To relieve your suspense, however, I shall write
you every circumstance, as it occurs. But at
present, I shall only enclose Eliza's letters to
her mamma, and me, and, subscribe myself
your sincere and obliged friend,