Chapter XXI: Part 21

Ah, but here all the fuss is just about stealing a dog—two or three words, and the matter becomes simply ludicrous—very easily got rid of! One cannot take vengeance on the ‘great man’ with his cigar and room of pictures and burlesque dignities of mediation! Just so, when Robert was inclined to be sorry for the fate of Bertha’s sister, one can fancy what a relief and change would be operated in his feelings, if a good-natured friend send him a version of his mighty crime in Lord Rochester’s funny account of ‘forsaken damsels’ ... with the motto ‘Women have died ere now and worms have eaten them—but not for love—’ or ‘At lovers’ perjuries Jove laughs’ why, Robert is a ‘lady-killer’ like D’Orsay! Well, enough of sermonizing for the present; it is impossible for me to differ with you and treat _that_ as a light matter ... or, what on earth would have been so little to wonder at, as that, loving Flush, you should determine to save him at any price? If ‘Chiappino’ were to assure you, in terms that you could not disbelieve, that in the event of your marrying me he would destroy himself,—would you answer, as I should, ‘Do so, and take the consequences,’—and think no more about the matter? I should absolutely leave it, as not my concern but God’s—nor should blame myself any more than if the poor man, being uncertain what to do, had said ‘If a man first passes the window—yes—if a woman—no’—and I, a total stranger, had passed.

One word more—in all this, I labour against the execrable policy of the world’s husbands, fathers, brothers, and domineerers in general. I am about to marry you ... how wise, then, to encourage such a temper in you! such was that divine Griselda’s—a word rules the gentle nature—‘Do this, or....’

My own Ba, if I thought you could fear me, I think _I_ should have the courage to give you up to-morrow!

Because _to-day_ I am altogether yours, and you are my very own—and to-morrow never comes, they say. Bless you, my best dearest Ba—and if you think I deserve it, you shall test the excellence of those slippers on my cheek, (and not the flannelled side, neither), the next happy time I see you ... which will be soon, soon, I trust! who am more than

ever your own R.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Friday.
[Post-mark, September 5, 1846.]

You best! Was ever any in the world, in any possible world, so perfectly good and dear to another as you are to me! Ah! if you could know how I feel to you, when you write such words as came to me this morning—Dearest! It ends in that, all I can say. And yet I must say besides that the idea of ‘crossness,’ of hardness, never came to me, for one moment, from the previous letter. I just shook my head and thought how you would not act it out, if _you_ had a Flush. Upon which I could not follow out my argument to myself, through thinking that you were ill.

You are better now, Robert, and you promise to take care of the dinner, where you should _not_ go if I were near you. I should be ‘afraid of you’ far too much to let you, indeed! Such a wrong thing _that_ dinner is ... as wrong as any dogstealer in his way ... drawing you out just when you ought to be at home and quiet, if not ‘abstinent.’ When did I ever tell you to be abstinent, pray? You are too much so, it seems to me, in general: and to pass the whole of that day without eating! How unwell you must have been, dearest! How I long to see you and ascertain that you look tolerably well! How very, very happy I should be, to be able to look at you to-morrow. But no, no! Mr. Kenyon does not come, and we must be wise, I suppose, and wait till the ground is clear of him, which will not be till Monday. Probably he will visit me on Sunday—but the chance of Saturday is like the hat on a pole in gardens, set there to frighten away the birds. Still they may sing on the other side of the wall, not to be too far from the cherries and the hope of them. Monday surely will be a clear day. Unless Mr. Kenyon shall put off his journey just to despite us—who shall say?

I have not Flush yet. I am to have him to-morrow morning.

And for the Flush-argument, dear dearest, I hold that your theory is entirely good and undeniable. I agree with you throughout it, praising Mahomet, praising Hampden, and classing the Taylors, Gregorys, and Spanish banditti all together. Also I hope I should try, at least, to resist with you their various iniquities—and, for instance, I do not think that any Gregory in the world would draw a shilling from _me_, by a threat against my own character. I should dare _that_, oh, I am confident I should—the indignation would be far the stronger, where I myself only was involved. And even in the imaginary Chiappino-case, the selfish and dastardly threat would fall from me like a child’s arrow from steel. I believe so.

But Flush, poor Flush, Flush who has loved me so faithfully; have I a right to sacrifice _him_ in his innocence, for the sake of any Mr. Taylor’s guilt in the world? Does not Flush’s condition assimilate to my own among the banditti? for you agree that you would not, after all, leave me to the banditti—and I, _exactly on the same ground_, will not leave Flush. It seems to me that you and I are _at one_ upon the whole question,—only that _I_ am _your_ Flush, and _he_ is mine. You, if you were ‘consistent’ ... dearest! ... would not redeem me on any account. You do ever so much harm by it, observe—you produce catastrophe on catastrophe, just for the sake of my two ears without earrings! Oh, I entirely agree with your principle. Evil should be resisted that it may fly from you.

But Flush is not to be sacrificed—nor even is Ba, it appears. So our two weaknesses may pardon one another, yours and mine!

Some dog, shut up in a mews somewhere behind this house, has been yelling and moaning to-day and yesterday. How he has made me think of my poor poor Flush, I cannot tell you—‘Think of Flush’ he seemed to say.

