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