"_Feb. 14, 1855._--Mother and I were standing on the steps of the
Rectory greenhouse when the carriage came to take me away (to
return to Oxford). I shall always remember that last moment. The
warm air fragrant with the flowers: the orange-trees laden with
golden fruit: the long last look at the Roman senator and his wife
sitting in their niche: at the Raffaelle, the Luini, the
Giorgione--and then the place which had been the occasional
interest and the constant misery of my childhood existed for me no
longer."
_To_ MY MOTHER (from Oxford).
"_March 13._--Your letter was the first thing to greet the opening
of my twenty-first year. Being of age is a great thing, I am told,
but really it makes no difference to me. Only I hope that each year
will help me to be more of a comfort and companion to you, and then
there will be some good in growing old. In the evening my birthday
was celebrated here by a 'wine,' at which there was a good deal of
squabbling as to who should propose my health--the senior
collegian, the senior scholar, or an old Harrovian; but it ended in
the whole company doing it together, with great cheering and
hurrahing, and then Coleridge proposed that they should give 'He's
a jolly good fellow,' with musical honours--and a fine uproar there
was. I had a number of charming presents from college
friends--books, prints, and old china."
I was so anxious about my next public examination--"Moderations"--that,
as my mother seemed then tolerably well, I had begged to be allowed to
pass most of the Easter vacation in Oxford, studying uninterruptedly in
the empty college. This examination was always the most alarming of all
to me, as I had been so ill-grounded, owing to Mr. R.'s neglect, and
grammar was the great requirement. Indeed, at more than double the age I
was then, the tension and anxiety I was in often repeated itself to me
in sleep, and I woke in an agony thinking that "Moderations" were coming
on, and that I was not a bit prepared! One day, in the midst of our
work, I went in a canoe down Godstowe river, accompanied by a friend
(who had also "stayed up") in another canoe, as far as the ruin, and we
dined at the little inn. The spring sun was peculiarly hot, and I
remember feeling much oppressed with the smell of the weeds in the
river, being very unwell at the inn, and reaching college with
difficulty. Next day I was too ill to leave my bed, and when the doctor
came he said I had the measles, which soon developed themselves (for the
second time) with all violence. I was so ill, and so covered with
measles, that the doctor said--the ground being deep in snow--that it
was as much as my life was worth to get up or risk any exposure to cold.
Ten minutes afterwards a telegram from Lime was given to me. It came
from Mrs. Stanley (evidently already summoned), and bade me come
directly--my mother was seriously ill.
My decision was made at once. If I exposed myself to the cold, I should
_perhaps_ die; but if I stayed still in the agony of anxiety I was in, I
should _certainly_ die. I sent for a friend, who helped me to dress and
pack, summoned a fly and gave double fare to catch the next train. It
was a dreadful journey. I remember how faint I was, but that I always
sate bolt upright and determined not to give in.
I recollected that my mother had once said that if she were very ill,
her cousin Charlotte Leycester must not be prevented coming to her. So
as I passed through London I called for her, and we went on together. It
was intensely cold, and my measles were all driven in; they never came
out again--there was not time. There was too much to think of; I could
not attend to myself, however ill I felt. I could only feel that my
precious mother was in danger. John met me at the door of Lime--"You are
still in time." Then Aunt Kitty and Lea came down, Lea very much
overcome at seeing me--"I can bear anything now you are here."
My mother lay in still, deep stupor. She had not been well during the
last days which Aunt Esther spent at the Rectory, feeling too acutely
for her. When Aunt Esther left the Rectory finally and moved to Lime
with Mrs. Alexander, my mother was ready to welcome them. But it was a
last effort. An hour after they arrived she collapsed. From that time
she had lain rigid for sixty hours: she seemed only to have an inner
consciousness, all outward sense was gone. We knew afterwards that she
would have spoken if she could--she would have screamed if she could,
but she could not. Still Dr. Hale said, "Whilst that inner consciousness
appears to last there is hope."
When I went to her, she lay quite still. Her face was drawn and much
altered. There was no speculation in her eyes, which were glassy and
fixed like stone. One cheek alone was flushed and red as vermilion. I
went up. She did not notice me. There was no gleam, no significance, no
movement, but when they asked if she knew I was come, she articulated
"Yes."
I could not sleep at night and listened through the dressing-room wall.
Suddenly I heard her cry out, and John Gidman stood by my bedside
sobbing violently--"You must be told she is worse." I went into the
room. She was in violent delirium. Aunt Kitty was trying to calm her
with texts of Scripture; Lea was kneeling in her dressing-gown at the
foot of the bed. I was determined she should not die. I felt as if I
were wrestling for her life. I _could_ not have spared her then. But God
had mercy upon my agony. She became calmer. Suddenly, in the morning, as
I was sitting by her, she said, "Augustus, fetch me a piece of bread." I
did. She ate it. From that time gradually--very gradually--she dawned
back into life from her sixty hours' trance, whilst I was watching over
her every minute. Four days afterwards came Easter Eve. When I went in
that morning, she was quite herself. "What a beautiful quiet morning,"
she said; "it is just such a day as Easter Eve ought to be. To me this
is the most solemn day of all the year, for on it my Saviour was neither
on earth nor in heaven, at least in his bodily form.... I am so glad
that I learnt Wesley's hymn ("All blessing, glory, honour, praise")
before I was ill: I can say it now." I see in my journal that on that
afternoon of my darling mother's restoration I walked to the Rectory,
and the garden was bright and smiling as ever, in the oak-walks it
seemed as if the shadow of him who paced it so often must sometimes be
walking still. There was no furniture left in the house except
bookcases, and I was astonished then to realise for the first time how
bare walls cannot speak to one; it is the objects which they have
enclosed that have the human interest.