_R.B. to E.B.B._
Monday.
[Post-mark, May 12, 1845.]
My dear, own friend, I am quite well now, or next to it--but this is
how it was,--I have gone out a great deal of late, and my head took to
ringing such a literal alarum that I wondered what was to come of it;
and at last, a few evenings ago, as I was dressing for a dinner
somewhere, I got really bad of a sudden, and kept at home to my
friend's heartrending disappointment. Next morning I was no
better--and it struck me that I should be really disappointing dear
kind Mr. Kenyon, and wasting his time, if that engagement, too, were
broken with as little warning,--so I thought it best to forego all
hopes of seeing him, at such a risk. And that done, I got rid of every
other promise to pay visits for next week and next, and told
everybody, with considerable dignity, that my London season was over
for this year, as it assuredly is--and I shall be worried no more, and
let walk in the garden, and go to bed at ten o'clock, and get done
with what is most expedient to do, and my 'flesh shall come again like
a little child's,' and one day, oh the day, I shall see you with my
own, own eyes ... for, how little you understand me; or rather,
yourself,--if you think I would dare see you, without your leave, that
way! Do you suppose that your power of giving and refusing ends when
you have shut your room-door? Did I not tell you I turned down another
street, even, the other day, and why not down yours? And often as I
see Mr. Kenyon, have I ever dreamed of asking any but the merest
conventional questions about you; your health, and no more?
I will answer your letter, the last one, to-morrow--I have said
nothing of what I want to say.