“Oh, Miss Boyle,” she said confidentially, “you take care; if ‘Venerable’ sees you at his books, you’ll catch it”—and verily, if that had been true, I should often have “caught it,” for I was “always at his books.”
Another time she was talking to her aunt and myself about what she intended to do when she grew up, “For then you know, of course, poor mamma will be dead.” Now her hearers did not see any reason to fear such a contingency, for she was one of the youngest mothers we knew, and we told her daughter so, but she would not be convinced, saying, “Oh, no! she’s very old indeed; do remember how long I have had her.”
But I must pause in recalling these trifling anecdotes, which naturally recur to my mind as I indite these family records.
In November, 1868, a terrible blow awaited me in the death of my beloved brother, Cavendish, after two days’ illness. Between him and Charles Dickens there existed a close and tender friendship, and the letter of condolence I received from Gad’s Hill on that occasion touched me deeply, and all the more that it spoke in high terms of him whose loss had plunged me into such poignant grief. But all Charles Dickens’ letters which he addressed to mourners were remarkable for the delicate manner in which he expressed his sympathy, being free from the usually conventional and matter-of-fact manner of offering consolation. The two friends were shortly to be re-united.
The year following my brother’s death, I went to Rome for the winter, and on my return to England I visited Charles Dickens in London. It was in the evening, and he was just going out to dinner at Lord Houghton’s. He said he did not feel very well and would gladly have sent an excuse, but his old friend Milnes had made him promise to meet the Prince of Wales. “Have you seen Lord Clarendon,” he said, “since you came back to England? I never saw any one look so ill, he is quite changed.”
I had not seen him, but told him I was engaged to luncheon with Lord and Lady Clarendon the next day. He bade me good-night, assured me he counted on seeing me very soon at “Gads,” and the door closed behind him. The following afternoon I realised the truth of what he had said of Lord Clarendon’s ill-looks—and that day fortnight both those great and good men, and dear friends of mine, had passed away, leaving me, as well as the world, impoverished by their loss.
DEATH OF CHARLES DICKENS
On the 9th June, 1870, I had been attending the marriage of my little favourite, Florence, Lady Hastings, with Sir George Chetwynd. It was a pretty wedding and gay scene, and the bride, who always “looks lovely” in the newspapers, on this occasion truly merited the epithet. I came home, and on my table lay the fatal letter, announcing that Charles Dickens had had a stroke of paralysis, and little hopes were entertained of his recovery. I lost no time in changing my wedding garment, and dashing off for Charing Cross, took the rail for Gravesend, and drove in a fly to the scene of so many past delights, my heart beating with fear all the way I went.
I had for my companion, my trusty and attached maid, Louisa Simons, who loved Gad’s Hill and its owners almost as much as I did, and her society and sympathy upheld me in my suspense.
I got down at the door of the stable-yard, and crawling rather than walking across the yard, where the two faithful dogs knew and greeted me, and passing through a little well-known side gate, gained the entrance, and flung myself down, half-fainting, on a seat, in that spot hallowed by the remembrance of so many happy summer evenings. The door was open, but I did not dare enter, or ring, or move, lest I should break the silence which was profound, save, indeed, for the voices of the choirs of birds, who were singing his requiem in the garden he loved.