[Postmark: June 4, 1846]
Wednesday Evening.
Nothing at all had it to do with your Magna Charta,
beloved, that question of mine. After you were gone the
other day and I began turning your words over and over, . .
(so, I make hay of them to feed the horses of the sun !) it
struck me that you had perhaps an instinct of common
sense, which, with a hand I did not see and a voice I
could not hear, drew you perhaps. So I thought I would
ask. For after all, this is rather a serious matter we are
upon, and if you think that you are not to have your share
of responsibility . . that you are not to consider and arrange
and decide, and perform your own part, . . you are as much
mistaken as ever I was. ‘ Judge what I say.’ For my part,
I have done, it seems to me, nearly as much as I can do. I
do not, at least, seem to myself to have any power to doubt
even, of the path to choose for the future. If for any reason
you had seen wisdom in delay, it would have been a different
thing — and the seeing was a possible thing, you will admit.
I did not ask you if you desired a delay, but if you saw a
reason for it. In the meantime I was absolutely yours, I
remembered thoroughly, . . and the question went simply
to enquire what you thought it best to do with your
own.
For me I agree with your view — I never once thought of
proposing a delay on my own account. We are standing on
hot scythes, and because we do not burn in the feet, by a
miracle, we have no right to count on the miracle’s prolongation.
Then nothing is to be gained — and everything may be
lost — and the sense of mask-wearing for another year would
be suffocating. This for me. And for yourself, I shall not
be much younger or better otherwise, I suppose, next year.
I make no motion, then, for a delay, further than we have
talked of, . . to the summer’s end.
My good . . happiness ! Have I any that did not come
from you, that is not in you, that you should talk of my good
apart from yours ? I shudder to look back to the days when
you were not for me. Was ever life so like death before ?
My face was so close against the tombstones, that there
seemed no room even for the tears. And it is unexampled
generosity of yours, that, having done all for me, you should
write as you always do, about my giving . . giving ! Among
the sons of men there is none like you as I believe and
know, . . and every now and then declare to my sisters.
Dearest, if I vexed you, teazed you, by that question
which proved unnecessary . . forgive me ! Had you
uncomfortable thoughts in the gardens to-day ? Perhaps !
And I could not smooth them away, though I drew as
near as I dared . . though I was in a carriage at seven
o’clock, running a mystical circle round your tents and music.
Did you feel me, any more than if I were a ‘ quick spider,’ I
wonder.
Henrietta and Arabel were going to spend the evening
with cousins of ours, and as the carriage waited for the
plaiting of Henrietta’s hair, or the twisting of the ringlets,
Arabel said to me ‘ Will you go for a quarter of an hour ? ‘
And in a minute, we were off . . she and Flush and Lizzie
and I. Never did I expect again to see so many people —
but I thought of one so much that my head was kept from
turning round — and we drove once round the ‘ inner circle,’
so called, and looked up to Mr. Kenyon’s windows — and
there, or there, you were, certainly ! — and either there, or
there, you were being disquieted in your thoughts by me, as
certainly ! Ah forgive me. After all, . . listen . . I love
you with the fulness of my nature. Nothing of all this
unspeakable goodness and tenderness is lost on me. . . I
catch on my face and hands every drop of all this dew.
So now . . you are not teazed ? we are at one again, and
may talk of outside things again ?
But first, I must hear how the head is. How is it, best
and dearest ? And you had my letter at last, had you not ?
Because I wrote it as usual, of course. May God bless you
— and me as I am altogether your own.
Twice (observe) I have been out to-day — the first time,
walking. Also, twice have I written to you.
Say how your mother is — and yourself! —
George and Henrietta were asked to meet you at Mr.
Kenyon’s — but only to-day, and too late to forestall other
engagements. Did you enjoy any of it ? Tell me.