The love and respect for her womanly attributes and fine self-government increased as time passed; and it was evident that her conduct under the most trying circumstances that could come to a woman had aroused the enthusiasm of the entire country. From the various organizations, without respect to their nature or object, were received at the White House kind wishes for the President and earnest assurances to him that his family was not forgotten in his time of helplessness and suffering. The practical spirit of the people was aroused, and the question was repeatedly asked: “What can we do to make it easier for the President?” Presents of all descriptions, from the rich and the poor, the great and the humble, patriarchs and little children, were sent to the White House in great numbers. Everybody wanted to do something, and it was painful that so little could be offered that would be of use. Sick-room appliances reached the physicians in such quantities that the basement of the mansion was crowded, and the slightest intimation of a change in the nourishment or treatment of the distinguished sufferer sent numberless articles for trial. That he might have the richest Alderney milk, an eager owner of an imported cow quickly forwarded the animal, and he was repaid many times over with the knowledge that the patient saw from the window the fine creature that had been sent to minister to his comfort, and spoke of it. Little children sent their tributes, and the gift of a pet squirrel from two little people who had learned that the President had expressed a desire for such food, brought tears to the eyes of all who knew of the circumstance. The tender, constant and ever deepening feeling of the people for their sick President must have helped him immeasurably, for he was borne up and cheered daily by the affection that went out from all human hearts toward him. It seemed to the people that he must get well, that the prayers of a nation would be answered; that the assassin’s work would fail; that love would conquer death, and that into the weary pain-worn body of the sufferer would be renewed the strong life-currents. Who can ever forget, though long years may dim other memories, the daily and nightly watch over that sick-chamber! When the relapse came weeks after the crisis was thought to be passed, the excitement and interest grew terrible in its intensity. Those who had the dissemination of the news aged under it as the bulletins that came from their hands banished hope. The day of saddest gloom, Saturday, August 27, was given up to prayer, and when Sunday came, and word went forth that the President was better, the people called it resurrection, and said in their joy that God had given back to them in answer to their petitions him who was thought to be dead.
Through it all stood Mrs. Garfield, eager and watchful, but steady and strong in heart. When the doctors told her of their fears she did not sink down or show dismay. She bade them do their best, and never to give up, and leaving them she went back with a cheerful face to her husband and resumed her place at his bedside. Too weak and weary to give thought to others, the heroic sufferer watched her face and was understood by her when to others his wishes were unintelligible. If he held on to life with a tenacity that surprised every one, his strength in large measure was drawn from her. She was more to him than all else, and she furnished the strongest motive he felt for his recovery. The thought that was agitating many minds, that he be given assurance that his family would be taken care of in case he died, was voiced by Mr. Cyrus W. Field, of New York, who proposed that a fund of $250,000 be raised for Mrs. Garfield and her children, and settled upon her. He started the fund with a large subscription, and the amount subscribed before and after the death of the President reached nearly $350,000. Though no public acknowledgment was made of the gift, it is a fact that the President’s mind was greatly relieved by this considerate act, and his last days were not troubled with dread of the future for his wife and children. When the sultry August days had tried his strength beyond endurance, and it was apparent that a removal from the malarial atmosphere of the capital was imperative, the journey to Long Branch was undertaken. Many plans had been suggested and the practicability of all considered; but Mrs. Garfield, who knew of her husband’s love for the sea, and of the benefit that she had derived from her stay there, insisted upon this trip. The journey was undertaken after careful preparation, and the details of the trip from Washington to Elberon were read with thrilling interest at the time. At every station and wayside crossing the people gathered, and stood with uncovered heads as the train with its precious freight passed by. The sympathy with which every heart was overflowing was deep but voiceless; all felt the need the sufferer had of silence and repose. Bulletins were thrown off the cars at different points, and it was with unspeakable relief that the arrival at the Francklyn Cottage was announced. For days before, workmen had been busy preparing a roadbed for a track from the Elberon station to the cottage, and four hundred men spent the night before his arrival in laying the track. In this work the hundreds of guests at the various hotels and cottages of Long Branch took great interest, an interest touchingly expressed in the request of a little boy, who with his father was watching the progress of the workmen. He desired to do something for the President, and leaving his father’s side he approached a man who was driving a pile and asked to be permitted to help. The man carelessly said to him that he was too small, and could not lift the maul. “Let me try,” he urged; the heavy weight was given him, and with the workman’s assistance the pile was put down in place. The task completed, the child returned with a radiant face, saying, “There, papa, I have done something for the President.” Happy child, to have relieved his feelings by striking a blow in the service of the sufferer! How many thousands upon thousands of people would have accomplished herculean tasks, if by so doing they could have been of service to the President! Mr. Francklyn, whose beautiful summer home was tendered Mrs. Garfield, and accepted, was kindly envied by the public whose houses would gladly have been given up for a like purpose.
