Chapter XI: Home Life with the Mother (3)

In 1863, under the direction of her priests, and with the assistance of many Catholic friends, Esmeralda had published a "Manual of the Dolours of Our Lady," which she caused to be translated into almost every language of Europe and to be disseminated among all its nations; this she did through the medium of foreign converts. In her "retreats" and in her religious life Esmeralda had for some years been brought nearer to many of her former friends with the same interests, but especially to Lady Lothian, Lady Georgiana Fullerton, and to a Miss Bradley, a recent pervert to the Church of Rome. By them she had been induced to join the society of "Les Enfants de Marie;" a society of persons united together by special acts of devotion to the Virgin, and works of charity conducted in her honour. In sorrow, faithfully borne, the beauty and power of holiness had become hourly more apparent to Esmeralda. But she could never join in the exaggeration which led many of these ladies to invest the Virgin with all the attributes of our Lord Himself, as well as with the perfection of human sympathies. I remember as rather touching that when the Dowager Lady Lothian was writing to Esmeralda about her son as being so "fearfully Protestant," she said, "It is very trying to know that one cannot share one's thoughts with any one. I try to make our dear Mother more my companion, but I am tempted sometimes to remember how Our Lady, in all her sorrows, never can have had that of anxiety about her son's _soul_. I know that she has it in and for us, her adopted children, but she never can have felt it about Our Lord."

From the devotion which Esmeralda felt to the Blessed Virgin followed her especial interest in the Order of the Servites, who had lately been established in London, and who always wore black in sympathy with the sorrows of Mary. The very name had an interest for Esmeralda, derived as it was from the special love shown to the Madonna by seven noble Florentines, the founders of the Order, which induced the children to point at them in the streets, saying, "Guardati i servi di Maria." For the Servites Esmeralda never ceased to obtain contributions.

Another confraternity in which my sister had entered herself as an associate, together with Lady Lothian and most of her friends, was that of "The Holy Hour"--first instituted by the beatified nun, Margaret Mary Alacoque of Paray le Monial, a convent near Monceaux les Mines,[251] for which her admirers, and my sister amongst them, had worked a splendid carpet, to cover the space in front of her altar. The rules of this society set forth that it "is established as a special manner of sharing the agony of our Divine Lord, and of uniting in associated prayer for reparation of insults offered Him by sin. The associates of this devotion thus form a band of faithful disciples, who in spirit accompany our Saviour every Thursday night to the scene of His agony, and share more particularly that watch which Our Blessed Lady and the Apostles kept on the eve of the Passion. With this end in view, the associates spend one hour of Thursday evening in mental or vocal prayer upon the Agony in the Garden, or other mysteries of the Passion." Thus every Thursday night my sister repeated:--

"O Lord Jesus Christ, kneeling before Thee I unite myself to Thy
Sacred Heart and offer myself again to Thy service. In this hour
when Thou wert about to be betrayed into the hands of sinners, I, a
poor sinner, dare to come before Thee and say, 'Yes, Lord, I too
many times have betrayed and denied Thee, but Thou, who knowest all
things, knowest that I desire to love Thee, that I desire to
comfort Thee insulted by sin, that I desire to watch with Thee one
hour, and to cry before Thy throne, 'O Lord, remember me when Thou
comest into thy kingdom!' And therefore, with my whole heart, I now
promise before thee--

"When the mysteries of Thy life and Passion are denied: the more
firmly will I believe in them and defend them with my life.

"When the spirit of unbelief, coming in like a flood, seeks to
quench our hope: I will hope in Thee and take refuge in Thy Sacred
Heart.

"When blinded men obstinately shut their hearts to Thy love: I will
love Thee who hast shown me an everlasting love.

"When the Majesty and power of Thy Divinity are denied: I will say
to Thee--day by day--'My Lord and my God!'

"When Thy law is broken and Thy sacraments profaned: I will keep
Thy words in my heart and draw near to thy holy altar with joy.

"When all men forsake Thee and flee from Thy ways: I will follow
Thee, my Jesus, up the way of sorrow, striving to bear Thy cross.

"When the evil one, like a roaring lion, shall seek everywhere the
souls of men: I will raise Thy standard against them and draw them
to Thy Sacred Heart.

"When the Cross shall be despised for the love of pleasure and the
praise of men: I will renew my baptismal vows, and again renounce
the devil, the world, and the flesh.

"When men speak lightly of Thy Blessed Mother and mock at the power
of Thy Church: I will renew my love to the Mother of God, hailing
her as 'Our life, our sweetness, and our hope,' and will again give
thanks for the Church that is founded upon the rock."

