To-morrow I shall write my dreadful story to my
mother. She will be acquainted with my future intentions; and you shall
know, at the same time, the destination of your lost friend." "I hope,"
said I, "that you have formed no resolution against your own life." "God
forbid," rejoined she. "My breath is in his hands; let him do what
seemeth good in his sight! Keep my secret one day longer, and I will never
more impose so painful a silence upon you."
By this time we had reached home. She drank tea with composure, and soon
retired to rest. Mrs. Wharton eagerly inquired whether I had found out
the cause of Eliza's melancholy. "I have urged her," said I, "on the
subject; but she alleges that she has particular reasons for present
concealment. She has, notwithstanding, promised to let me know the day
after to-morrow." "O," said she, "I shall not rest till the period
arrives." "Dear, good woman," said I to myself, "I fear you will never
rest afterwards."
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.
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