I wrote to you by the packet, to inform you, that your letter of the
18th of last month, had determined me to set out with captain ——; but,
as we sailed very quick, I take it for granted, that you have not yet
received it.
You say, I must decide for myself. I had decided, that it was most for
the interest of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as I
expect, for us to live together; and I even thought that you would be
glad, some years hence, when the tumult of business was over, to repose
in the society of an affectionate friend, and mark the progress of our
interesting child, whilst endeavouring to be of use in the circle you at
last resolved to rest in; for you cannot run about for ever.
From the tenour of your last letter however, I am led to imagine, that
you have formed some new attachment. If it be so, let me earnestly
request you to see me once more, and immediately. This is the only proof
I require of the friendship you profess for me. I will then decide,
since you boggle about a mere form.
I am labouring to write with calmness, but the extreme anguish I feel,
at landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be
conscious that the friend whom I most wish to see, will feel a
disagreeable sensation at being informed of my arrival, does not come
under the description of common misery. Every emotion yields to an
overwhelming flood of sorrow—and the playfulness of my child distresses
me. On her account, I wished to remain a few days here, comfortless as
is my situation. Besides, I did not wish to surprise you. You have told
me, that you would make any sacrifice to promote my happiness—and, even
in your last unkind letter, you talk of the ties which bind you to me
and my child.—Tell me, that you wish it, and I will cut this Gordian
knot.
I now most earnestly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the
return of the post. Direct your letter to be left at the post-office,
and tell me whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me.
I can receive your letter on Wednesday morning.
Do not keep me in suspence.—I expect nothing from you, or any human
being: my die is cast!—I have fortitude enough to determine to do my
duty; yet I cannot raise my depressed spirits, or calm my trembling
heart.—That Being who moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear up
by the roots the propensity to affection which has been the torment of
my life—but life will have an end!
Should you come here (a few months ago I could not have doubted it) you
will find me at —— If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me where.
Yours affectionately
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