Part 11
Julia urges me to revisit the scenes of amusements and pleasure, in which, she tells me, she is actuated by selfish motives. She wishes it for her own sake. She likes neither to be secluded from them nor to go alone. I am sometimes half inclined to seek in festive mirth a refuge from thought and reflection. I would escape, if possible, from the idea of Mr. Boyer. This I have never been able to accomplish since he dropped a tear upon my hand and left me. I marked the spot with my eye, and twenty times in a day do I view it, and fondly imagine it still there. How could I give him pain! I hope his happy Maria never will. I hope she will reward that merit which I have slighted. But I forbear. This theme carries away my pen if I but touch upon it. And no wonder, for it is the sole exercise of my thoughts. Yet I will endeavor to divert them. Send me some new books; not such, however, as will require much attention. Let them be plays and novels, or any thing else that will amuse or extort a smile. Julia and I have been rambling in the garden. She insisted upon my going with her into the arbor, where I was surprised with Major Sanford. What a crowd of painful ideas rushed upon my imagination! I believe she repented of her rashness. But no more of this. I must lay aside my pen, for I can write nothing else.
ELIZA WHARTON.
LETTER LI.
TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
HARTFORD.
Dear madam: You commanded me to write you respecting Miss Wharton, and I obey. But I cannot describe to you the surprising change which she has undergone. Her vivacity has certainly forsaken her; and she has actually become, what she once dreaded above all things, a recluse. She flies from company as eagerly as she formerly sought it; her mamma is exceedingly distressed by the settled melancholy which appears in her darling child; but neither of us think it best to mention the subject to her. We endeavor to find means to amuse her; and we flatter ourselves that the prospect of success rather increases. It would add greatly to my happiness to contribute, in any degree, to restore her to herself, to her friends, and to society.
We are all invited to dine abroad to-morrow; and, to oblige me, she has consented to go.
Pray, madam, write to her often. Your letters may do much for her. She is still feelingly alive to the power of friendship; and none can exercise it upon her to greater acceptance or with more advantage than yourself.
Major Sanford's house is undergoing a complete repair. The report is, that he is soon to be married. Miss Wharton has heard, but does not believe it. I hope for her sake it will prove true; for, at any rate, he is about returning; and from her mamma's account of his past conduct towards Eliza, were he to return unconnected, he would probably renew his attentions; and though they might end in marriage, her happiness would not be secured. She has too nice a sense of love and honor to compound with his licentious principles. A man who has been dissolute before marriage will very seldom be faithful afterwards.
I went into Eliza's chamber the other day, and found her with a miniature picture in her hand. "You pretend to be a physiognomist, Julia," said she. "What can you trace in that countenance?" I guessed whose it was; and looking wistfully at it, replied, "I believe the original is an artful, designing man. He looks to me like a Chesterfieldian. Pray who is he?" "Major Sanford," said she; "and I am afraid you have hit his character exactly. Sure I am that the appearance of those traits in it has made my heart ache." She wept as she spoke it.
Poor girl, I wish he may never give you greater cause to weep! She is strongly blind to the vices and imperfections of this man. Though naturally penetrating, he has somehow or other cast a deceptious mist over her imagination with respect to himself. She professes neither to love nor esteem him, and owns that his ungenerous artifice misled her in her treatment of Mr. Boyer. Yet she has forgiven him, and thinks him a pleasing companion.
How prone to error is the human mind! how much lighter than the breath of zephyrs the operations of fancy! Strange, then, it should ever preponderate over the weightier powers of the understanding.
But I will not moralize. My business here is to dissipate, not to collect, ideas; and I must regulate myself accordingly.
I am endeavoring to prepare Eliza, by degrees, to accompany me to Boston the ensuing winter, but think it doubtful whether I shall succeed. I shall, however, return myself: till when, I am, &c.,
JULIA GRANBY.
LETTER LII.
TO MISS ELIZA WHARTON.
BOSTON.
My dear Eliza: I received yours of the 24th ult., and thank you for it, though it did not afford me those lively sensations of pleasure which I usually feel at the perusal of your letters. It inspired me both with concern and chagrin--with concern lest your dejection of mind should affect your health, and with chagrin at your apparent indulgence of melancholy. Indeed, my friend, your own happiness and honor require you to dissipate the cloud which hangs over your imagination.
