Your own

R.

R.B. to E.B.B.

Saturday Morning.
[Post-mark, February 7, 1846.]

Dearest, to my sorrow I must, I fear, give up the delight of seeing you this morning.  I went out unwell yesterday, and a long noisy dinner with speech-making, with a long tiresome walk at the end of it—­these have given me such a bewildering headache that I really see some reason in what they say here about keeping the house.  Will you forgive me—­and let me forget it all on Monday?  On Monday—­unless I am told otherwise by the early post—­And God bless you ever

Your own—­

E.B.B. to R.B.

                              Saturday.
                              [Post-mark, February 7, 1846.]

I felt it must be so ... that something must be the matter, ... and I had been so really unhappy for half an hour, that your letter which comes now at four, seems a little better, with all its bad news, than my fancies took upon themselves to be, without instruction.  Now was it right to go out yesterday when you were unwell, and to a great dinner?—­but I shall not reproach you, dearest, dearest—­I have no heart for it at this moment.  As to Monday, of course it is as you like ... if you are well enough on Monday ... if it should be thought wise of you to come to London through the noise ... if ... you understand all the ifs ... and among them the greatest if of all, ... for if you do love me ... care for me even, you will not do yourself harm or run any risk of harm by going out anywhere too soon.  On Monday, in case you are considered well enough, and otherwise Tuesday, Wednesday—­I leave it to you.  Still I will ask one thing, whether you come on Monday or not. Let me have a single line by the nearest post to say how you are.  Perhaps for to-night it is not possible—­oh no, it is nearly five now! but a word written on Sunday would be with me early on Monday morning, and I know you will let me have it, to save some of the anxious thoughts ... to break them in their course with some sort of certainty!  May God bless you dearest of all!—­I thought of you on Thursday, but did not speak of you, not even when Miss Mitford called Hood the greatest poet of the age ... she had been depreciating Carlyle, so I let you lie and wait on the same level, ... that shelf of the rock which is above tide mark!  I was glad even, that she did not speak of you; and, under cover of her speech of others, I had my thoughts of you deeply and safely.  When she had gone at half past six, moreover, I grew over-hopeful, and made up my fancy to have a letter at eight!  The branch she had pulled down, sprang upward skyward ... to that high possibility of a letter!  Which did not come that day ... no!—­and I revenged myself by writing a letter to you, which was burnt afterwards because I would not torment you for letters.  Last night, came a real one—­dearest!