[Postmark: August 3, 1846]
Sunday Morning and Evening.
Ever dearest, you were wet surely ? The rain came
before you reached the front door ; and for a moment
(before I heard it shut) I hoped you might return. Dearest,
how I blame myself for letting you go — for not sending you
a cab in despite of you ! I was frightened out of all wisdom
by the idea of who was down-stairs and listening perhaps,
and watching — as if the cab would have made you appear
more emphatically you ! And then you said ‘ the rain was
over ‘ — and I believed you as usual. If this isn’t a
precedent of the evils of too much belief … ! !
Altogether, yesterday may pass among the ‘ unsatisfactory
days, ‘ I think — for if I was not frightened of the storm,
and indeed I was not, much — of the state of affairs down in
the provinces, I was most sorely frightened — uneasy the
whole time. I seem to be with you, Robert, at this moment,
more than yesterday I was . . though if I look up now, I do
not see you sitting there ! — but when you sate there
yesterday, I was looking at Papa’s face as I saw it through
the floor, and now I see only yours.
Dearest, he came into the room at about seven, before
he went to dinner — I was lying on the sofa and had on a
white dressing gown, to get rid of the strings . . so
oppressive the air was, for all the purifications of lightning.
He looked a little as if the thunder had passed into him, and
said, ‘ Has this been your costume since the morning,
pray ? ‘
‘ Oh no ‘ — I answered — ‘ Only just now, because of
the heat.’
‘ Well, ‘ he resumed, with a still graver aspect . . (so
displeased he looked, dearest ! ) ‘ it appears, Ba, that
that man has spent the whole day with you. ‘ To which I
replied as quietly as I could, that you had several times
meant to go away, but that the rain would not let you, —
and there the colloquy ended. Brief enough — but it took
my breath away . . or what was left by the previous fear.
And think how it must have been a terrible day, when the
lightning of it made the least terror.
I was right too about the message — he took up the
fancy that I might be ill perhaps with fear . . ‘ and only
Mr. Browning in the room ‘ ! ! which was not to be
permitted. He was peremptory with Arabel, she told me.
Well — we need not talk any more of it — it has made one
of us uncomfortable long enough. Shall you dare come on
Tuesday after all ? He will be out. If he is not — if my
aunt should not be . . if a new obstacle should occur . .
why you shall hear on Tuesday. At any rate I shall write,
I think. He did not see you go yesterday — he had himself
preceded you by an hour . . at five o’clock . . which if it
had been known, would have relieved me infinitely. Yet it
did not prevent . . you see . . the appalling commentary at
seven — No.
With all the rest I am afraid besides of Mr. Chorley and
his idea about your ‘ mysteriousness. ‘ Let Mr. Kenyon
hold that thread in one hand, and in the other the thread
Henrietta gave him so carelessly, why he need not ask you
for information — which reminds me of the case you put to
me, Robert — and certainly you could not help a confession,
in such possible circumstances. Only, even granting the
circumstances, you need not confess more than is wrung
from you — need you ? Because Mr. Kenyon would undo us.
Before yesterday’s triple storms, I had a presentiment
which oppressed me during two days . . a presentiment that
it would all end ill, through some sudden accident or misery
of some kind. What is the use of telling you this ? I do
not know. I will tell you besides, that it cannot . . shall
not . . be, by my fault or failing. I may be broken indeed,
but never bent.
If things should go smoothly, however, I want to say
one word, once for all, in relation to them. Once or twice
you have talked as if a change were to take place in your
life through marrying — whereas I do beg you to keep in
mind that not a pebble in the path changes, nor is pushed
aside because of me. If you snould make me feel myself
in the way, should I like it, do you think ? And how could
I disturb a single habit or manner of yours . . as an un-
married man . . though being within call — I ? The best
of me is, that I am really very quiet and not difficult to
content — having not been spoilt by an excess of prosperity
even in little things. It will be prosperity in the greatest,
if you seem to be happy — believe that, and leave all the
rest. You will go out just as you do now . . when you choose,
and as a matter of course, and without need of a word — you
will be precisely as you are now in everything, — lord of the
house-door-key, and of your own ways — so that when I
shall go to Greece, you shall not feel yourself much better
off than before I went. That shall be a reserved vengeance,
Robert.
While I write, comes Mr. Kenyon, — and through a
special interposition of guardian-angels, he has broken his
spectacles and carries them in his hand. On which I
caught at the opportunity and told him that they were the
most unbecoming things in the world, and that fervently
(and sincerely) I hoped never to see them mended. The
next word was . . ‘ Did you see Browning yesterday ? ‘
‘ Yes.’ ‘ I thought so, I intended to come myself, but I
thought it probable that he would be here, and so I stayed
away — ‘
Now — — confess to you that that thought carries me
a good way over to your impression. It is at least ‘
suspicious, ‘ that he who knew you were with me on Saturday
and Tuesday should expect to find you again on the next
Saturday. ‘ Oh — how uncomfortable ‘ — the miracle of the
broken spectacles not saving one from the discomfort of the
position open to the bare eyes ! —
He talked of you a little — asked what you were doing —
praised you as usual . . for inexhaustible knowledge and
general reasonableness, this time. Did I not think so?
Yes — of course I thought so.
Presently he made me look aghast by just this question —
‘ Is there an attachment between your sister Henrietta
and Capt. Cook ? ‘ –(put as abruptly as I put it here).
My heart leapt up — as Wordsworth’s to the rainbow in
the sky — but there was a recoil in my leap. ‘ Why, Mr.
Kenyon ? ‘ — I said . . ‘ what extraordinary questions, opening
into unspeakable secrets, you do ask. ‘
‘ But I did not know that it was a secret. How was I
to know ? I have seen him here very often, and it is a
natural enquiry which I might have put to anybody in the
house touching a matter open to general observation. I
thought the affair might be an arranged one by anybody’s
consent.’
‘ But you ought to know, ‘ I answered, ‘ that such
things are never permitted in this house. So much for
the consent. As for the matter itself you are right in your
supposition — but it is a great secret, — and I entreat
you not to put questions about it to anybody in or out of
the house. ‘ Something to that effect I believe I said — I
was frightened . . frightened . . and not exactly for
Henrietta. What did he mean ? — Had he too in his mind . . .
He touched on Mrs. Jameson . . just touched . . He had
desired my sisters to tell me. He thought I had better
write a note to thank her for her kindness. He had told
her that if I had any thoughts of Italy they could be
accomplished only by a sea-voyage, which was impossible to
her.
I briefly expressed a sense of the kindness and said that
I meant to write. On which the subject was changed in
mutual haste, as seemed to me.
Is not this the book of the chronicles ? . . And you shall
hear again on Tuesday, if the post should be faithful to me
that morning. I might be inclined to put off our Tuesday’s
meeting, but Mrs. Hedley remains in London for a few days
after her daughter’s marriage, and ‘ means to see a great
deal ‘ of me — therefore Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, . .
where should we look, from Tuesday ? but I must consider
and will write. May God bless you ! Do say how you
are after that rain. The storm is calm,
and ever and ever I am your own BA.