Rise then above it, and prove yourself superior to the adverse occurrences which have befallen you. It is by surmounting difficulties, not by sinking under them, that we discover our fortitude. True courage consists not in flying from the storms of life, but in braving and steering through them with prudence. Avoid solitude. It is the bane of a disordered mind, though of great utility to a healthy one. Your once favorite amusements court your attention. Refuse not their solicitations. I have contributed my mite by sending you a few books, such as you requested. They are of the lighter kind of reading, yet perfectly chaste, and, if I mistake not, well adapted to your taste.
You wish to hear from our theatre. I believe it will be well supplied with performers this winter. Come and see whether they can afford you any entertainment. Last evening I attended a tragedy; but never will I attend another. I have not yet been able to erase the gloom which it impressed upon my mind. It was Romeo and Juliet. Distressing enough to sensibility this! Are there not real woes (if not in our own families, at least among our own friends and neighbors) sufficient to exercise our sympathy and pity, without introducing fictitious ones into our very diversions? How can that be a diversion which racks the soul with grief, even though that grief be imaginary? The introduction of a funeral solemnity upon the stage is shocking indeed!
Death is too serious a matter to be sported with. An opening grave cannot be a source of amusement to any considerate mind. The closing scene of life can be no pastime when realized. It must therefore awaken painful sensations in the representation.
The circus is a place of fashionable resort of late, but not agreeable to-me. I think it inconsistent with the delicacy of a lady even to witness the indecorums which are practised there, especially when the performers of equestrian feats are of our own sex. To see a woman depart so far from the female character as to assume the masculine habit and attitude, and appear entirely indifferent even to the externals of modesty, is truly disgusting, and ought not to be countenanced by our attendance, much less by our approbation. But, setting aside the circumstance, I cannot conceive it to be a pleasure to sit a whole evening trembling with apprehension lest the poor wight of a horseman, or juggler, or whatever he is to be called, should break his neck in contributing to our entertainment.
With Mr. Bowen's museum I think you were much pleased. He has made a number of judicious additions to it since you were here. It is a source of rational and refined amusement. Here the eye is gratified, the imagination charmed, and the understanding improved. It will bear frequent reviews without palling on the taste. It always affords something new; and, for one, I am never a weary spectator. Our other public and private places of resort are much as you left them.
I am happy in my present situation; but when the summer returns, I intend to visit my native home. Again, my Eliza, will we ramble together in those retired shades which friendship has rendered so delightful to us. Adieu, my friend, till then. Be cheerful, and you will yet be happy.
LUCY SUMNER.
LETTER LIII.
TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
HARTFORD.
Gracious Heaven! What have I heard? Major Sanford is married! Yes; the ungrateful, the deceitful wretch is married. He has forsworn, he has perjured and given himself to another. That, you will say, is nothing strange. It is characteristic of the man. It may be so; but I could not be convinced of his perfidy till now.
Perhaps it is all for the best. Perhaps, had he remained unconnected, he might still have deceived me; but now I defy his arts.
They tell me he has married a woman of fortune. I suppose he thinks, as I once did, that wealth can insure happiness. I wish he may enjoy it.
This event would not affect me at all were it not for the depression of spirits which I feel in consequence of a previous disappointment; since which every thing of the kind agitates and overcomes me. I will not see him. If I do, I shall betray my weakness, and flatter his vanity, as he will doubtless think he has the power of mortifying me by his connection with another.
Before this news discomposed me, I had attained to a good degree of cheerfulness. Your kind letter, seconded by Julia's exertions, had assisted me in regulating my sensibility. I have been frequently into company, and find my relish for it gradually returning.
I intend to accept the pleasure, to which you invite me, of spending a little time with you this winter. Julia and I will come together. Varying the scene may contribute effectually to dissipate the gloom of my imagination. I would fly to almost any resort rather than my own mind. What a dreadful thing it is to be afraid of one's own reflections, which ought to be a constant source of enjoyment! But I will not moralize. I am sufficiently melancholy without any additional cause to increase it.
ELIZA WHARTON.
LETTER LIV.
TO MR. CHARLES DEIGHTON.
HARTFORD.
Dear Deighton: Who do you think is writing to you? Why, it is your old friend, metamorphosed into a _married man_! You stare, and can hardly credit the assertion. I cannot realize it myself; yet I assure you, Charles, it is absolutely true. Necessity, dire necessity, forced me into this dernier resort. I told you some time ago it would come to this.
