Author: EBB

[Postmark: September 10, 1846]

Wednesday Night.

Dearest, you are a prophet, I suppose – there can be no denying it. This night, an edict has gone out, and George is to-morrow to be on his way to take a house for a month either at Dover, Reigate, Tunbridge, . . Papa did ‘not mind which,’ he said, and ‘ you may settle it among you ! ! ‘ but he ‘ must have this house empty for a month in order to its cleaning ‘ – we are to go therefore and not delay.

Now ! – what can be done ? It is possible that the absence may be longer than for a month, indeed it is probable – for there is much to do in painting and repairing, here in Wimpole Street, more than a month’s work they say. Decide, after thinking. I am embarrassed to the utmost degree, as to the best path to take. If we are taken away on Monday . . what then ?

Of course I decline to give any opinion and express any preference, – as to places, I mean. It is not for my sake that we go : – if I had been considered at all, indeed, we should have been taken away earlier, . . and not certainly now, when the cold season is at hand. And so much the better it is for me, that I have not, obviously, been thought of.

Therefore decide ! It seems quite too soon and too sudden for us to set out on our Italian adventure now – and perhaps even we could not compass –

Well – but you must think for both of us. It is past twelve and I have just a moment to seal this and entrust it to Henrietta for the morning’s post.

More than ever beloved, I am

Your own BA.

I will do as you wish – understand.

[Postmark: September 9, 1846]

Tuesday Evening.

I write a word to say, . . dearest, do not run any risk about coming to-morrow. I mean, . . unless you are sure that the noise and exertion will not be too much for you, – unless, when the moment comes for setting off, you feel equal to it . . now, I do beseech you, very dear, not to persist in coming because you have said that you will come – I beseech you. Listen. At three o’clock I shall expect you doubtfully ; at half-past three, the doubt will be the strongest ; and at a quarter to four, I shall have said to myself cheerfully, that you were wise and good and had determined to stay at home. In that case, I shall have a line from you by five or six ! Understand all this, and let it have the right influence and no more. Of course if I could see you without harm to yourself, and so to me, it would be a great happiness : it even makes me happy to think of, as a bare possibility, at this distance off ! I am happy by your letter, twice over, indeed – once, for that reason, . . and again, for the thought of your being in some respects better. At the same time I do not see why your wise man did not follow his plan to the end. It looks as if he did not think you better essentially because of it. Ah well, I shall see with my eyes to-morrow – perhaps I shall : and I shall see in a dream to-night more certainly.

This shall go at once, though, that it may reach you in time in the morning. How I thank you for the precious note ! You are so much too good to me, that your being also too dear is an excusable consequence – or would be, if it were possible. I write nonsense, I believe, – but it is half for gladness . . and half . . for what makes me your own

BA.

[Postmark: September 8, 1846]

Monday Night.

How unwell you are, dearest beloved ! Ah no ! It is not ‘ the position that tires you,’ it is the illness that incapacitates you. And you to think of getting up and coming here . . you ! Now, for my sake, for both our sakes, you must and shall be patient and quiet, and remember how my thoughts are with you conjuring you continually to quiet. As to the reading, . . you see it makes you dizzy, – and to provoke that sensation cannot plainly be right : and you will be right always, will you not, for my sake, dearest of all ? And for the coming here on Wednesday, . . no, no, I say again, – you ought not to do it, and you shall not : we will see how you are, later in the week ; but for Wednesday, certainly no. That violent transition from the bed to the omnibus would be manifestly wrong. Also I can be quite satisfied without seeing you, if I may but hear of your being well again. I wonder to-day how yesterday I was impatient about not having seen you so long. Oh, be well, be well, dearest ! There is no need of your being ill to prove to me how I love you entirely, how I love you only !

For Flush, I did your commission, kissing the top of his head : then I took the kiss back again because it seemed too good for him just now. And you shall not say that you ‘are glad he is with me if you are not? It is more to Flush’s disadvantage, that phrase is than all your theories which pretended to leave him with the dogstealers. How can I be glad of anyone’s being with me if you are not ?

And how should you be glad for anything, if I am not ? Flush and I know our logic better than to accept that congratulation of yours, with the spike pricking us out of it.

