[Postmark: August 18, 1846]
ED
For these two dear letters, I thank you, dearest ! You are best, as ever ! And that is all I have to tell you, almost – for I have seen nobody, heard nothing . . except that Eugene Sue can paint, . . which Miss Mitford told me this morning in a note of hers, . . in which, besides, she complains of the fatigue she suffers from the visitors who go to see after her the Reading prison, as the next ‘ sight ‘ of the neighbourhood. Better to live in Cheapside, than among the oaks, on such conditions ! As to Mr. Kenyon, he does not approach me. So he may come to-morrow, perhaps, or even on Wednesday. Would it not appear the top of wisdom if you deferred our day to Thursday’s sun ! – now consider ! It would be a decided gain, surely, to be able to say to him on Wednesday that you had not seen me since you and he saw me together. So I propose Thursday if you permit it. Next week we may take up our two days again, as one takes up so many dropt silken stitches, . . and we will be careful that the beads do not run off in the meantime. To-day George came from circuit. He asked, for nearly a first question, whether I had thought of Italy – ‘Yes, I had thought of it – but there was time to think more.’ I am uneasy a little under George’s eyes.
You did not tell me of Mr. Chorley . . whether he put questions about the Continent, or pbserved on the mysteries in you. Does he go himself, and when ? A curious ‘ fact ‘ is, that Mrs. Jameson was in the next house to us this morning, and also a few days ago ; yet never came here – the reason certainly being a reluctance to seem to tread in upon the recalling confidence. I felt sorry, and obliged to her – both at once. Talking of confidences, I neglected to tell you when you were here last, that one more had escaped us. It was not by my choice, if by my fault. I wrote something in a note to Mr. Boyd some weeks ago, which nobody except himself would have paused to think over ; but he, like a prisoner in a dungeon, sounds every stone of the walls round him, and discerns a hollowness, detects a wooden beam, . . patiently pricks out the mortar with a pin – all this, in his rayless, compamonless Dark, – poor Mr. Boyd ! The time before I last went to see him, he asked me if I were going to be a nun – there, was the first guess! On the next visit he puts his question precisely right – I tried to evade – then, promised to be frank in a little time – but being pressed on all sides, and drawn on by a solemn vow of secrecy, I allowed him to see the truth – and he lives such an isolated life, that it is perfectly safe with him, setting the oath aside. Also, he was very good and kind, and approved highly of the whole, and exhorted me, with ever such exhortation, to keep to my purpose, and to allow no consideration in the world or out of the world, to make any difference – quoting the moral philosophers as to the rights of such questions. Is there harm in his knowing ? He knows nobody, talks to nobody, and is very faithful to his word. Just as I, you will retort, was foolish in mine ! Yet I do assure you, mine was a sort of word, which to nine hundred and ninety nine persons, would have suggested nothing – only he mused over it, turned it into all lights, and had nothing to do but that. Afterwards he was proud, and asked . . ‘ Was I not acute ? ‘ It was a pleasure to him, one could not grudge.
Are you well, ever dearest ? I am well. And yesterday, while they were at dinner, I walked out alone, or with Flush – twice to the corner of the street, turning it, to post your letter. May God bless you. Surely we feel alike in many, many things – the convolvuluses grow together ; twisted together and you lift me up from the ground ; you ! I am your very own –
Mr. Mathews said nothing more than I told you very briefly but he sent the review, he said – and it has not come.