[Postmark: June 12, 1846]
Friday Morning.
I must write very little to-day, dearest, because Mr.
Kenyon, as a note from him just tells me, comes at half
past two for me, and in the meantime I am expecting a visit
from my uncle Hedley, who arrived yesterday while we were
together. Scarcely could Henrietta keep him, she says,
from coming up-stairs ‘ to see Ba ! ‘ We just escaped,
therefore. I have been thinking that having the barbarians
down on us may be at least a means of preserving us from
going into the wilderness ourselves . . myself . . if I were
taken away, as I told you, to Tunbridge, Dover, or other
provinces of Siberia. How should I bear, do you think, to
be taken away from you ? Very badly ! – though you will
not hear of my being able to love you as I ought – when
that is precisely the only thing I can do, it seems to me, at
all worthily of you.
Ora pro me in Mr. Kenyon’s carriage to-day – I am getting
so nervous and frightened ! I shall feel all the while as if
set on a vane on the top of St. Paul’s . . can you fancy the
feeling? I do wish I were safe at home again, reading
your letter . . which will come to-night will . . shall . . must
. . according to the letter and spirit of the Law.
You made the proposal to me about New Cross, yester-
day, out of consideration and kindness to me ! I understand
it so, thanking you. For the rest, I need not, I am certain,
assure you that it would be the greatest pain to me at any
time, to be wanting in even the forms of respect and affec-
tion towards your family – and that I would not, from a
mere motive of shyness, hazard a fault against them – you
will believe this of me. But the usual worldly form (if the
world is to give the measure) would be against my paying
such a visit – and under ordinary circumstances it never is
paid – not so. Therefore the not paying it is not an omis-
sion of an ordinary form of attention – that is what I mean to
say. And to keep all dear to you quite safe and away from
all splashing of the mud which we cannot ourselves hope to
escape, is the great object, – it does seem to me. Your
father and mother would be blamed (in this house, I know,
if not in others) for not apprizing my father of what they
knew. As it is, there is evil enough – though there is a
way of escaping that evil.
As it is. – Now I do beseech you to consider well
whether you will not have too much pain in finding that
they suffer it (after every precaution taken) . . to render all
this which we are about, wise and advisable. They will
suffer, to hear you spoken of as we both shall be spoken of
. . be perfectly sure ! They will suffer, to have to part with
you so – and the circumstances, perhaps, will not help to
give them confidence in the stranger, who presumes so to
enter their family. I ask you not to answer this ! – only, to
think of it in time, lest you should come to think of it too
late. Put it between the leaves of Machiavel, – that at need
you may confute yourself as well as M. Thiers.
Beloved, say how you are and how your mother is.
Here I must end to be ready for dear Mr. Kenyon, and
casualties of uncles &c. Think of me, love me – my heart
is full of you.
I am your BA.