Part 15 (2/2)
Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention the confession which I forced from her--a little sooner or later is of no consequence. Nothing but my extreme stupidity could have rendered me blind so long. Yet, whilst you a.s.sured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might still have lived together.
I shall make no comments on your conduct; or any appeal to the world. Let my wrongs sleep with me! Soon, very soon shall I be at peace. When you receive this, my burning head will be cold.
I would encounter a thousand deaths, rather than a night like the last.
Your treatment has thrown my mind into a state of chaos; yet I am serene.
I go to find comfort, and my only fear is, that my poor body will be insulted by an endeavour to recal my hated existence. But I shall plunge into the Thames where there is the least chance of my being s.n.a.t.c.hed from the death I seek.
G.o.d bless you! May you never know by experience what you have made me endure. Should your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its way to your heart; and, in the midst of business and sensual pleasure, I shall appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rect.i.tude.
MARY.
LETTER LXX
_[London, Nov. 1795] Sunday Morning._
I have only to lament, that, when the bitterness of death was past, I was inhumanly brought back to life and misery. But a fixed determination is not to be baffled by disappointment; nor will I allow that to be a frantic attempt, which was one of the calmest acts of reason. In this respect, I am only accountable to myself. Did I care for what is termed reputation, it is by other circ.u.mstances that I should be dishonoured.
You say, ”that you know not how to extricate ourselves out of the wretchedness into which we have been plunged.” You are extricated long since.--But I forbear to comment.--If I am condemned to live longer, it is a living death.
It appears to me, that you lay much more stress on delicacy, than on principle; for I am unable to discover what sentiment of delicacy would have been violated, by your visiting a wretched friend--if indeed you have any friends.h.i.+p for me.--But since your new attachment is the only thing sacred in your eyes, I am silent--Be happy! My complaints shall never more damp your enjoyment--perhaps I am mistaken in supposing that even my death could, for more than a moment.--This is what you call magnanimity.--It is happy for yourself, that you possess this quality in the highest degree.
Your continually a.s.serting, that you will do all in your power to contribute to my comfort (when you only allude to pecuniary a.s.sistance), appears to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.--I want not such vulgar comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but your heart--That gone, you have nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear, I should not shrink from life.--Forgive me then, if I say, that I shall consider any direct or indirect attempt to supply my necessities, as an insult which I have not merited--and as rather done out of tenderness for your own reputation, than for me. Do not mistake me; I do not think that you value money (therefore I will not accept what you do not care for) though I do much less, because certain privations are not painful to me. When I am dead, respect for yourself will make you take care of the child.
I write with difficulty--probably I shall never write to you again.--Adieu!
G.o.d bless you!
MARY.
LETTER LXXI
_[London, Nov. 1795] Monday Morning._
I am compelled at last to say that you treat me ungenerously. I agree with you, that
But let the obliquity now fall on me.--I fear neither poverty nor infamy.
I am unequal to the task of writing--and explanations are not necessary.
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