I must record a visit which we received soon after my return home, as it
led to a friendship which was one of the great pleasures of many
following years. One morning, as I was sitting in my Mother's room as
usual, a card with "Mrs. Grove, Oakhurst," was brought up to me, and, as
I opened the drawing-room door, I saw an old lady with the very
sweetest and dearest face I ever set eyes upon, in a primitive-looking
hat and apron, and with a basket on her arm, and I fell in love with her
at once. She came often afterwards to see my Mother, who greatly
appreciated her; and after my Mother's sweet life passed away, it is
difficult to say how much of my home interest was associated with
Oakhurst, with the ready sympathy and old-fashioned knowledge of this
dear Mrs. Grove, and with her daughter, Mrs. Baillie Hamilton, and her
two grand-daughters, now Mrs. Spencer Smith and Mrs. Hamilton Seymour.
Alas! as I write this,[424] the dear Mrs. Grove, in her great age, is
herself rapidly fading heavenwards--but so gently, so surrounded by the
love which her own loving-kindness has called forth, that death is
indeed coming as a friend, gently and tenderly leading her into the
visible presence of the Saviour, in whose invisible presence she has so
long lived and served.
JOURNAL (The Green Book).
"_Holmhurst, Oct. 20, 1870._--Mother said to-day, 'I always think
that walking through the Roman picture-galleries is like walking
through the Old and New Testament with the blessed company of
apostles and martyrs beside one.... I am so fond of that prayer
"for all sorts and conditions of men," not only for my invalid
state, but it is _all_ so appropriate to the present time--the
petition for peace and unity, &c.'"
"_Oct. 23, Sunday._--'Alas! another Sunday in bed,' said Mother
this morning.
"'But, darling, you need not regret it; all the days are Sundays to
you.'
"'Yes; but to-day I woke early, and have said all my little Sunday
hymns and psalms.'
"Truly with her, 'Les prières de la nuit font la sérénité du
jour.'"[425]
"_Oct. 26._--'My dear child is never cross to me, _never_; and
always appears just at the very moment I want anything.'"
_To_ MISS WRIGHT.
"_Holmhurst, Oct. 28, 1870._--I am so glad you have been here, and
can fancy our perfectly quiet, eventless life, the coming and going
in the Mother's sick-room, and her gentle happiness in all the
little pleasures which are spared to her. Since you were here she
has been not so well, from the wet and cold, I suppose, the sight
dimmer and the other powers weaker; but the symptoms are ever
varying, and, when it is thus, I almost never leave her--watch her
sleeping and try to amuse her waking.
"To-day my absent hour was sadly engaged in attending the funeral
of my dear old friend, Mrs. Dixon,[426] who died quite peacefully
last Saturday, a long illness ending in two days of merciful
unconsciousness. She was buried at Ore, in Emma Simpkinson's grave.
Many deeply mourn her, for few were more sincere and cordial, more
affectionate and sympathising."
JOURNAL (The Green Book).
"_Nov. 1, 1870._--My darling has had two months of comparative
freedom from pain, with many hours of real pleasure, in which she
was often carried down and sat out in her bath-chair amongst the
flower-beds in the sunshine. Sitting under the ash-tree shade, she
has been able to see many friends--Mrs. Wagner, Mrs. Grove, old
Mrs. Vansittart Neale at ninety, and Lady Waldegrave. Charlotte
Leycester was here for six weeks, and the Mother was then so far
better that it was a great source of enjoyment to both the cousins.
