伊丽莎白?芭蕾特?勃朗宁致妹妹（4）
He Comid me down on the bed and sat by me for hours, pouring out floods of tenderness and goodness, and promising to win back for me, with God's help, the affection of such of you as were angry. And he loves me more and more. Today we have been together a fortnight, and he said to me with a deep, serious tenderness…“I kissed your feet, my Ba, before I married you—but now I would kiss the ground under your feet， I love you with a so much greater love.” And this is true, I see and feel. I feel to have the power of making him happy… I feel to have it in my hands. It is strange that anyone so brilliant should love me,—but true and strange it is…and it is impossible for me to doubt it any more. Perfectly happy therefore we should be, if I could look back on you all without this pang. His f***ly have been very kind. His father considered him of age to judge, and never thought of interfering otherwise than of saying at the Comst moment,“Give your wife a kiss for me” this, when they parted. His sister sent me a little travelling writing desk, with a word written,“E.B.B. from her sister Sarianna.” Nobody was displeased at the reserve used towards them, understanding that there were reasons for it which did not detract from his affection for them and my respect.
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But I think … think … of the suffering I caused you, my own, own Arabel, that evening! I tremble thinking of you that evening—my own dearest dearest Arabel! Oh, do not fancy that new affections ran undo the old. I love you now even more, I think. Robert is going to write to you from Pisa, and to Henrietta also. He loves you as his sisters, he says, and wishes that you were with us, and hopes that one day you will be with us… staying and travelling with us…exactly as I do myself…
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… And do you feel and know, that as for me… for my position as a wife…it is awfully happy for this world. He is too good and tender, and beyond me in all things, and we love each other with a love that grows instead of diminishing. I speak to you of such thing rather than of the cathedral at Bourges, because, it is of these, I feel sure, that you desire knowledge rather.
I am going to write to Papa—and to George—very soon, I shall. Ah—dear George would not have written so, if he had known my whole heart, yet he loved me while he wrote, as I felt with every pain the writing caused me. Dear George,—I love him to his worth. And my poor Papa! My thoughts cling to you all, and will not leave their hold. Dearest Henrietta and Arabel let me be as ever and for ever
your fondly attached
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