At my sister's house, I now, at least on one occasion, met each of my brothers, but we never made the slightest degree of real acquaintance; indeed, I doubt if I should have recognised either of them if I had met him in the street. When my eldest brother, Francis, came of age, he had inherited the old Shipley property of Gresford in Flintshire, quantities of old family plate, &c., and a clear £3000 a year. He was handsome and clever, a good linguist and a tolerable artist. But he had a love of gambling, which was his ruin, and before he was seven-and-twenty (October 1857) he was in the Queen's Bench, without a penny in the world, with Gresford sold--Hurstmonceaux sold--his library, pictures, and plate sold, and £53,000 of debts. After Francis was released in 1860, he went to join Garibaldi in his Italian campaign, and being a brave soldier, and, with all his faults, devoted to military adventure and impervious to hardships, he was soon appointed by the Dictator as his aide-de-camp. He fought bravely in the siege of Capua. His especial duty, however, was to watch and follow the extraordinary Contessa della Torre, who rode with the troops, and by her example incited the Italians to prodigies of valour. Of this lady Francis said--

"The Contessa della Torre was exceedingly handsome. She wore a hat
and plume, trousers, boots, and a long jacket. She was foolhardy
brave. When a shell exploded by her, instead of falling on the
ground like the soldiers, she would stand looking at it, and making
a cigarette all the time. The hospital was a building surrounding a
large courtyard, and in the centre of the court was a table where
the amputations took place. By the side of the surgeon who operated
stood the Contessa della Torre, who held the arms and legs while
they were being cut off, and when they were severed, chucked them
away to join others on a heap close by. There were so many, that
she had a heap of arms on one side of her and a heap of legs on the
other. The soldiers, animated by her example, often sang the
Garibaldian hymn while their limbs were being taken off, though
they fainted away afterwards.

"When the war was over, the Contessa della Torre retired to Milan.
Her first husband, the Count della Torre, she soon abandoned; her
second husband, Signor Martino, a rich banker, soon abandoned
_her_. Lately she has founded a Society for the Conversion of the
Negroes of Central Africa, of which she appointed herself
patroness, secretary, and treasurer; and, obtaining an English
Clergy List, wrote in all directions for subscriptions. Of course
many clergy took no notice of the appeal, but a certain proportion
responded and sent donations, which it is needless to say were
_not_ applied to Central Africa."

After the siege of Capua, Francis was very ill with a violent fever at Naples, and then remained there for a long time because he was too poor to go away. It was during his stay at Naples that he formed his friendship with the K.'s, about which my sister has left some curious notes.

"When Francis first went to Naples, he had his pay, was well to do,
and stayed at the Hotel Victoria. Amongst the people who were
staying in the house and whom he regularly met at the
_table-d'hôte_, were an old Mr. K. and his daughter. Old Mr. K. was
a very handsome old gentleman and exceedingly pleasant and
agreeable; Miss K. was also handsome, and of very pleasing manners:
both were apparently exceedingly well off. After some time, the
K.'s went to Rome, where they passed some time very pleasantly.
When they returned, the siege of Capua was taking place, and it was
a source of great surprise to the Garibaldian officers to see the
father and daughter constantly walking about arm in arm with the
most perfect _sang-froid_ in the very teeth of the firing, shells
bursting all around them. The Garibaldians remonstrated in vain:
the K.'s remained unhurt in the heat of every battlefield, and
appeared to bear charmed lives.

"Some time after, it transpired that the K.'s had no money to pay
their bills at the Victoria. They were much respected there, having
been there often before, but they could not be allowed to remain
without payment, so the landlord told them they must leave. They
went to another hotel, where the same thing happened. Then they
went to a lodging.

"One day Francis met them coming down under the arch in the Chiaja.
He turned round and went with them to the Villa Reale. As they
went, Miss K. spoke of the great distress which was then prevalent
in Naples, and said that a _gentleman_ had just begged of them in
the street, and that they had nothing to give him. 'Before I would
be reduced to that,' she said, 'I would drown myself.'--'Yes, and I
too would drown myself,' said Mr. K.; but what they said did not
strike Francis till afterwards. When they reached the Villa Reale,
they walked up and down together under the avenue. Miss K. was more
than usually lively and agreeable, and they did not separate till
nightfall, when the gates of the Villa were going to be shut.

"At two o'clock the next morning, Francis was awakened by the most
dreadful and vivid dream. He dreamt that he stood on the little
promontory in the Villa Reale, and that he saw two corpses bobbing
up and down a short distance off. The dream so took possession of
him, that he jumped up, dressed himself, and rushed down to the
Villa, but the gates were shut when he got there, and he had to
wait till they were opened at four o'clock in the morning. He then
ran down the avenue to the promontory, and thence, exactly as he
had seen in his dream, he saw two corpses bobbing up and down on
the waves a short distance off. He called to some fishermen, who
waded in and brought them to land, and he then at once recognised
Mr. and Miss K. They must have concealed themselves in the Villa
till the gates were closed, and must then have deliberately climbed
over the railing of the promontory, and then tied each other's
ankles and wrists, and, after filling their pockets with heavy
stones, leapt off into the sea.

"Capua they had vainly hoped would destroy them.

"Some time after Francis found that Mr. K. had once been
exceedingly rich, but had been ruined: that his wife, who had a
large settlement, had then left him, making him a handsome
allowance. A few days before the catastrophe this allowance had
been suddenly withdrawn, and Mr. K. with the daughter, who devoted
herself to him, preferred death to beggary."

