"_Jan. 1, 1855._--With mother to the Rectory this afternoon,
wrapped up in the carriage. I went to Uncle Julius in his room. He
does seem now most really ill: I have never seen him more so. He
bemoaned his never being able to do anything now. Looking at his
mother's picture[100] hanging opposite, he said what a treasure it
was to him. His face quite lighted up when he saw my mother, but
(naturally perhaps) he had not the slightest pleasure in seeing me,
and his tone instantly altered as he turned to me from wishing her
good-bye."
"_Jan. 2._--Mother and I walked towards the school, but clouds
gathering over the downs and level warned us home again. In the
afternoon I was too ill to go out in the damp, but the crimson
sunset cast beautiful gleams of light into the room, and mother
went out to enjoy it in the garden."
"_Jan. 3._--We accomplished a visit to the new school-mistress in
the midst of her duties. A bright sunny spring morning, every
little leaf looking up in gladness, and just that soft sighing
breeze in the garden, with a freshness of newly-watered earth and
dewy flowers, which is always associated with Lime in my mind. How
beautiful--how peaceful--is our little home! Circumstances often
prevent my enjoying it now, but if I left it, with what an
intensity of longing love should I look back upon days spent here.
In the afternoon I was very impatient of incessant small
contradictions, and in the evening felt as if I had not been quite
as loving or devoted to my mother as I might have been for the last
few days--not throwing myself sufficiently into every little
trivial interest of hers. Yet this I wish to do with all my heart;
and as for her wishes, they ought to be not only fulfilled, but
anticipated by me.... What I was reading in 'North and South'
perhaps made me more sensitive, and caused me to watch my mother
more intently this evening, and it struck me for the first time
that she suffered when her cheek was so flushed and her eyes shut,
and her hand moved nervously upwards. Perhaps it was only some
painful thought, but it has often made me turn from my book to
watch her anxiously when she was not looking."
"_Jan. 4._--We drove along the Ninfield road, fresh and open, with
the wind whistling through the oaktrees on the height, and then
went to the Rectory. Mother went to Uncle Julius first, and then
wished me to go. It was very difficult to find anything to say, for
his illness had made him even more impatient than usual, at any
word of mine, whatever it might be about."
When we went to the Stanleys' empty house in Grosvenor Crescent, we left
Uncle Julius very feeble and ill at Hurstmonceaux. As soon as we reached
London, my mother was attacked by severe bronchitis, and with this came
one of her alarming phases of seeing endless processions passing before
her, and addressing the individuals. Sometimes in the morning she was
more worn than in the evening, having been what she called "maintaining
conversation" all night long. In the hurry of after years, I have often
looked back with surprise upon the stagnant _lull_ of life in these
winters, in which I scarcely ever left my mother, and, beyond chafing
her limbs, reading to her, preparing remedies for all phases of her
strange malady, scarcely _did_ anything; yet always felt _numb_ with
fatigue when evening came, from the constant tension of an undivided
anxiety. It was very severe weather, and if I was ever able to go out,
it was for a rush up Piccadilly and Regent Street, where I always
enjoyed even the sight of human movement amongst the shivering bluenosed
people after the intensity of my solitude; for of visitors we had none
except Lady Frances Higginson and her daughter Adelaide,[101] who came
every morning to see my mother. At this time Henry Alford, afterwards
Dean of Canterbury, was preaching at Quebec Chapel, and I used to go to
hear him on Sundays.