[Postmark: June 5, 1846]
Thursday.
You are too perfect, too overcomingly good and tender
— dearest you are, and I have no words with which to answer
you. There is little wonder indeed that I, being used so
long to the dark, should stumble and mistake, and see men
like trees walking — and yet I must tell you that I did not
mistake to the extent you have set down for me . . and that
never was I so dull, so idiotic and ungrateful, as to fancy
you into one ‘ wishing to let me down gently with cowardly
excuses.’ Since I first looked you in the face, and before
that day, I have been incapable of defiling the idea of you
with such an unworthy imputation. And surely what I did
fancy, was consistent with the fullest faith in you and in the
completest verity of your affection for myself. You might
have had reasons, surely, which I did not see, without
aggrieving me in any fashion. So do not make me out too
stupid- it is bad enough actually. Yes — those questions
you refer to, turned me down that path— and do tell me
how I could be expected to guess at the real drift of them,
after having been accustomed to walk rather, with men than
with angels ! Ah —and now even, that I see, it makes me
smile and sigh together. To say that I am not worthy, all
at once grows too little to say. No one could be worthy of
such words from you. You are best, best ! ! How much
more do you want me to owe to you, when I begin owing
to you all things, . . the only happiness of my life?
As to Italy, I thought of it first, so I am in no danger of
thinking that you engage me as female courier and
companion . . the feminine of what Mr. Bezzi wants to be,
Miss Bayley told me to-day. So if it is the same thing to
you, we will put off Nova Zembla a little. But how is it
possible to jest, with this letter close by ? Dearest of all,
believe that I am grateful to you as I ought to be . .
penetrated . . touched to the bottom of my heart with the sense
of what you have been to me and are ; dearest beloved !
So do not reproach me with my dull questions, on
Saturday. I won’t ask them any more, . . and I did not
mean by them the wickedness you thought . . so now let
us be tranquil and happy till the fine weather ends. Brightly
it begins, does it not? So hot it is to-day — so very hot in
this room ! Miss Bayley came just as I had been out walking
and was tired ; but she talked and interested me, and I
found out from her that you were not in the gardens when
we drove round them, but in the house when I looked up at
the windows. Very happy and agreeable you all were, she
said, at Mr. Kenyon’s — though Mrs. Jameson missed the
flower-show.
I forgot to tell you that Treppy is a Creole — she would
say so as if she said she was a Roman. She lived, as an
adopted favourite, in the house of my great grandfather in
Jamaica for years, and talks to the delight of my brothers, of
that ‘ dear man ‘ who, with fifty thousand a year, wore
patches at his knees and elbows, upon principle. Then
there are infinite traditions of the great great grandfather,
who flogged his slaves like a divinity : and upon the
beatitude of the slaves as slaves, let no one presume to
doubt, before Treppy. If ever she sighs over the slaves, it
is to think of their emancipation. Poor creatures, to be
emancipated !
May God bless you, dear dearest ! Shall I ever be
better, I wonder, than the torment of your life ? It is I who
wanted to be ‘ justified,’ and not you my beloved, — except as
to your good sense for having made such a choice.
Such as I am however, I am
Your very own
Ba.