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!