It may seem odd that I have never mentioned my second brother, William, in these memoirs, but the fact is, that after he grew up, I never saw him for more than a few minutes. It is one of the things I regret most in life that I never made acquaintance with William. I believe now that he was misrepresented to us and that he had many good qualities; and I often feel, had he lived till I had the means of doing so, how glad I should have been to have helped him, and how fond I might have become of him. At Eton he was an excessively good-looking boy, very clever, very mischievous, and intensely popular with his companions. He never had any fortune, so that it was most foolish of his guardian (Uncle Julius) to spend £2000 which had been bequeathed to him by "the Bath aunts," in buying him a commission in the Blues. I only once saw him whilst he was in the army, and only remember him as a great dandy, but I must say that he had the excuse that everything he wore became him. After he left the army he was buffeted about from pillar to post, and lived no one knows where or how. Our cousin Lord Ravensworth was very kind to him, and so was old Lady Paul; but to Hurstmonceaux or Holmhurst he was never invited, and he would never have been allowed to come. I have often thought since how very odd it was that when he died, neither my mother nor I wore the slightest mourning for him; but he was so entirely outside our life and thoughts, that somehow it would never have occurred to us. He had, however, none of the cold self-contained manner which characterised Francis, but was warm-hearted, cordial, affectionate, and could be most entertaining. After his mother's great misfortunes he went to Spain on some temporary appointment, and at Barcelona nearly died of a fever, through which he was nursed by a lady, who had taken an extraordinary fancy to him; but on his return, when it was feared he would marry her, he took every one by surprise in espousing the very pretty portionless daughter of a physician at Clifton.

During the year 1864 I constantly saw my Lefevre cousins and found an increasing friendship for them. Sir John always showed me the greatest kindness, being full of interest in all my concerns. I consulted him on many subjects, feeling that he was the only person I had ever known, except my mother, willing to take the trouble of _thinking_ how to give the best advice and perfectly disinterested in giving it: consequently I always took _his_ advice and his only. His knowledge was extraordinary, and was only equalled by his humility and self-forgetfulness. Many were the interesting reminiscences of other days which he delighted to call up--many the remarkable parallels he drew between present events and those he remembered--many the charming stories he told me. One of these, which has always struck me as very grand and dramatic, I have so often repeated that I will make a note of it here:--

"Within the memory of those still living there resided in Madrid a
family called Benalta. It consisted of Colonel Benalta, a man of
choleric and sharp disposition; of his wife, Madame Benalta; of his
young daughter; of his little son Carlos, a boy ten years old; and
of the mother of Madame Benalta, who was a woman of large property
and of considerable importance in the society at Madrid. On the
whole, they were quoted as an example of a happy and harmonious
family. It is true that there were, however, certain drawbacks to
their being completely happy, entirely harmonious, and the chief of
these was that Colonel Benalta, when his temper was not at its
best, would frequently, much more often than was agreeable, say to
his wife, 'My dear, you know nothing: my dear, you know nothing at
all: you know nothing whatever.' This was very disagreeable to
Madame Benalta, but it was far more unpleasant to the mother of
Madame Benalta, who considered her daughter to be a very
distinguished and gifted woman, and who did not at all like to have
it said, especially in public, that she knew--nothing!

"However, as I have said, on the whole, as Madrid society went, the
Benaltas were quoted as an example of a happy and harmonious
family.

"One day Colonel Benalta was absent on military duty, but the rest
of the family were assembled in the drawing-room at Madrid. In the
centre of the room, at a round table, sat Madame Benalta and her
daughter working. At a bureau on one side of the room sat the
mother of Madame Benalta, counting out the money which she had just
received for the rents of her estates in Andalusia, arranging the
louis-d'ors in piles of tens before her, and eventually putting
them away in a strong box at her side. At another table on the
other side of the room sat little Carlos Benalta writing a copy.

"Now I do not know the exact words of the Spanish proverb which
formed the copy that Carlos Benalta wrote, but it was something to
the effect of 'Work while it is to-day, for thou knowest not what
may happen to-morrow.' And the child wrote it again and again till
the page was full, and then he signed it, 'Carlos Benalta, Sept.
22nd,' and he took the copy to his mother.

"Now the boy had signed his copy 'Carlos Benalta, Sept. 22nd,' but
it really was Sept. 21. And Madame Benalta was a very superstitious
woman; and when she saw that in his copy Carlos had anticipated the
morrow--the to-morrow on which 'thou knowest not what may
happen'--it struck her as an evil omen, and she was very much
annoyed with Carlos, and spoke sharply, saying that he had been
very careless, and that he must take the copy back and write it all
over again. And Carlos, greatly crestfallen, took the copy and went
back to his seat. But the mother of Madame Benalta, who always
indulged and petted Carlos, looked up from her counting and said,
'Bring the copy to me.' And when she saw it she said to her
daughter, 'I think you are rather hard upon Carlos, my dear; he has
evidently taken pains with his copy and written it very well; and
as for the little mistake at the end, it really does not signify;
so I hope you will forgive him, and not expect him to write it
again.' Upon which Madame Benalta, but with a very bad grace, said,
'Oh, of course, if his grandmother says he is not to write it
again, I do not expect him to do it; but I consider, all the same,
that he ought to have been obliged to do it for his carelessness.'
Then the grandmother took ten louis-d'ors from the piles before
her, and she tore the copy out of the book and rolled them up in
it, and sealed the parcel, and she wrote upon the outside, 'For my
dear grandson, Carlos Benalta; to be given to him when I am dead!'
And she showed it to her daughter and her grand-daughter, and said,
'Some day when I am passed away, this will be a little memorial to
Carlos of his old grandmother, who loved him and liked to save him
from a punishment.' And she put the packet away in the strong box
with the rest of the money.