So hot, indeed, to-day ! If you thought of me, I thought of you, through it all. This close air cannot be good for you while you are shut up. But I have not been shut up. I went out in the carriage and bought a pair of boots for Italy, besides the shoes – because, you see, we shall have such long walks in the forest after the camels, and it won’t do to go in one’s slippers. Does not that sound like ‘ a grave woman ? ‘ You need not make laws against the jesters, after all ! You need only be well ! And, gravely, quite gravely, is it not likely that going to Italy, that travelling, and putting an end to all the annoyances which lately have grown up out of our affairs, will do you good, substantial good, in this chief matter of your health ? It seems so to me sometimes. You are always well, you say, in Italy, and when you get there once again. But in the meanwhile, try to be a little better, my own dearest ! I cannot write to you except about you to-night. The subject is too near me – I am under the shadow of the wall, and cannot see over it. To-morrow I shall hear more, and trust to you to tell me the whole, unmutilated truth. May God bless you, as I would, I in my weakness ! For the best blessing on your part, love your own

BA.

And do not tire yourself with writing. The least line – three words – I beseech you not to let me do you harm.

[Postmark: September 7, 1846]

Monday Morning.

Ever, ever dearest, how was it that without presentiment of evil I got up this morning in the good spirits of ‘ our days,’ hoping to see you, believing to see you, and feeling that it would be greater happiness than usual? The sight of your letter, even, did not provoke the cloud – that was only the lesser joy, I thought, preceding the greater ! And smiling to myself I was, both last night and this morning, at your phrase about the ‘ business ‘ to be talked by the ‘ grave man and woman ‘ ; understanding your precaution against all unlawful jesting ! – jesters forbidden in the protocol ! And then, at last, to be made so suddenly grave and sad even ! How am I to be comforted, my own dearest ? No way, except by your being really better, really well – in order to which I shall not let you come as soon as Wednesday : it will not be wise for you to leave your bed for a journey into London ! Rather you should be very quiet, and keep in the garden at farthest. Take care of yourself, dearest dearest, and if you think of me and love me, show it in that best way. And I praise you, praise you, – nay, I thank you and am grateful to you for every such proof of love, more than for other kinds of proof, – I will love you for it, my beloved ! Now judge – shall I be able to help thinking of you every moment of the day ? Could I help it, if I tried ? In return, therefore, you will attend to the orders, submit to the discipline – ah but, will not the leaving off all food but milk weaken you out of measure ? I am uneasy about that milk-diet for you, who always seem to me to want support, and something to stimulate. You will promise to tell me everything – will you, dearest ? whether better or worse, stronger or weaker, you will tell me ? And if you should be too unwell to write, as may God forbid, your sister will write – she will have that great goodness ? Let it be so, I beseech you.

But you will be better – oh, I mean to hope stedfastly toward your being better, and toward the possibility of our meeting before the week ends. And as for this day lost, it is not of importance except in our present thoughts : soon you will have more than enough of me, you know. For I am in earnest and not a jester au fond, and am ready to do just as you bid me and think best – which I tell you now, that you may not be vexed at a shadow, after my own fashion. May God bless you – ‘ and me in you.’ Have I not leave to say that, too, since I feel it more than you could . . (more intensely . . I do not say more sincerely . .) when you used it first ? My happiness and life are in you, – I am your very own

BA.

Your mother – how is she ? Mind you get an amusing book . . something to amuse only, and not use you. Do you know the ‘ Mathilde ‘ of Sue ? I shall write again to-night.

[Postmark: September 7, 1846]

Sunday.

Not well – not well ! But I shall see you with my own eyes soon after you read what I write to-day ; so I shall not write much. Only a few words to tell you that Flush is found, and lying on the sofa, with one paw and both ears hanging over the edge of it. Still my visit to Taylor was not the successful one. My hero was not at home.

