Then in September she was greatly gratified by receiving a respectful invitation to lay the foundation stone of a new reading-room in Reading. The invitation was accepted and the pleasure enhanced by the insistence of the “dear papa” that he should make one of the party. The arrival of the Mitfords was not less imposing than the ceremony itself, the four persons absolutely necessary to help the Doctor in and out of his very low carriage being sent on beforehand to await his arrival, amid the cheers of the assembled crowd. The function was followed by a tea-party and concert, to which the visitors stayed. “If ever I am ungrateful enough to bemoan my isolated position, I ought to think over the assemblage in order to feel the thankfulness that thrilled through my very heart at the true and honest kindness with which I was received. It was an enthusiasm of man, woman, and child—hundreds—thousands—such as I can hardly venture to describe, and it lasted all the time I stayed. Indeed, the pleasure amounted to pain, so confusing was it to hear the over-praise of which I felt myself unworthy. But it was not the praise that was so touching, it was the kindness, the affection. My father cried, K——[29] cried, Dora Smith cried, I think more than all, at the true, honest, generous heartiness of the people.”
And there was yet another event to be recorded, something so wonderful that news of it must, perforce, be sent to the friend in London. The Doctor, dining with a friend off a brace of grouse sent by another friend, “took three glasses of claret, and afterwards two glasses more; enjoying them, not taking them, as he does the gravy, medicinally; but feeling the pleasure, the strange pleasure, that gentlemen do feel in the scent and taste of fine wine, especially when shared with a friend. And he called me again, ‘my treasure,’ always his favourite word for his poor daughter. It rejoices my heart. Of course its previous omission was accidental. I feel sure now that he was not angry; but before, I had so feared it; and it had so grieved me—grieved me to the very bottom of my heart. So that, if it had pleased God to take him then, I do believe that I should have died of very grief. I thought that I must have said something, or done something, or left something unsaid or undone, that had displeased him. Now, so far as that goes, my heart is at ease, and it is the taking off of a great load.”
This was written on November 20. A day or two afterwards the Doctor grew suddenly worse, so bad indeed that his daughter feared for his life. The days were spent in watching and praying by his bedside, with reading from St. John’s Gospel, “which he and I both prefer,” and with frequent visits from the Shinfield clergyman, who must have noted what was, possibly, hidden from the daughter’s eyes, that the old man was sinking fast. By the last day of November his condition was most alarming, so much so that as Dr. May from Reading had not arrived, Miss Mitford set off with Ben, the gardener, in the pony-chaise to fetch him. It was a Sunday evening, pitch-dark, and they had to trust to the pony’s instinct to find their way. Dr. May was not at home when they arrived, and, after a fruitless wait for him, and receiving some advice from the physician’s partner, they set off home again at seven o’clock. The darkness was still intense, so that they could see little before them, and they had just reached a spot half-way to home when two footpads sprung at them from the hedge on either side the road. One wrenched the reins from Ben, the other seized Miss Mitford’s umbrella; the pony, plunging from the tug at the reins, caused one of the miscreants to swerve in the act of aiming a blow with a bludgeon at Ben. The blow descended on the pony’s flanks, making it dart forward with a terrific plunge and then tear madly off home. The suddenness of the whole thing threw off both the men, one of whom fell beneath the chaise and was run over. By a merciful Providence no vehicle or other person was met on the road, for Ben could not control the pony until the cottage was neared, when the sagacious creature slowed up of its own accord and stopped quietly at the door.
No hint of this adventure reached Dr. Mitford, lest the shock should make him worse, although, naturally enough, Miss Mitford would gladly have told him, so shaken and unnerved was she. Weak and ill, the brave and unselfish woman watched by her parent, tending and nursing him, allowing no one to take the principal duties from her; rarely sleeping, and then only when forced to do so from sheer exhaustion, until at last, early on the morning of December 11, the death of her father released her from the long vigil.
“All friends are kind and very soothing,” wrote the stricken woman to Miss Barrett, “but not half so soothing as your sweet kindness, my dearest. Oh! let me think of you as a most dear friend—almost a daughter, for such you have been to me.... Everybody is so kind! The principal farmers are striving who shall carry the coffin. Surely this is not common—to an impoverished man—one long impoverished—one whose successor is utterly powerless! This is disinterested, if anything were so, and therefore very touching, very dear. Perhaps I have shed more tears for the gratitude caused by this kindness and other kindnesses than for the great, great grief! That seems to lock up the fountain; this to unseal it. Bless you, my beloved, for all your inimitable kindness! Oh! how he loved to bless you! He seldom spoke the dear name without the benediction—‘Miss Barrett! dear Miss Barrett! Heaven bless her!’ How often has he said that! I seem to love the name the better for that recollection.... I am resigned—indeed I am. I know that it is right, and that it is His will.”