Yes!—A blow in the street! I wish somebody _would_ propose such a thing to me, in exchange! I would have thanked Mr. Taylor himself for striking me down in the street, if the stroke had been offered as an alternative for the loss of Flush. You may think it absurd—but when my dinner is brought to me, I feel as if I could not (scarcely) touch it—the thought of poor Flush’s golden eyes is too strong in me.

Not a word of your mother. She is better, I trust! And you ... may God keep you better, beloved! To be parted from you so long, teaches me the necessity of your presence—I am your very, very own.

I was out to-day—driving along the Hampstead Road. What weather!

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Saturday.
[Post-mark, September 5, 1846.]

Dearest Ba, I feel your perfect goodness at my heart—I can say nothing.

Nor write very much more: my head still teazes, rather than pains me. Don’t lay more of it to the dinner than necessary: I got my sister to write a letter deprecatory of all pressing to eat and drink and such mistaken hospitality—to the end that I might sit unpitied, uncondoled with, and be an eyesore to nobody—which succeeded so well that I eat some mutton and drank wine and water without let or molestation. Our party was reduced to three, by a couple of defections—but there was an immense talking and I dare say this continuance of my ailment is partly attributable to it. I shall be quiet now. I tell you the simple truth, that you may believe—and this also believe, that it would have done me great good to go to you this morning,—if I could lean my head on your neck, what could pain it, dear dear Ba?

I am sorry poor Flush is not back again—very sorry. But no one would hurt him, be quite sure ... his mere value prevents that.

Shall I see you on Monday then? This is the _first time_ since we met at the beginning, that a whole week, from a Sunday to a Saturday, has gone by without a day for us. Well—I trust you are constant ... nay you _are_ constant to your purpose of leaving at the end of this month. When we meet next, let us talk of our business, like the grave man and woman we are going to become. Mr. K. will be away—how fortunate this is! We need implicate nobody. And in the end the reasonableness of what we do will be apparent to everybody—if I can show you well and happy,—which God send!

Kiss me as I kiss you, my own Ba. I am all one wide wonder at your loving nature: I can only give it the like love in return, and as much limited as I am limited. But I seem really to _grow_ under you,—my faculties extend toward yours.

May God bless you, and enable me to make you as happy as your dear generous heart will be contented to be made. I am your own R.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Saturday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 5, 1846.]

Dearest, I write just a few lines that you may know me for thinking of you to-morrow. Flush has not come and I am going on a voyage of discovery myself,—Henry being far too lukewarm. He says I may be robbed and murdered before the time for coming back, in which case remember that it is not my fault that I do not go with you to Pisa.

Just now came a kind little note from dear Mr. Kenyon, who will not come, he says, Flush being away, and has set out on his travels, meaning not to come back for a week. So I might have seen you after all, to-day! My comfort is, that it is good for you, beloved, to be quiet, and that coming through the sun might have made your head suffer. How my thoughts are with you—how all day they never fall from you! I shall have my letter to-night through your dear goodness, which is a lamp hung up for me to look towards. Aladdin’s, did you say? Yes, Aladdin’s.

As to being afraid of you ever—once, do you know, I was quite afraid ... in a peculiar sense—as when it thunders, I am afraid ... or a little different from _that_ even—or, oh yes, _very_ different from _that_. Now it is changed ... the feeling is—and I am not afraid even so—except sometimes of losing your affection by some fault of my own—I am _not_ afraid that it would be a fault of yours, remember. I trust you for goodness to the uttermost—and I know perfectly that if you did not love me (_supposing_ it) you are one who would be _ashamed_ for a woman to fear you, as some women fear some men. For _me_, I could not, you know—I knew you too well and love you too perfectly, and everybody can tell what perfect love casts out.

So you need not have done with me for _that_ reason! Understand it.

And if I shall not be slain by the ‘society,’ you shall be written to again to-night. Ah—say in the letter _I_ am to have, that you are better! And you are to come on Monday—dear, dearest! mind _that_!

Your Ba.

Come back safe, but without Flush—I am to have him to-night though.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Sunday.
[Post-mark, September 7, 1846.]

Not well—not well! But I shall see you with my own eyes soon after you read what I write to-day; so I shall not write much. Only a few words to tell you that Flush is found, and lying on the sofa, with one paw and both ears hanging over the edge of it. Still my visit to Taylor was not the successful one. My hero was not at home.

