Dear Lucy: I intended this week to have journeyed to Boston with Julia
Granby; but my resolution fails me. I find it painful even to think of
mixing again with the gay multitude. I believe the melancholy
reflections by which I am oppressed will be more effectually, if not
more easily, surmounted by tarrying where they are rendered familiar,
than by going from them awhile and then returning.

Julia will therefore go without me. I envy her no enjoyment there,
except your company.

The substitution of friendship, in the place of love, for Major Sanford,
I find productive of agreeable sensations. With him, he assures me, it
is a far more calm and rational pleasure. _He_ treats me with the
affection and tenderness of a brother, and his _wife,_ who exceeds him
in professions of regard, with all the consoling softness and attention
of a sister. Indeed, their politeness has greatly contributed to revive
the cheerfulness of my natural disposition. I believe the major's former
partiality to me as a lover is entirely obliterated; and for my part, I
feel as little restraint in his company and his lady's as in that of any
other in the neighborhood.

I very much regret the departure of Julia, and hope you will permit her
to return to me again as soon as possible. She is a valuable friend. Her
mind is well cultivated, and she has treasured up a fund of knowledge
and information which renders her company both agreeable and useful in
every situation of life. We lately spent the afternoon and evening at
Mr. Smith's. They had a considerable number of visitants, and among the
rest Major Sanford. His wife was expected, but did not come, being
indisposed.


I believe, my friend, you must excuse me if my letters are shorter than
formerly. Writing is not so agreeable to me as it used to be. I love my
friends as well as ever, but I think they must be weary of the gloom and
dulness which pervade my present correspondence. When my pen shall have
regained its original fluency and alertness, I will resume and prolong
the pleasing task.

I am, my dear Lucy, yours most affectionately,

ELIZA WHARTON.


LETTER LX.

TO THE SAME.

HARTFORD.

Dear madam: Agreeably to your desire every art has been tried, every
allurement held out, every argument used, and every plan adopted, which
Mrs. Wharton and I could devise to induce Eliza to accompany me to
Boston; but all in vain. Sometimes she has been almost persuaded to a
compliance with our united request, but soon has resolutely determined
against it. I have observed her sentiments to be suddenly changed after
being in company with Major Sanford. This alarms us exceedingly. Indeed,
the major seems to have insinuated himself into her good opinion more
than ever. She is flattered into the belief that his attention to her is
purely the result of friendship and benevolence.

I have not so favorable an opinion of the man as to suppose him capable
of either. He has become very familiar here. He calls in almost every
day. Sometimes he but just inquires after our health, and sometimes
makes long visits. The latter is his invariable practice when he finds
Eliza alone. Mrs. Wharton always avoids seeing him if she can. She
dreads, she says, his approaching the house.

I entered the parlor the other day, somewhat suddenly, and found him
sitting very near Eliza, in a low conversation. They both rose in
apparent confusion, and he soon retired.

When he was gone, "I suspect," said I, "that the major was whispering a
tale of love, Eliza." "Do you imagine," said she, "that I would listen
to such a theme from a married man?" "I hope not," said I, "but his
conduct towards you indicates a revival of his former sentiments, at
least." "I was not aware of that," said she. "As yet I have observed
nothing in his behavior to me inconsistent with the purest friendship."

We drank tea not long since at Mr. Smith's. Late in the afternoon Major
Sanford made his appearance, to apologize, as he said, for Mrs. Sanford,
who was indisposed, and could not enjoy the pleasure of the visit she
had contemplated. He was very gay the whole evening; and when the
company separated, he was the first to present his arm to Eliza, who
accepted it without hesitation. A Mr. Newhall attended me, and we
endeavored to keep them company; but they evidently chose to walk by
themselves. Mr. Newhall observed, that if Major Sanford were not married
he should suspect he still intended a union with Miss Wharton. I
replied, that their former intercourse, having terminated in friendship,
rendered them more familiar with each other than with the generality of
their acquaintance.

When we reached the house, Mr. Newhall chose not to go in, and took his
leave. I waited at the door for Eliza and Major Sanford. At some little
distance, I saw him press her hand to his lips. It vexed me exceedingly;
and no sooner had they come up, than I sullenly bade them good night,
and walked directly in. Eliza soon followed me. I sat down by the fire
in a thoughtful posture. She did the same. In this situation we both
remained for some time without speaking a word. At length she said, "You
seem not to have enjoyed your walk, Miss Granby: did you not like your
gallant?" "Yes," said I, "very well; but I am mortified that you were
not better provided for." "I make no complaint," rejoined she; "I was
very well entertained." "That is what displeases me," said I; "I mean
your visible fondness for the society of such a man. Were you averse to
it, as you ought to be, there would be no danger. But he has an alluring
tongue and a treacherous heart. How can you be pleased and entertained
by his conversation? To me it appears totally repugnant to that
refinement and delicacy for which you have always been esteemed.