"The next morning the news of a most dreadful tragedy startled the
people of Madrid. The mother of Madame Benalta, who inhabited an
apartment in the same house above that of her daughter and
son-in-law, was found murdered in her room under the most dreadful
circumstances. She had evidently fought hard for her life. The
whole floor was in pools of blood. She had been dragged from one
piece of furniture to another, and eventually she had been
butchered lying across the bed. There were the marks of a bloody
hand all down the staircase, and the strong box was missing.
Everything was done that could be done to discover the murderer,
but unfortunately he had chosen the one day in the year when such a
crime was difficult to trace. As Mademoiselle Benalta was not yet
'out,' and as the family liked a quiet domestic life, they never
went out in the evening, and the street door was known to be
regularly fastened. Therefore, on this one day in the year, when
the servants went on their annual picnic to the Escurial, it was
supposed to be quite safe to leave the street door on the latch,
that they might let themselves in when they returned very late. The
murderer must have known this and taken advantage of it; therefore,
though Colonel Benalta offered a very large reward, and though the
Spanish Government--so great was the public horror--offered, for
them, a very large reward, no clue whatever was ever obtained to
the murderer.

"A terrible shadow naturally hung over the house in Madrid, and the
Benalta family could not bear to remain in a scene which to them
was filled with such associations of horror. By the death of the
poor lady, Madame Benalta's mother, they had inherited her estates
in Andalusia, and they removed to Cordova. There they lived very
quietly. From so great a shock Madame Benalta could not entirely
rally, and she shrank more than ever from strangers. Besides, her
home life was less pleasant than it had been, for Colonel Benalta's
temper was sharper and sourer than ever, and even more frequently
than before he said to her, 'My dear, you know nothing: you really
know nothing at all.'

"Eleven years passed away, melancholy years enough to the mother,
but her children grew up strong and happy, and naturally on them
the terrible event of their childhood seemed now quite in the
far-away past. One day Colonel Benalta was again absent on military
duty. Madame Benalta was sitting in her usual chair in her
drawing-room at Cordova, and Carlos, then a young man of
one-and-twenty, was standing by her, when the door opened and
Mademoiselle Benalta came in. 'Oh, mother,' she said, 'I've been
taking advantage of our father's absence to arrange his room, and
in one of his drawers I have found a little relic of our childhood,
which I think perhaps may be interesting to you: it seems to be a
copy which Carlos must have written when he was a little boy.'
Madame Benalta took the paper out of her daughter's hand and saw,
'Work while it is to-day, for thou knowest not what may happen
to-morrow,' and at the bottom the signature 'Carlos Benalta,
September 22nd,' and she turned it round, and there, at the back,
in the well-known trembling hand, was written, 'For my dear
grandson Carlos Benalta, to be given to him when I am dead.' Madame
Benalta had just presence of mind to crumple up the paper and throw
it into the back of the fire, and then she fell down upon the floor
in a fit.

"From that time Madame Benalta never had any health. She was unable
to take any part in the affairs of the house, and scarcely seemed
able to show any interest in anything. Her husband had less
patience than ever with her, and more frequently abused her and
said, 'My dear, you know nothing;' but it hardly seemed to affect
her now; her life seemed ebbing away together with its animation
and power, and she failed daily. That day-year Madame Benalta lay
on her death-bed, and all her family were collected in her room to
witness her last moments. She had received the last sacraments, and
the supreme moment of life had arrived, when she beckoned her
husband to her. As he leant over her, in a calm solemn voice,
distinctly audible to all present, she said, 'My dear, you have
always said that I knew nothing: now I have known two things: I
have known how to be silent in life, and how to pardon in death,'
and so saying, she died.

"It is unnecessary to explain what Madame Benalta knew."

In later years, in Spain, I have read a little book by Fernan Caballero, "El Silencio en la Vita, e el Perdono en la Muerte," but even in the hands of the great writer the story wants the simple power which it had when told by Sir John.

* * * * *

The winter of 1864-65 was a terribly anxious one at Holmhurst. My mother failed daily as the cold weather came on, and was in a state of constant and helpless suffering. I never could bear to be away from her for a moment, and passed the whole day by the side of her bed or chair, feeding her, supporting her, chafing her inanimate limbs, trying by an energy of love to animate her through the weary hours of sickness, giddiness, and pain. We were seldom able to leave one room, the central one in the house, and had to keep it as warm as was possible. My recollection lingers on the months of entire absence from all external life spent in that close room, sitting in an armchair, pretending to read while I was ceaselessly watching. My mother was so much worse than she had ever been before, that I was never very hopeful, but strove never to look beyond the present into the desolate future, and, while devoting my whole thoughts and energies to activity for her, was always able to be cheerful. Still I remember how, in that damp and misty Christmas, I happened to light upon the lines in "In Memoriam"--

"With trembling fingers did we weave
The holly round our Christmas hearth;
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth,
And sadly fell our Christmas Eve."

And how wonderfully applicable they seemed to our case.

