Beloved: No, not Browning but Tennyson was in my thoughts at our last ride
together: and I found myself shy, as I have been for a long time wishing
to say things I could not. What has never entered your head to ask becomes
difficult when I wish to get it spoken. So I bring Tennyson to tell you
what I mean:--
"Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaäy?
Proputty, proputty, proputty--that's what I 'ears 'em saäy."
The tune of this kept me silent all the while we galloped: this and
Pembury, a name that glows to me now like the New Jerusalem.
And do you understand, Beloved? or must I say more? My freedom has made
its nest under my uncle's roof: but I _am_ a quite independent person in
other ways besides character.
Well, Pembury was settled on your own initiative: and I looked on proud
and glad. Now I have my own little word to add, merely a tail that wags
and makes merry over a thing decided and done. Do you forgive me for
this: and for the greater offense of being quite shy at having to write
it?
My Aunt thanks you for the game: for my part I cannot own that it will
taste sweeter to me for being your own shooting. And please, whatever
else you do big and grand and dangerous, respect my superstitions and
don't shoot any larks this winter. In the spring I would like to think
that here or there an extra lark bubbles over because I and my whims
find occasional favor in your sight. When I ask great favors you always
grant them; and so, Ahasuerus, grant this little one to your beautifully
loving.
* * * * *
Give me the credit of being conscious of it, Beloved: postscripts I
never _do_ write. I am glad you noticed it. If I find anything left out
I start another letter: _this_ is that other letter: it goes into the
same envelope merely for company, and signs itself yours in all state.