How Do I Love Thee? (32 page)

Think for me.

Those were the words that concluded my letter to Robert, that alerted him to this latest, awful predicament. For I did indeed need his advice.

Ever since the confrontation with Papa, confusion reigned in my mind—and even in my heart. Any decision to go abroad involved logic
and
the effect that would befall those I loved. If I stayed, there would be tension because I had even asked, and if I left, there would be tension for those left behind.

One minute I dismissed all thoughts of the trip, yet in the next, I made plans. I found a steamer that left for Malta on October third, and from there, on to Pisa I would go. Both Stormie and Arabel had come to see me. In quiet voices they dubbed me “the bravest person in the house.”

But I was not brave, or if I did own that attribute, it was but for a moment here, a minute there, before doubt and fear and guilt and dis-ease filtered through the cracks in my resolve and weakened the small cache of courage hidden there.

Think for me. . . .

Where was Robert’s response? He was not coming to visit until Friday and I needed his guidance and support now.

Wilson came into the room, bringing me coffee and scones. “Have my sisters checked the mail?” I asked.

“Your sisters are out and about, miss. No one is home.”

Their absence gave me hope that delay was not denial. “Please check the mail for me then,” I asked. “Perhaps no one has checked the letter box at all.”

She hurried to her task and came back in quick order, a letter in hand.

My relief awakened new hope for answers. I ripped open the letter, praying for resolution, praying for clarity.

You have said to me more than once that you wished I might never know certain feelings you had been forced to endure. I truly wish you may never feel what I have to bear in looking on, quite powerless and silent, while you are subjected to this treatment which I refuse to characterize—so blind is it for blindness. For I wholly sympathize, however it go against me, with the highest, wariest pride and love for you, and the proper jealousy and vigilance they entail. But now, and here, the jewel is not being over guarded, but ruined, cast away.

A jewel overguarded . . . it was an apt description. Although I never considered myself beyond a bland pebble, I understood his theory, and I relished that he understood my situation. This was just what I needed: a caring ear. I continued to read:

Whoever is privileged to interfere should do so in your interest—all rationality against this absolute no-reason at all. And you ask whether you ought to obey this no-reason? I will tell you: all passive obedience and submission of will and intellect is too easy, if well considered, to be the course prescribed by God to Man in this life of trials. Chop off your legs, you will never go astray; stifle your reason altogether and you will find it is difficult to reason ill. You say, “It is hard to make these sacrifices!” Not so hard as to lose the reward or incur the penalty of an Eternity to come.

How wise he was! And how telling his words. Was I taking the easy way out by giving in to Papa? Was the blessing not in the blind obedience, but in the testing of one’s legs amid life’s trials?

I know very well the indulgence that can occur while exercising one’s abilities . . . there are difficulties and prob-lems in coming to a solution, set by that Providence which could have made the laws of religion as certain as those of life, and the elements of believing we are right as certain as that condition by which we breathe so many times in a minute to support life. But there is no reward for the feat of breathing, and a great one for that of believing and trusting ourselves. Consequently there must exist a great deal of voluntary effort in believing and acting than by not trying at all—or adopting the direction of an infallible church or the private opinion of another person. For all our life is some form of religion, and all our action some belief that we can make the right choice. There is but one law, however modi-fied, for all people.

Oh, that God would have made His will ours! Giving us
free
will was not free; there were costs to consider and balance. The reward for our choices, for our belief in ourselves and in our desire to do the right thing, were great. But along the way we had to take risks. We had to try.

In your case I do think you are called upon to do your duty to yourself; that is, to God in the end. Your own reason should examine the whole matter in dispute by every light which can be put in requisition; and every interest that appears to be affected by your conduct should have its utmost claims considered. And this examination made, with whatever earnestness you will, I do think and am sure that on its conclusion you should act in confidence that a duty has been performed—difficult, or how were it a duty? Will it not be infinitely harder to act so than to blindly adopt his pleasure and die under it? Who can not do that?

Difficult . . . oh yes. And what was my duty to myself? I had been so long under Papa’s rule that I found it hard to grasp the concept of a will unto my own and not beholden to his. Difficult? Absolutely. But was it possible? I still was not certain I could go against him.

I fling these hasty rough words over the paper, fast as they will fall—knowing to whom I cast them, and that any sense they may contain or point to will be caught and understood and presented in a better light. The hard thing . . . this is all I want to say . . . is to act on one’s own best conviction—not to renounce it and accept another’s will and say “There is my plain duty”!

Duty. I had lived the part of a dutiful daughter my entire life. I knew no other way to live. Although I felt Robert understood a great part of me, I was not certain he understood duty. He lived in a home where his parents bowed to his wishes, where he exerted control. The duty within his home came from mutual respect and an unusual equality between parent and child. He was loved and was therefore dutiful. His duty was easily and rarely tested. But mine . . .

I still could not fully grasp the intricacies of the duty that was sovereign in this home—the only home I knew. And though I admired and even envied Robert’s casting off of “there is my plain duty,” I knew in my soul that the duty that existed in my family was indeed plain, and was something that was put into play every day. It was as essential in our lives as Robert’s mention of the feat of breathing. I believed
that. That
ruled me.

The entire issue of going abroad for the winter grew small and insignificant. The diminishment was shocking and caused me to blurt out an entreaty to God, “Help me! Help me grasp the truth.”