I went, you know, ... did I tell you? ... with Wilson in the cab. We got into obscure streets; and our cabman stopped at a public house to ask his way. Out came two or three men, ... ‘Oh, you want to find Mr. Taylor, I dare say!’ (mark that no name had been mentioned!) and instantly an unsolicited philanthropist ran before us to the house, and out again to tell me that the great man ‘wasn’t at home! but wouldn’t I get out?’ Wilson, in an aside of terror, entreated me not to think of such a thing—she believed devoutly in the robbing and murdering, and was not reassured by the gang of benevolent men and boys who ‘lived but to oblige us’ all round the cab. ‘Then wouldn’t I see Mrs. Taylor,’ suggested the philanthropist,—and, notwithstanding my negatives, he had run back again and brought an immense feminine bandit, ... fat enough to have had an easy conscience all her life, ... who informed me that ‘her husband might be in in a few minutes, or in so many hours—wouldn’t I like to get out and wait’ (Wilson pulling at my gown, the philanthropist echoing the invitation of the feminine Taylor.)—‘No, I thanked them all—it was not necessary that I should get out, but it _was_, that Mr. Taylor should keep his promise about the restoration of a dog which he had agreed to restore—and I begged her to induce him to go to Wimpole Street in the course of the day, and not defer it any longer.’ To which, replied the lady, with the most gracious of smiles—‘Oh yes certainly’—and indeed she _did_ believe that Taylor had left home precisely on that business—poising her head to the right and left with the most easy grace—‘She was sure that Taylor would give his very best attention....’

So, in the midst of the politeness, we drove away, and Wilson seemed to be of opinion that we had escaped with our lives barely. Plain enough it was, that the gang was strong there. The society ... the ‘Fancy’ ... had their roots in the ground. The faces of those men!—

I had not been at home long, when Mr. Taylor did actually come—desiring to have six guineas confided to his honour!! ... and promising to bring back the dog. I sent down the money, and told them to trust the gentleman’s honour, as there seemed no other way for it—and while the business was being concluded, in came Alfred, and straightway called our ‘honourable friend’ (meeting him in the passage) a swindler and a liar and a thief. Which no gentleman could bear, of course. Therefore with reiterated oaths he swore, ‘as he hoped to be saved, we should never see our dog again’—and rushed out of the house. Followed a great storm. I was very angry with Alfred, who had no business to risk Flush’s life for the sake of the satisfaction of trying on names which fitted. Angry I was with Alfred, and terrified for Flush,—seeing at a glance the probability of his head being cut off as the proper vengeance! and down-stairs I went with the resolution of going again myself to Mr. Taylor’s in Manning Street, or Shoreditch [or] wherever it was, and saving the victim at any price. It was the evening, getting dusk—and everybody was crying out against me for being ‘quite mad’ and obstinate, and wilful—I was called as many names as Mr. Taylor. At last, Sette said that _he_ would do it, promised to be as civil as I could wish, and got me to be ‘in a good humour and go up to my room again.’ And he went instead of me, and took the money and fair words, and induced the ‘man of honour’ to forfeit his vengeance and go and fetch the dog. Flush arrived here at eight o’clock (at the very moment with your letter, dearest!), and the first thing he did was to dash up to this door, and then to drink his purple cup full of water, filled three times over. He was not so enthusiastic about seeing me, as I expected—he seemed bewildered and frightened—and whenever anyone said to him ‘Poor Flush, did the naughty men take you away?’ he put up his head and moaned and yelled. He has been very unhappy certainly. Dirty he is, and much thinner, and continually he is drinking. Six guineas, was his ransom—and now I have paid twenty for him to the dog-stealers.

Arabel says that I wanted _you_ yesterday, she thought, to manage me a little. She thought I was suddenly seized with madness, to prepare to walk out of the house in that state of excitement and that hour of the evening. But now—_was_ I to let them cut off Flush’s head?—

There! I have told you the whole history of yesterday’s adventures—and to-morrow I shall see you, my own dear, dear!—Only remember for my sake, _not_ to come if you are not fit to come. Dearest, remember not to run any hazards!—That dinner! which I _will_ blame, because it deserves it! Mind not to make me be as bad as that dinner, in being the means of working you harm! So I expect you to-morrow _conditionally_ ... if you are well enough!—and I thank you for the kind dear letter, welcome next to you, ... being ever and ever your own

BA.

I have been to the _vestry_ again to-day.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Sunday Afternoon.
[Post-mark, September 7, 1846.]

No, dearest, I am not to see you to-morrow for all the happiness of the permission! It seems absurd, but perhaps the greater absurdity would be a refusal to submit, under circumstances. You shall hear—I got up with the old _vertiginousness_, or a little worse—and so, as I had in that case determined, went to consult my doctor. He thinks he finds the root of the evil and can remove it, ‘if I have patience enough’—so I promised ... expecting something worthy that preamble—whereas I am bidden go to bed and keep there for a day or two—from this Sunday till Wednesday morning—taking nothing but a sip of medicine I can’t distinguish from water, thrice a day—and _milk_ at discretion—no other food! The mild queerness of it is amusing, is it not? ‘And for this fine piece of self-denial,’ says he, ‘you shall be quite well by the week’s end.’—‘But may I go to town on Wednesday?’—‘Yes.’—

Now, Ba, my own Ba, you know how often I have to sorrowfully disclaim all the praises your dearest kindness would attach to me; this time, if you will praise me a little for obeying you, I will take the praise—for the truth of truths is, that I said at once to myself—‘have I a right to avoid anything which promises to relieve Her from this eternal account of aches and pains?’ So here am I writing, leaning on my elbow, in bed,—as I never wrote before I think—and perhaps my head is a little better, or I fancy so. Mind, I may read, or write,—only in bed I must lie, because there is some temperature to be kept up in the skin, or some other cause as good—‘for reasons, for reasons.’