_To_ MY SISTER.

"_Holmhurst, Dec. 17, 1864._--How we envy you the warmth of Italy!
Had we known how severe a winter this was likely to be, we also
should have started for Italy at all risks, and I feel that I have
been _very_ wrong ever to have consented to the mother's staying in
England, though she seemed so weary of travelling and so much
better in health, that I could not believe the effect would be so
bad. The cold is most intense. After a month of wet, we have had
two days of snow with black east wind, and now it is pouring again,
but the rain freezes as it falls.

"The dear mother is perfectly prostrated by the cold, and looks at
least twenty years older than in the summer. She has great and
constant pain, and trembles so greatly as to be quite unable to
feed herself, and she can do nothing whatever all day, so that she
is very miserable. Of course I am dreadfully and constantly anxious
about her, and the dread of paralysis haunts me night and day. I
need not say how sweet, and gentle, and uncomplaining my poor
darling is, but one can see she suffers greatly, and 'the pleasures
of an English winter,' which some of the family have always been
urging her to enjoy, consist in an almost total non-existence on
her part, and constant watching on mine."

Gradually the consciousness came to all around her that the only chance of my mother's recovery would be from taking her abroad. How I longed to follow the advice given in "Kotzebue's Travels" when he urges us to take pattern by our ancestors, who were content to sit still and read the injunction in their Bibles, "Let not your flight be in the winter." Yet this year even poor Lea, generally so averse to leaving home, urged us to set off. Then came the difficulty of how to go, and where. We decided to turn towards Pau and Biarritz, because easier of access than Cannes, and because the journeys were shorter: and then there was the constant driving down to look at the sea, and the discovery that, when it was calm enough, my mother was too ill to move, and when she was better, the sea was too rough. At last, on the 20th of January, we left home in the evening.

_To_ MY SISTER.

"_Bordeaux, Jan. 28, 1865._--I cannot say what a comfort it is,
amid much else that is sad and trying, to think of you safe at
Palazzo Parisani, in the home of many years, with the devoted
auntie and the two old domestic friends to share your interests and
sorrows and joys--so much left of the good of life, so much to gild
the memory of the past. I know how you would feel the return to
Rome at first--the desolate room, the empty chair, the unused
writing-table; and then how you would turn to 'gather up the
fragments that remain,' and to see that even the darkest cloud has
its silver lining.... No, you cannot wish your mother back. In
thinking of her, you will remember that if she were with you now,
it would not be in the enjoyment of Rome, of Victoire, and
Parisani, but in cheerless London rooms, with their many trials of
spirits and temper. _Now_ all those are forgotten by her, for

'Who will count the billows past,
If the shore be won at last'?

"And for yourself, you are conscious that you are in the place
where she would have you be, and that if she can still be with you
invisibly, her life and your life may still be running on side by
side, and yours now giving to her unclouded eyes the pleasure it
never could have given when earthly mists obscured them.

"I often think of Christian Andersen's story of the mother who was
breaking her heart with grief for the loss of her only child, when
Death bade her look into his mirror, and on one side she saw the
life of her child as it would have been had it remained on earth,
in all the misery of sorrow and sickness and sin; and on the other,
the glorified life to which it was taken; and then the mother
humbly gave thanks to the All-Wise, who chose for her, and could
only beg forgiveness because she had wished to choose for herself.

"Do you know, my Esmeralda, that great sorrow has been very near me
too? My sweetest mother has been very, very ill, and even now she
is so little really better, that I am full of anxiety about her.
From the New Year she was so ill at Holmhurst from the cold and
snow, that it was decided that we must take the first available
moment for going abroad. But we were packed up and waiting for more
than a fortnight before her health and the tempests allowed us to
start.

"Her passage on the 21st was most unfortunate, for a thick fog came
on, which long prevented the steamer from finding the narrow
entrance of Calais harbour, and the boat remained for two hours
swaying about outside and firing guns of distress every ten
minutes. These were answered by steamers in port, and the great
alarm-bell of Calais tolled incessantly. At last another steamer
was sent out burning red lights, and guided the wanderer in. My
poor mother was quite unable to stand from the cold and fatigue
when she was landed, and the journey to Paris, across the plains
deep in snow, was a most anxious one. During the three days we
spent at Paris, she was so ill that I had almost given up all hope
of moving her, when a warm change in the weather allowed of our
reaching Tours, where we stayed two more days.

"Tours is a fine old town, and is the place where our grandfather
died. I saw his house, quite a palace, now the museum. We slept
again at Angoulême, a very striking place, the old town rising out
of the new, a rocky citadel surrounded with the most beautiful
public walks I ever saw out of Rome, and a curious cathedral. This
Bordeaux is a second Paris, only with a river like an arm of the
sea, and immense quays, full of bustle and hubbub, like the
Carminella at Naples."