Since then she has ailed more frequently, and has had occasional
recurrence of the old pain in her arm. I have sat constantly
writing in her room, laying aside 'Walks in Rome' for a time, and
devoting myself to writing the Family Memorials. For the dear
Mother has wished me to continue the work she began long ago of
writing the life of Augustus and Julius Hare. I represented that,
as one of these died before I was born, and I had never appreciated
the other as she had done, it would be impossible for me to do
this, unless she would permit me to make her, who had been the
sunshine of my own life, the central figure of the picture. At
first she laughed at the idea, but, after a day or two, she said
that, as, with the sole exception of Charlotte Leycester, all who
had shared her earlier life had passed away, she could not oppose
my wish that the simple experience of her own life, and God's
guidance in her case, might, if I thought it could be so, be made
useful for others. And, as she has accustomed herself to this
thought, she has lately taken real pleasure in it. She laughs at
what she calls my 'building her mausoleum in her lifetime,' but has
almost grown, I think, to look upon her own life and her own
experience as if it were that of another in whom she was
interested, and to read it and hear it in the same way. She has
given me many journals and letters of various kinds which I might
use, and has directed the arrangement of others. I have already
written the two earliest chapters of her married life, and read
most of them to her, but she stopped me at last, saying that they
interested her too deeply. She frequently asks now--'Are you
writing the Memorials, or only "Walks in Rome"?' and it is a proof
how clear her understanding still is, that some weeks ago she
wisely directed me, if the work was ever carried out, to evade all
wearying discussion by consulting no one, and that I should on no
account show it to any one of the family, especially the Stanleys,
till it was finished, when they might judge of it as a _whole_.
"Sometimes the dear Mother has herself been able to write some of
her 'Ricordi,' as she calls them, and, with her trembling hand, has
filled a whole little volume with the recollections of her youth,
but this has often been too much for her.... After her tea at four
o'clock, I have generally read some story to her till she has gone
to bed, and after that a chapter and some hymns. There is a passage
in one of George Eliot's autobiographical sonnets, in which,
referring to her mother, she speaks of 'the benediction of her
gaze'; how often have I experienced this!"
"_Nov. 4._--Last night I read to the Mother Luke xvii. and a hymn
on 'Rest' which she asked for. When I was going to wish her
good-night she said--'I do hope, darling, I am not like the
ungrateful lepers. I try to be always praising God, but I know that
I can never praise Him enough for His many, many mercies to me.' I
could not but feel, in the alarm afterwards, if my dearest Mother
never spoke to me again, what beautiful last words those would have
been, and how characteristic of her. Oh, goodness in life brings us
near to God: not death! not death!
"At 2 P.M. I was awakened by the dreadful sound which has haunted
me ever since the night of March 12 in the Via Gregoriana--of Lea
rushing along the passage and flinging open the door--'Come
directly'--no time for more words--and of running through the dark
gallery and finding the terrible change--another paralytic
seizure--calling up John and sending him off to Battle for the
doctor, and kneeling by the bedside, consoling her if possibly
conscious, and watching for the faint dawn of visible life, that
the first words might be tender ones, the first look one of love,
... and it was so--that my darling's first words were something
tender, indefinite, but spoken to me. The entire unconsciousness
was not long. When the doctor arrived the face was almost natural,
but he saw that it had been a regular seizure. By 8 A.M. she was
nearly herself again, and anxious to know what could have happened.
She had been frightened by seeing the doctor. She appeared to have
no pain, and there is no additional injury to the powers. To-day
has been a constant watching, rather a warding off from her of any
possible excitement than anything else.... In all the anguish of
anxiety, I cannot be thankful enough for what we have, especially
the freedom from pain."
"_Nov. 9._--No great change--a happy painless state, the mind very
feeble, its power gone, but peaceful, loving, full of patience,
faith, and thankfulness."
"_Nov. 16._--And since I wrote last, the great, the most
unutterable desolation, so long looked for, so often warded off,
has come upon me. Oh! while they can still be attained, let me
gather up the precious fragments that remain.
"On Thursday the 10th my darling was much better, though her mind
was a little feeble. I felt then, as I feel a thousand times now,
how extraordinary people were who spoke of the trial my darling's
mental feebleness would be to me. It only endeared her to me a
thousandfold--her gentle confidence, her sweet clinging to me to
supply the words and ideas which no longer came unsought, made her
only more unspeakably lovable. On that day I remember that my
darling mentioned several times that she heard beautiful music.