‘The milk,’ answers Ba, is exactly to correct the superabundant gall of bitterness which overflowed lately about Flush. So it is, my own Ba—and for Flush, the victim of a principle, he is just saved from a sickness by cakes I meditated as a joy-offering on his safe return. Will you, among the other kisses, give him one for me? And save yet another for your own R.

How I shall need your letters, dearest!

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 7, 1846.]

Ever, ever dearest, how was it that without presentiment of evil I got up this morning in the good spirits of ‘_our_ days,’ hoping to see you, believing to see you, and feeling that it would be greater happiness than usual? The sight of your letter, even, did not provoke the cloud—_that_ was only the lesser joy, I thought, preceding the greater! And smiling to myself I was, both last night and this morning, at your phrase about the ‘business’ to be talked by the ‘grave man and woman’; understanding your precaution against all unlawful jesting!—jesters forbidden in the protocol! And then, at last, to be made so suddenly grave and sad even! How am I to be comforted, my own dearest? No way, except by your being really better, really well—in order to which I shall not let you come as soon as Wednesday: it will not be wise for you to leave your bed for a journey into London! Rather you should be very quiet, and keep in the garden at farthest. Take care of yourself, dearest dearest, and if you think of me and love me, show it in that best way. And I praise you, praise you,—nay, I thank you and am grateful to you for every such proof of love, more than for _other_ kinds of proof,—I will love you for it, my beloved! Now judge—shall I be able to help thinking of you every moment of the day? Could I help it, if I tried? In return, therefore, you will attend to the orders, submit to the discipline—ah but, will not the leaving off all food but milk weaken you out of measure? I am uneasy about that milk-diet for _you_, who always seem to me to want support, and something to stimulate. You will promise to tell me _everything_—will you, dearest?—whether better or worse, stronger or weaker, you will tell me? And if you should be too unwell to write, as may God forbid, your sister will write—she will have that great goodness? Let it be so, I beseech you.

But you will be better—oh, I mean to hope stedfastly toward your being better, and toward the possibility of our meeting before the week ends. And as for this day lost, it is not of importance except in our present thoughts: soon you will have more than enough of me, you know. For I am in earnest and not a jester _au fond_, and am ready to do just as you bid me and think best—which I tell you now, that you may not be vexed at a shadow, after my own fashion. May God bless you—‘_and me in you_.’ Have I not leave to say _that_, too, since I feel it more than you could ... (more intensely ... I do not say more sincerely ...) when you used it first? My happiness and life are in you,—I am your very own

BA.

Your mother—how is she? Mind you get an amusing book ... something to amuse only, and not use you. Do you know the ‘Mathilde’ of Sue? I shall write again to-night.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 7, 1846.]

I had the greatest mind, when your letter came—(the most welcome of all letters—so much more than I could expect!)—to get up at once and be well in your dearest eyes or through them—but I checked myself and thought that I ought to be contented with one such a letter through whole long weeks of annoyance, instead of one day more.

I am delighted to know Flush is with you, if I am not. Did you remember my petition about him? But, dearest, it _was_ very imprudent to go to those disgusting wretches yourself—they have had a pretty honour without knowing it!

Here I lie with a dizzy head—unable to read more than a page or two ... there is something in the unwonted position that tires me—but whenever the book is left off, I turn to the dark side of the room and see you, my very own Ba,—and so I am soon better and able to try again.

How hot, and thunder-like this oppressive air! And you who are affected by such weather? Tell me, my dearest dearest, all you can tell me—since the real lips and eyes are away.

Bless you, my beloved. Remember, I count upon seeing you on Wednesday at farthest.

Your own R.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Monday Night.
[Post-mark, September 8, 1846.]

How unwell you are, dearest beloved! Ah no! It is not ‘the position that tires you,’ it is the illness that incapacitates you. And _you_ to think of getting up and coming here ... you! Now, for my sake, for both our sakes, you _must_ and _shall_ be patient and quiet, and remember how my thoughts are with you conjuring you continually to quiet. As to the reading, ... you see it makes you dizzy,—and to provoke that sensation cannot plainly be right: and you will be right always, will you not, for my sake, dearest of all? And for the coming here on Wednesday, ... no, no, I say again,—you ought not to do it, and you shall not: we will see how you are, later in the week; but for Wednesday, certainly no. That violent transition from the bed to the omnibus would be manifestly wrong. Also I can be quite satisfied without seeing you, if I may but hear of your being well again. I wonder to-day how yesterday I was impatient about not having seen you so long. Oh, be well, be well, dearest! There is no need of your being ill to prove to me how I love you entirely, how I love you only!

For Flush, I did your commission, kissing the top of his head: then I took the kiss back again because it seemed too good for him _just now_. And you shall not say that you ‘are glad _he_ is with me if _you_ are not’? It is more to Flush’s disadvantage, that phrase is than all your theories which pretended to leave him with the dogstealers. How can I be glad of anyone’s being with me if you are not? And how should _you_ be glad for anything, if _I_ am not? Flush and I know our logic better than to accept that congratulation of yours, with the spike pricking us out of it.