"His assiduity and obtrusion ought to alarm you. You well know what his
character has been. Marriage has not changed his disposition. It is only
a cloak which conceals it. Trust him not, then, my dear Eliza; if you
do, depend upon it you will find his professions of friendship to be
mere hypocrisy and deceit. I fear that he is acting over again the same
unworthy arts which formerly misled you. Beware of his wiles. Your
friends are anxious for you. They tremble at your professed regard and
apparent intimacy with that unprincipled man." "My friends," said she,
"are very jealous of me lately. I know not how I have forfeited their
confidence, or incurred their suspicion." "By encouraging that
attention," I warmly replied, "and receiving those caresses, from a
married man which are due from him to none but his wife. He is a villain
if he deceived her into marriage by insincere professions of love. If he
had then an affection for her, and has already discarded it, he is
equally guilty. Can _you_ expect sincerity from the man who withholds it
from an amiable and deserving wife? No, Eliza; it is not love which
induces him to entertain you with the subject. It is a baser passion;
and if you disdain not his artifice, if you listen to his flattery, you
will, I fear, fall a victim to his evil machinations. If he conducted
like a man of honor, he would merit your esteem; but his behavior is
quite the reverse: yet, vile as he is, he would not dare to lisp his
insolent hopes of your regard if you punished his presumption with the
indignation it deserves; if you spurned from your presence the
ungrateful wretch who would requite your condescension by triumphing in
your ruin."

She now burst into tears, and begged me to drop the subject. Her mind,
she said, was racked by her own reflections. She could bear but little.
Kindness deceived, and censure distressed her.

I assured her of my good intentions; that, as I saw her danger, I
thought it a duty of the friendship and affection I bore her solemnly to
warn her against it before we parted. We talked over the matter more
calmly, till she professed herself resolved in future to avoid his
company, and reject his insinuations.

The next day, as I walked out, I met Major Sanford. He accosted me very
civilly. I barely bade him good morning, and passed on.

I made it in my way to call at his house, and bid Mrs. Sanford adieu;
not expecting another opportunity equally favorable. When I entered the
parlor, she was playing a melancholy air on the harpsichord. She rose,
and gave me a polite and graceful reception. I told her, as I was soon
to leave the town, I called to take my leave of her--a compliment which
her attention to me required. "Are you going to leave us then, Miss
Granby?" said she. "I shall regret your departure exceedingly. I have so
few friends in this part of the country, that it will give me sensible
pain to part with one I so highly value."

I told her, in the course of conversation, that I expected the pleasure
of seeing her yesterday at Mr. Smith's, and was very sorry for the
indisposition which prevented her favoring us with her company.
"Indeed," said she, "I did not know I was expected there. Were you
there, pray?" "Yes," said I; "and Major Sanford excused your not coming,
on the account I have mentioned." "Well," said she, "this is the first
word that I ever heard about it; he told me that business led him
abroad. Did he gallant any lady?" "O," said I, "he was with us all
together. We had no particular gallants."

Seeing her curiosity excited, I heartily repented saying any thing of
the matter, and waived the subject. Little did I suspect him to have
been guilty of so base an artifice. It was evidently contrived to
facilitate an interview with Eliza.

When I returned, I related this affair to Mrs. Wharton and her daughter.
The old lady and I expatiated largely on the vileness of this conduct,
and endeavored to expose it to Eliza's view in its true colors. She
pretended not to justify it; yet she looked as if she wished it in her
power.

I am now preparing for my journey to Boston, which I must, however,
defer another week for the sake of a more agreeable passage in the
stage. I regret leaving Eliza. I tremble at her danger. She has not the
resolution to resist temptation which she once possessed. Her mind is
surprisingly weakened. She appears sensible of this, yet adds to it by
yielding to her own imbecility. You will receive a letter from her with
this, though I had much difficulty to persuade her to write. She has
unfortunately become very averse to this, her once favorite amusement.

As I shall soon have the pleasure of conversing with you personally, I
conclude without any other addition to this scrawl than the name of your
obliged

JULIA GRANBY.


LETTER LXI.

TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.

BOSTON.