This made no impression on me _then_.
"Friday the 11th, I sat, as usual, all morning in her room
correcting my book. I forget whether it was that morning or the
next that my darling on waking from sleep said that she had had
such a pleasant dream of her childhood and Adderley and 'old Lady
Corbet,' who first taught her to 'love what was beautiful.'[427] At
2 P.M. Mother was up, and sat in her arm-chair by the fire. She was
partly dressed, and wore her pretty old-fashioned cap with the
strings tied in a bow on the top of the head, and a little red
cloak which Miss Wright had given her: I remember thinking she
looked so pretty, and telling her so. I was out at first, while she
wrote a little letter to Fanny Tatton,[428] and talked to Lea about
the texts she had been reading. At four, she had her tea, and then
I sat at her feet, and my darling talked most sweetly about all the
places she had admired most in her life--of Llangollen in her
childhood, and of Capel Curig, of her visit to Rhianva, and of many
places abroad, Narni with its woods and river, and more especially
Villar in the Vaudois, of which I had been making a drawing, which
she had desired to have set up that she might look at it. Then she
asked to have one of her old journals read, and I read one of Rome,
and she spoke of how much happiness, how many blessings, she had
connected with Rome also, though much of suffering. She was
especially bright and sunny. I remember saying to her playfully,
'Take a little notice of me, darling; you do not take enough notice
of me,' and her stroking my head and saying, 'You dear child,' and
laughing.
"At six o'clock my sweetest one was put to bed.
"Afterwards I read to her a chapter in St. Luke--'Let this cup pass
from me,' &c., and sat in her room till half-past nine. When I went
downstairs I kissed her and said, 'Have a good _good_ night,
darling.' I cannot recollect that she spoke, but I remember looking
back as I opened the door, and seeing my sweet Mother lying on her
side as she always did, and her dear eyes following me with a more
than usually tender expression as I left the room.
"I have often thought since of a sentence in Carlyle's 'Life of
Sterling'--'Softly, as a common evening, the last of our evenings
passed away, and no other would come to me for evermore.'
"When I went upstairs again at half-past ten, I went, as I always
did, to listen at her door, and, hearing a noise, went in. Terrible
illness had come on and continued for hours.... The next thirty-six
hours I never left her for an instant, and they all seem to me like
one long terrible night. I remember very little distinctly, but at
eight on Saturday morning she was certainly much better. The doctor
came at ten, and she was able to speak to him. He looked very grave
over the lowness of her pulse, but she continued better for some
hours, and slept a great deal in the afternoon. Towards evening I
thought her not so well, though the doctor, who came at half-past
nine, considered her state much less anxious. I was then possessed
with the feeling that our parting was very near. Lea also called me
downstairs to hear the extraordinary sound that was going on. It
was indeed strange. It was as if hundreds of thousands of crickets
were all chirping together. They appeared everywhere in swarms on
the hearths downstairs. The noise was so great that I felt if it
continued we should be driven out of the place: it was quite
deafening; but they only came that night, they never were heard
before, and the next day they had totally disappeared.[429] I
persuaded Lea to lie down on her bed, where she soon fell asleep.