So hot, indeed, to-day! If you thought of me, I thought of you, through it all. This close air cannot be good for you while you are shut up. But _I_ have not been shut up. I went out in the carriage and bought a pair of boots for Italy, besides the shoes—because, you see, we shall have such long walks in the forest after the camels, and it won’t do to go in one’s slippers. Does not _that_ sound like ‘a grave woman?’ You need not make laws against the jesters, after all! You need only be well! And, gravely, quite gravely, is it not likely that going to Italy, that travelling, and putting an end to all the annoyances which lately have grown up out of our affairs, will do you good, substantial good, in this chief matter of your health? It seems so to me sometimes. You are always well, you say, in Italy, and when you get there once again. But in the meanwhile, try to be a little better, my own dearest! I cannot write to you except about you to-night. The subject is too near me—I am under the shadow of the wall, and cannot see over it. To-morrow I shall hear more, and _trust to you_ to tell me the whole, unmutilated truth. May God bless you, as _I_ would, _I_ in my weakness! For the best blessing on your part, love your own

BA.

And do not tire yourself with writing. The least line—three words—I beseech you not to let me do you harm.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Tuesday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 8, 1846.]

Do you think your wishes, much less your blessings, fall to the ground, my own Ba? Here is your letter, and here am I writing to you, ‘clothed and in my proper’ room My doctor bade me ‘get up and do as I pleased’—and the perfect pleasure is to say, I may indeed see you to-morrow, dearest, dearest! Can you look as you look in this letter? So entirely my own, and yet,—what should never be my own, by right ... such a treasure to one so little worthy!

I have only a few minutes to say this,—the dressing and talking having taken up the time. To-morrow shall repay me!

The lightness, slight uneasiness of the head, continues, though the general health is much better, it seems.

Do you doubt I shall be well in Italy? But I must leave off. Bless you as you have blessed me, my best, dearest Ba, me who am your very own R.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Tuesday Evening.
[Post-mark, September 9, 1846.]

I write a word to say, ... dearest, do not run any risk about coming to-morrow. I mean, ... unless you are sure that the noise and exertion will not be too much for you,—unless, when the moment comes for setting off, you feel equal to it ... now, I do beseech you, very dear, not to persist in coming because you have said that you will come—I beseech you. Listen. At three o’clock I shall expect you doubtfully; at half-past three, the doubt will be the strongest; and at a quarter to four, I shall have said to myself cheerfully, that you were wise and good and had determined to stay at home. In that case, I shall have a line from you by five or six! Understand all this, and let it have the right influence and no more. Of course if I could see you without harm to yourself, and so to me, it would be a _great happiness_: it even makes me happy to think of, as a bare possibility, at this distance off! I am happy by your letter, twice over, indeed—once, for _that_ reason, ... and again, for the thought of your being in some respects better. At the same time I do not see why your wise man did not follow his plan to the end. It looks as if he did not think you better essentially because of it. Ah well, I shall see with my eyes to-morrow—_perhaps_ I shall: and I shall see in a dream to-night more certainly.

This shall go at once, though, that it may reach you in time in the morning. How I thank you for the precious note! You are so much too good to me, that your being also too _dear_ is an excusable consequence—or would be, if it were possible. I write nonsense, I believe,—but it is half for gladness ... and half ... for what makes me your own

BA.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Wednesday Night.
[Post-mark, September 10, 1846.]

Dearest, you are a prophet, I suppose—there can be no denying it. This night, an edict has gone out, and George is to-morrow to be on his way to take a house for a month either at Dover, Reigate, Tunbridge, ... Papa did ‘not mind which,’ he said, and ‘you may settle it among you!!’ but he ‘must have this house empty for a month in order to its cleaning’—we are to go therefore and not delay.

Now!—what _can_ be done? It is possible that the absence may be longer than for a month, indeed it is probable—for there is much to do in painting and repairing, here in Wimpole Street, more than a month’s work they say. Decide, after thinking. I am embarrassed to the utmost degree, as to the best path to take. If we are taken away on Monday ... what then?

Of course I decline to give any opinion and express any preference,—as to places, I mean. It is not for my sake that we go:—if _I_ had been considered at all, indeed, we should have been taken away earlier, ... and not certainly now, when the cold season is at hand. And so much the better it is for me, that I have not, obviously, been thought of.

Therefore decide! It seems quite too soon and too sudden for us to set out on our Italian adventure now—and perhaps even we could not compass—

Well—but you must think for both of us. It is past twelve and I have just a moment to seal this and entrust it to Henrietta for the morning’s post.

More than ever beloved, I am

Your own BA.

I will do as you wish—understand.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Thursday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 10, 1846.]