I went, you know, . . did I tell you ? . . with Wilson in the cab. We got into obscure streets ; and our cabman stopped at a public house to ask his way. Out came two or three men, . . ‘ Oh, you want to find Mr. Taylor, I dare say ! ‘ (mark that no name had been mentioned !) and instantly an unsolicited philanthropist ran before us to the house, and out again to tell me that the great man ‘ wasn’t at home ! but wouldn’t I get out ? ‘ Wilson, in an aside of terror, entreated me not to think of such a thing – she believed devoutly in the robbing and murdering, and was not reassured by the gang of benevolent men and boys who ‘ lived but to oblige us ‘ all round the cab. ‘ Then wouldn’t I see Mrs. Taylor,’ suggested the philanthropist, – and, notwithstanding my negatives, he had run back again and brought an immense feminine bandit, . . fat enough to have had an easy conscience all her life, . . who informed me that ‘ her husband might be in in a few minutes, or in so many hours – wouldn’t I like to get out and wait ‘ (Wilson pulling at my gown, the philanthropist echoing the invitation of the feminine Taylor.) – ‘ No, I thanked them all – it was not necessary that I should get out, but it was, that Mr. Taylor should keep his promise about the restoration of a dog which he had agreed to restore – and I begged her to induce him to go to Wimpole Street in the course of the day, and not defer it any longer.’ To which, replied the lady, with the most gracious of smiles – ‘ Oh yes certainly ‘ – and indeed she did believe that Taylor had left home precisely on that business – poising her head to the right and left with the most easy grace – ‘ She was sure that Taylor would give his very best attention.’ . . .

So, in the midst of the politeness, we drove away, and Wilson seemed to be of opinion that we had escaped with our lives barely. Plain enough it was, that the gang was strong there. The society . . the ‘Fancy’ . . had their roots in the ground. The faces of those men ! –

I had not been at home long, when Mr. Taylor did actually come – desiring to have six guineas confided to his honour ! ! . . and promising to bring back the dog. I sent down the money, and told them to trust the gentleman’s honour, as there seemed no other way for it – and while the business was being concluded, in came Alfred, and straightway called our ‘ honourable friend ‘ (meeting him in the passage) a swindler and a liar and a thief. Which no gentleman could bear, of course. Therefore with reiterated oaths he swore, ‘as he hoped to be saved, we should never see our dog again’ – and rushed out of the house. Followed a great storm. I was very angry with Alfred, who had no business to risk Flush’s life for the sake of the satisfaction of trying on names which fitted. Angry I was with Alfred, and terrified for Flush, – seeing at a glance the probability of his head being cut off as the proper vengeance ! and down-stairs I went with the resolution of going again myself to Mr. Taylor’s in Manning Street, or Shoreditch wherever it was, and saving the victim at any price. It was the evening, getting dusk – and everybody was crying out against me for being ‘ quite mad ‘ and obstinate, and wilful – I was called as many names as Mr. Taylor. At last, Sette said that he would do it, promised to be as civil as I could wish, and got me to be ‘ in a good humour and go up to my room again.’ And he went instead of me, and took the money and fair words, and induced the ‘ man of honour ‘ to forfeit his vengeance and go and fetch the dog. Flush arrived here at eight o’clock (at the very moment with your letter, dearest !), and the first thing he did was to dash up to this door, and then to drink his purple cup full of water, filled three times over. He was not so enthusiastic about seeing me, as I expected – he seemed bewildered and frightened – and whenever anyone said to him ‘ Poor Flush, did the naughty men take you away ? ‘ he put up his head and moaned and yelled. He has been very unhappy certainly. Dirty he is, and much thinner, and continually he is drinking. Six guineas, was his ransom – and now I have paid twenty for him to the dog-stealers.

Arabel says that I wanted you yesterday, she thought, to manage me a little. She thought I was suddenly seized with madness, to prepare to walk out of the house in that state of excitement and that hour of the evening. But now – was I to let them cut off Flush’s head ? –

There ! I have told you the whole history of yesterday’s adventures – and to-morrow I shall see you, my own dear, dear ! – Only remember for my sake, not to come if you are not fit to come. Dearest, remember not to run any hazards ! – That dinner ! which I will blame, because it deserves it ! Mind not to make me be as bad as that dinner, in being the means of working you harm ! So I expect you to-morrow conditionally . . if you are well enough ! – and I thank you for the kind dear letter, welcome next to you, . . being ever and ever your own

BA.

I have been to the vestry again to-day.

[Postmark: September 5, 1846]

Saturday Morning.