I stood aloof as long as possible; but in vain did I attempt to shun the noose. I must either fly to this resource or give up all my show, equipage, and pleasure, and degenerate into a downright, plodding money catcher for a subsistence. I chose the first; and who would not? Yet I feel some remorse at taking the girl to wife from no better motives. She is really too good for such an imposition. But she must blame herself if she suffer hereafter; for she was visibly captivated by my external appearance, and wanted but very little solicitation to confer herself and fortune on so charming a fellow. Her parents opposed her inclination for a while, because I was a stranger, and rather too gay for their taste. But she had not been used to contradiction, and could not bear it, and therefore they ventured not to cross her. So I bore off the prize; and a prize she really is--five thousand pounds in possession, and more in reversion, if I do not forfeit it. This will compensate for some of my past mistakes, and set matters right for the present. I think it doing much better than to have taken the little Lawrence girl I told you of with half the sum. Besides, my Nancy is a handsomer and more agreeable person; but that is of little consequence to me, you know. "Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover." Were I a lover, it would be of no great avail. A lover I am, yet not of my wife. The dart which I received from Miss Wharton sticks fast in my heart; and, I assure you, I could hardly persuade myself even to appear unfaithful to her. O Eliza! accuse me not of infidelity; for your image is my constant companion. A thousand times have I cursed the unpropitious stars which withheld from her a fortune. That would have enabled me to marry her; and with her even wedlock would have been supportable.
I am told that she is still single. Her sober lover never returned. Had he loved as I did, and do, he could not have been so precipitate. But these stoic souls are good for nothing, that I know of, but,
"Fixed, like a plant, to one peculiar spot, To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot."
I want to see Eliza, and I must see her; yet I dread an interview. I shall frankly confess my motives for marrying, and the reasons of my conduct before I went away. I shall own that my circumstances would not allow me to possess her, and yet that I could not resign her to another.
When I make up the matter with her, I shall solicit her friendship for my wife. By this means I may enjoy her society, at least, which will alleviate the confinement of a married state. To my spouse I must be as civil as possible. I really wish she had less merit, that I might have a plausible excuse for neglecting her.
To-morrow I shall go to Mrs. Wharton's. I am very much taken up with complimental visits at present. What deference is always paid to equipage! They may talk of their virtue, their learning, and what not; but, without either of them, I shall bear off the palm of respect from those who have them, unadorned with gold and its shining appendages.
Every thing hereabouts recalls Eliza to my mind. I impatiently anticipate the hour which will convey me to her presence.
PETER SANFORD.
LETTER LV.
TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
HARTFORD.
A new scene has opened upon us to-day, my dear Mrs. Sumner--a visit from Major Sanford. My mamma, Miss Granby, and myself were sitting together in the chamber. Miss Granby was entertaining us by reading aloud in Millot's Elements of History, when a servant rapped at the door, and handed in the following billet:--
"Will Miss Wharton condescend to converse a few moments with her once-favored Sanford? He is but too sensible that he has forfeited all claim to the privilege. He therefore presumes not to request it on the score of merit, nor of former acquaintance, but solicits it from her benevolence and pity."
I read and showed it to my mamma and Julia. "What," said I, "shall I do? I wish not to see him. His artifice has destroyed my peace of mind, and his presence may open the wounds which time is closing." "Act," said my mamma, "agreeably to the dictates of your own judgment." "I see no harm in conversing with him," said Julia. "Perhaps it may remove some disagreeable thoughts which now oppress and give you pain. And as he is no longer a candidate for your affections," added she with a smile, "it will be less hazardous than formerly. He will not have the insolence to speak, nor you the folly to hear, the language of love."
He was accordingly invited in. When I rose to go down, I hesitated, and even trembled. "I fear," said I to myself, "it will be too much for me; yet why should it? Conscious innocence will support me. This he has not." When I entered the room he stepped forward to meet me. Confusion and shame were visibly depicted in his countenance. He approached me hastily and without uttering a word, took my hand. I withdrew it. "O Miss Wharton," said he, "despise me not. I am convinced that I deserve your displeasure and disdain; but my own heart has avenged your cause." "To your own heart, then," said I, "I will leave you. But why do you again seek an interview with one whom you have endeavored to mislead--with one whom you have treated with unmerited neglect?"
"Justice to myself required my appearing before you, that, by confessing my faults and obtaining your forgiveness, I might soften the reproaches of my own mind." "Will you be seated, sir?" said I. "Will you," rejoined he, "condescend to sit with me, Eliza?" "I will, sir," answered I "The rights of hospitality I shall not infringe. In my own house, therefore, I shall treat you with civility." "Indeed," said he, "you are very severe; but I have provoked all the coldness and reserve which you can inflict.