All through the night I sat by my darling on the pillow. I think
the last thing she said was that the other arm, the well arm,
pained her very much, and we feared paralysis, but more pressing
symptoms diverted attention. At half-past one I called Lea again. I
shall never know in this world whether my Mother was really
conscious, if she even knew anything either of her own great
physical suffering, or of what passed that night. I believe God
helped me to say and do all she would have wished. Each hour I was
more sure of what was coming. Towards dawn, kneeling on the bed, I
said some of the short prayers in the Visitation of the Sick, but
she was then fading rapidly, and at last I repeated the hymn 'How
bright those glorious spirits shine,' which we had always agreed
was never to be used except as the solemn sign that our parting
was surely come. I am not sure if my darling knew that she was
dying before: I am sure, if she could still hear, that she knew it
then. I am sure that she was conscious at the end and that she
speechlessly took leave of us. Her expression was calm and serene,
but very grave, as if she realised for the first time that I might
not travel with her into the solitude she was entering. It was
about a quarter of an hour before the end that all suffering
ceased, her paralysed side seemed to become quite well; the lame
hand, which had been so tightly clenched since the 13th of March,
unfolded then upon the 13th of November, and gently met the other
in prayer. The eyes were closing, but opened once more--as a
look--a look of youth and radiance, stole over the beloved features
at the last, when there was no struggle, only just a gentle sigh or
two. Lea, who was leaning over the bed on the other side, held her
spectacles to the mouth. There was no breath. I could scarcely
believe that she was gone. I still held her in my arms. But oh! in
my unutterable desolation I could give God thanks that the end was
like this. The first stroke of the church-bell sounded as she
passed into the real life.
"When the sweet eyes closed and the dear face lost its last shadow
of colour, I kissed my own Mother for the last time and came away.
The first snowflakes of winter were falling then. They do not
signify now: no snow or cold can ever signify any more.
"But oh! the agony, the anguish!
"And since then her precious earthly form has been lying, with her
hands folded on her breast as if she were praying--the dear lame
hand quite well _now_. The room is draped with white and filled
with flowers. Two large white camellias stand at the head of the
bed and overshadow her pillow, and on the table, draped with white,
are her own particular objects, her bronze wolf, her little gold
tray with her spectacles, smelling-bottle, &c., and all her special
hymn-books. At first when I went in, in my great agony, I did not
draw down the sheet. But now I draw it down and look at my dearest
one. There is a look of unearthly serene repose upon the worn
features, which is almost too beautiful.
"'Days without night, joys without sorrow, sanctity without sin,
charity without stain, possession without fear, satiety without
envyings, communication of joys without lessening, and they shall
dwell in a blessed country, where an enemy never entered, and from
whence a friend never went away.'[430]
"But yet--oh my darling! my darling!"
_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.
"_Sunday morning, Nov. 13._--My darling Mother has entered into the
real life.
"She grew gradually weaker hour by hour, and I think she suffered
less. She knew me always, and liked to keep her eyes constantly
fixed upon me, but she could not speak. At half-past nine, she
seemed sinking, and I repeated over to her, as she desired me to do
when she was dying, the hymn 'How bright those glorious spirits
shine.' I think she heard it.... Soon after she opened her eyes
and gave me a long, long look of her own perfect lovingness, then
turned to Lea, to me again, and we heard a few gentle sighs. I had
just time to ring the bell close to my hand as I sat on the pillow,
and as John and Harriet[431] (who had been waiting in the passage)
passed sobbing into the room and stood at the foot of the bed, my
sweet darling gently breathed her last in my arms, once more--quite
at the last--opening her eyes, with a look of perfect bliss, as if
gazing at something beyond us. It was so gentle a breathing out of
her spirit, we scarcely knew when it was over. She died in my arms,
with my kiss upon her forehead, at half-past ten. I know how
tenderly my Mother's dearest, most tenderly loved friend feels for
me, and that I need not ask her to pray for my Mother's poor child
Augustus."
"_Nov. 14._--It seems so strange to look out of the window and see
the same sheep feeding in the same green meadows, the same flowers
blooming, and yet such a change over all. I feel as if it were I
who had died yesterday.
"What a long, long day it was! A thousand times I was on the point
of running into the room to say some little loving word to her who
has been the recipient of every thought, _every_ pleasure for so
many, many years, and then the crushing blank, the annihilation
came all afresh. Indeed, I feel it afresh every quarter of an hour,
and when I am calmed after one thing in which my great desolation
is especially presented to me, something else calls it all forth
again. Oh, my darling! my darling! can it be? oh! how can it be?
"The dear earthly form lies with its hands sweetly folded as if she
were praying. I go in often. I am always going in; but it does not
remind me of her, though it is most peaceful, and the servants and
others have the greatest comfort from looking at it.
