September 27.
When you receive this, I shall either have landed, or be hovering on the
British coast—your letter of the 18th decided me.
By what criterion of principle or affection, you term my questions
extraordinary and unnecessary, I cannot determine.—You desire me to
decide—I had decided. You must have had long ago two letters of mine,
from ——, to the same purport, to consider.—In these, God knows! there
was but too much affection, and the agonies of a distracted mind were
but too faithfully pourtrayed!—What more then had I to say?—The negative
was to come from you.—You had perpetually recurred to your promise of
meeting me in the autumn—Was it extraordinary that I should demand a
yes, or no?—Your letter is written with extreme harshness, coldness I am
accustomed to; in it I find not a trace of the tenderness of humanity,
much less of friendship.—I only see a desire to heave a load off your
shoulders.
I am above disputing about words.—It matters not in what terms you
decide.
The tremendous power who formed this heart, must have foreseen that, in
a world in which self-interest, in various shapes, is the principal
mobile, I had little chance of escaping misery.—To the fiat of fate I
submit.—I am content to be wretched; but I will not be contemptible.—Of
me you have no cause to complain, but for having had too much regard for
you—for having expected a degree of permanent happiness, when you only
sought for a momentary gratification.
I am strangely deficient in sagacity.—Uniting myself to you, your
tenderness seemed to make me amends for all my former misfortunes.—On
this tenderness and affection with what confidence did I rest!—but I
leaned on a spear, that has pierced me to the heart.—You have thrown off
a faithful friend, to pursue the caprices of the moment.—We certainly
are differently organized; for even now, when conviction has been
stamped on my soul by sorrow, I can scarcely believe it possible. It
depends at present on you, whether you will see me or not.—I shall take
no step, till I see or hear from you.
Preparing myself for the worst—I have determined, if your next letter be
like the last, to write to Mr. —— to procure me an obscure lodging, and
not to inform any body of my arrival.—There I will endeavour in a few
months to obtain the sum necessary to take me to France—from you I will
not receive any more.—I am not yet sufficiently humbled to depend on
your beneficence.
Some people, whom my unhappiness has interested, though they know not
the extent of it, will assist me to attain the object I have in view,
the independence of my child. Should a peace take place, ready money
will go a great way in France—and I will borrow a sum, which my industry
_shall_ enable me to pay at my leisure, to purchase a small estate for
my girl.—The assistance I shall find necessary to complete her
education, I can get at an easy rate at Paris—I can introduce her to
such society as she will like—and thus securing for her all the chance
for happiness, which depends on me, I shall die in peace, persuaded that
the felicity which has hitherto cheated my expectation, will not always
elude my grasp. No poor tempest-tossed mariner ever more earnestly
longed to arrive at his port.
* * * *
I shall not come up in the vessel all the way, because I have no place
to go to. Captain —— will inform you where I am. It is needless to add,
that I am not in a state of mind to bear suspense—and that I wish to see
you, though it be the last time.