Part 16 (1/2)
My child may have to blush for her mother's want of prudence--and may lament that the rect.i.tude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions; but she shall not despise me for meanness.--You are now perfectly free.--G.o.d bless you.
MARY.
LETTER LXXII
_[London, Nov. 1795] Sat.u.r.day Night._
I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be dictated by any tenderness to me.--You ask ”If I am well or tranquil?”--They who think me so, must want a heart to estimate my feelings by.--I chuse then to be the organ of my own sentiments.
I must tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually offering me pecuniary a.s.sistance--and, considering your going to the new house, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I will sooner perish than receive any thing from you--and I say this at the moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt to obtain a temporary supply. But this even pleases me; an acc.u.mulation of disappointments and misfortunes seems to suit the habit of my mind.--
Have but a little patience, and I will remove myself where it will not be necessary for you to talk--of course, not to think of me. But let me see, written by yourself--for I will not receive it through any other medium--that the affair is finished.--It is an insult to me to suppose, that I can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear nothing of me, it will be the same thing to you.
MARY.
Even your seeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my distracted mind.
LETTER LXXIII
_[London, Nov. 1795] Thursday Afternoon._
Mr. ---- having forgot to desire you to send the things of mine which were left at the house, I have to request you to let ---- bring them to ----
I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you need not be restrained from coming here to transact your business.--And, whatever I may think, and feel--you need not fear that I shall publicly complain--No! If I have any criterion to judge of right and wrong, I have been most ungenerously treated: but, wis.h.i.+ng now only to hide myself, I shall be silent as the grave in which I long to forget myself. I shall protect and provide for my child.--I only mean by this to say, that you have nothing to fear from my desperation.
Farewel.
MARY.
LETTER LXXIV
_London, November 27 [1795]._
The letter, without an address, which you put up with the letters you returned, did not meet my eyes till just now.--I had thrown the letters aside--I did not wish to look over a register of sorrow.
My not having seen it, will account for my having written to you with anger--under the impression your departure, without even a line left for me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to expect much attention to my sufferings.
In fact, ”the decided conduct, which appeared to me so unfeeling,” has almost overturned my reason; my mind is injured--I scarcely know where I am, or what I do.--The grief I cannot conquer (for some cruel recollections never quit me, banis.h.i.+ng almost every other) I labour to conceal in total solitude.--My life therefore is but an exercise of fort.i.tude, continually on the stretch--and hope never gleams in this tomb, where I am buried alive.
But I meant to reason with you, and not to complain.--You tell me, that I shall judge more coolly of your mode of acting, some time hence.” But is it not possible that _pa.s.sion_ clouds your reason, as much as it does mine?--and ought you not to doubt, whether those principles are so ”exalted,” as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification? In other words, whether it be just to have no principle of action, but that of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have fostered, and the expectations you have excited?