E.B.B. to R.B.
Friday Night.
[Post-mark, September 19, 1846.]
At from half-past three to four, then—four will not, I suppose, be too late. I will not write more—I cannot. By to-morrow at this time, I shall have you only, to love me—my beloved!
You only! As if one said God only. And we shall have Him beside, I pray of Him.
I shall send to your address at New Cross your Hanmer’s poems—and the two dear books you gave me, which I do not like to leave here and am afraid of hurting by taking them with me. Will you ask our Sister to put the parcel into a drawer, so as to keep it for us?
Your letters to me I take with me, let the ‘ounces’ cry out aloud, ever so. I tried to leave them, and I could not. That is, they would not be left: it was not my fault—I will not be scolded.
Is this my last letter to you, ever dearest? Oh—if I loved you less ... a little, little less.
Why I should tell you that our marriage was invalid, or ought to be; and that you should by no means come for me to-morrow. It is dreadful ... dreadful ... to have to give pain here by a voluntary act—for the first time in my life.
Remind your mother and father of me affectionately and gratefully—and your Sister too! Would she think it too bold of me to say our Sister, if she had heard it on the last page?