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.
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