"It is as a dream that yesterday morning, quite after it was over,
I could say 'The day before yesterday my darling did this, my
darling said that.' On Friday she was so bright, so happy, only her
memory a little astray, but I was already forming a thousand little
schemes for supplying this lost power, so that it should not be
apparent to others, and to me _nothing_, I felt, could ever matter
if the sunshine of my dear Mother's sweet presence was with me
under any change."
"_Tuesday, Nov. 15._--Your most dear letter has come.... How much,
even in the first anguish of my desolation, I have felt what it
would be to you also. You will always be most tenderly entwined
with her sacred memory; indeed, I can scarcely think of you apart.
For the last few years especially your companionship has been her
greatest joy, and in your absence she has never passed many hours
without speaking of you, never _any_, I think, without thinking of
you. The grief she most dreaded was that she might have to mourn
for you, for I think she rightly felt that--great as the sorrow
would be--your physical powers would enable you to bear the
separation better than she could have done.
"This morning I feel a little better, and can dwell more upon my
darling's being perfected, upon the restoration of all her powers,
upon her reunion to those she loved in former times of her life;
and I have a perfect treasure-store in my journals for years of her
sacred words of blessing, and advice, and thought for me, many of
them, I know, intended to be my comfort now.
"I will send you many of the letters about her. I wonder why people
should dread letters of sympathy. To me the letters are nothing,
but what I long for is not to hear that people sympathise with me,
but to know how they loved her.
"To-day it is thick snow. Oh! she would have been so ill; now she
is not ill."
"_Tuesday evening, Nov. 15._--To-day a change came over the dear
face--a look of unspeakable repose and beauty such as I never saw
on any face before. The servants told me of it, and so it was; it
is the most wonderful expression--serene, solemn, holy beauty.
"All the letters are a great--not comfort--nothing can ever be
that, but I like to see how she was loved, and I look forward to
them. There were thirty to-day, and yet I thought no one could
know. What comes home to one is simple sympathy. One cannot help
envying the people who can be comforted in real sorrow by what one
may call Evangelical topics. It seems so perfectly irrelative to
hear that 'man is born to trouble,' that 'it is God that
chasteneth,' &c.
"I recollect now that on Saturday morning I was obliged to send off
some proof-sheets.[432] She asked what I was doing, and then said,
'I shall so enjoy reading it when it is all finished, but I must
have my little desk out then, because I shall not be able to hold
the book.' We have only just remembered this, which proves that
there must have been a slight rally then. It was all so short, so
bewildering at last, that things will only come back gradually.
"I shall be glad when the incessant noise of workmen[433]
downstairs ceases. It is so incongruous in the house now, but could
not be helped. My darling did not mind it; indeed it seems to me,
on looking back, as if she never found fault with anything; often
she did not hear it, and when she did, 'I like that pleasant
sound,' she said."
"_Nov. 16._--There were forty letters to-day, many wanting answers,
so I can only write a little, but it is a comfort to me to send you
any memories of those precious last days as they occur to me, and
as the first _mist_ of anguish clears up, so many things recur.
"You asked about Romo. Indeed it overwhelms me to think of it. The
dear little beast is so touching in his attempts to comfort me. He
comes and licks my hand and rubs himself against me, as he never
was in the habit of doing. In the first sad moments after the dear
eyes closed, Lea, by an old Northern custom, would send down to
'_tell_ the dog and the bees' (the bees would have died, she
thinks, if they had not been told), and Romo understood it all, and
did not howl, but cried plaintively all morning.
"I forget whether I spoke of the music. For the last four days my
darling had said at intervals that she heard beautiful music.
Thursday and Friday I thought nothing of it; on Saturday it began
to have a solemn meaning.
[Illustration: THE CHURCH LANE, HURSTMONCEAUX.]
