The message from Janey to Scrope's hotel was despatched half-an-hour
after we had driven in from the park; fruit of a brown meditation. I
wrote it--third person--a single sentence. Arrangements are made for her
to travel comfortably. It is funny--the shops for her purchases of
clothes, necessaries, etc., are specified; she may order to any extent.
Not a shilling of money for her poor purse. What can be the secret of
that? He does nothing without an object. To me, uniformly civil, no
irony, few compliments. Livia writes, that I am commended for keeping
Janey company. What can be the secret of a man scrupulously just with one
hand, and at the same time cruel with the other? Mr. Woodseer says, his
wealth:--"More money than is required for their needs, men go into
harness to Plutus,"--if that is clever.

'I have written my husband--as Janey ceases to call her own; and it was
pretty and touching to hear her "my husband."--Oh! a dull letter. But he
is my husband though he keeps absent--to be longed for--he is my husband
still, my husband always. Chillon is Henrietta's husband, the world cries
out, and when she is flattered she does the like, for then it is not too
presumptuous that she should name Henrietta Chillon's wife. In my ears,
husband has the sweeter sound. It brings an angel from overhead. Will it
bring him one-half hour sooner? My love! My dear! If it did, I should be
lisping "husband, husband, husband" from cock-crow to owl's cry. Livia
thinks the word foolish, if not detestable. She and I have our different
opinions. She is for luxury. I choose poverty and my husband. Poverty has
its beauty, if my husband is the sun of it. Elle radote. She would not
have written so dull a letter to her husband if she had been at the opera
last night, or listened to a distant street-band. No more--the next line
would be bleeding. He should have her blood too, if that were her
husband's--it would never be; but if it were for his good in the smallest
way. Chillon's wish is to give his blood for them he loves. Never did
woman try more to write worthily to her absent lord and fall so miserably
into the state of dripping babe from bath on nurse's knee. Cover me, my
lord; and love, my cause for--no, my excuse, my refuge from myself. We
are one? Oh! we are one!--and we have been separated eight and twenty
days.

'HENRIETTA KIRBY-LEVELLIER.'

That was a letter for the husband and lover to receive in a foreign land
and b