Dearest, I write just a few lines that you may know me for thinking of you to-morrow. Flush has not come and I am going on a voyage of discovery myself, – Henry being far too lukewarm. He says I may be robbed and murdered before the time for coming back, in which case remember that it is not my fault that I do not go with you to Pisa.

Just now came a kind little note from dear Mr. Kenyon, who will not come, he says, Flush being away, and has set out on his travels, meaning not to come back for a week. So I might have seen you after all, to-day ! My comfort is, that it is good for you, beloved, to be quiet, and that coming through the sun might have made your head suffer. How my thoughts are with you – how all day they never fall from you ! I shall have my letter to-night through your dear goodness, which is a lamp hung up for me to look towards. Aladdin’s, did you say ? Yes, Aladdin’s.

As to being afraid of you ever – once, do you know, I was quite afraid . . in a peculiar sense – as when it thunders, I am afraid . . or a little different from that even – or, oh yes, very different from that. Now it is changed . . the feeling is – and I am not afraid even so – except sometimes of losing your affection by some fault of my own – I am not afraid that it would be a fault of yours, remember. I trust you for goodness to the uttermost – and I know perfectly that if you did not love me (supposing it) you are one who would be ashamed for a woman to fear you, as some women fear some men. For me, I could not, you know – I knew you too well and love you too perfectly, and everybody can tell what perfect love casts out.

So you need not have done with me for that reason ! Understand it.

And if I shall not be slain by the ‘ society,’ you shall be written to again to-night. Ah – say in the letter I am to have, that you are better ! And you are to come on Monday – dear, dearest ! mind that !

Your Ba.

Come back safe, but without Flush – I am to have him to-night though.

[Postmark: September 5, 1846]

Friday.

You best ! Was ever any in the world, in any possible world, so perfectly good and dear to another as you are to me ! Ah ! if you could know how I feel to you, when you write such words as came to me this morning – Dearest ! It ends in that, all I can say. And yet I must say besides that the idea of ‘ crossness,’ of hardness, never came to me, for one moment, from the previous letter. I just shook my head and thought how you would not act it out, if you had a Flush. Upon which I could not follow out my argument to myself, through thinking that you were ill.

You are better now, Robert, and you promise to take care of the dinner, where you should not go if I were near you. I should be ‘ afraid of you ‘ far too much to let you, indeed ! Such a wrong thing that dinner is . . as wrong as any dogstealer in his way . . drawing you out just when you ought to be at home and quiet, if not ‘abstinent.’ When did I ever tell you to be abstinent, pray ? You are too much so, it seems to me, in general : and to pass the whole of that day without eating ! How unwell you must have been, dearest ! How I long to see you and ascertain that you look tolerably well ! How very, very happy I should be, to be able to look at you to-morrow. But no, no ! Mr. Kenyon does not come, and we must be wise, I suppose, and wait till the ground is clear of him, which will not be till Monday. Probably he will visit me on Sunday – but the chance of Saturday is like the hat on a pole in gardens, set there to frighten away the birds. Still they may sing on the other side of the wall, not to be too far from the cherries and the hope of them. Monday surely will be a clear day. Unless Mr. Kenyon shall put off his journey just to despite us – who shall say ?

I have not Flush yet. I am to have him to-morrow morning.

And for the Flush-argument, dear dearest, I hold that your theory is entirely good and undeniable. I agree with you throughout it, praising Mahomet, praising Hampden, and classing the Taylors, Gregorys, and Spanish banditti all together. Also I hope I should try, at least, to resist with you their various iniquities – and, for instance, I do not think that any Gregory in the world would draw a shilling from me, by a threat against my own character. I should dare that, oh, I am confident I should – the indignation would be far the stronger, where I myself only was involved. And even in the imaginary Chiappino-case, the selfish and dastardly threat would fall from me like a child’s arrow from steel. I believe so.

But Flush, poor Flush, Flush who has loved me so faithfully ; have I a right to sacrifice him in his innocence, for the sake of any Mr. Taylor’s guilt in the world ? Does not Flush’s condition assimilate to my own among the banditti ? for you agree that you would not, after all, leave me to the banditti – and I, exactly on the same ground, will not leave Flush. It seems to me that you and I are at one upon the whole question, – only that I am your Flush, and he is mine. You, if you were ‘ consistent ‘ . . dearest ! . . would not redeem me on any account. You do ever so much harm by it, observe – you produce catastrophe on catastrophe, just for the sake of my two ears without earrings ! Oh, I entirely agree with your principle. Evil should be resisted that it may fly from you.