What do you expect this letter will be about, my own dearest? Those which I write on the mornings after our days seem naturally to _answer_ any strong point brought out in the previous discourse, and not then completely disposed of ... so they generally run in the vile fashion of a disputatious ‘last word’; ‘one word yet’—do not they? Ah, but you should remember that never does it feel so intolerable,—the barest fancy of a possibility of losing you—as when I have just seen you and heard you and, alas—left you for a time; on these occasions, it seems so horrible—that if the least recollection of a fear of yours, or a doubt ... anything which might be nursed, or let grow quietly into a serious obstacle to what we desire—if _that_ rises up threateningly,—do you wonder that I begin by attacking _it_? There are always a hundred deepest reasons for gratitude and love which I could write about, but which my after life shall prove I never have forgotten ... still, that very after-life depends perhaps on the letter of the morning reasoning with you, teazing, contradicting. Dearest Ba, I do not tell you that I am justified in plaguing you thus, at any time ... only to get your pardon, if I can, on the grounds—the true grounds.

And this pardon, if you grant it, shall be for the past offences, not for any fresh one I mean to commit now. I will not add one word to those spoken yesterday about the extreme perilousness of delay. You _give_ me yourself. Hitherto, from the very first till this moment, the giving hand has been advancing steadily—it is not for me to grasp it lest it stop within an inch or two of my forehead with its crown.

I am going to Town this morning, and will leave off now.

What a glorious dream; through nearly two years—without a single interval of blankness,—much less, bitter waking!

I may say _that_, I suppose, safely through whatever befalls!

Also I will ever say, God bless you, my dearest dearest,—my perfect angel you have been! While I am only your R.

My mother is deeply gratified at your present.

* * * * *

12 o’clock. On returning I find your note,

‘I will do as you wish—understand’—then I understand you are in earnest. If you _do_ go on Monday, our marriage will be impossible for another year—the misery! You see what we have gained by waiting. We must be _married directly_ and go to Italy. I will go for a licence to-day and we can be married on Saturday. I will call to-morrow at 3 and arrange everything with you. We can leave from Dover &c., _after_ that,—but otherwise, impossible! Inclose the ring, or a substitute—I have not a minute to spare for the post.

Ever your own R.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

4 p.m. Thursday.
[Post-mark, September 10, 1846.]

I broke open your sealed letter and added the postscript just now. The post being thus saved, I can say a few words more leisurely.

I will go to-morrow, I think, and not to-day for the licence—there are fixed hours I fancy at the office—and I might be too late. I will also make the arrangement with my friend for Saturday, if we should want him,—as we shall, in all probability—it would look suspiciously to be unaccompanied. We can arrange to-morrow.

Your words, first and last, have been that you ‘would not fail me’—you will not.

And the marriage over, you can take advantage of circumstances and go early or late in the week, as may be practicable. There will be facilities in the general packing &c.,—your own measures may be taken unobserved. Write short notes to the proper persons,—promising longer ones, if necessary.

See the _tone_ I take, the way I write to _you_ ... but it is all through you, in the little brief authority you give me,—and in the perfect belief of your truth and firmness—indeed, I do not consider this an extraordinary occasion for proving those qualities—this conduct of your father’s is quite characteristic.

Otherwise, too, the departure with its bustle is not unfavourable. If you hesitated, it would be before a little hurried shopping and letter-writing! I expected it, and therefore spoke as you heard yesterday. _Now your_ part must begin. It may as well begin and end, both, _now_ as at any other time. I will bring you every information possible to-morrow.

It seems as if I should insult you if I spoke a word to confirm you, to beseech you, to relieve you from your promise, if you claim it.

God bless you, prays your own R.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Thursday.
[Post-mark, September 11, 1846.][7]

Dearest, I write one word, and have one will which is yours. At the same time, do not be precipitate—we shall not be taken away on Monday, no, nor for several days afterward. George has simply gone to look for houses—going to Reigate first.

Oh yes—come to-morrow. And then, you shall have the ring ... soon enough and safer.

Not a word of how you are!—_you_ so good as to write me that letter beyond compact, yet not good enough, to say how you are! Dear, dearest ... take care, and keep yourself unhurt and calm. I shall not fail to you—I do not, I will not. I will act by your decision, and I wish you to decide. I was yours long ago, and though you give me back my promise at this eleventh hour, ... you generous, dear unkind! ... you know very well that you can do as well without it. So take it again for my sake and not your own.

I cannot write, I am so tired, having been long out. Will not this dream break on a sudden? Now is the moment for the breaking of it, surely.

But come to-morrow, come. Almost everybody is to be away at Richmond, at a picnic, and we shall be free on all sides.

Ever and ever your BA.

[7] [The envelope of this letter is endorsed by R.B. ‘Saturday, Septr. 12, 1846, ¼11—11¼ A.M. (91).’ This is the record of his marriage with E.B.B. in Marylebone Church. The number 91 indicates that it was the ninety-first of their meetings, a record of which was always endorsed by Robert Browning on the letters received by him from Miss Barrett.]

_R.B. to E.B.B._

1 p.m. Saturday.
[Post-mark, September 12, 1846.]

You will only expect a few words—what will those be? When the heart is full it may run over, but the real fulness stays within.

You asked me yesterday ‘if I should repent?’ Yes—my own Ba,—I could wish all the past were to do over again, that in it I might somewhat more,—never so little more, conform in the outward homage to the inward feeling. What I have professed ... (for I have performed nothing) seems to fall short of what my first love required even—and when I think of _this_ moment’s love ... I could repent, as I say.

