 | The coquette, or, The history of Eliza Wharton : a novel, founded on fact |  |
LETTER LXX.
Hartford.
I have, at last, accomplished the
removal of my darling girl, from a place where
she thought every eye accused, and every
heart condemned her.
She has become quite romantic in her notions.
She would not permit me to accompany
her, lest it should be reported that we
future exigencies, and conveyed her by night
to the distance of ten or twelve miles, where
we met the stage, in which I had previously
secured her a seat. The agony of her grief at
being thus obliged to leave her mother's
house, baffles all description.
It very sensibly affected me, I know. I was
almost a penitent. I am sure I acted like one,
whether I were sincere or not. She chose to
go where she was totally unknown. She
would leave the stage, she said, before it reached
Boston, and take passage in a more private
carriage to Salem, or its vicinity, where she
would fix her abode; chalking the initials of
my name over the door, as a signal to me of
her residence.
She is exceedingly depressed; and says she
neither expects nor wishes to survive her lying
in. Insanity, for aught I know, must be my
lot, if she should die. But I will not harbor
the idea. I hope, one time or other, to have
the power to make her amends, even by
marriage. My wife may be provoked, I imagine,
to sue for a divorce. If she should, she
would find no difficulty in obtaining it; and
then I would take Eliza in her stead. Though
I confess that the idea of being thus connected
with a woman whom I have been able to
dishonor would be rather hard to surmount.
It would hurt even my delicacy, little as you
I know to be seducible. And, on this account,
I cannot be positive that even Eliza
would retain my love.
My Nancy and I have lived a pretty uncomfortable
life, of late. She has been very
suspicious of my amour with Eliza; and now
and then expressed her jealous sentiments a
little more warmly than my patience would
bear. But the news of Eliza's circumstances
and retirement, being publicly talked of, have
reached her ears, and rendered her quite out-rageous.
She tells me she will no longer
brook my indifference and infidelity; intends
soon to return to her father's house, and extricate
herself from me intirely. My general reply
to all this, is, that she knew my character
before we married, and could reasonably expect
nothing less than what has happened. I
shall not oppose her leaving me, as it may conduce
to the execution of the plan I have hinted
above.
To morrow I shall set out to visit my disconsolate
fair one. From my very soul I pity
her; and wish I could have preserved her virtue
consistently with the indulgence of my
passion. To her I lay not the principal blame,
as in like cases, I do to the sex in general.
My finesse was too well planned for detection,
and my snares too deeply laid for any one to
escape who had the least warmth in her constitution,
therefore, be the less whimsical about a future
connection, and the more solicitous to make
her reparation, should it ever be in my power.
Her friends are all in arms about her. I
dare say I have the imprecations of the whole
fraternity. They may thank themselves in
part; for I always swore revenge for their dislike
and coldness towards me. Had they been
politic, they would have conducted more like
the aborigines of the country, who are said to
worship the devil out of fear.
I am afraid I shall be obliged to remove my
quarters; for Eliza was so great a favorite in
town, that I am looked upon with an evil
eye. I plead with her before we parted last,
to forgive my seducing her; alledged my ardent
love, and my inability to possess her in
any other way. How, said she, can that be
love which destroys its object? But granting
what you say, you have frustrated your
own purpose. You have deprived yourself of
my society, which might have been innocently
enjoyed. You have cut me off from life in
the midst of my days. You have rendered me
the reproach of my friends, the disgrace of my
family, and a dishonor to virtue and my sex!
but I forgive you, added she. Yes, Sanford,
I forgive you; and sincerely pray for your
repentance and reformation. I hope to be the
last wretched female, sacrificed by you to the
arts of falsehood and seduction!
May my unhappy story serve as a beacon to
warn the American fair of the dangerous tendency
and destructive consequences of associating
with men of your character, of destroying
their time, and risking their reputation
by the practice of coquetry and its attendant
follies! But for these, I might have been
honorably connected; and capable, at this
moment, of diffusing and receiving happiness!
But for your arts, I might have remained a
blessing to society, as well as the delight and
comfort of my friends!
Your being a married man unspeakably
aggravates both your guilt and mine. This
circumstance annexes indelible shame to our
crime! You have rent asunder the tenderest
ties of nature! You have broken the bonds of
conjugal love, which ought ever to be kept
sacred and inviolate! You have filled with
grief and discontent the heart of your amiable
wife, whom gratitude, if no other principle,
should have induced you to cherish with
tenderness; and I, wretch that I am, have
been your accomplice!
But I cease to reproach you. You have
acted but too consistently with the character,
which I was sufficiently apprised you sustained.
The blame then may be retorted on myself,
for disregarding the counsels, warnings and
admonitions of my best friends. You have
prided yourself in the character of a libertine.
accomplished your designs; your dreadful
designs against me! Let this suffice. Add
not to the number of those deluded creatures,
who will one day rise up in judgment against
you, and condemn you.
By this time we had nearly reached the inn,
and were soon to part. I seized her hand
and exclaimed, you must not leave me, Eliza,
with that awful anathema on your lips! Oh,
say that you will forget my past faults. That,
said she, I shall soon do; for in the grave
there is no remembrance! This to my mind,
was a harsher sentence than the other; and
almost threw me into despair. Never was
so wrought upon before! I knew not what to
say or do! She saw my distress, and kindly
softened her manner. If I am severe, said
she, it is because I wish to impress your mind
with such a sense of your offences against your
Maker, your friends and society in general, as
may effect your repentance and amendment.
I wish not to be your accuser, but your reformer.
On several accounts, I view my
own crime in a more aggravated light than
yours; but my conscience is awakened to a
conviction of my guilt. Yours, I fear is not.
Let me conjure you to return home, and
endeavor by you future kindness and sidelity
to your wife, to make her all the amends
in your power. By a life of virtue and religion,
of society, and secure happiness both here
and hereafter.
I begged leave to visit her retirement next
week, not in continuation of our amour, but
as a friend, solicitous to know her situation
and welfare. Unable to speak, she only
bowed assent. The stage being now ready,
I whispered some tender things in her ear,
and kissing her cheek, which was all she
would permit, suffered her to depart.
My body remains behind; but my soul, if
I have any, went with her!
This was a horrid lecture, Charles! She
brought every charge against me, which a
fruitful and gloomy imagination could suggest!
But I hope, when she recovers, she will resume
her former cheerfulness, and become as
kind and agreeable as ever. My anxiety for
her safety is very great. I trust, however, it
will soon be removed; and peace and pleasure
be restored to your humble servant,
| The coquette, or, The history of Eliza Wharton : a novel, founded on fact | |