3 Parade, West Cowes:
September 9, 1856 [postmark].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--Your letter has followed us. We have been in
the south of the island, at Ventnor, with Arabel, and are now in the
north with Mr. Kenyon. We came off from London at a day's notice, the
Wimpole Street people being sent away abruptly (in consequence, plainly,
of our arrival becoming known), and Arabel bringing her praying eyes to
bear on Robert, who agreed to go with her and stay for a fortnight. So
we have had a happy sorrowful two weeks together, between meeting and
parting; and then came here, where our invalid friend called us. Poor
Arabel is in low spirits--very--and _aggrieved_ with being sent away
from town; but the fresh air and _repose_ will do her good, in spite of
herself, though she swears they won't (in the tone of saying they
shan't). She is not by any means strong, and overworks herself in London
with schools and Refuges, and societies--does the work of a horse, and
_isn't_ a horse. Last winter she was quite unwell, as you heard. In
spite of which, I did not think her looking ill when I saw her first;
and now she looks well, I think--quite as well as she ever does. But she
wants a new moral atmosphere--a little society. She is thrown too
entirely on her own resources, and her own resources are of somewhat a
gloomy character. This is all wrong. It has been partly necessary and a
little her fault, at one time. I would give my right hand to take her to
Italy; but if I gave right and left, it would not be found possible. My
father has remained in London, and may not go to Ventnor for the next
week or two, says a letter from Arabel this morning.... The very day he
heard of our being in Devonshire Place he gave orders that his family
should go away. I wrote afterwards, but my letter, as usual, remained
unnoticed.

It has naturally begun to dawn upon my child that I have done something
very wicked to make my father what he is. Once he came up to me
earnestly and said, 'Mama, if you've been very, very naughty--if you've
_broken china_!' (his idea of the heinous in crime)--'I advise you to go
into the room and say, "_Papa, I'll be dood._"' Almost I obeyed the
inspiration--almost I felt inclined to go. But there were
considerations--yes, good reasons--which kept me back, and must continue
to do so. In fact, the position is perfectly hopeless--perfectly.

We find our dear friend Mr. Kenyon better in some respects than we
expected, but I fear in a very precarious state. Our stay is uncertain.
We may go at a moment's notice, or remain if he wishes it; and, my
proofs being sent post by post, we are able to see to them together,
without too much delay. Still, only one-half of the book is done, and
the days come when I shall find no pleasure in them--nothing but
coughing.

George and my brothers were very kind to Robert at Ventnor, and he is
quite touched by it. Also, little Pen made his way into the heart of
'mine untles,' and was carried on their backs up and down hills, and
taught the ways of 'English boys,' with so much success that he makes
pretensions to 'pluck,' and has left a good reputation behind him. On
one occasion he went up to a boy of twelve who took liberties, and
exclaimed, 'Don't be impertinent, sir' (doubling his small fist), 'or I
will show you that _I'm a boy_.' Of course 'mine untles' are charmed
with this 'proper spirit,' and applaud highly. Robert and I begged to
suggest to the hero that the 'boy of twelve' might have killed him if he
had pleased. 'Never mind,' cried little Pen, 'there would have been
somebody to think of _me_, who would have him hanged' (great applause
from the uncles). 'But _you_ would still be dead,' said Robert
remorselessly. 'Well, I don't tare for _that_. It was a beautiful place
to die in--close to the sea.'

So you will please to observe that, in spite of being Italians and
wearing curls, we can fight to the death on occasion....

Write to me, and say how you both are. Robert's love. We both love you.

Very lovingly yours,
BA.