But Flush is not to be sacrificed – nor even is Ba, it appears. So our two weaknesses may pardon one another, yours and mine !

Some dog, shut up in a mews somewhere behind this house, has been yelling and moaning to-day and yesterday. How he has made me think of my poor poor Flush, I cannot tell you – ‘ Think of Flush ‘ he seemed to say.

Yes ! – A blow in the street ! I wish somebody would propose such a thing to me, in exchange ! I would have thanked Mr. Taylor himself for striking me down in the street, if the stroke had been offered as an alternative for the loss of Flush. You may think it absurd – but when my dinner is brought to me, I feel as if I could not (scarcely) touch it – the thought of poor Flush’s golden eyes is too strong in me.

Not a word of your mother. She is better, I trust ! And you . . may God keep you better, beloved ! To be parted from you so long, teaches me the necessity of your presence – I am your very, very own.

I was out to-day – driving along the Hampstead Road. What weather !

[Postmark: September 4, 1846]

Thursday Evening.

Ever dearest, you are not well – that is the first thing ! – And that is the thing I saw first, when, opening your letter, my eyes fell on the ending sentence of it, – which disenchanted me in a moment from the hope of the day. Dearest – you have not been well for two or three days, it is plain, – and now you are very, very unwell – tell me if it is not so? I beseech you to let me hear the exact truth about you, for I am very uneasy, and it is dreadful to doubt about knowing the exact truth in all such cases. How everything goes against me this week ! I cannot see you. I cannot comfort myself by knowing that you are well. And then poor Flush ! You must let him pass as one of the evils, and you will, I know ; for I have not got him back yet – no, indeed.

I should have done it. The archfiend, Taylor, the man whom you are going to spend your life in persecuting (the life that belongs to me, too !), came last night to say that they would accept six pounds, six guineas, with half a guinea for himself, considering the trouble of the mediation ; and Papa desired Henry to refuse to pay, and not to tell me a word about it – all which I did not find out till this morning. Now it is less, as the money goes, than I had expected, and I was very vexed and angry, and wanted Henry to go at once and conclude the business – only he wouldn’t, talked of Papa, and persuaded me that Taylor would come to-day with a lower charge. He has not come – I knew he would not come, – and if people won’t do as I choose, I shall go down to-morrow morning myself and bring Flush back with me. All this time he is suffering and I am suffering. It may be very foolish – I do not say it is not – or it may even be ‘ awful sin,’ as Mr. Boyd sends to assure me – but I cannot endure to run cruel hazards about my poor Flush for the sake of a few guineas, or even for the sake of abstract principles of justice – I cannot. You say that I cannot, . . but that you would. You would ! – Ah dearest – most pattern of citizens, but you would not – I know you better. Your theory is far too good not to fall to pieces in practice. A man may love justice intensely ; but the love of an abstract principle is not the strongest love – now is it ? Let us consider a little, putting poor Flush out of the question. (You would bear, you say, to receive his head in a parcel – it would satisfy you to cut off Taylor’s in return). Do you mean to say that if the banditti came down on us in Italy and carried me off to the mountains, and, sending to you one of my ears, to show you my probable fate if you did not let them have . . how much may I venture to say I am worth ? . . five or six scudi, – (is that reasonable at all?) . . would your answer be ‘ Not so many crazie ‘ ; and would you wait, poised upon abstract principles, for the other ear, and the catastrophe, – as was done in Spain not long ago? Would you, dearest ? Because it is as well to know beforehand, perhaps.

Ah – how I am teazing you, my beloved, when you are not well. But indeed that life of yours is worthy of better uses than to scourge Taylor with, even if I should not be worth the crazie.

I have seen nobody and heard nothing. I bought a pair of shoes to-day lined with flannel, to walk with on the bare floors of Italy in the winter. Is not that being practical and coming to the point ? I did it indeed !

May God bless you. I love you always and am your own.

Write of yourself, I do pray you – and also, how is your mother ?

[Postmark: September 3, 1846]

Wednesday Evening.

