ay 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