The Coquette, or, The History of Eliza Wharton Part 19

LETTER LXIX.

TO MISS JULIA GRANBY.

TUESDAY.

My dear friend: By that endearing t.i.tle you permit me still to address you, and such you have always proved yourself by a partic.i.p.ation of my distresses, as well as by the consoling voice of pity and forgiveness.

What destiny Providence designs for me I know not, but I have my forebodings that this is the last time I shall ever accost you. Nor does this apprehension arise merely from a disturbed imagination. I have reason to think myself in a confirmed consumption, which commonly proves fatal to persons in my situation. I have carefully concealed every complaint of the kind from my mamma, for fear of distressing her; yet I have never been insensible of their probable issue, and have bidden a sincere welcome to them, as the harbingers of my speedy release from a life of guilt and woe.

I am going from you, Julia. This night separates us, perhaps, forever. I have not resolution to encounter the tears of my friends, and therefore seek shelter among strangers, where none knows or is interested in my melancholy story. The place of my seclusion I studiously conceal; yet I shall take measures that you may be apprised of my fate.

Should it please G.o.d to spare and restore me to health, I shall return, and endeavor, by a life of penitence and rect.i.tude, to expiate my past offences. But should I be called from this scene of action, and leave behind me a helpless babe, the innocent sufferer of its mother's shame, O Julia, let your friends.h.i.+p for me extend to the little stranger.

Intercede with my mother to take it under her protection, and transfer to it all her affection for me; to train it up in the ways of piety and virtue, that it may compensate her for the afflictions which I have occasioned.

One thing more I have to request. Plead for me with my two best friends, Mrs. Richman and Mrs. Sumner. I ask you not to palliate my faults,--that cannot be done,--but to obtain, if possible, their forgiveness. I cannot write all my full mind suggests on this subject. You know the purport, and can better express it for me.

And now, my dear Julia, recommending myself again to your benevolence, to your charity, and (may I add?) to your affection, and entreating that the fatal consequences of my folly, now fallen upon my devoted head, may suffice for my punishment, let me conjure you to bury my crimes in the grave with me, and to preserve the remembrance of my former virtues, which engaged your love and confidence; more especially of that ardent esteem for you, which will glow till the last expiring breath of your despairing

ELIZA WHARTON.

LETTER LXX.

TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.

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 had eloped together. I provided amply for her 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 pa.s.sage 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 enabled to dishonor, would be rather hard to surmount. It would hurt even my delicacy, little as you may think me to possess, to have a wife whom 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 circ.u.mstances and retirement, being publicly talked of, have reached her ears, and rendered her quite outrageous. 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 entirely. 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 pa.s.sion. To her I lay not the princ.i.p.al blame, as in like cases I do the s.e.x 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 const.i.tution, or affection in her heart. I shall, 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 wors.h.i.+p 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 pleaded with her, before we parted last, to forgive my seducing her, alleged 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 s.e.x. 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 a.s.sociating 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. You being a married man unspeakably aggravates both your guilt and mine. This circ.u.mstance 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 grat.i.tude, 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. Glory no longer in your shame. You have 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. O, 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 I 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 your future kindness and fidelity to your wife, to make her all the amends in your power. By a life of virtue and religion, you may yet become a valuable member 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 a.s.sent. 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,

PETER SANFORD.

LETTER LXXI.

TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.

HARTFORD.

The drama is now closed! A tragical one it has proved!

How sincerely, my dear Mrs. Sumner, must the friends of our departed Eliza sympathize with each other, and with her afflicted, bereaved parent!

You have doubtless seen the account in the public papers which gave us the melancholy intelligence. But I will give you a detail of circ.u.mstances.

A few days after my last was written, we heard that Major Sanford's property was attached, and he a prisoner in his own house. He was the last man to whom we wished to apply for information respecting the forlorn wanderer; yet we had no other resource. And after waiting a fortnight in the most cruel suspense, we wrote a billet, entreating him, if possible, to give some intelligence concerning her. He replied that he was unhappily deprived of all means of knowing himself, but hoped soon to relieve his own and our anxiety about her.

