Monday Morning.
December 15, 1845.
Every word you write goes to my heart and lives there: let us live so, and die so, if God will. I trust many years hence to begin telling you what I feel now; – – that the beam of the light will have reached you! – – meantime it is here. Let me kiss your forehead, my sweetest, dearest.
Wednesday I am waiting for – – how waiting for!
After all, it seems probable that there was no intentional mischief in that jeweller’s management of the ring. The divided gold must have been exposed to fire – – heated thoroughly, perhaps, – – and what became of the contents then! Well, all is safe now, and I go to work again of course. My next act is just done – – that is, being done – – but, what I did not foresee, I cannot bring it, copied, by Wednesday, as my sister went this morning on a visit for the week.
On the matters, the others, I will not think, as you bid me, – – if I can help, at least. But your kind, gentle, good sisters! and the provoking sorrow of the right meaning at bottom of the wrong doing – – wrong to itself and its plain purpose – – and meanwhile, the real tragedy and sacrifice of a life!
If you should see Mr. Kenyon, and can find if he will be disengaged on Wednesday evening, I shall be glad to go in that case.
But I have been writing, as I say, and will leave off this, for the better communing with you. Don’t imagine I am unwell; I feel quite well, but a little tired, and the thought of you waits in such readiness! So, may God bless you, beloved!
I am all your own
R.B.