The Coquette, or, The History of Eliza Wharton Part 17

Our domestic affairs are much as when you left us. Nothing remarkable has occurred in the neighborhood worth communicating. The company and amus.e.m.e.nts of the town are as usual, I suppose. I frequent neither of them. Having incurred so much censure by the indulgence of a gay disposition, I am now trying what a recluse and solitary mode of life will, produce. You will call me splenetic. I own it. I am pleased with n.o.body; still less with myself. I look around for happiness, and find it not. The world is to me a desert. If I indulge myself in temporary enjoyment, the consciousness or apprehension of doing amiss destroys my peace of mind. And when I have recourse to books, if I read those of serious descriptions, they remind me of an awful futurity, for which I am unprepared; if history, it discloses facts in which I have no interest; if novels, they exhibit scenes of pleasure which I have no prospect of realizing.

My mamma is solicitously attentive to my happiness; and though she fails of promoting it, yet I endeavor to save her the pangs of disappointment by appearing what she wishes.

I antic.i.p.ate, and yet I dread, your return; a paradox this, which time alone can solve.

Continue writing to me, and entreat Mrs. Sumner, in my name, to do likewise. Your benevolence must be your reward.

ELIZA WHARTON.

LETTER LXIII.

TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.

BOSTON.

A paradox, indeed, is the greater part of your letter to us, my dear Eliza. We had fondly flattered ourselves that the melancholy of your mind was exterminated. I hope no new cause has revived it. Little did I intend, when I left you, to have been absent so long; but Mrs. Summer's disappointment, in her plan of spending the summer at Hartford, induced me, in compliance with her request, to prolong my residence here. But for your sake, she now consents to my leaving her, in hopes I may be so happy as to contribute to your amus.e.m.e.nt.

I am both pleased and instructed by the conduct of this amiable woman.

As I always endeavored to imitate her discreet, and modest behavior in a single state, so likewise shall I take her for a pattern should I ever enter a married life. She is most happily united. Mr. Sumner, to all the graces and accomplishments of the gentleman, adds the still more important and essential properties of virtue, integrity, and honor. I was once present when a person was recommended to her for a husband. She objected that he was a rake. "True," said the other, "he has been, but he has reformed." "That will never do for me," rejoined she; "I wish my future companion to need no reformation"--a sentiment worthy the attention of our whole s.e.x; the general adoption of which, I am persuaded, would have a happy influence upon the manners of the other.

I hope neither you nor I, Eliza, shall ever be tried by a man of debauched principles. Such characters I conceive to be totally unfit for the society of women who have any claim to virtue and delicacy.

I intend to be with you in about a month. If agreeable to you, we will visit and spend a few weeks with the afflicted Mrs. Richman. I sincerely sympathize with her under her bereavement. I know her fondness for you will render your company very consoling to her; and I flatter myself that I should not be an unwelcome guest.

Make my respects to your mamma, and believe me ever yours,

JULIA GRANBY.

LETTER LXIV.

TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.

HARTFORD.

Dear madam: I have arrived in safety to the mansion of our once happy and social friends. But I cannot describe to you how changed, how greatly changed this amiable family appears since I left it. Mrs.

Wharton met me at the door, and, tenderly embracing, bade me a cordial welcome. "You are come, Julia," said she, "I hope, to revive and comfort us. We have been very solitary during your absence." "I am happy, madam," said I, "to return; and my endeavors to restore cheerfulness and content shall not be wanting. But where is Eliza?" By this time we had reached the back parlor, whither Mrs. Wharton led me; and, the door being open, I saw Eliza reclined on a settee, in a very thoughtful posture. When I advanced to meet her, she never moved, but sat, "like Patience on a monument, smiling at Grief."

I stopped involuntarily, and involuntarily raising my eyes to heaven, exclaimed, "Is that Eliza Wharton?" She burst into tears, and attempted to rise, but sank again into her seat. Seeing her thus affected, I sat down by her, and, throwing my arm about her neck, "Why these tears?"

said I. "Why this distress, my dear friend? Let not the return of your Julia give you pain; she comes to soothe you with the consolations of friends.h.i.+p." "It is not pain," said she, clasping me to her breast; "it is pleasure too exquisite for my weak nerves to bear. See you not, Julia, how I am altered? Should you have known me for the sprightly girl who was always welcome at the haunts of hilarity and mirth?" "Indeed,"

said I, "you appear indisposed; but I will be your physician. Company and change of air will, I doubt not, restore you." "Will these cure disorders of the mind, Julia?" "They will have a powerful tendency to remove them, if rightly applied; and I profess considerable skill in that art Come," continued I, "we will try these medicines in the morning. Let us rise early, and step into the chaise, and, after riding a few miles, call and breakfast with Mrs. Freeman. I have some commissions from her daughter. We shall be agreeably entertained there, you know."