Words can never tell you, however,—form them, transform them anyway,—how perfectly dear you are to me—perfectly dear to my heart and soul.

I look back, and in every one point, every word and gesture, every letter, every _silence_—you have been entirely perfect to me—I would not change one word, one look.

My hope and aim are to preserve this love, not to fall from it—for which I trust to God who procured it for me, and doubtlessly can preserve it.

Enough now, my dearest, dearest, own Ba! You have given me the highest, completest proof of love that ever one human being gave another. I am all gratitude—and all pride (under the proper feeling which ascribes pride to the right source) all pride that my life has been so crowned by you.

God bless you prays your very own R.

I will write to-morrow of course. Take every care of _my life_ which is in that dearest little hand; try and be composed, my beloved.

Remember to thank Wilson for me.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Saturday. Sept. 12.—4½ p.m.
[Post-mark, September 12, 1846.]

Ever dearest, I write a word that you may read it and know how all is safe so far, and that I am not slain downright with the day—oh, _such a day_! I went to Mr. Boyd’s directly, so as to send Wilson home the faster—and was able to lie quietly on the sofa in his sitting-room down-stairs, before he was ready to see me, being happily engaged with a medical councillor. Then I was made to talk and take Cyprus wine,—and, my sisters delaying to come, I had some bread and butter for dinner, to keep me from looking too pale in their eyes. At last they came, and with such grave faces! Missing me and Wilson, they had taken fright,—and Arabel had forgotten at first what I told her last night about the fly. I kept saying, ‘What nonsense, ... what fancies you do have to be sure,’ ... trembling in my heart with every look they cast at me. And so, to complete the bravery, I went on with them in the carriage to Hampstead ... as far as the heath,—and talked and looked—now you shall praise me for courage—or rather you shall love me for the love which was the root of it all. How necessity makes heroes—or heroines at least! For I did not sleep all last night, and when I first went out with Wilson to get to the fly-stand in Marylebone Street I staggered so, that we both were afraid for the fear’s sake,—but we called at a chemist’s for sal volatile and were thus enabled to go on. I spoke to her last night, and she was very kind, very affectionate, and never shrank for a moment. I told her that always I should be grateful to her.

You—how are you? how is your head, ever dearest?

It seems all like a dream! When we drove past that church again, I and my sisters, there was a cloud before my eyes. Ask your mother to forgive me, Robert. If _I_ had not been there, _she_ would have been there, perhaps.

And for the rest, if either of us two is to suffer injury and sorrow for what happened there to-day—I pray that it may all fall upon _me_! Nor should I suffer the most pain _that_ way, as I know, and God knows.

Your own

BA.

Was I very uncourteous to your cousin? So kind, too, it was in him! Can there be the least danger of the newspapers? Are those books ever examined by penny-a-liners, do you suppose?

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Sunday.
[Post-mark, September 14, 1846.]

My own beloved, if ever you should have reason to complain of me in things voluntary and possible, all other women would have a right to tread me underfoot, I should be so vile and utterly unworthy. There is my answer to what you wrote yesterday of wishing to be better to me ... you! What could be better than lifting me from the ground and carrying me into life and the sunshine? I was yours rather by right than by gift (yet by gift also, my beloved!); for what you have saved and renewed is surely yours. All that I am, I owe you—if I enjoy anything now and henceforth, it is through you. You know this well. Even as _I_, from the beginning, knew that I had no power against you, ... or that, if I _had_, it was for your sake.

Dearest, in the emotion and confusion of yesterday morning, there was yet room in me for one thought which was not a feeling—for I thought that, of the many, many women who have stood where I stood, and to the same end, not one of them all perhaps, not one perhaps, since that building was a church, has had reasons strong as mine, for an absolute trust and devotion towards the man she married,——not one! And then I both thought and felt, that it was only just, for them, ... those women who were less happy, ... to have that affectionate sympathy and support and presence of their nearest relations, parent or sister ... which failed to _me_, ... needing it less through being happier!

All my brothers have been here this morning, laughing and talking, and discussing this matter of the leaving town,—and in the room, at the same time, were two or three female friends of ours, from Herefordshire—and I did not _dare_ to cry out against the noise, though my head seemed splitting in two (one half for each shoulder), I had such a morbid fear of exciting a suspicion. Treppy too being one of them, I promised to go to see her to-morrow and dine in her drawing-room if she would give me, for dinner, some bread and butter. It was like having a sort of fever. And all in the midst, the bells began to ring. ‘What bells are those?’ asked one of the provincials. ‘Marylebone Church bells’ said Henrietta, standing behind my chair.

And now ... while I write, having escaped from the great din, and sit here quietly,—comes ... who do you think?—Mr. Kenyon.

He came with his spectacles, looking as if his eyes reached to their rim all the way round; and one of the first words was, ‘_When did you see Browning?_’ And I think I shall make a pretension to presence of mind henceforward; for, though _certainly_ I changed colour and he saw it, I yet answered with a tolerably quick evasion, ... ‘He was here on Friday’—and leapt straight into another subject, and left him gazing fixedly on my face. Dearest, he saw something, but not all. So we talked, talked. He told me that the ‘Fawn of Sertorius,’ (which I refused to cut open the other day,) was ascribed to Landor—and he told me that he meant to leave town again on Wednesday, and would see me once before then. On rising to go away, he mentioned your name a second time ... ‘When do you see Browning again?’ To which I answered that I did not know.