‘ Our friend and follower, that was to be ‘ is that, then, your opinion of my poor darling Flush’s destiny – Ah, – I should not have been so quiet if I had not known differently and better. I ‘ shall not recover him directly,’ you think ! But, dearest, I am sure that I shall. I am learned in the ways of the Philistines – I knew from the beginning where to apply and how to persuade. The worst is poor Flush’s fright and suffering. And then, it is inconvenient just now to pay the ransom for him. But we shall have time to-morrow if not to-night. Two hours ago the chief of the Confederacy came to call on Henry and to tell him that the ‘ Society had the dog,’ having done us the honour of tracking us into Bond Street and out of Bond Street into Vere Street where he was kidnapped. Now he is in Whitechapel (poor Flush). And the great man was going down there at half past seven to meet other great men in council and hear the decision as to the ransom exacted, and would return with their ultimatum. Oh, the villainy of it is excellent, and then the humiliation of having to pay for your own vexations and anxieties ! Will they have the insolence, now, to make me pay ten pounds, as they said they would ? But I must have Flush, you know – I can’t run any risk, and bargain and haggle. There is a dreadful tradition in this neighbourhood, of a lady who did so having her dog’s head sent to her in a parcel. So I say to Henry – ‘ Get Flush back, whatever you do ‘ – for Henry is angry as he may well be, and as I should be if I was not too afraid . . and talks police-officers against theives, and finds it very hard to attend to my instructions and be civil and respectful to their captain. There he found him, smoking a cigar in a room with pictures ! They make some three or four thousand a year by their honourable employment. As to Flush’s following anyone ‘ blandly,’ never think it. ‘ He was caught up and gagged . . depend upon that. If he could have bitten, he would have bitten – if he could have yelled, he would have yelled. Indeed on a former occasion the ingenuous thief observed, that he ‘ was a difficult dog to get, he was so distrustful.’ They had to drag him with a string, put him into a cab, they said, before. Poor Flush !

Dearest, I am glad that your mother is a little better – but why should the turn of the year make you suffer, ever dearest ? I am not easy about you indeed. Remember not to use the shower-bath injudiciously – and remember to walk. Do you walk enough ? – it being as necessary for you as for your mother.

And as for me you will not say a word more to me, you will leave me to my own devices now.

Which is just exactly what you must not do. Ah, why do you say so, even, when you must not do it ? Have I refused one proposition of yours when there were not strong obstacles, that you should have finished with me so, my beloved ? For instance, I agreed to your plan about the marrying, and I agreed to go with you to Italy in the latter part of September – did I not ? And what am I disagreeing in now ? Don’t let me pass for disagreeable ! And don’t, above all, refuse to think for me, and decide for me, or what will become of me, I cannot guess. I shall be worse off than Flush is now . . in his despair, at Whitechapel. Think of my being let loose upon a common, just when the thunder-clouds are gathering ! ! You would not be so cruel, you. All I meant to say was that it would be wise to make the occasions of excitement as few as possible, for the reasons I gave you. But I shall not fail, I believe – I should despise myself too much for failing – I should lose too much by the failure. Then there is an amulet which strengthens the heart of one, – let it incline to fail ever so. Believe of me that I shall not fail, dearest beloved – I shall not, if you love me enough to stand by – believe that always.

The heart will sink indeed sometimes – as mine does to-night, I scarcely know why – but even while it sinks, I do not feel that I shall fail so – I do not. Dearest, I do not, either, ‘ misconceive,’ as you desire me not : I only infer that you will think it best to avoid the chance of meeting Mr. Kenyon, who speaks to me, in a note received this morning, of intending to leave town next Monday – of coming here he does not speak, – and he may come and he may not come, on any intermediate day. He wrote for a book he lent me. If I do not see you until Monday, it will be hard – but judge ! there was more of bitterness than of sweetness in the last visit.

Mr. Kenyon said in his note that he had seen Moxon, and that Tennyson was ‘ disappointed ‘ with the mountains. Is not that strange ? Is it a good or a bad sign when people are disappointed with the miracles of nature ? I am accustomed to fancy it a bad sign. Because a man’s imagination ought to aggrandise, glorify, consecrate. A man sees with his mind, and mind is at fault when he does not see greatly, I think.