Being summoned to supper, I took her by the hand, and we walked into another room, where we found her brother and his wife, with her mamma, waiting for us. We were all very chatty; even Eliza resumed, in a degree, her former sociability. A settled gloom, notwithstanding, brooded on her countenance; and a deep sigh often escaped her in spite of her evident endeavors to suppress it. She went to bed before us, when her mamma informed me that her health had been declining for some months; that she never complained, but studiously concealed every symptom of indisposition. Whether it were any real disorder of body, or whether it arose from her depression of spirits, she could not tell, but supposed they operated together, and mutually heightened each other.

I inquired after Major Sanford; whether he and Eliza had a.s.sociated together during my absence. Sometimes, she said, they seemed on good terms, and he frequently called to see her; at others they had very little, if any, correspondence at all. She told me that Eliza never went abroad, and was very loath to see company at home; that her chief amus.e.m.e.nt consisted in solitary walks; that the dreadful idea of her meeting Major Sanford in these walks had now and then intruded upon her imagination; that she had not the least evidence of the fact, however, and, indeed, was afraid to make any inquiries into the matter, lest her own suspicions should be discovered; that the major's character was worse than ever; that he was much abroad, and frequently entertained large parties of worthless baccha.n.a.lians at his house; that common report said he treated his wife with indifference, neglect, and ill nature; with many other circ.u.mstances which it is not material to relate.

Adieu, my dear friend, for the present. When occasion requires, you shall hear again from your affectionate

JULIA GRANBY.

LETTER LXV.

TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.

HARTFORD.

Good news, Charles, good news! I have arrived to the utmost bounds of my wishes--the full possession of my adorable Eliza. I have heard a quotation from a certain book, but what book it was I have forgotten, if I ever knew. No matter for that; the quotation is, that "stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant." If it has reference to the pleasures which I have enjoyed with Eliza, I like it hugely, as Tristram Shandy's father said of Yorick's sermon; and I think it fully verified.

I had a long and tedious siege. Every method which love could suggest, or art invent, was adopted. I was sometimes ready to despair, under an idea that her resolution was unconquerable, her virtue impregnable.

Indeed, I should have given over the pursuit long ago, but for the hopes of success I entertained from her parleying with me, and, in reliance upon her own strength, endeavoring to combat and counteract my designs.

Whenever this has been the case, Charles, I have never yet been defeated in my plan. If a lady will consent to enter the lists against the antagonist of her honor, she may be sure of losing the prize. Besides, were her delicacy genuine, she would banish the man at once who presumed to doubt, which he certainly does who attempts to vanquish it. But far be it from me to criticize the pretensions of the s.e.x. If I gain the rich reward of my dissimulation and gallantry, that, you know, is all I want.

To return, then, to the point. An unlucky, but not a miraculous accident has taken place which must soon expose our amour. What can be done? At the first discovery, absolute distraction seized the soul of Eliza, which has since terminated in a fixed melancholy. Her health, too, is much impaired. She thinks herself rapidly declining, and I tremble when I see her emaciated form.

My wife has been reduced very low of late. She brought me a boy a few weeks past, a dead one though.

These circ.u.mstances give me neither pain nor pleasure. I am too much engrossed by my divinity to take an interest in any thing else. True, I have lately suffered myself to be somewhat engaged here and there by a few jovial lads who a.s.sist me in dispelling the anxious thoughts which my perplexed situation excites. I must, however, seek some means to relieve Eliza's distress. My finances are low; but the last fraction shall be expended in her service, if she need it.

Julia Granby is expected at Mrs. Wharton's every hour. I fear that her inquisitorial eye will soon detect our intrigue and obstruct its continuation. Now, there's a girl, Charles, I should never attempt to seduce; yet she is a most alluring object, I a.s.sure you. But the dignity of her manners forbids all a.s.saults upon her virtue. Why, the very expression of her eye blasts in the bud every thought derogatory to her honor, and tells you plainly that the first insinuation of the kind would be punished with eternal banishment and displeasure. Of her there is no danger. But I can write no more, except that I am, &c.,

PETER SANFORD.

LETTER LXVI.

TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.

HARTFORD.

O 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--O, the ruined, lost Eliza!

I want words to express the emotions of indignation and grief which oppress me. But I will endeavor to compose myself, and relate the circ.u.mstances 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 yielded to her humor of taking a different apartment, little suspecting the real cause. She frequently walked out, 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 open 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 occasion. I doubted not but Major Sanford was the person I had seen; and the discovery of Eliza's guilt in this infamous intrigue almost deprived me of 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 bade 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 could not exert resolution to reveal. Yes, 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 set at noon."

"I shudder," said I, "at your confession! Wretched, deluded girl! Is this a return for your parent's love and a.s.siduous 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 faded 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, O 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 your fall; and I tremble to think of her distress. It will break her widowed heart. How has she loved, how has she doted upon you! Dreadful is the requital which you have made." "My mother," rejoined she, "O, name her not! The very sound is distraction to me. O my Julia, if your heart be not shut against mercy and compa.s.sion 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 flood 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 a.s.suming an air of kindness, "Compose yourself, Eliza," said I; "I repeat what I told you before--it is the purest friends.h.i.+p 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." "I plead guilty," said she, "to all 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 confide 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 a.s.sured 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 a.s.sured," 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 closeted 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, and reclined in her chair, without speaking a 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.