Is not _that_ pleasant? The worst is that all these combinations of things make me feel so bewildered that I cannot make the necessary arrangements, as far as the letters go. But I must break from the dream-stupor which falls on me when left to myself a little, and set about what remains to be done.

A house near Watford is thought of now—but, as none is concluded on, the removal is not likely to take place in the middle of the week even, perhaps.

I sit in a dream, when left to myself. I cannot believe, or understand. Oh! but in all this difficult, embarrassing and painful situation, I look over the palms to Troy—I feel happy and exulting to belong to you, past every opposition, out of sight of every will of man—none can put us asunder, now, at least. I have a right now openly to love you, and to hear other people call it _a duty_, when I do, ... knowing that if it were a sin, it would be done equally. Ah—_I_ shall not be first to leave off _that_—see if I shall! May God bless you, ever and ever dearest! Beseech for me the indulgence of your father and mother, and ask your sister to love me. I feel so as if I had slipped down over the wall into somebody’s garden—I feel ashamed. To be grateful and affectionate to them all, while I live, is all that I can do, and it is too much a matter of course to need to be promised. Promise it however for your very own Ba whom you made so happy with the dear letter last night. But say in the next how you are—and how your mother is.

I did hate so, to have to take off the ring! You will have to take the trouble of putting it on again, some day.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Sunday Afternoon.
[Post-mark, September 14, 1846.]

Thank you a thousand times for the note, my own Ba. I welcomed it as I never yet welcomed even _your_ notes; entirely kind to write, and write _so_! Oh, I know the effort you made, the pain you bore for my sake! I tell you, once and for ever, your proof of love to me is _made_ ... I _know_ love, my dearest dearest: my whole life shall be spent in trying to furnish such a proof of _my_ affection; such a perfect proof,—and perhaps vainly spent—but I will endeavour with God’s help. Do you feel what I mean, dearest? How you have dared and done all this, under my very eyes, for my only sake? I believed you would be capable of it—what then? What is a belief? My own eyes have seen—my heart will remember!

Dearest, nothing needs _much_ trouble you farther: take your own time and opportunity. I confide in your judgment—(for I am not going to profess confidence in _you_!)—I am sure you will see and act for the best. My preparations are made; I have only to await your desires. I will not ask to see you, for instance—though of course a word brings me as usual to you—your will is altogether my will.

The first obvious advantage of our present relation, I will take. You are mine—your generosity has given to me my utmost claim upon your family—so far as I am concerned, putting aside my sympathy with you, there is nothing more they _can_ give me: so, I will say, perhaps a little less reservedly than I could have brought myself to say before, that there is no conceivable submission I will refuse, nor possible satisfaction I will hesitate to make to those feelings I have been forced to offend, if by any means I may preserve, for _you_, so much of their affection as you have been accustomed to receive; I do not require anything beyond _toleration_ for myself ... I will cheerfully accept as the truest kindness to me, a continuance of kindness _to you_. You know what I would have done to possess you:—now that I _do_ possess you, I renew the offer to _you_ ... judge with what earnest purpose of keeping my word! I do not think ... nor do you think ... that any personal application, directly or by letter, would do any good—it might rather add to the irritation we apprehend: but my consent is given beforehand to any measure you shall ever consider proper. And your father may be sure that while I adore his daughter it will be impossible for me, under any circumstances, to be wanting in the utmost respect for, and observance of, himself. Understand, with the rest, why I write this, Ba. To your brothers and sisters I am bound for ever,—by every tie of gratitude: _they_ may acquiesce more easily ... comprehending more, perhaps, of the dear treasure you are, they will forgive my ambition of gaining it. I will write to Mr. Kenyon. You will probably have time to write all the letters requisite.

Do not trouble yourself with more than is strictly necessary—you can supply all wants at Leghorn or Pisa. Let us be as unencumbered with luggage as possible.

What is your opinion about the advertisements? If our journey is delayed for a few days, we had better omit the _date_, I think. And the _cards_? I will get them engraved if you will direct me. The simplest form of course:—and the last (or among the last) happens to be also the simplest, consisting merely of the words ‘Mr. and Mrs. R.B.’ on _one_ card—with the usual ‘at home’ in a corner. How shall we manage _that_, by the way? Could we put ‘In Italy for a year?’ There is precedent for it—Sir—Fellows’ (what is the traveller’s name?)—_his_ were thus subscribed. By which means we should avoid telling people absolutely, that they need never come and see us. Choose your own fashion, my Ba, and tell me how many you require.

I only saw my cousin for a few minutes afterward—he came up in a cab immediately—he understood all there was need he should. _You_ to be ‘uncourteous’ to anybody! no, no—sweetest! But I will thank him as you bid, knowing the value of Ba’s thanks! For the prying penny-a-liners ... why, trust to Providence—we must! I do not apprehend much danger....