A listing of truths appeared. Was it my right to demand to be sent away for my own pleasure—health benefit or no? Was it my right to force Stormie and Arabel this same fate? Would we enjoy Pisa? Most probably. But was my determined act of selfish gain something to be fought for, as a lance hurled against the inalienable duty that glued our family together as one unit?

“No.” I said the word aloud, and its presence in the room solidified my decision so that I said it again. “No.”

Although cognizant of the flaws and foibles of my family’s composition, I could not test its boundaries to breaking. I loved my father, and I would express that love for him by abiding by his true wishes. Although he
had
given me permission to go, his disdain in doing so would result in a lasting breach between us.

“I will show him my love by sacrificing for him, giving up my desires in order to submit to his.”

I felt great release in this decision—a relief which I often took as affirmation that I was doing God’s bidding.

But then I glanced again to Robert’s letter. He had worked so hard, had shared his thoughts and hopes . . . and I was going against him. But . . . I searched back in the letter for the words that would give me solace. There, there they were:
Your own reason should examine the whole matter in dispute by every light which can be put in requisition.
He had given me permission to make it my decision.

The memory of the conversation when I had been given permission to make my own decision intruded. Papa’s voice played in my head.
“I am
done with it. For my part I wash my hands of you altogether. Do as you wish.”

My mouth turned dry. Such anger and spitefulness . . . did he deserve my sacrifice?

Do you deserve mine?

I drew in a breath at the voice of God within me. Christ had been sacrificed for all, for me. Did I deserve such a sacrifice?

I shook my head no with great adamancy. And with that recognition of my humble place in the world, I tossed all thoughts of whether Papa deserved my compliance to the air.
Honour your Father and Mother.

I would do that and gain the blessing of knowing I had done the right thing.

As for Robert? He would understand. He may not agree, but he would come to understand. I would make him understand.

Besides, with me still in London, and Robert in London . . . our weekly visits could continue. My life depended on that—as much as it did on breathing.

I closed my eyes and took a few breaths in and out, solidifying the decision made. Only then did I look back to the last paragraph of Robert’s letter.

How all changes! When I first knew you . . . you know what followed. I supposed you to labour under an incurable complaint—and, of course, to be completely dependent on your father for its commonest alleviation. Now again the circumstances shift—and you are in what I should wonder at, as the veriest slavery, and I who could free you from it, I am here scarcely daring to write.

He called my condition slavery! He would never understand my decision. Never!

I forced myself to read the final words.

What retires so mutely into my heart at your least word, what shall not be again written or spoken, if you so will . . . that I should be made happy beyond all hope of expression. Now while I dream, let me dream! If allowed, I would marry you now and thus I would come when you let me, and go when you bade me . . .

God bless my dearest E.B.B.

Marry me? I felt my heart skip a beat in acclamation and pressed a hand against my chest to keep it contained. He loved me enough to want me to be his—forever?

Although he had mentioned marriage in that long-ago letter we never spoke about, to receive such a proof of attachment from Robert now, after our affection had naturally grown, not only overpowered every present evil, but seemed a full and abundant payment for the personal sufferings of my whole life.

I looked about the room and found that the small bitternesses of the last few days were gone. The tear marks vanished in the moisture of new, happy tears. How else could I have felt? How would any woman have felt upon hearing such words said—though “in a dream” indeed—by such a speaker?

I got out paper and pen and with shaking hand responded to this man, this Robert Browning. . . .

You have touched me more profoundly than I thought even you could have touched me. Henceforward I am yours for everything but to do you harm. However this may be, a promise goes to you in it that none, except God and your will, shall interpose between you and me. I mean, that if He should free me within a moderate time from the trailing chain of this weakness, I will then be to you whatever at that hour you shall choose . . . whether friend or more than friend . . . a friend to the last in any case. So it rests with God and with you. May God bless you on this and on those that come after, my dearest friend.

I smiled at the world, for what a glorious world it was! I loved two men in this world above all others—Papa and Robert. And now I knew that my decision to honour one would not lose me the other! Would we ever marry? I had more doubts than certainty, and yet the very thought that a man loved me like that . . .

I looked at the clock wishing evening were upon me. For when Papa came to me this night for our prayers, I would tell him of my decision.

With one letter and one statement, I would please both loves of my life.

For the first time in weeks, I looked forward to Papa coming for evening prayers. Ever since the idea of Pisa or going abroad had come up, there had been tension between us that prayer had helped, but had not overcome.

But tonight, I would put an end to it. I would honour him and please him and earn his title of favourite. And all would be well, and life could continue as it had before—but better. For I had the love of Robert in my life, and with love, all things were good.

Did not love conquer all?

At the appointed time I heard Papa’s footfalls upon the stair. My heart caught in my throat, but with a full breath was put in its proper place. I arranged a smile as his greeting.

He rapped on the doorjamb, then entered. Upon seeing my smile he did a double-take. “Good evening, Ba.”

“Good evening, Papa.” I was pleased that my voice had achieved true pleasure.

He came in and we moved to take our proper places for prayer. But I stopped him with a hand to his arm. “I wanted to tell you that I have decided to abandon any plans to go abroad for the winter. I wish to stay here with you, as you so wish.”