The Coquette, or, The History of Eliza Wharton Part 18

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, lest 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 a.s.sured 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 before dinner; at which she commanded 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 enfeebled my mind. I embraced with avidity the consoling power of friends.h.i.+p, insnaringly offered by my seducer; vainly inferring, from his marriage with a virtuous woman, that he had seen 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 rehea.r.s.e the perfidious 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 forever, and by a life of sincere humility and repentance endeavored to make my peace with Heaven, and to obliterate, by the rect.i.tude of my future conduct, the guilt I had incurred; but I found it too late. My circ.u.mstances called for attention; and I had no one to partic.i.p.ate 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 embarra.s.sments. Grief has undermined my const.i.tution. 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.

G.o.d 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." "G.o.d 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 alleges that she has particular reasons for present concealment. She has, notwithstanding, promised to let me know the day after to-morrow." "O," 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 distress 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,

JULIA GRANBY.

LETTER LXVII.

TO THE SAME.

HARTFORD.

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 should 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 suppress 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 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 a.s.sisted 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. "O Julia, miserably indeed," said she. "How severely does my mother's kindness reproach me! How insupportably it increases my self-condemnation!" She wept; she rung her hands, and walked the room in the greatest agony. Mrs. Wharton was exceedingly distressed by her appearance. "Tell me, Eliza," said she, "tell me the cause of your trouble. O, 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 fatal secret which engrosses and distracts my mind; to-morrow I will hide nothing from you." "I will press you no further," rejoined her mamma. "Choose your own time, my dear; but remember, I must partic.i.p.ate 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, "you will call at my chamber as you pa.s.s to your own?" I a.s.sented. She then approached her mamma, fell upon her knees before her, and clasping her hand, said, in broken accents, "O madam, can you forgive a wretch, who has forfeited your love, your kindness, and your compa.s.sion?" "Surely, Eliza," said she, "you are not that being! No, it is impossible! But however great your transgression, be a.s.sured of my forgiveness, my compa.s.sion, 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! O, 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, alleging 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 enclosed 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.

'That I must die, it is my only comfort; Death is the privilege of human nature, And life without it were not worth the taking.

Thither the poor, the prisoner, and the mourner Fly for relief, and lay their burdens down.'

You have forgiven me, Julia; my mother has a.s.sured me of her forgiveness; and what have I more to wish? My heart is much lightened by these kind a.s.surances; they will be a great support to me in the dreadful hour which awaits me." "What mean you, Eliza?" said I. "I fear some dreadful purpose labors in your mind." "O, no," she replied; "you may be a.s.sured 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 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, stepping 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 fort.i.tude." "What new occurrence demands it?" rejoined she. "Eliza has left us." "Left us! What mean you?" "She has 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 a.s.sistance 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 G.o.d." 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! O, 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 apostasy, 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, a.s.suring 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 and 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 a.s.sured 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 a.s.surances 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 circ.u.mstance 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,

JULIA GRANBY.

LETTER LXVIII.

TO MRS. M. WHARTON.

TUESDAY.

My honored and dear mamma: In what words, in what language shall I address you? What shall I say on a subject which deprives me of the power of expression? Would to G.o.d I had been totally deprived of that power before so fatal a subject required its exertion. Repentance comes too late, when it cannot prevent the evil lamented: for your kindness, your more than maternal affection towards me, from my infancy to the present moment, a long life of filial duty and unerring rect.i.tude could hardly compensate. How greatly deficient in grat.i.tude must I appear, then, while I confess that precept and example, counsel and advice, instruction and admonition, have been all lost upon me!

Your kind endeavors to promote my happiness have been repaid by the inexcusable folly of sacrificing it. The various emotions of shame and remorse, penitence and regret, which torture and distract my guilty breast, exceed description. Yes, madam, your Eliza has fallen, fallen indeed. She has become the victim of her own indiscretion, and of the intrigue and artifice of a designing libertine, who is the husband of another. She is polluted, and no more worthy of her parentage. She flies from you, not to conceal her guilt, (that she humbly and penitently owns,) but to avoid what she has never experienced, and feels herself unable to support--a mother's frown; to escape the heart-rending sight of a parent's grief, occasioned by the crimes of her guilty child.

I have become a reproach and disgrace to my friends. The consciousness of having forfeited their favor and incurred their disapprobation and resentment induces me to conceal from them the place of my retirement; but lest your benevolence should render you anxious for my comfort in my present situation, I take the liberty to a.s.sure you that I am amply provided for.

I have no claim even upon your pity; but from my long experience of your tenderness. I presume to hope it will be extended to me. O my mother, if you knew what the state of my mind is, and has been for months past, you would surely compa.s.sionate my case. Could tears efface the stain which I have brought upon my family, it would long since have been washed away; but, alas! tears are in vain; and vain is my bitter repentance; it cannot obliterate my crime, nor restore me to innocence and peace. In this life I have no ideas of happiness. These I have wholly resigned.

The only hope which affords me any solace is that of your forgiveness.

If the deepest contrition can make an atonement,--if the severest pains, both of body and mind, can restore me to your charity,--you will not be inexorable. O, let my sufferings be deemed a sufficient punishment, and add not the insupportable weight of a parent's wrath. At present I cannot see you. The effect of my crime is too obvious to be longer concealed, to elude the invidious eye of curiosity. This night, therefore, I leave your hospitable mansion. This night I become a wretched wanderer from my paternal roof. O that the grave were this night to be my lodging! Then should I lie down and be at rest. Trusting in the mercy of G.o.d, through the mediation of his Son, I think I could meet my heavenly Father with more composure and confidence than my earthly parent.

Let not the faults and misfortunes of your daughter oppress your mind.

Rather let the conviction of having faithfully discharged your duty to your lost child support and console you in this trying scene.

Since I wrote the above, you have kindly granted me your forgiveness, though you knew not how great, how aggravated was my offence. You forgive me, you say. O, the harmonious, the transporting sound! It has revived my drooping spirits, and will enable me to encounter, with resolution, the trials before me.

Farewell, my dear mamma! Pity and pray for your ruined child; and be a.s.sured that affection and grat.i.tude will be the last sentiments which expire in the breast of your repenting daughter,

ELIZA WHARTON.