[Postmark: May 11, 1846]
Dearest when you use such words as ‘ eligible . . .’ in-
vestment . . was it ?) and I do not protest seriously and at
length, it is through the very absurdity and unnaturalness
. . as if you were to say that the last comet was made of
macaroni, and Arago stood by, he would not think it worth
while to confute you. Talking the worldly idiom, as you
will tell me you just meant to do in those words, and con-
sidering the worldly considerations, why still the advantage
is with you — I can do nothing that I can see, but stand in
your sunshine. I solemnly assure you that only the
apparent fact of your loving me, has overcome the scruple,
which, on this ground, made me recoil from . . . Well !
there is no use now in talking. But for you to talk of what
is eligible and ineligible for me, is too absurd — indeed it is.
You might be richer, to be sure — but I like it better as it is,
a hundred times — I should choose it to be so, if it were left
to my choice. In every other respect, using the world’s
measures, . . or the measure of the angel who measured
the heavenly Jerusalem, . . you are beyond me . . above
me — and nothing but your love for me could have brought
us to a level. My love for you could not have tried, even !
Now, if I teaze you with saying such things over and over,
it is the right punishment for what you said yesterday about
‘ eligible marriages ‘ — now, isn’t it ?
But your conclusion then was right. For if you were
twice yourself, with a duchy of the moon to boot, it would
avail nothing. We should have to carry all this underground
work on precisely the same. Miserable it is, nevertheless —
only, I keep my eyes from that side, as far as I can. I keep
my eyes on your face. Yesterday Henrietta told me that
Lady Carmichael, a cousin of ours, met her at the Royal
Academy and took her aside to ‘ speak seriously to her ‘ . .
to observe that she looked thin and worried, and to urge
her to act for herself . . to say too, that Mrs. Bayford, an
old hereditary friend of ours, respected by us all for her
serene, clear-headed views of most things, — and ‘ of the
strictest sect,’ too, for all domestic duties, — ‘ did not like, as
a mother, to give direct advice, but was of opinion that the
case admitted certainly and plainly of the daughter’s acting
for herself.’ In fact, it was a message, sent under cover of
a supposed irresponsibility. Which is one of a hundred
proofs to show how this case is considered exceptional
among our family friends, and that no very hard judgment
will be passed at the latest. Only, on other grounds, I
shall be blamed . . and perhaps by another class of
speakers. As for telling Mr. Kenyon, it is most un-
advisable, both for his sake and ours. Did you never hear
him talk of his organ of caution ? We should involve him
in ever so many fears for us, and force him to have his share
of the odium at last. Papa would not speak to him again
while he lived. And people might say, ‘ Mr. Kenyon did it
all.’ No — if we are to be selfwilled, let us be selfwilled . .
at least, let me ! for you, of course, are free to follow your
judgment in respect to your own friends. And then, it is
rather a matter of feeling with me after all, that as I cannot
give my confidence to my father, I should refuse it to
others. I feel that a little.
Henrietta will do nothing, I think, this year — there are
considerations of convenience to prevent it ; and it is
better for us that it should be so, and will not be worse for
her in the end. I wish that man were a little nobler, higher
. . more of a man ! He is amiable, good-natured, easy-
tempered, of good intentions in the main : but he eats and
drinks and sleeps, and shows it all when he talks. Very
popular in his regiment, very fond of his mother — there is
good in him of course — and for the rest. . .
Dearest . . to compare others with you, would be too
hard upon them. Besides, each is after his kind. Yet . .
as far as love goes . . and although this man sincerely loves
my sister, I do believe, . . I admit to myself, again and
again, that if you were to adopt such a bearing towards me,
as he does to her, I should break with you at once. And
why? Not because I am spoilt, though you knit your
brows and think so . . nor because I am exacting and
offensible, though you may fancy that too. Nor because
I hold loosely by you . . dearest beloved . . ready at a
caprice to fall away. But because then I should know you
did not love me enough to let you be happy hereafter with
me . . you, who must love according to what you are !
greatly, as you write ‘ Lurias ‘ !
To-morrow, shall you be at Mr. Kenyon’s ? To-morrow
I shall hear. Nothing has happened since I saw you.
May God bless you.
Your own, I am.