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 wright and wrong, I have been most ungenerously treated: but, wishing 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 having nothing to fear from my desperation.
Farewell.
LETTER LXXIV.
London, November 27.
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, banishing almost every other) I labour to conceal in total solitude. My life therefore is but an exercise of fortitude, 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 cooly of your mode of acting, some time hence.” But is it not possible that passion 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?
My affection for you is rooted in my heart. I know you are not what you now seem—nor will you always act or feel as you now do, though I may never be comforted by the change. Even at Paris, my image will haunt you.—You will see my pale face—and sometimes the tears of anguish will drop on your heart, which you have forced from mine.