And here I would like to correct an error concerning myself. I have been spoken of as my father’s “favorite daughter.” If he had a favorite daughter—and I hope and believe that the one was as dear to him as the other—my dear sister must claim that honor. I say this ungrudgingly, for during those last two years my father and I seemed to become more closely united, and I know how deep was the affectionate intimacy at the time of his death.
The “last improvement”—in truth, the very last—was the building of a conservatory
between the drawing and dining rooms. My father was more delighted with this than with any previous alteration, and it was certainly a pretty addition to the quaint old villa. The châlet, too, which he used in summer as his study, was another favorite spot at his favorite “Gad’s Hill.”
In the early months of 1870 we moved up to London, as my father had decided to give twelve farewell readings there. He had the sanction of the late Sir Thomas Watson to this undertaking, on condition that there should be no railway journeys in connection with them. While we were in London he made many private engagements, principally, I know, on my account, as I was to be presented that spring.
During this last visit to London, my father was not, however, in his usual health, and was so quickly and easily tired that a great number of our engagements had to be cancelled. He dined out very seldom, and I remember that on the last occasion he attended a very large
dinner party the effort was too much for him, and before the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room, he sent me a message begging me to come to him at once, saying that he was in too great pain to mount the stairs. No one who had watched him throughout the dinner, seeing his bright, animated face, and listening to his cheery conversation, could have imagined him to be suffering acute pain.
He was at “Gad’s Hill” again by the thirtieth of May, and soon hard at work upon “Edwin Drood.” Although happy and contented, there was an appearance of fatigue and weariness about him very unlike his usual air of fresh activity. He was out with the dogs for the last time on the afternoon of the sixth of June, when he walked into Rochester for the “Daily Mail.” My sister, who had come to see the latest “improvement,” was visiting us, and was to take me with her to London on her return, for a short visit. The conservatory—the “improvement” which Katie had been summoned to inspect—had been
stocked, and by this time many of the plants were in full blossom. Everything was at its brightest and I remember distinctly my father’s pleasure in showing my sister the beauties of his “improvement.”
We had been having most lovely weather, and in consequence, the outdoor plants were wonderfully forward in their bloom, my father’s favorite red geraniums making a blaze of color in the front garden. The syringa shrubs filled the evening air with sweetest fragrance as we sat in the porch and walked about the garden on this last Sunday of our dear father’s life. My aunt and I retired early and my dear sister sat for a long while with my father while he spoke to her most earnestly of his affairs.
As I have already said my father had such an intense dislike for leave-taking that he always, when it was possible, shirked a farewell, and we children, knowing this dislike, used only to wave our hands or give him a silent kiss when parting. But on this