And—now! now, Ba, to the subject-matter: whatever you decide on writing to Mrs. Jameson will be rightly written—it seems to me nearly immaterial; (putting out of the question the confiding the whole secret, which, from its responsibility, as you feel, must not be done) whether you decline her kindness for untold reasons which two months (Ba?) will make abundantly plain,—or whether you farther inform her that there is a special secret—of which she must bear the burthen, even in that mitigated form, for the same two months,—as I say, it seems immaterial—but it is most material that you should see how the ground is crumbling from beneath our feet, with its chances and opportunities—do not talk about ‘four months,’—till December, that is—unless you mean what must follow as a consequence. The next thing will be Mr. Kenyon’s application to me—he certainly knows everything ... how else, after such a speech from your sister? But his wisdom as well as his habits incline him to use the force that is in kindness, patience, gentleness: your father might have entered the room suddenly yesterday and given vent to all the passionate indignation in the world. I dare say we should have been married to-day: but I shall have the quietest, most considerate of expositions made me (with one arm on my shoulder), of how I am sure to be about to kill you, to ruin you, your social reputation, your public estimation, destroy the peace of this member of your family, the prospects of that other,—and the end will be?
Because I can not only die for you but live without you for you—once sure it is for you: I know what you once bade me promise—but I do not know what assurances on assurance, all on the ground of a presumed knowledge of your good above your own possible knowledge,—might not effect! I do not know!
This is through you! You ought to know now that ‘it would not be better for me to leave you’! That after this devotion of myself to you I cannot undo it all, and devote myself to objects so utterly insignificant that yourself do not venture to specify them—‘it would be better—people will say such things’ ... I will never force you to know this, however—if your admirable senses do not instruct you, I shall never seem to, as it were, threaten you, by prophecies of what my life would probably be, disengaged from you—it should certainly not be passed where the ‘people’ are, nor where their ‘sayings’ influenced me any more—but I ask you to look into my heart, and into your own belief in what is worthy and durable and the better—and then decide:—for instance, to speak of waiting for four months will be a decision.
See, dearest—I began lightly,—I cannot end so. I know, after all, the words were divine, self-forgetting words—after all, that you are mine, by the one tenure, of your own free gift,—that all the other words have not been mere breath, nor the love, a playful show, an acting, an error you will correct. I believe in you, or what shall I believe in? I wish I could take my life, my affections, my ambitions, all my very self, and fold over them your little hand, and leave them there—then you would see what belief is mine! But if you had not seen it, would you have uttered one word, written one line, given one kiss to me? May God bless you, Ba—
R.B.
E.B.B. to R.B.
Wednesday Evening.
[Post-mark, July 30, 1846.]
‘Such desires—(for it was a desire—’)
Well put into a parenthesis that is!—ashamed and hiding itself between the brackets!
Because—my own dearest—it was not a ‘desire’—it was the farthest possible from being a ‘desire’ ... the word I spoke to you on Tuesday ... yesterday!