My dear friend: I have received your letters, and must own to you that
the perusal of them gave me pain. Pardon my suspicions, Eliza; they are
excited by real friendship. Julia, you say, approves not Major Sanford's
particular attention to you. Neither do I. If you recollect and examine
his conversation in his conciliatory visit, you will find it replete
with sentiments for the avowal of which he ought to be banished from all
virtuous society.

Does he not insidiously declare that you are the only object of his
affections; that his union with another was formed from interested
views; and, though that other is acknowledged to be amiable and
excellent, still he has not a heart to bestow, and expects not happiness
with her? Does this discover even the appearance of amendment? Has he
not, by false pretensions, misled a virtuous woman, and induced her to
form a connection with him? She was a stranger to his manner of life,
and doubtless allured, as you have been, by flattery, deceit, and
external appearance, to trust his honor, little thinking him wholly
devoid of that sacred tie. What is the reward of her confidence?
Insensibility to her charms, neglect of her person, and professed
attachment to another!

Is he a man, my dear Eliza, whose friendship you wish to cultivate? Can
that heavenly passion reside in a breast which is the seat of treachery,
duplicity, and ingratitude? You are too sensible of its purity and worth
to suppose it possible. The confessions of his own mouth condemn him.
They convince me that he is still the abandoned libertine, and that
marriage is but the cloak of his intrigues. His officious attentions to
you are alarming to your friends. Your own mind weakened, and peculiarly
susceptible of tender impressions, beware how you receive them from
him. Listen not a moment to his flattering professions; it is an insult
upon your understanding for him to offer them; it is derogatory to
virtue for you to hear them.

Slight not the opinion of the world. We are dependent beings; and while
the smallest traces of virtuous sensibility remain, we must feel the
force of that dependence in a greater or less degree. No female, whose
mind is uncorrupted, can be indifferent to reputation. It is an
inestimable jewel, the loss of which can never be repaired. While
retained, it affords conscious peace to our own minds, and insures the
esteem and respect of all around us.

Blessed with the company of so disinterested and faithful a friend as
Julia Granby, some deference is certainly due to her opinion and advice.
To an enlarged understanding, a cultivated taste, and an extensive
knowledge of the world, she unites the most liberal sentiments with a
benevolence and candor of disposition, which render her equally
deserving of your confidence and affection.

I cannot relinquish my claim to a visit from you this winter. Marriage
has not alienated nor weakened my regard for my friends. Come, then, to
your faithful Lucy. Have you sorrows? I will soothe and alleviate them.
Have you cares? I will dispel them. Have you pleasures? I will heighten
them. Come, then, let me fold you to my expecting heart. My happiness
will be partly suspended till your society renders it complete. Adieu.

LUCY SUMNER.


LETTER LXII.

TO MISS JULIA GRANBY.

HARTFORD.

Dear Julia: I hope Mrs. Sumner and you will excuse my writing but one
letter in answer to the number I have received from you both. Writing is
an employment which suits me not at present. It was pleasing to me
formerly, and therefore, by recalling the idea of circumstances and
events which frequently occupied my pen in happier days, it now gives me
pain. Yet I have just written a long consolatory letter to Mrs. Richman.
She has buried, her babe--her little Harriet, of whom she was dotingly
fond.

It was a custom with some of the ancients, we are told, to weep at the
birth of their children. Often should we be impelled to a compliance
with this custom, could we foresee the future incidents of their lives.
I think, at least, that the uncertainty of their conduct and condition
in more advanced age may reconcile us to their removal to a happier
state before they are capable of tasting the bitterness of woe.

"Happy the babe, who, privileged by fate
To shorter labors and a lighter weight,
Received but yesterday the gift of breath,
Ordered to-morrow to return to death."

Our domestic affairs are much as when you left us. Nothing remarkable
has occurred in the neighborhood worth communicating. The company and
amusements 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
nobody; 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 anticipate, 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 amusement.

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 sex; 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
friendship." "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 associated
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
amusement 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 bacchanalians at his house; that common
report said he treated his wife with indifference, neglect, and ill
nature; with many other circumstances 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 sex. 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 circumstances 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 assist 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 assure you. But the dignity
of her manners forbids all assaults 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
circumstances 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 assiduous 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 compassion 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
assuming an air of kindness, "Compose yourself, Eliza," said I; "I
repeat what I told you before--it is the purest friendship 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 assured 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 assured," 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.

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 assured 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
friendship, 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 rehearse 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 rectitude of my future conduct, the guilt I had
incurred; but I found it too late. My circumstances called for
attention; and I had no one to participate 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 embarrassments. Grief
has undermined my constitution. 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.
God 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." "God
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