]

"_Hotel Victoria, Pau, Feb. 2._--On Monday we made the easiest move
possible from Bordeaux to Arcachon, a most quaint little
watering-place. The hotel was a one-storied wooden house, with an
immensely broad West-Indian-like balcony, in which three or four
people could walk abreast, descending on one side to the strip of
silver sand which alone separated it from the wave-less bay of the
sea called the Bassin d'Arcachon;[253] the other opening into the
forest--sixty or seventy miles of low sandhills covered with
arbutus, holly, and pine. Near the village, quantities of
lodging-houses, built like Swiss châlets, are rising up everywhere
in the wood, without walls, hedges, or gardens, just like a fairy
story, and in the forest itself it is always warm, no winds or
frosts penetrating the vast living walls of green. If the mother
had been better, I should have liked to linger at Arcachon a few
days, but we could not venture to remain so far from a doctor. Here
at Pau we live in a deluge: it pours like a ceaseless waterspout;
yet, so dry is the soil, that the rain never seems to make any
impression. Pau is dreadfully full and enormously expensive. I see
no beauty in the place, the town is modern with a modernised
castle, the surrounding country flat, with long white roads between
stagnant ditches, the '_coteaux_' low hills in the middle distance
covered with brushwood, the distant view scarcely ever visible. We
are surrounded by cousins. Mrs. Taylor[254] is most kind--really as
good-natured as she is ugly, and, having lived here twenty years,
she knows everything about the place. Dr. Taylor is a very skilful
physician. Edwin and Bertha Dashwood are also here with their five
children, and Amelia Story with her father and step-mother.[255]

"Alas! my sweetest mother is terribly weak, and has hitherto only
seemed to lose strength from day to day. She cannot now even walk
across the room, nor can she move from one chair to another
without great help. We are a little cheered, however, to-day by Dr.
Taylor."

]

_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.

"_Pau, Feb. 12._--For the last two days my dearest mother's
suffering has been most sad, without intermission.... This evening
Dr. Taylor has told me how very grave he thinks her state, and
that, except for the knowledge of her having so often rallied
before, there is no hope of her precious life being restored to
us. God has given her back before from the brink of the grave, and
it might be His will to do so again; this is all we have to cling
to. Her weakness increases daily. She cannot now help herself at
all.... Her sweetness, her patience, the lovely expression of her
countenance, her angelic smile, her thankfulness for God's
blessings even when her suffering is greatest, who can describe?
These are the comfort and support which are given us.

"I do not gather that the danger is quite immediate; the dread is a
stupor, which may creep on gradually.... I am always able to be
cheerful in watching over her, though I feel as if the sunshine was
hourly fading out of my life."

_To_ MY SISTER.

"_Pau, Feb. 14._--My last account will have prepared you for the
news I have to give. My sweetest mother is fast fading away.... Lea
and I have been up with her all the last two nights, and every
minute of the day has been filled with an intensity of anxious
watching. The frail earthly tabernacle is perishing, but a mere
look at my dearest one assures us that her spirit, glorious and
sanctified, has almost already entered upon its perfected life. Her
lovely smile, the heavenly light in her eyes, are quite
undescribable.

"All through last night, as I sat in the red firelight, watching
every movement, it seemed to me as if the end was close at hand.
Her hymn rang in my ears--so awfully solemn and real:--

'It may be when the midnight
Is heavy upon the land,
And the black waves lying dumbly
Along the sand;
When the moonless night draws close,
And the lights are out in the house;
When the fires burn low and red,
And the watch is ticking loudly
Beside the bed:
Though you sleep, tired out, on your couch,
Still your heart must wake and watch
In the dark room,
For it may be that at midnight
I will come.'

When the Master does come, she will be always found waiting. Has
not my darling kept her lamp burning all her life long? Surely when
the Bridegroom cometh, she will enter into the kingdom.

"I cannot tell how soon it will be. I have no hope now of her being
given back to me. It is a solemn waiting. Oh! my Esmeralda, when
you hear that the hour _has_ come, pity, pray for her unutterably
desolate son."

_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.

"_Feb. 17._--There has been an unexpected rally. Two days ago, when
I was quite hopeless and she lay motionless, unconscious of earth,
Dr. Taylor said, '_Wait_, you can do nothing: if this trance is to
end fatally, you can do nothing to arrest it; but it may still
prove to be an extraordinary effort of Nature to recruit itself.'
And truly, at eight o'clock yesterday morning, after sixty hours
of trance, she suddenly opened her eyes, smiled and spoke
naturally. I had just left the room, when Lea called me back--'She
is talking to me.' I could scarcely believe it; yet, when I went
in, there my darling sat in her bed, with a sweet look of restored
consciousness and returning power.

"It was like a miracle.

"She remembers nothing now of her illness. She does not think she
has suffered. During the last night she says she was constantly
saying the seventy-first Psalm. Almost the first thing she said
after rallying was, 'I have not been alone: your Uncle Penrhyn and
your Aunt Kitty[257] have been here, supporting me all through the
night.'

"Our nice simple little landlady had just been to the church to
pray for her, and, coming back to find her restored, believes it is
in answer to her prayers.

"I did not know what the agony of the last three days was till they
were over. While they lasted, I thought of nothing but to be bright
for _her_, that she might _only_ see smiles, to prevent Lea from
giving way, and to glean up every glance and word and movement; but
to-day I feel much exhausted."

_To_ MY SISTER.

"_Pau, Feb. 21._--My darling has been mercifully restored to me for
a little while--a few days' breathing space; and yet I could not
count upon this even while it lasted; I could not dwell upon hope,
I could not look forward--the frail frame is so _very_ frail. I
cannot think she is given to me for long: I only attempt to store
up the blessings of each day now against the long desolate future.