In this situation we continued till a neighbor (purposely, we since concluded) sent us a Boston paper. Mrs. Wharton took it, and unconscious of its contents, observed that the perusal might divert her a few moments. She read for some time, when it suddenly dropped upon the floor. She clasped her hands together, and raising her streaming eyes to heaven, exclaimed, "It is the Lord; let him do what he will. Be still, O my soul, and know that he is G.o.d."

"What, madam," said I, "can be the matter?" She answered not, but, with inexpressible anguish depicted in her countenance, pointed to the paper.

I took it up, and soon found the fatal paragraph. I shall not attempt to paint our heartfelt grief and lamentation upon this occasion; for we had no doubt of Eliza's being the person described, as a stranger, who died, at Danvers, last July. Her delivery of a child, her dejected state of mind, the marks upon her linen, indeed every circ.u.mstance in the advertis.e.m.e.nt, convinced us, beyond dispute, that it could be no other.

Mrs. Wharton retired immediately to her chamber, where she continued overwhelmed with sorrow that night and the following day. Such in fact has been her habitual frame ever since; though the endeavors of her friends, who have sought to console her, have rendered her somewhat more conversable. My testimony of Eliza's penitence before her departure is a source of comfort to this disconsolate parent. She fondly cherished the idea that, having expiated her offence by sincere repentance and amendment, her deluded child finally made a happy exchange of worlds.

But the desperate resolution, which she formed and executed, of becoming a fugitive, of deserting her mother's house and protection, and of wandering and dying among strangers, is a most distressing reflection to her friends; especially to her mother, in whose breast so many painful ideas arise, that she finds it extremely difficult to compose herself to that resignation which she evidently strives to exemplify.

Eliza's brother has been to visit her last retreat, and to learn the particulars of her melancholy exit. He relates that she was well accommodated, and had every attention and a.s.sistance which her situation required. The people where she resided appear to have a lively sense of her merit and misfortunes. They testify her modest deportment, her fort.i.tude under the sufferings to which she was called, and the serenity and composure with which she bade a last adieu to the world. Mr. Wharton has brought back several sc.r.a.ps of her writing, containing miscellaneous reflections on her situation, the death of her babe, and the absence of her friends. Some of these were written before, some after, her confinement. These valuable testimonies of the affecting sense and calm expectation she entertained of her approaching dissolution are calculated to soothe and comfort the minds of mourning connections. They greatly alleviate the regret occasioned by her absence at this awful period. Her elopement can be equalled only by the infatuation which caused her ruin.

"But let no one reproach her memory.

Her life has paid the forfeit of her folly.

Let that suffice."

I am told that Major Sanford is quite frantic. Sure I am that he has reason to be. If the mischiefs he has brought upon others return upon his own head, dreadful indeed must be his portion. His wife has left him, and returned to her parents. His estate, which has been long mortgaged, is taken from him, and poverty and disgrace await him. Heaven seldom leaves injured innocence unavenged. Wretch that he is, he ought forever to be banished from human society! I shall continue with Mrs.

Wharton till the lenient hand of time has a.s.suaged her sorrows, and then make my promised visit to you. I will bring Eliza's posthumous papers with me when I come to Boston, as I have not time to copy them now.

I foresee, my dear Mrs. Sumner, that this disastrous affair will suspend your enjoyments, as it has mine. But what are our feelings, compared with the pangs which rend a parent's heart? This parent I here behold inhumanly stripped of the best solace of her declining years by the insnaring machinations of a profligate debauchee. Not only the life, but, what was still dearer, the reputation and virtue? of the unfortunate Eliza have fallen victims at the shrine of _libertinism_.

Detested be the epithet. Let it henceforth bear its true signature, and candor itself shall call it _l.u.s.t_ and _brutality_. Execrable is the man, however arrayed in magnificence, crowned with wealth, or decorated with the external graces and accomplishments of fas.h.i.+onable life, who shall presume to display them at the expense of virtue and innocence.

Sacred name attended with real blessings--blessings too useful and important to be trifled away. My resentment at the base arts which must have been employed to complete the seduction of Eliza I cannot suppress.

I wish them to be exposed, and stamped with universal ignominy. Nor do I doubt but you will join with me in execrating the measures by which _we_ have been robbed of so valuable a friend, and _society_ of so ornamental a member. I am, &c.,

JULIA GRANBY.

LETTER LXXII.

TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.