after dinner to see the Edward Kenyons in Beaumont Street, like an innocent—­that is, an idiot—­and so lost you again.  You may forgive me—­it is possible—­but to forgive myself! it is more difficult.  Try not quite to give me up for it.  Your note gave me so much pleasure.  I wished so to see you!  For the future I mean to write down engagements in a text-hand, and set them up somewhere in sight; but if I broke through twenty others as shamefully, it would not be with as much real grief to myself as in this fault to my dearest Mona Nina.  Do come soon, out of mercy—­and magnanimity!

Your ever affectionate
BA.

* * * * *

To Mrs. Martin

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.