[Postmark: May 19, 1846]
Tuesday Morning.
My own ever dearest, when I try to thank you for such
a letter as yesterday’s, . . for any proof, in fact, of your
affection, . . I cannot speak : but you know, of this and all
things, that I understand, feel — you must know it very well.
There is only one thing I can do as I ought, and it is to
love you ; and the more I live, not ‘ the less ‘ but the more I
am able to love you — believe it of me. And for the less, . .
we never will return to that foolish subject, . . but for the
‘ less ‘ you spoke of when you said ‘ you do not love me
less?’ . . . why I thought at the moment and feel now,
that it would be too late, as I am, ever, upon any possible
ground, to love you less. If you loved me less . . even !
— or (to leave that) if you were to come to me and say that
you had murdered a man — why I may imagine such things,
you know — but I cannot imagine the possibility of my
loving you less, as a consequence of your failing so ! I am
yours in the deepest of my affections : — not unreasonably,
certainly, as I see you and know you — but if it were to turn
unreasonable . . I mean, if you took away the appearance
of reasonableness . . still I should be yours in the deepest
of my affections . . it is too late for a difference there.
Mrs. Jameson has just now sent me a proof with the
‘ Daughters of Pandarus,’ which she is to call for presently
and therefore I must come to an end with this note. How
I shall think of you to-morrow ! And if it should be fine, I
may perhaps drive in the park near the gardens . . take
my sisters to the gate of the gardens, and feel that you are
inside ! That will be something, if it is feasible. And if
it is fine or not, and if I go or not, I shall remember our
first day, the only day of my life which God blessed visibly
to me, the only day undimmed with a cloud . . my great
compensation-day, which it was worth while being born
for !
Your very own
Ba.
Oh — YOU will not see me to-morrow, remember ! I tell
you only out of cunning . . to win a thought !