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 assisted 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 participate your grief, though I know not the cause.”