I am about to go out with a heavy heart, because my appearing this
evening will stop any absurd story which the event of the day might give
rise to. Do you think _now_ I am _cold_ and _stern_ and _artful_? Will
even _others_ think so? Will your _mother_ ever--that mother to whom we
must indeed sacrifice much, more, much more on my part than she shall
ever know or can imagine? "Promise not to love you!" ah, Caroline, it is
past promising. But I shall attribute all concessions to the proper
motive, and never cease to feel all that you have already witnessed, and
more than can ever be known but to my own heart,--perhaps to yours. May
God protect, forgive, and bless you. Ever, and even more than ever,
Your most attached,
BYRON.
P.S.--These taunts which have driven you to this, my dearest Caroline,
were it not for your mother and the kindness of your connections, is
there anything on earth or heaven that would have made me so happy as to
have made you mine long ago? and not less _now_ than _then_, but _more_
than ever at this time. You know I would with pleasure give up all here
and all beyond the grave for you, and in refraining from this, must my
motives be misunderstood? I care not who knows this, what use is made of
it,--it is to _you_ and to _you_ only that they are _yourself (sic)_. I
was and am yours freely and most entirely, to obey, to honour,
love,--and fly with you when, where, and how you yourself _might_ and
_may_ determine.
[Footnote 1: Lady Caroline's infatuation for Byron, expressed in various
ways--once (in July, 1813) by a self-inflicted stab with a table-knife,
or a broken glass--became the talk of society.
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