Wednesday.
January 28, 1846.
Ever dearest – – I will say, as you desire, nothing on that subject – – but this strictly for myself: you engaged me to consult my own good in the keeping or breaking our engagement; not your good as it might even seem to me; much less seem to another. My only good in this world – – that against which all the world goes for nothing – – is to spend my life with you, and be yours. You know that when I claim anything, it is really yourself in me – – you give me a right and bid me use it, and I, in fact, am most obeying you when I appear most exacting on my own account – – so, in that feeling, I dare claim, once for all, and in all possible cases (except that dreadful one of your becoming worse again . . . in which case I wait till life ends with both of us), I claim your promise’s fulfilment – – say, at the summer’s end: it cannot be for your good that this state of things should continue. We can go to Italy for a year or two and be happy as day and night are long. For me, I adore you. This is all unnecessary, I feel as I write: but you will think of the main fact as ordained, granted by God, will you not, dearest? – – so, not to be put in doubt ever again – – then, we can go quietly thinking of after matters. Till to-morrow, and ever after, God bless my heart’s own, own Ba. All my soul follows you, love – – encircles you – – and I live in being yours.