‘Mr. Kenyon threw cold water on the whole scheme. But you! Have you given up going to Italy?’
I said ‘no, that I have not certainly.’ I said ‘I felt deeply how her great kindness demanded every sort of frankness and openness from me towards her,——and yet, that at that moment I could not be frank—there were reasons which prevented it. Would she promise not to renew the subject to Mr. Kenyon? not to repeat to him what I said? and to wait until the whole should be explained to herself?’
She promised. She was kind beyond imagination—at least, far beyond expectation. She looked at me a little curiously, but asked no more questions until she rose to go away. And then——
‘But you will go?’ ‘Perhaps—if something unforeseen does not happen.’ ‘And you will let me know, and when you can,—when everything is settled?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And you think you shall go?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And with efficient companionship?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And happily and quietly?’ ... ‘Ye ...’ I could not say the full ‘Yes,’ to that—If it had been utterable, the idea of ‘quiet’ would have been something peculiar. She loosened her grasp of her catechumen, therefore——nothing was to be done with me.
I forgot, however, to tell you that in the earlier part of the discussion she spoke of having half given up her plan of going herself. In her infinite goodness she said, ‘she seemed to want an object, and it was in the merest selfishness, she had proposed taking me as an object’—‘And if you go even without me, would it not be possible to meet you on the road? I shall go to Paris in any case. If you go, how do you go?’
‘Perhaps across France—by the rivers.’
‘Precisely. That is as it should be. Mr. Kenyon talked of a long sea-voyage.’
Now I have recited the whole dialogue to you, I think, except where my gratitude grew rhetorical, as well it might. She is the kindest, most affectionate woman in the world! and you shall let me love her for you and for me.
As for me, my own dearest, you are fanciful when you say that I do not go out so much, nor look so well. Now I will just tell you—Henrietta cried out in loud astonishment at me to-day, desiring Treppy to look at my face, when we were all standing together in this room—‘Look at Ba, Treppy!—Did you ever see anyone looking so much better; it really is wonderful, the difference within these few weeks.’ That’s Henrietta’s opinion! She quite startled me with crying out ... as if suddenly she had missed my head!—And you!
Then I have been out in the carriage to-day, just to Charing Cross, and then to Mr. Boyd’s in St. John’s Wood. I am as well at this moment as anyone in the world. I have not had one symptom of illness throughout the summer—perfectly well, I am. At the same time, being strong is different; and sometimes for a day or two together, when I do not feel the strongest, it is right to be quiet and not to walk up and down stairs. So as I ‘love Ba,’ (quite enough, I assure you!) I am quiet. There’s the only meaning of not going out every day! But the health is perfectly unaffected, I do assure you,—so keep yourself from every vexing thought of me, so far at least. Are you getting frightened for me, my beloved? Do not be frightened, I would not deceive you by an exaggeration, for the sake even of your temporary satisfaction—you may trust what I say.