“England lost both Test Matches. Get Willie (Nigel Bruce) oxygen.”
Both these wires were sent when he was very, very ill, when the majority of us would have been too much concerned over the probability of leaving the world to wish in the least to be amusing. I have, too, a packet of letters which he wrote to me. Written in pencil, and often the writing indicating great physical weakness, but still the fun is there in every one of them. Here are some extracts from his letters at that time:
“Holy Pigs, I am getting so fed up with this business.... Mrs. —— sent a note that if I wanted some cheery society would I ring her up, and the doctor would let her see me. I shall tell her my back is too sore! Cheerio to everybody. There’s a lot of fun to be got out of life.”
“... This goes to Toronto. I shall not do much there, I’m afraid. However, it might have been worse (his illness), and it’s given me a nice pair of mutton-chop whiskers anyhow. There is a wonderful monotony about these white walls, day in, day out; one needs the patience of Job not to throw the soap-dish at the Crucifix sometimes.... I daresay I may write a fairy play, and, as Jowett says in one of his letters to Mrs. Asquith, ‘the pursuit of literature requires boundless leisure’.... I don’t think I am a very good patient; there are moments when I seethe with impotent rage against everything and everybody, which is all very foolish; so I have a cup of orange-water, and try and keep my nails clean.... Play all the bridge you can, that you may be the expert at our week-end parties, and support the family at the gaming-table.”
The following is written when he was very ill, for he writes at the bottom, as a kind of postscript, “This took ages to write.” In this letter he enclosed a small tract, which I gave to “Florrie Lumley”, as he suggests. This is the letter:
“Another night and day wiped off—they all count. Love to everybody. Nobody is allowed to see me yet, but, to-day being Sunday, a nice old man pushed the latest news of Jesus through a crack in the door while he thought I was asleep. Perhaps it will do that worldly Florrie Lumley a bit of good.”
In another letter he says: “There is a devil in the next room that has done nothing but groan at the top of his voice all day; if I could get at him with a hat-pin, I’d give him something to groan for.”
The following must have been the first letter he wrote after the worst time was over, for he begins: “No more death-struggles, my dear. But I am still on my back, and it takes two of the nurses to move me. I can see telegraph poles out of the corner of my eye, if I squint; and the dawn rolls up each morning. People are very kind, and my room is full of daffodils—they remind me of little children playing. Bless you!”
So the tour which began so brightly, with us both speaking at huge meetings of the Empire League, with us both enjoying the wonderful new scenes, the trip through the Rockies (for which alone it would have been worth visiting Canada), with us both laughing at the discomforts of the theatres and some of the queer little hotels at which we had to stay, ended with Harry just able to join us before we sailed. Still, he did sail back to England with us.
I was full of thanksgiving, not only for his recovery, but for the care and love that Dr. Lynch, who had had charge of his case, had given him. It was his care that had pulled Harry out of danger; both he and Mrs. Lynch had been so wonderful to him, and treated him as though he were an old friend and not as a chance visitor to their town; no one could have done more than they had done for Harry. Curiously enough, I found out later that Dr. Walker, who had been called in to give a second opinion on Harry’s case, had lived, during the war, close to “Apple Porch”, our house at Maidenhead. He had been at Lady Astor’s, and had attended the Canadian soldiers who were so badly gassed.