]

"Last Sunday week she fell into her trance. It lasted between sixty
and seventy hours. During this time she was almost unconscious. She
knew me, she even said 'Dear' to me once or twice, and smiled most
sweetly as she did so, but otherwise she was totally unconscious of
all around her, of day and night, of the sorrow or anxiety of the
watchers, of pain or trouble. A serene peace overshadowed her, a
heavenly sweetness filled her expression, and never varied except
to dimple into smiles of angelic beauty, as if she were already in
the company of angels.

"But for the last sixteen hours the trance was like death. Then
the doctor said, 'If the pulse does not sink and if she wakes
naturally, she may rally.' This happened. At eight the next
morning, my darling gently awoke and was given back into life. This
was Thursday, and there were three days' respite. But yesterday she
was evidently failing again, and this morning, while Dr. Taylor was
in the room, the trance came on again. For ten minutes her pulse
ceased to beat altogether.... Since then she has lain as
before--scarcely here, yet not gone--quite happy--_between_ heaven
and earth.

"I believe now that if my darling is taken I can give thanks for
the exceeding blessedness of this end.

"Meantime it is again a silent watching, and, as I watch, the
solemn music of the hymns that my darling loves comes back to me,
and I repeat them to myself. Now these verses are in my mind:--

'Have we not caught the smiling
On some beloved face,
As if a heavenly sound were wiling
The soul from our earthly place?--
The distant sound and sweet
Of the Master's coming feet.

We may clasp the loved one faster,
And plead for a little while,
But who can resist the Master?
And we read by that brightening smile
That the tread we may not fear
Is drawing surely near.'

And then, in the long watches of the night, all the golden past
comes back to me--how as a little child I played round my darling
in Lime Wood--how the flowers were our friends and companions--how
we lived in and for one another in the bright Lime garden: of her
patient endurance of much injustice--of her sweet forgiveness of
all injuries--of her loving gratitude for all blessings--of her
ever sure upward-seeking of the will and glory of God: and my eye
wanders to the beloved face, lined and worn but glowing with the
glory of another world, and while giving thanks for thirty years of
past blessing, shall I not also give thanks that thus--not through
the dark valley, but through the sunshine of God--my mother is
entering upon her rest?

"God will give me strength: I feel quite calm. I can think only how
to soothe, how to cheer, how to do everything for her."

"_Feb. 26._--It is still the same; we are still watching. In the
hundred and twelfth hour of her second trance, during which she had
taken no nourishment whatever, my mother spoke again, but it was
only for a time. You will imagine what the long watchings of this
death-like slumber have been, what the strange visions of the past
which have risen to my mind in the long, silent nights, as, with
locked doors (for the French would insist that all was over), I
have hovered over the pillow on which she lies as if bound by
enchantment. Now comes before me the death-bed scene of S. Vincent
de Paul, when, to the watchers lamenting together over his
perpetual stupor, his voice suddenly said, 'It is but the brother
that goes before the sister.' Then, as the shadows lighten into
dawn, Norman Macleod's story of how he was watching by the
death-bed of his beloved one in an old German city, and grief was
sinking into despair, when, loud and solemn, at three in the
morning, echoed forth the voice of the old German watchman giving
the hours in the patriarchal way--'Put your trust in the _Divine
Three_, for after the darkest night cometh the break of day.'

"Last night the trance seemed over. All was changed. My sweetest
one was haunted by strange visions; to her excited mind and renewed
speech, every fold of the curtains was a spirit, every sound an
alarm. For hours I sat with her trembling hands in mine, soothing
her with the old hymns that she loves. To a certain extent,
however, there is more hope, more of returning power. Is it a
superstition to think that she began to revive when in the churches
at Holmhurst, Hastings, Hurstmonceaux, Alton, and Pau prayers (and
in many cases how earnest) were being offered up for her
restoration?

"_Two_ P.M.--My darling has been sitting up in bed listening to
sweet voices, which have been singing to her; but they were no
earthly voices which she heard.

"_Ten_ P.M.--She has just declared that she sees Ruth Harmer (a
good, sweet girl she used to visit, who died at Hurstmonceaux)
standing by her bedside. 'It is Ruth Harmer--look at Ruth Harmer,'
she said. But it was not a voice of terror; it was rather like the
apostolic question, 'Who are these who are arrayed in white robes,
and whence come they?' There has also been a time when she has
spoken of 'dear Holmhurst, _dear_ beautiful Holmhurst,' in the
most touching way."

"_Feb. 27._--She has fallen into a third stupor, deeper than the
others; there is no sign of breath, the heart does not beat, the
pulse does not beat, the features have sunk. I _alone_ now declare
with certain conviction that she lives. The shadows are closing
around us, yet I feel that we are in the immediate presence of the
Unseen, and that the good Ruth Harmer is only one of the many
angels watching over my sweetest one. Years ago she told me that
when dying she wished her favourite hymn--

'How bright those glorious spirits shine,--'

to be sung by her bedside; was it these words which she heard the
angels sing to her? Oh! my Esmeralda, are you praying that I may
endure while it is necessary to do everything for her, only so
long? How strange that the scene which I have so often imagined
should be in a country hitherto unknown, the only relations near
having been strangers before; yet the simple French people here are
very sad for us, and there is much sympathy."