"I have been to-day to Hurstmonceaux. It was necessary. There was
deep snow the first part of the way, but beyond Battle no snow at
all, leaves still on the trees, and quite a summer look. It was
more overpowering to me than I expected to pass Lime, and I almost
expected to see _her_ come across the field and open the
wicket-gate to her beloved walk to the school. The Haringtons[434]
were most kind in placing Hurstmonceaux Place at our disposal for
the funeral, and removed all scruples about it by saying how
really thankful they were to be able to show their affection for
the Mother in that way. I went up twice to the church. The road
thither and the churchyard looked most beautiful, and the spot
chosen, on the edge towards the level, with the view she always
thought so like the Campagna. I am allowed to enclose a little
space, which will contain my grave also.
"I called on Mrs. W. Isted,[435] and found her quite overpowered,
sitting with my darling's photograph. 'It is not only her own loss,
dearly as I loved her, but the deaths of all my others come back to
me, which she helped me to bear.'"
"_Nov. 17._--Do you know that through a mist of tears I have been
forced to go on sending off proof-sheets of 'Walks in Rome'? One of
the last things she spoke of was her hope that I would not let her
illness hinder the book. The dedication to her, already printed,
will seem touching to those who read it. She herself read _that_
when the first volume was finished. But her great pleasure of the
last few weeks was in the chapters of the 'Memorials' which I was
writing of her Alton life. To continue them with the copious
materials she has left will now be my one great interest. She has
left me perfectly free to make what use I like of all, and one day
made me write down from her dictation an expression to that effect.
The Alton life is certainly the most perfect ideal of a country
clergyman's life that can well be conceived."
"_Nov. 19._--I cannot leave home yet.... Leycester, Mamie, and many
others have written, as she always said they would, that their
hearts and houses are open to receive me, but this must be later.
Indeed, I shall cling to all she loved, and in the ever-living
remembrance of her shall be able to love _all_. I had even a kind
note from Mrs. Maurice[436] to-day: she said I should.
"Henry Papillon came yesterday, touchingly wishful to look upon the
dear face once more, and he was even more struck than I expected
with its immortal beauty.... To-day was a great wrench. This
morning the precious earthly form was sealed away from us."
"_Nov. 22._--I went through yesterday in a dream. I did not realise
it at all. Lea left Holmhurst in an agony of sobs and tears, but I
did not; I had so often thought of it, I seemed to have gone
through it all before, and then I had already lost sight of my
darling.
"Lea, John, Johnnie Cornford, and I went in the little carriage
_first_; Harriet, Anne, Rogers, Joe, and Margaret Cornford[437]
followed _her_. We reached Hurstmonceaux Place about half-past
twelve. In half-an-hour they all began to arrive: each and all of
my dear cousins were most kind to me."
JOURNAL (The Green Book).
"_Dec. 4, 1870._--I have been unable to write in my journal, the
hundred and ninety-two letters which I have had to answer have
taken all the time.... And I live still. I used to think I could
not live, but I am not even ill; and yet how my life is changed,
all the interest, all the happiness, all the sunshine gone, only
the systematic routine of existence left.
"My poor Lea is already beginning to be interested in her chickens
and her farm-life, and to think it all 'such a long time ago.' But
to me it seems as if it had only just happened, and the hour in
which her sweet eyes closed upon me has swallowed up all the hours
which have come since, and is always the last hour to me.
"I think it was about the third day afterwards that Lea came into
my room and told me that the look of wonderful beauty and repose
which appeared at the last had come back again to the dear
features. And so it was. It was the sweetest look of calm, serene
repose. The colour had all faded out of my darling's cheeks, which
had lost every sign of age, and were smooth and white as if they
were chiselled in marble. Her closed eyelids, her gently curving
mouth expressed the sweetest restfulness. The dear lame hand, quite
supple at last, had closed softly upon the other. And this lovely
image of her perfected state was lent to me till the last, when the
beloved features were closed away from me for ever.
