[Postmark: September 19, 1846]
Friday Night.
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 ?
Do you pray for me to-night, Robert ? Pray for me,
and love me, that I may have courage, feeling both—
Your own
BA.
The boxes are safely sent. Wilson has been perfect to
me. And I . . calling her ‘timid,’ and afraid of her
timidity ! I begin to think that none are so bold as the
timid, when they are fairly roused.