Yes, one thing more was said. He mentioned having had some conversation with my uncle Hedley, who was ‘very angry’—and he asked if my aunt Hedley had no influence with the highest authority. My sisters answered in the negative. And this is all. He appears to have no ‘plan’ of his particular own.

What do you say, Robert, to all this? Since I am officially informed of Mrs. Jameson’s goodness, I must thank her certainly—and in what words? ‘How’!——as Mr. Kenyon asks. Half I have felt inclined to write and thank her gratefully, and confide to her, not the secret itself, but the secret of there being a secret with the weight of which I am unwilling to oppress her at this time. Could it be done, I wonder? Perhaps not. Yet how hard, how very difficult, it seems to me, to thank her worthily, and be silent wholly on my motives in rejecting her companionship! And a whole confidence now is dangerous ... would torment her with a sense of responsibility. Think which way it should be.

Once you asked me about joining travelling-company, with Mrs. Jameson. Should you like it? prefer it for any cause? ... if it could be done without involving her in trouble, of course.

Ah, dearest ... what a loss the three quarters of an hour were to me! like the loss of four quarters of a moon on a dark night! When dear Mr. Kenyon came to me, he found me with my thoughts astray—following you up the street! He asked how long you had been here.... ‘Some time,’ I said—by an answer made to fit anything. The rest of my answers were not so apt!—were more like ‘cross-questions,’ perhaps, than answers of the common. But he roused me a little by telling me that he wanted you to ‘make an excursion’ with Landor and himself, and that you did not ‘encourage the idea’—and by proceeding to tell me further, that at a dinner the other day at his house, your poetry being taken up and praised to the right measure, before that wretched Mr. Reade, he wrote a letter by the morning’s post to Mr. Kenyon, to express a regret that he (Mr. Reade) should have found it impossible to join in the plaudits ‘of a brother-bard,’ but that Edmund Reade could not recognize Robert Browning as a master-mind of the period, for reasons, which were given at length. ‘He, (Robert Browning) had never rushed, with a passionate genius, into the production of long poems’ ... (like ‘Italy’) ‘and long dramas’ ... (like ... like ... what’s the name of Mr. Reade’s last?) Poor, wretched man! Mr. Kenyon tore up the letter in compassion too tender toward humanity! Also he told me your excellent story on the stairs.

On the stairs! I heard the talking and the laughing, and felt ready to cry out the burden. Well—, Saturday will come, as surely as you could go. May God bless you, my own!—are you my own? and not rather, yes, rather, far rather, I am your own, your very own

Ba.

I doubt your being able to read what is written. Only don’t send the ‘manuscript’ to Mr. Forster, to be interpreted ... after the fashion of others!

R.B. to E.B.B.

Wednesday Morning.
[Post-mark, July 29, 1846.]

This is just the way, the only way, my ever, ever dearest, you make cares for me—it is hard to dare to settle whether the pain of the lost quarters of the hour yesterday be not balanced by the gladness and gain of this letter; as it is hard saying whether to kiss your hand (mind, only the hand!) with shut eyes, be better than seeing you and only seeing: you cause me abundance of such troubles, dearest, best, divinest that you are! Oh, how can you, blessing me so, speak as you spoke yesterday—for the first time! I thought you would only write such suppositions, such desires—(for it was a desire) ... and that along with you I was safe from them,—yet you are adorable amid it all—only I do feel such speaking, Ba, lightly as it fell—no, not now I feel it,—this letter is before my heart like the hand on my eyes. I feel this letter, only—how good, good, good of you to write it! Yes, I did meet Mr. Kenyon on the stairs—with a half opened door that discovered sundry presences, and then had I to speak of a sudden—put it to my credit on one side that I did speak and laugh; and on the other side, that I did neither too à propos. He most kindly (seeing it all) began asking about Forster and Moxon—and I remember some kind of stammering remark of the latter which I retailed ... to the effect that ‘now would be a favourable time to print a volume of poems’—this I did, to seem to have something on my mind calling for a consultation with you! Then he made that proposal about Landor and Mr. Eagles ... whether I ‘encouraged the idea,’ or no, it encouraged me, and helped me a good deal this morning,—for Eliot Warburton sent two days ago a pressing letter to invite me to go to Ireland,—I should have yachting and other delights,—and I was glad to return for an answer, that I had an engagement, ‘conditional on my accepting any.’ As for my ‘excellent story on the stairs’—you alarm me! Upon my honour, I have not the least recollection of having told one, or said another word than the above mentioned. So people are congratulated on displaying this or the other bravery in battle or fire, when their own memory is left a blank of all save the confusion! Let me say here, that he amused me also with the characteristic anecdote of poor Mr. Reade, on Saturday.