"I am a married man, Eliza." "So I understand," said I; "and I hope you will never treat your wife with that dissimulation and falsehood which you have exercised towards me." "Would to Heaven," exclaimed he, "that you were my wife. I should not, then, fail in my love or duty as a husband; yet she is an amiable girl, and, had I a heart to give her, I might still be happy; but that, alas! I can never recall." "Why, then," said I, "did you marry her? You were, doubtless, master of your own
## actions." "No," said he, "I was not. The embarrassed state of my affairs
precluded the possibility of acting as I wished. Loving you most ardently, I was anxious to prevent your union with another, till I could so far improve my circumstances as to secure you from poverty and want in a connection with me. My regard was too sincere to permit me to deceive you by a marriage which might have proved unhappy for us both. My pride forbade my telling you the motives of my delay; and I left you to see if I could place myself in a situation worthy of your acceptance. This I could not effect, and, therefore, have run the risk of my future happiness by marrying a lady of affluence. This secures to me the externals of enjoyment, but my heart, I fear, will never participate it; yet it affords me some degree of satisfaction that I have not involved you in distress. The only alleviation of which my banishment from you is capable, is your forgiveness. In compassion, then, refuse it not. It cannot injure you. To me it will be worth millions." He wept. Yes, Lucy, this libertine, this man of pleasure and gallantly, wept. I really pitied him from my heart. "I forgive you," said I, "and wish you happy; yet on this condition only, that you never again pollute my ears with the recital of your infamous passion. Yes, infamous I call it; for what softer appellation can be given to such professions from a married man? Harbor not an idea of me, in future, inconsistent with the love and fidelity which you owe your wife; much less presume to mention it, if you wish not to be detested by me, and forever banished from my presence." He expressed gratitude for his absolution, even upon these terms, and hoped his future conduct would entitle him to my friendship and esteem. "That," I replied, "time only can determine."
One favor more he begged leave to solicit; which was, that I would be a neighbor to his wife. "She was a stranger," he said, "and would deem my society a particular privilege." This, I told him, I could not grant at present, whatever I might do hereafter. He did not urge it any further, but inquired after my mamma, and expressed a wish to see her. I rang the bell, and ordered her and Miss Granby to be called. When they came he was very polite to them both, and, after usual compliments, told my mamma that he was happy in having obtained my forgiveness, to which he was anxious to have her seal affixed. "My daughter," said she, "is the injured party; and if she be satisfied, I shall not complain." He thanked her for her condescension, informed her that he was married, and requested her to visit his wife. We then conversed upon different subjects for a short time, and he took his leave. A sigh escaped him as he departed, and a gloom was visible in his countenance which I never observed before.
I must acknowledge that this interview has given me satisfaction. I have often told you, that if I married Major Sanford, it would be from a predilection for his situation in life. How wretched must have been my lot, had I discovered, too late, that he was by no means possessed of the independence which I fondly anticipated! I knew not my own heart, when I contemplated a connection with him. Little did I think that my regard for Mr. Boyer was so deeply rooted as I now find it. I foolishly imagined that I could turn my affections into what channel I pleased. What, then, must have been my feelings, when I found myself deprived both of inward peace and outward enjoyment! I begin now to emerge from the darkness in which I have been long benighted. I hope the tragic comedy, in which I have acted so conspicuous a part, will come to a happy end.
Julia and I talk, now and then, of a journey to Boston. As yet, I have not resolution to act with much decision upon the subject; but, wherever I am, and whatever may be my fate, I shall always be yours in truth,
ELIZA WHARTON.
LETTER LVI.
TO MRS. LUCY SUMNER.
HARTFORD.
I begin to hope we shall come to rights here by and by. Major Sanford has returned, has made us a visit, and a treaty of peace and amity (but not of commerce) is ratified. Eliza appears to be rapidly returning to her former cheerfulness--if not gayety. I hope she will not diverge too far from her present sedateness and solidity; yet I am not without apprehensions of danger on that score. One extreme commonly succeeds another. She tells me that she assiduously cultivates her natural vivacity; that she finds her taste for company and amusements increasing; that she dreads being alone, because past scenes arise to view which vex and discompose her.
These are indications of a mind not perfectly right. I flatter myself, however, that the time is not far distant when her passions will vibrate with regularity.
I need not repeat to you any thing relative to Major Sanford's conciliatory visit. Eliza has given you a particular, and, I believe, a faithful detail. I was called down to see this wonderful man, and disliked him exceedingly. I am astonished that Eliza's penetrating eye has not long since read his vices in his very countenance. I am told by a friend, who has visited them, that he has an agreeable wife; and I wish she may find him a husband of the same description; but I very much doubt the accomplishment of my wish, for I have no charity for these reformed rakes.