The room into which the President was taken was Mrs. Francklyn’s own boudoir, on the southeast corner of the second story, overlooking the sea; and his pleasure in beholding the broad Atlantic from his bed gave hope that he would get well. It was expected that he would revive rapidly under the combined influences of a cooler atmosphere, the sight of the sea, and the change of scene. That he did not mend rapidly troubled the people, and they murmured. Then remembering Mrs. Garfield’s remark, made in reply to the physician who told her at the time of the relapse in Washington that only a miracle could save her husband—“Then that miracle will be performed: he will live”—they redoubled their earnestness in prayer, and believed that the bitter cup would be taken from unwilling lips.
The gloom of the September days deepened and the reluctant warning was sent out—“Hope no more, hope is dead.” Still the people hoped, relying upon the faith of Mrs. Garfield, the wonderful vitality and heroic demeanor of the invalid. They believed in the impossible, and prayed yet more fervently. Never in the world’s history was any one so universally prayed for. It seemed like doubting God’s goodness to despair of the President’s life. Still the same anxious waiting was continued, and with each telegram that was sent came a knell to the hopes of millions. He must die, they said, and that last Monday was like the funeral day of a race. People sought their homes that night oppressed with sad forebodings, and their petitions were for strength to meet the impending calamity.
He died September 19th, 1881, the first news reaching the people in the cities through the tolling of the bells. When the strokes commenced, those who listened thought it was the striking of the hour, but soon they realized the meaning of the slow tolling, and as the church bells began to give out their dissonance on the night wind, the hearts of the listeners sank within them. “’Tis he,” they said, and their eyes overflowed with tears as they thought of the stricken mourner who would now watch no more at his bedside. From out their homes the people hurried, and the streets of the cities were crowded with a restless throng surging aimlessly along, seemingly panic-stricken and unnerved.
All that day the watchers at the bedside counted the hours with feverish dread, for the physicians had foretold the end and the brave wife had gathered her strength to meet the inevitable. Much of the time she had watched at his bedside, and at intervals when she could be spared had sat alone at a window overlooking the water, white and still, making no complaint, causing no unnecessary anxiety on her account. At last, utterly weary, and believing that her husband was resting quietly, she retired to her room, leaving him without a thought of immediate death. A summons to come quickly was made shortly after ten o’clock, and when she hurried into the room, seeing the change that had come over the beloved face, she exclaimed, “What does this mean?” and then, realizing the situation, cried, “Oh, why am I made to suffer this cruel wrong!” That was all the outburst made by her then or after. The death-damp was on her husband’s brow, and the end had come. She sat upon the bed beside him, holding his hand in hers and gazing into the eyes no longer able to return her look.
The history of the dying scene can be told in a few words. General Swaim was watching, when the President, who had been sleeping, suddenly awoke and said, “Oh, Swaim! this terrible pain!” indicating its locality by placing his hand on his breast over the region of the heart. “Oh, Swaim!” he exclaimed again later, “this terrible pain! Press your hand on it! Oh, Swaim!” The eyes were set in death a moment later, and no other words were spoken. “Dan,” the colored man, came into the room at that moment and was hurriedly despatched for Dr. Bliss. The latter was sitting at a table over his letters. Colonel Rockwell had just left the room and joined his wife and daughter on the piazza. The moment Dr. Bliss glanced at the face of the President, before he had touched his pulse he said, “Swaim, he is dying. Call Drs. Agnew and Hamilton, and send for his wife.”
When Mrs. Garfield entered the room, the President was quite unconscious. There was no sound except the occasional heavy breathing of the President, and an occasional whisper between the doctors. The light which had been burning behind the screen was carried nearer the bed, and the group, which comprised Dr. Bliss, who stood at the head of the bed noting the pulse of the patient, Mrs. Garfield, who sat on the bed, Drs. Agnew, Hamilton and Boynton, Col. Rockwell, Gen. Swaim, and Dan, waited in silence. Mollie Garfield, who was by her mother’s side, put her arms about her neck and asked, “Is it death?” The mother clasped her to her heart, saying convulsively, “My daughter.” Soon the President’s breathing ceased, his head fell back on the arm of Dr. Bliss, and the latter whispered, “It is all over.” Mrs. Garfield arose and went from the room, the fixed lines about her face showing the effort she was making to control herself. At the door of her room she broke quite down and sobbed aloud. She was alone but a few minutes and then returned to the bed where her dead husband lay. The eyelids had been closed and the seal of death was set upon the rigid limbs. She sat by the bed for three hours, the tears raining down her face and her form shaking violently. The cold hand she held returned no answering pressure, and she stroked the arm mechanically as she looked upon the face of her dead.
When it was necessary for the last service that the living could ever pay to the departed to be performed, she was led to her room, where Dr. Bliss from an adjoining apartment heard her pacing the floor all night long. She did not forget the broken-hearted mother in her distant home, and General Swaim was commissioned to telegraph her.
When the aged woman came from her room early in the morning, she asked for the telegram that was expected every day, but was induced to have her breakfast first and then read the news.