[Postmark: August 29, 1846]
Will you come, dearest, after all ? Judge for both of us. The Hedleys go to-morrow morning and we shall not see them after to-night when they are dining here – but Mr. Kenyon has not paid his visit, and may come to-morrow, or may take Sunday, which he is fond of doing – is it worth while to be afraid of Mr. Kenyon ? What do you think ? I leave it to your wisdom which is the greatest. Perhaps he may not come till Monday – yet he may.
Dearest, I have had all your thoughts by turns, or most of them . . and each one has withered away without coming to bear fruit. Papa seems to have no more idea of my living beyond these four walls, than of a journey to Lapland. I confess that I thought it possible he might propose the country for the summer, or even Italy for the winter, in a ‘ late remark ‘ – but no, ‘ nothing ‘ and there is not a possibility of either word, as I see things. My brothers ‘ wish that something could be arranged’ – a wish which I put away quietly as often as they bring it to me. And for my uncle and aunt, they have been talking to me to-day – and she with her usual acuteness in such matters, observing my evasion, said, ‘ Ah Ba, you have arranged your plans more than you would have us believe. But you are right not to tell us – indeed I would rather not hear. Only don’t be rash – that is my only advice to you.’
I thought she had touched the truth, and wondered – but since then, from another of her words, I came to conclude that she imagined me about to accept the convoy of Henrietta and Captain Cook ! She said in respect to them – ‘ I only say that your father’s consent ought to be asked, as a form of respect to him.’ Which, in their case should be, I think – and should also in ours, but for the peculiar position of one of us. My uncle urged me to keep firm and go to Italy, and my aunt, though she would not advise, she said, yet thought that I ‘ ought to go,’ and that to live on in this fashion in this room was lamentable to contemplate. Both of them approved of the French route, and urged me to go to them in Paris – ‘ And,’ said my uncle kindly, ‘ when once we have you, we shall not bear to part with you, I think.’
(Do you really imagine, by the way, that to appear in Paris for one half-minute, to a single soul, could be less detestable to me than to you ? I shall take care that nobody belonging to me there shall hear of my being within a hundred miles – and why need we stay in Paris the half minute ? Not unless you pause to demand an audience of Mr. Chorley at the Barriere des Etoiles.
While we were talking, Papa came into the room. My aunt said, ‘ How well she is looking ‘ -‘ Do you think so ? ‘ he said. ‘ Why, do not you think so ? Do you pretend to say that you see no surprising difference in her ? ‘ – ‘ Oh, I don’t know,’ he went on to say.’ ‘ She is mumpish, I think.’ Mumpish !
‘ She does not talk,’ resumed he –
‘ Perhaps she is nervous ‘ – my aunt apologised – I said not one word . . When birds have their eyes out, they are apt to be mumpish.
Mumpish ! The expression proved a displeasure. Yet I am sure that I have shown as little sullenness as was possible. To be very talkative and vivacious under such circumstances as those of mine, would argue insensibility, and was certainly beyond my power.
I told her gently afterwards that she had been wrong in speaking of me at all – a wrong with a right intention, – as all her wrongness must be. She was very sorry to have done it, she said, and looked sorry.
Poor Papa ! – Presently I shall be worse to him than ‘ mumpish ‘ even. But then, I hope, he will try to forgive me, as I have forgiven him, long ago.
My own beloved – do you know that your letter caught me in the act of wondering whether the absence would do me harm with you, according to that memorable theory. And so in the midst came the solution of the doubt – you do not love me less. Nay, you love me more – ah, but if you say so, I am capable of wishing not to see you for a month added to the week ! For did I not once confess to you that I loved your love as much as I loved you . . or very, very, very nearly as much ? Not precisely so much. Confiteor tibi – but I will sing a penitential psalm low to myself and do the act of penance by seeing you to-morrow if you choose to come, – and then you shall absolve me and give me the Benedicite, which, if you come, you cannot keep back, because it comes with you of necessity.
Not a word of your head, nor of your mother ! You should come I think, to-morrow, if only to say it. Yet let us be wise to the end. Be you wise to the end, and decide between Saturday and Monday. And I, for my part, promise to go to Italy, only with you do not be afraid.
And for your poetry, I believe in it as ‘ golden water ‘ – and the ‘ singing tree ‘ does not hide it from me with all the overcropping branches and leaves. In fact, the chief inconvenience we are likely to suffer from, in the way of income, is the having too much. Don’t you think so ? But in that case, we will buy an island of our own in one of those purple seas, and inherit the sun – or perhaps the shadow . . of Calypso’s cave.
So do not be uneasy, dearest ! – not even lest I should wish to spend three weeks in Paris, to show myself at the Champs Elysees and the opera, and gather a little glory after what you happily call ‘ our adventure.’
Our adventure, indeed ! But it is you who are adventuring in the matter, – and as any Red Cross Knight of them all, whom you exceed in their chivalry proper.
Chiappino little knew how right he was, when he used to taunt me with my ‘ New Cross Knight.’ He did – Ah ! Even if he had talked of ‘ Rosie Cross,’ he would not have been so far wide – the magic ‘ saute aux yeaux.’
And now, will you come to-morrow, I wonder, or not ? The answer is in you.
And I am your own, ever and as ever !
And you thought I was dying with a desire to tell Mrs. Jameson ! ! – I!