The sacrifice is consummated: Ellen has witnessed the death of her baby—her joy and pride. “Her husband comforted and sustained her like a Christian,” Lizzy writes. The paroxysm of her maternal anguish was fearful.
A child should never die before its mother; it is against nature, and is almost more than the heart can endure; the help of God is necessary; let us pray for her, my Kate. This dear, much-tried, heartbroken mother thought of me in her sorrow, and sent me a few lines. You will read them and will weep with me over this page of woe. I seem still to see that charming group: Ellen coaxing Robert to try and take his first steps, and he sending us kisses. All these joys, that golden dawn, those earliest days—who can bring them back to Ellen? May God console her, and may the
sweet angel who strengthened Jesus at Gethsemani tenderly wipe away her tears! Margaret is as grieved as I am. Our trip to Solesmes is somewhat delayed; we are expecting more guests. I have just finished a splendid chasuble, which I take the liberty of sending to your address, my dearest Kate—in the first place, that you may admire it, and, secondly, that you may kindly let Mme. G. know about it, as she will have to complete my work. Have I mentioned to you a letter from the Bishop of Orleans to the faithful of his diocese on the festivals of Rome, and the approaching opening of an œcumenical council? It is splendid; there is magic in his style.
You do not forget Zoë de L——? Margaret met her in Paris, poor, and looking terribly aged. Through some inexplicable folly, she made an absurd marriage, and the change of position, her unexpected disappointment, the trials of heart and mind she has undergone, have altogether upset her. “It was ten minutes,” Margaret writes, “before I could recognize her.” Perhaps you could see her, dear Kate, and cheer her up a little. La belle Anglaise and I want to be of service to her, and you must be our medium; René is writing to his banker, to place the necessary sum at your disposal. I will enclose the card on which Margaret wrote the address of this unfortunate Zoë.
Dearest Kate, pray for Ellen. There is, then, no such thing as perfect happiness in this world. If it were not for the compassion I feel for those whose troubles affect me so deeply, I should be too happy. How kind René is! He is angelic! I cannot note down to you, or I should have to write volumes, the thousand intimate and
charming details which make my life a paradise.
Hélène rarely writes; when she does, it is as a seraph might. She is happy; she has entered into the place of repose which she has chosen, in the hollow of the rock, where the dove loves to hide; she has found her ideal. Gertrude reads on her knees the poetic effusions of her child.
Dear Kate, may all heaven be with you!
September 15.
My dear one, excursions are robbing me of all my leisure, but not of the time to think of you. A pouring rain has interfered with our projects for to-day, and all the children have fled to Mme. Margaret, who takes a lively interest in these juveniles. Yesterday was the birthday of this delightful friend. We busied ourselves in preparations, whilst, at my request, Lord William drew his somewhat wondering Margaret away to the park. A solitary little drawing-room was rapidly transformed; it looked so pretty in the evening, with a profusion of flowers and lights, wreaths of ivy twining round the mirrors, and an illumination of the heroine’s initials! She was greatly touched and delighted; Picciola recited some beautiful verses written by Edouard, and we presented her with bouquets, carvings, and paintings. A concert brought the entertainment to a close. Mme. de T—— will not hear of the departure of our dear friends. “Sisters ought not to leave each other before they are compelled,” she says. Kind, excellent mother! Yesterday we walked along the coast so often sung by the poet Brizeux, whom René quotes with so much Breton fire and fitness. “Look there,” Adrien whispered to me, “at all that pretty