[Postmark: April 16, 1846]
Thursday.
How are you now, dearest ? If the worse for my visit
. . No, there is no affectation in what I would say — you
might be worse, you know, through excitement, whether
pleasurable or the reverse. One comfort is, the walking,
going down-stairs, &c. have not occasioned it. I expect
everything from your going out of doors, that is to be — what
a joy to write it, think of it, expect it ! Oh, why are you not
here — where I sit writing ; whence, in a moment, I could get
to know why the lambs are bleating so, in the field behind —
I do not see it from either window in this room — but I see a
beautiful sunshine (2½ p.m.) and a chestnut tree leafy all
over, in a faint trembling chilly way, to be sure — and a holly
hedge I see, and shrubs, and blossomed trees over the
garden wall, — were you but here, dearest, dearest — how we
would go out, with Flush on before, for with a key I have,
I lock out the world, and then look down on it ; for there
is a vast view from our greatest hill — did I ever tell you that
Wordsworth was shown that hill or its neighbour ; someone
saying ‘ R. B. lives over there by that hill ‘ — ‘ Hill ‘ ? interposed
Wordsworth — we call that, such as that, a rise !
I must have told you, I think. (While I write, the sun gets
ever brighter — you must be down-stairs, I feel sure — )
I fully meant to go out this morning — but there is a
pressing note from my old young friend, Frank Talfourd, to
get me to witness — only another play and farce ! — and what
is to be done ?
Here shall be my ending ‘for reasons, for reasons.’
To-morrow I will write more ; my Monday — to have to wait
so long ! And when I do see you, I begin to pour out profusions of confusions of speech about Mrs. Procter and her
vain notions — to what earthly good ? . . as it is very easy
to ask now ! now that I am here again, alone again.
Dear, dearest Ba, I cannot serve you, nor even talk to
you . . but love you, — oh, that I must dare say I can do,
as none other could — as you have yet to know !
Bless you my very dearest, sweetest Ba — I am your
own, heart and soul —