Bless you, my dearest—­

Your own

R.B.

E.B.B. to R.B.

Wednesday Evening.
[Post-mark, October 8, 1845.]

Mr. Kenyon never came.  My sisters met him in the street, and he had been ’detained all day in the city and would certainly be here to-morrow,’ Wednesday!  And so you see what has happened to Wednesday!  Moreover he may come besides on Thursday, ...  I can answer for nothing.  Only if I do not write and if you find Thursday admissible, will you come then?  In the case of an obstacle, you shall hear.  And it is not (in the meantime) my fault—­now is it?  I have been quite enough vexed about it, indeed.

Did the Monday work work harm to the head, I wonder?  I do fear so that you won’t get through those papers with impunity—­especially if the plays are to come after ... though ever so ‘gently.’  And if you are to suffer, it would be right to tongue-tie that silver Bell, and leave the congregations to their selling of cabbages.  Which is unphilanthropic of me perhaps, ... [Greek:  o philtate].

Be sure that I shall be ‘bold’ when the time for going comes—­and both bold and capable of the effort.  I am desired to keep to the respirator and the cabin for a day or two, while the cold can reach us; and midway in the bay of Biscay some change of climate may be felt, they say.  There is no sort of danger for me; except that I shall stay in England.  And why is it that I feel to-night more than ever almost, as if I should stay in England?  Who can tell? I can tell one thing. If I stay, it will not be from a failure in my resolution—­that will not be—­shall not be.  Yes—­and Mr. Kenyon and I agreed the other day that there was something of the tigress-nature very distinctly cognisable under what he is pleased to call my ‘Ba-lambishness.’

Then, on Thursday!... unless something happens to Thursday ... and I shall write in that case.  And I trust to you (as always) to attend to your own convenience—­just as you may trust to me to remember my own ‘boon.’  Ah—­you are curious, I think!  Which is scarcely wise of you—­because it may, you know, be the roc’s egg after all.  But no, it isn’t—­I will say just so much.  And besides I did say that it was a ‘restitution,’ which limits the guesses if it does not put an end to them.  Unguessable, I choose it to be.

And now I feel as if I should not stay in England.  Which is the difference between one five minutes and another.  May God bless you.

Ever yours,

E.B.B.

E.B.B. to R.B.

[Post-mark, October 11, 1845.]