The funeral was an imposing affair; “the chief gentry of the country sent to request to follow his remains to the grave; the six principal farmers of the parish begged to officiate as his bearers; they came in new suits of mourning, and were so deeply affected that they could hardly lift the coffin. Every house in our village street was shut up; the highway was lined with farmers and tradesmen, in deep mourning, on horseback and in phaetons, who followed the procession; they again were followed by poor people on foot. The church and churchyard were crowded, and the building resounded with tears and sobs when the coffin was lowered into the vault. The same scene recurred on the ensuing Sunday, when every creature in the crowded congregation appeared in black to hear the sermon—even the very poorest wearing some sign of the mourning that was so truly felt.” This was, as may be easily inferred, Miss Mitford’s own account of the proceedings, but, as Mr. H. F. Chorley pointed out in his published volume of her letters, although one cannot doubt the sincerity of the report, it was one “utterly baseless on anything like fact, or the feelings of those who knew the whole story. Dr. Mitford was tolerated because she was beloved. The respect paid to his remains was not so much to them as to her.”
When all was over, there came the inevitable day of reckoning, and Miss Mitford had to face an appalling list of debts accumulated by her father’s extravagance, liabilities amounting to close upon £1,000. The sum seems incredible in view of Miss Mitford’s earnings and of the help which had been periodically obtained from William Harness in addition to the State pension. How can such a condition of affairs be accounted for? A clue is, we think, to be found in a letter which Miss Mitford wrote to a friend some six months before her father died. “At eighty, my father is privileged to dislike being put out of his way in the smallest degree, as company always does, so that I make it as unfrequent as possible, and the things that weigh upon me are not an occasional bottle or two of port or claret or champagne, but the keeping two horses instead of one, the turning half a dozen people for months into the garden, which ought to be cultivated by one person, and even the building—as I see he is now meditating—a new carriage, when we have already two, but too expensive. These are trials, when upon my sinking health and overburdened strength lies the task of providing for them;—when, in short, I have to provide for expenses over which I have no more control than my own dog, Flush.... It is too late now for the slightest hope of change; and his affection for me is so great, that to hint at the subject would not only shock him, but perhaps endanger his health.”
Thus, with a heritage of liabilities, Miss Mitford came back from her father’s funeral to think out some scheme of personal effort which would not only give her something upon which to exist but remove the stigma attaching to her father’s name. When the true state of affairs became public property her friends decided to raise a subscription in the hope of clearing the whole amount. Nothing short of complete satisfaction to all creditors would content Miss Mitford, who determined that “everybody shall be paid, if I have to sell the gown off my back, or pledge my little pension.”
The subscription project was taken up very heartily, appeals, signed by many influential people, being printed in the Times and Morning Chronicle, and by the following March nearly a thousand pounds had been received, with a promise of further donations amounting to some hundreds, the final idea of the promoters being that not only should the debts be paid but that a goodly amount should be handed over to Miss Mitford wherewith to make a fresh start and to provide an annuity. Writing on the subject to Miss Jephson, Miss Mitford intimated that the Queen was among the subscribers, but desired that her name be not mentioned, “as she gives from her private income, and fears being subjected to solicitation (this adds to the compliment, as it proves it is not a matter of form).” In addition to this there were contributions from many of the nobility and notables in the literary and artistic world, thus testifying to the great esteem in which Miss Mitford was held. It must have been very gratifying to her to be thus remembered in this her bitterest hour of need. Nor was this the only evidence of goodwill, for many of the neighbouring gentry vied with each other in paying little attentions to the lone woman, in offers of hospitality and in a hundred small and unostentatious ways, which touched her deeply. “I never before had an idea of my own popularity, and I have on two or three occasions shed tears of pure thankfulness at reading the letters which have been written to, or about, me.... I only pray God that I may deserve half that has been said of me. So far as the truest and humblest thankfulness may merit such kindness, I am, perhaps, not wholly undeserving, for praise always makes me humble. I always feel that I am over-valued; and such is, I suppose, its effect on every mind not exceedingly vainglorious.”
Perhaps the most touching of the many kindnesses now showered upon her was that of Mr. George Lovejoy, the famous bookseller of Reading, who made her free of his large and very complete circulating library and afforded her a most lavish supply of books. The Library was founded in the year 1832 by Mr. Lovejoy and came to be regarded as the finest of its kind in the Provinces. He was, himself, a man of considerable learning and possessed amiable characteristics which endeared him to all and sundry, especially to the children, who were in the habit of appealing to him to solve any problems which might be bothering their small heads, whilst he was frequently besieged by them for pieces of string in the peg-top season. And not only did the children consult him, for he gathered about him quite a number of literary people to whom he was indeed a counsellor and friend. His shop was the rendezvous for the County, among the most frequent visitors being Charles Kingsley—Eversley being but fourteen miles distant—and Miss Mitford, with any literary friends who happened to be calling on her at the time. “In general we can get any books we wish at the excellent Reading library (Lovejoy’s); he, or I, have all you mention,” wrote Miss Mitford to a friend who had suggested certain books for perusal.