of such baseness and deceit.  They both rose in visible confusion.  I dared not trust myself to accost them.  My passions were raised, and I feared that I might say or do something unbecoming my character.  I therefore gave them a look of indignation and contempt, and retreated to the house.  I traversed the parlor hastily, overwhelmed with chagrin and resentment.  Mrs. Wharton inquired the cause.  I attempted to tell her, but my tongue refused utterance.  While in this situation, Eliza entered the room.  She was not less discomposed than myself.  She sat down at the window and wept.  Her mamma wept likewise.  At length she recovered herself, in a degree, and desired me to sit down.  I answered, No, and continued walking.  “Will you,” said she, “permit me to vindicate my conduct, and explain my motives?” “Your conduct,” said I, “cannot be vindicated; your motives need no explanation; they are too apparent.  How, Miss Wharton, have I merited this treatment from you?  But I can bear it no longer.  Your indifference to me proceeds from an attachment to another, and, forgive me if I add, to one who is the disgrace of his own sex and the destroyer of yours.  I have been too long the dupe of your dissimulation and coquetry—­too long has my peace of mind been sacrificed to the arts of a woman whose conduct has proved her unworthy of my regard; insensible to love, gratitude, and honor.

“To you, madam,” said I, turning to her mother, “I acknowledge my obligations for your friendship, politeness, and attention.  I once hoped for the privilege of rocking for you the cradle of declining age.  I am deprived of that privilege; but I pray that you may never want a child whose love and duty shall prove a source of consolation and comfort.

“Farewell.  If we never meet again in this life, I hope and trust we shall in a better—­where the parent’s eye shall cease to weep for the disobedience of a child, and the lover’s heart to bleed for the infidelity of his mistress.”

I turned to Eliza, and attempted to speak; but her extreme emotion softened me, and I could not command my voice.  I took her hand, and bowing, in token of an adieu, went precipitately out of the house.  The residence of my friend, with whom I lodged, was at no great distance, and thither I repaired.  As I met him in the entry, I rushed by him, and betook myself to my chamber.  The fever of resentment and the tumult of passion began now to give place to the softer emotions of the soul.  I found myself perfectly unmanned.  I gave free scope to the sensibility of my heart; and the effeminate relief of tears materially lightened the load which oppressed me.

After this arduous struggle I went to bed, and slept more calmly than for several nights before.  The next morning I wrote a farewell letter to Eliza, (a copy of which I shall enclose to you,) and, ordering my horse to be brought, left town immediately.