Moxon sent a civil message to me about my books ‘ going off regularly.’

And now I must go off – it is my turn. Do you love me to-night, dearest? I ask you . . through the air. I am your very own Ba.

Say how you are, I beseech you, and tell me always and particularly of your mother.

They are all here, gone to a picnic at Richmond.

[Postmark: September 2, 1846]

Here is a distress for me, dearest ! I have lost my poor Flush – lost him ! You were a prophet when you said ‘Take care.’

This morning Arabel and I, and he with us, went in a cab to Vere Street where we had a little business, and he followed us as usual into a shop and out of it again, and was at my heels when I stepped up into the carriage. Having turned, I said ‘ Flush,’ and Arabel looked round for Flush – there was no Flush ! He had been caught up in that moment, from under the wheels, do you understand ? and the thief must have run with him and thrown him into a bag perhaps. It was such a shock to me – think of it ! losing him in a moment, so ! No wonder if I looked white, as Arabel said ! So she began to comfort me by showing how certain it was that I should recover him for ten pounds at most, and we came home ever so drearily. Because Flush doesn’t know that we can recover him, and he is in the extremest despair all this while, poor darling Flush, with his fretful fears, and pretty whims, and his fancy of being near me. All this night he will howl and lament, I know perfectly, – for I fear we shall not ransom him to-night. Henry went down for me directly to the captain of the banditti, who evidently knew all about it, said Henry, – and after a little form of consideration and enquiry, promised to let us hear something this evening, but has not come yet. In the morning perhaps he will come. Henry told him that I was resolved not to give much – but of course they will make me give what they choose – I am not going to leave Flush at their mercy, and they know that as well as I do. My poor Flush !

When we shall be at Pisa, dearest, we shall be away from the London dog-stealers – it will be one of the advantages. Another may be that I may have an opportunity of ‘ forgiving ‘ you, which I have not had yet. I might reproach you a little in my letter, and I did, I believe ; but the offending was not enough for any forgiving to follow – it is too grand a word. Also your worst is better than my best, taking it on the whole. How then should I be able to forgive you, my beloved, even at Pisa ?

If we go to Southampton, we go straight from the railroad to the packet, without entering any hotel – and if we do so, no greater expense is incurred than by the long water-passage from London. Also, we reach Havre alike in the morning, and have the day before us for Rouen, Paris and Orleans. Thereupon nothing is lost by losing the early hour for the departure. Then, if I accede to your idée fixe about the marriage ! Only do not let us put a long time between that and the setting out, and do not you come here afterwards – let us go away as soon as possible afterwards at least. You are afraid for me of my suffering from the autumnal cold when it is yet far off – while I (observe this !) while I am afraid for myself, of breaking down under quite a different set of causes, in nervous excitement and exhaustion. I belong to that pitiful order of weak women who cannot command their bodies with their souls at every moment, and who sink down in hysterical disorder when they ought to act and resist. Now I think and believe that I shall take strength from my attachment to you, and so go through to the end what is before us ; but at the same time, knowing myself and fearing myself, I do desire to provoke the ‘ demon ‘ as little as possible, and to be as quiet as the situation will permit. Still, where things ought to be done, they of course must be done. Only we should consider whether they really ought to be done – not for the sake of the inconvenience to me, but of the consequence to both of us.

Do I frighten you, ever dearest ? Oh no – I shall go through it, if I keep a breath of soul in me to live with. I shall go through it, as certainly as that I love you. I speak only of the accessory circumstances, that they may be kept as smooth as is practicable.

You are not well, my beloved – and I cannot even dream of making you better this time, – because you will think it wise for us not to meet for the next few days perhaps. Mr. Kenyon will come to see me, he said, before he leaves town, and he leaves it on the fourth, fifth or sixth of September. This is the first. So I will not let you come to be vexed as last time – no, indeed. But write to me instead – and pity me for Flush. Oh, I trust to have him back to-morrow. I had no headache, and was quite perfectly well this morning . . before I lost him.

Is your mother able to walk ? is she worse on the whole than last week for instance ? We may talk of September, but you cannot leave her, you know, dearest, if she should be so ill ! it would be unkind and wrong.

More, to-morrow ! But I cannot be more to-morrow, your very own –