"It was on the Saturday that Lea and I went in together for the
last time. Lea cried violently. I was beyond tears. We covered away
together all that was dearest to us on earth. I placed a lock of my
hair in her hands, and laid her favourite flowers by her. Monday a
day of rain and storm-cloud. I shall always associate the road to
Hurstmonceaux with the drive on that winter's morning with
swirling rain-clouds, and the waters out on the distant Levels
gleaming white through the mist. Coming down the hill near Boreham
how many memories of my dearest one came back to me,--of her
anxiety to put me out to walk at Standard Hill,--of her admiration
of the three pines on the hill-top; and then, near Lime, of walks
with her on dewy summer mornings, when I went with her in my
childhood to pick ground-ivy and violets in the fields behind Lime
Cross.
"The coffin lay in the centre of the drawing-room at Hurstmonceaux
Place, upon a high raised stand draped with white. All around it
hung a lovely wreath of flowers from Holmhurst, and at the foot
masses of flowers kindly sent by the present owners of Lime. Mrs.
H. Papillon[438] had sent a beautiful cross of white
chrysanthemums, and some one else a wreath, and in the centre,
linking all with a reminiscence of her sister Lucy, lay a bunch of
withered violets from Abbots Kerswell. Here, over the coffin of her
whose life was perfect peace, the two great enemies in the parish
of Hurstmonceaux shook hands and were reconciled.
"At two the eighteen bearers, all chosen from labourers whom she
had known, filed in in their white smock frocks and took up the
precious burden. Lea and I followed immediately, then Leycester,
Vere, and Emmie Penrhyn; Arthur, Augusta, and Mary Stanley; Morgan
and Mamie Yeatman; Dr. Vaughan, Frederick Fisher, Mrs. Hale, and a
long line of neighbours, clergy, and servants, walking two and two.
"Down the well-known avenue and lanes, the bearers advanced,
looking like a great band of choristers. I saw nothing, but some of
the others remarked that as we came away from the house a beautiful
silver cloud and rainbow appeared over it.
"Arthur and Augusta left the procession at the foot of the hill and
passed on before; so he met us at the gate.
"In the centre of the chancel, where I had seen the coffin of Uncle
Julius, there the coffin of my own darling lay, but it was covered
with no gloomy pall, only garlanded with flowers, the garlands of
her new life.
"At the grave, Lea stood on one side of me, Emmie on the other.
Arthur read most touchingly, and in the words of that service one
was lifted up, not drawn down: but indeed I felt it very little, I
only saw it in a dream.
"Afterwards I think they all came up and kissed me. Then they went
away, and Lea and I walked back alone through the shrubbery to
Hurstmonceaux Place, and so came home.
"To our most desolate home.
"On the Saturday after we went to Hurstmonceaux again. The Sunday
services at the church were most beautiful. In the morning 'How
bright those glorious spirits shine' was sung, and in the evening,
almost in the dark, 'Pilgrims of the night.' Mr. Munn[439] preached
on 'Bury me with my fathers--in the cave of Machpelah,' &c.,
speaking of how she was brought from a distant place, and how, in
foreign lands, her great wish had been to be laid at Hurstmonceaux,
and so to what I wished of the peculiar connection of my darling's
life with Hurstmonceaux, and of how the different scenes in the
parish which called up the remembrance of her sweet words and acts
connected with them, might also call up the recollection of those
truths to which her gentle life was a living witness. When Lea and
I went out to the grave afterwards, we found two poor women--Mrs.
Medhurst and Mrs. Harmer--standing there dressed in black, and the
little mound covered with flowers.
"I saw it once again next day, and made a little wall of holly and
ivy round it. Oh, my darling!--and then we returned here again, to
the ordinary life, only the door of the sacred chamber stands open,
and the room is cold and empty, and my heart and my life are
desolate. 'The sanctuary of sorrow' seems to me an expression full
of significance."
_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.
