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 abjure it and accept another will, and say ’there is my plain duty’—­easy it is, whether plain or no!

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 alleviations; the moment after that inconsiderate letter, I reproached myself bitterly with the selfishness apparently involved in any proposition I might then have made—­for though I have never been at all frightened of the world, nor mistrustful of my power to deal with it, and get my purpose out of it if once I thought it worth while, yet I could not but feel the consideration, of what failure would now be, paralyse all effort even in fancy.  When you told me lately that ’you could never be poor’—­all my solicitude was at an end—­I had but myself to care about, and I told you, what I believed and believe, that I can at any time amply provide for that, and that I could cheerfully and confidently undertake the removing that obstacle.  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 ... though I know you must feel for me and forgive what forces itself from me ... 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 by.  Now while I dream, let me once dream!  I would marry you now and thus—­I would come when you let me, and go when you bade me—­I would be no more than one of your brothers—­’no more’—­that is, instead of getting to-morrow for Saturday, I should get Saturday as well—­two hours for one—­when your head ached I should be here.  I deliberately choose the realization of that dream (—­of sitting simply by you for an hour every day) rather than any other, excluding you, I am able to form for this world, or any world I know—­And it will continue but a dream.

God bless my dearest E.B.B.

R.B.

You understand that I see you to-morrow, Friday, as you propose.

I am better—­thank you—­and will go out to-day.

You know what I am, what I would speak, and all I would do.

E.B.B. to R.B.

Friday Evening.
[Post-mark, September 27, 1845.]

I had your letter late last night, everyone almost, being out of the house by an accident, so that it was left in the letter-box, and if I had wished to answer it before I saw you, it had scarcely been possible.