"_March 10._--It has been many days since I have ventured to write:
it has been so difficult to say anything definite, with the
constant dread of another relapse, which we have thought must come
every day: yet I think I may now venture to write in thanksgiving
that my mother is restored to me from the brink of the grave. It
seemed _quite_ impossible that she could come back, as if she
_must_ enter the world on the portals of which she had been so long
resting. Doctor and nurse gave up all hope; and at last the nurse
went out, saying all must be over when she returned in three hours'
time. In those three hours the remedies began to take effect, the
dead limbs to revive, the locked mouth to open, the closed eyes to
see, the hands to feel. It had been a death-like trance of a
hundred and ninety-six hours altogether--ten days and nine nights.
She remembers nothing of it now, and nothing of the illness which
came before, but a gradual revival and awakening of all her powers
is going on. It has been less painful to her throughout than to any
one, and it is so still.

"Dr. Taylor is made Sir Alexander. He and Lady Taylor have been
most kind to us--could not have been more so. It has been
interesting to see so much of her, the last survivor of our
father's generation in the family, and one who, living constantly
at Hurstmonceaux, was present through all the old family crises and
conflicts, which she narrates with much of sound sense and
observation. I shall hope to write down much of her recollections,
and shall begin in good earnest to collect the memorials of that
earlier family period, quite as curious in its way as many later
ones."[259]

"_Pau, March 27._--My sweet mother continues slightly better
certainly, but in a most fragile and harassing state of health. I
never feel happy in leaving her, even for half-an-hour. On some
days she is better and almost able to enjoy reading a few words, or
being read to a little: on others, as to-day, the trembling
increases to such a degree as to prevent her occupying herself in
any way. I need not say how beautiful are her faith and love, how
increasing the beatitude of her inner, her heavenly life. 'Oh, how
long it is since I have been at church,' she said last night. 'But
you are always at church in your soul, darling,' I said. 'Yes,' she
answered, 'that is the greater part of my day--meditation and
prayer, and in the night I say my hymns and texts.' On my birthday
she gave me a solemn blessing. Each day I watch her every look and
movement. Truly I feel as if the pulse of her life beat into mine.
She does not see many people, but our sweet little cousin Lady
Dashwood, Lady Taylor, and Lady Charles Clinton come occasionally.

"Pau is the most unattractive place I ever was in, and it pours or
snows almost incessantly. The 'society' is small, good, and
uninteresting, and snubs the immense remainder of the Anglo-Pau
world with hearty goodwill.

"For some days we have been very sad about dear Emma Leycester, who
has been terribly ill: at least I have been, for I think the mother
has scarcely taken in the great cause for alarm."

I think the name of this most dear cousin, Emma Leycester (Charlotte's much younger sister) has scarcely been mentioned in these memoirs, and yet there was scarcely any one who had a tenderer place in our home life and thoughts, or to whom we were more devoted. Perhaps the very fact of omitting her shows how entirely she must have kept aloof from all family squabbles and disorders, whilst rejoicing in all our pleasures and sorrowing in all our griefs. She was never strong, and I always recollect her as a semi-invalid, yet more animated and cheerful than most people in strong health, and able, from the very fact of weakness removing her from the general turmoil of all that was going on around her, to give her full attention and sympathy to the things she could participate in. Small in person, she was of a most sweet countenance, with grey hair, a most delicate complexion, and bright eyes, full of expression and humour--

"Her angel's face
As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright,
And made a sunshine in the shady place."[260]

As a child, in her visits to Stoke and Lime, I was quite devoted to her, and in the persecutions of my boyhood was comforted by her unfailing sympathy. When at Southgate, the greatest pleasure of my London excursions was that they sometimes ended at "Charlotte and Emma's house" in Wilton Crescent, and that I often went to have tea with the dear Emma, who was already gone to rest upon the sofa in her own little sitting-room. When I was at Oxford she came to visit me there; and latterly the loss of her own brother and sister had drawn this sister-like cousin nearer to my mother as well as to myself.

_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.

"_Pau, April 6, 1865_, 8 P.M.--I must write one little line of love
this evening: the sad news reached us two hours ago, and you will
know _how_ we are mourning with you. I had just a hope, and can
hardly feel yet that dearest Emma's sweet presence, her loving
tender sympathy and interest, are taken from us in this world: but
may we not feel that she is perhaps still near us in her perfected
state, and to you and to my darling mother even the visible
separation may be a very short one, it _can_ only be a few
years--long here, but like a moment to her, till the meeting again.

"I am glad to think of you at Toft, and of her resting there, where
we can visit the grave. I feel so _deeply_ not being able to be
with you, or to do anything for you, as dearest Emma so often said
I should do for her, if you were taken from her.

"The news came at tea-time. It was impossible to conceal it. The
mother had had a suffering day, and was utterly crushed. We put
her to bed at once, and very soon she literally 'fell asleep for
sorrow,' and I, watching beside her, heard her lips murmur, 'O
blessed are they who die in Thee, O Lord, for they rest from their
labours.'"