"_Holmhurst, Dec. 1, 1870._--Madame de Staël shows how she must
have suffered when she wrote--'Le reveil, quel moment pour les
malheureux!' To-day is the first of a month in which my darling has
no share: each day there is something in which I seem to part with
her afresh. My life is so changed that it seems impossible to
believe that it is such a short time since I was so happy--only,
between the present dumb blank and the happy time are those
terrible thirty-six hours of illness, and in the thought of them I
am more than satisfied that she cannot go through them again. Each
minute of those hours comes back to me now so vividly--the
acuteness of the numb misery, which _really_ had no hope, with the
determination that she should see nothing but smiles to the last,
for my whole life afterwards would be long enough for tears.
"Poor Lea sits with me now for an hour every day after tea, and we
talk of every moment of those last days.
"It is most bitterly cold: she would have been _so_ ill."
"_Dec. 17._--Mrs. Tom Brassey passed me to-day, riding with a
party. She made them go on, and stopped to speak to me, then burst
into tears, and spoke most feelingly of old Mr. Brassey's death, to
whom I believe she was truly attached. Then she revealed the
enormous wealth to which they have fallen heirs. They expected to
have no more, as the father had already given each of his sons an
immense sum, but old Mr. Brassey has left six millions! She feels
the awful responsibility of such a heritage, and spoke admirably
and touchingly--said she trusted each of the three brothers would
set out with the determination to spend it worthily of their
father, and then of all their plans already made for the good of
others. It seemed odd to come back from discussing all this to the
great anxiety as to whether my income would amount to £500, and if
I should be able to live on at Holmhurst.
"It is actually five weeks this evening since my darling was here,
and we were entering upon the utter anguish of that last night.
Sometimes the agony comes back to me, so that I am obliged to _do_
something which requires close attention to set it aside; but at
other times--generally--I can think with composure of the five
weeks she has spent well, and _warm_, and happy."
MRS. ARNOLD _to_ AUGUSTUS J. C. HARE.
"_Dingle Bank, Nov. 21, 1870._--You will be in such deep grief that
I hardly know how to write to you; and yet I so loved the dear
Mother you have lost, so reverenced her goodness and sweetness and
holiness, that I cannot but hope you may like a few words from me
of truest sympathy, and indeed I can feel for you. To those at a
distance it is the thought of a dear friend transplanted from earth
to heaven, but to you there is the thought of the daily
companionship, the loving nursing, the perpetual consciousness of
what you were to her. In this, however, in the sense of the
continual help and comfort and love that she received from you,
will be your great consolation.
"I have never lost the impression made on me by her own _more_ than
resignation when she spoke to me at Rugby of her own separation
from what was dearest to her upon earth--there seemed such joy in
_his_ happiness, such a realising of it to herself, that earthly
clouds and shadows disappeared.
"I will not say more now, but for _her_ dear sake, and that of my
long and affectionate interest in you, I hope you will sometimes
let me hear of you."
LADY EASTLAKE _to_ AUGUSTUS J. C. HARE.
"_7 Fitzroy Square, Dec. 4._--I have seen a notice in the _Times_
which has sent a pang through my heart, and hasten to tell you how
intensely I feel for you. None but those who know the bitterness of
a great sorrow can really sympathise with you, for only they can
measure the length and breadth of the suffering. I know of no
consolation but the conviction that God knows all and does all, and
that He will reunite in His good time to the Beloved One. Sorrow is
a mighty force, and its fruit ought to be commensurate: we sow
truly in tears, but the reaping in joy is, I believe, reserved for
another state. Still there is much to be done by sorrow's husbandry
even here, and assuredly were the fruits of the Spirit to be
attained without suffering, God would not put His poor children
through it.
"I fear that life must look very joyless before you, and that all
things for a time must seem altered, your very self most so. I can
only say be patient with _yourself_, and take every mitigation that
offers itself. I should be very glad to hear from you when you have
heart and leisure. You have seen me in bitter anguish, and will not
be shy of one who has drunk of that cup to the very dregs. God's
holy will be done!"