[Postmark: August 4, 1846]
Monday.
Two precious letters to make amends for yesterday ! and
in return only just two or three words to say . . ‘ yes, come. ‘
And I meant to have proposed to you something like what
you suggest when you talk of the book and the note. If
the ground is not clear at three, and Papa (above all) still
in the house, you shall have a note, instead of admittance, . .
and you will understand by the sign that it is wise for us
not to meet. My hope and expectation are, however, that
no obstacle will occur — that he will be in the city, and she
at Fenton’s Hotel, engaged in some office of consolation
beside her sister. I seriously exhorted her to remain there
the rest of the day to wipe away the tears of the bride’s
mother . . as an appendix to the breakfast : — ah, and
seriously I thought she ought to stay, as well as seriously
wishing it. And thus, altogether, we shall probably have
open ground when it is desirable. If not, the note ! —
For the rest, dearest, do not exaggerate to yourself my
report of what passed on Saturday. It was an unpleasant
impression, and that is all, . . and nothing, I believe, has
been thought of it since. Once before, remember, your
apparition made an unpleasant impression, which was
perfectly transitory then as now. Now as then, do not
suffer such things to vex you beyond their due import.
There will be no coming back, no directions to servants,
nothing of the sort. Only it would not do to deepen
Saturday’s impression with to-morrow’s — we must be
prudent a little.
And you see me, my prophet, sent to Sussex or Devonshire,
in a flash of lightning ? That is your presentiment,
do you say ? Well ! Sussex is possible, Kent is not
impossible. This house, . . vox populi clamat, — wants
cleaning, painting, papering — the inhabitants thereof, too,
cry aloud for fresh air. Nevertheless, summer after summer,
there have been the same reasons for going, and nobody
goes. We shall see.
So, till to-morrow ! Dear, dearest ! you are always
best — to justify the dearest, I suppose ! I remember your
having said before some of this . . which, never could I
forget, having once heard. But think how Alfred the king
divided his days — and how Solomon the king would tell
you of ‘ a time ‘ for sitting with me. ‘ Bid me . . not . .
discourse ‘ however — we shall both know what is right
presently — and I in the meanwhile perfectly do now that
I could not consent to your shutting yourself up for my
sake — no, indeed !
Shall I fail to you ? Could I ? Could it be needful for
me to say ‘ I will not fail. ‘
Your own, I am.