To knit in loving knowledge rich and poor.”
It was a beautiful tribute, which naturally touched the warm heart of its recipient.
“Oh! my dear Mr. Kingsley,” she wrote, “how much surprised and touched and gratified I have been by that too flattering but most charming sonnet! Such praise from such a person is indeed most precious. I will not say that I never dreamt of your sending any compliments to myself, because I am sure that you would not suspect me of such vanity, but I must tell you how heartily I thank you, especially for the lines which join us together in intention and purpose.... I wonder whether you always leave people liking you so very much more than they seem to have a right to do! and whether it is your fault or mine that I talked to you as if I had known you ever since you were a boy! Pardon the impertinence, if it be one, and believe me ever
“Your obliged and faithful friend,
“M. R. Mitford.”
One result of the residence at Three Mile Cross, amid the dilapidations of the later years, was the acute rheumatism from which Miss Mitford began to suffer before her removal and which, as the years crept on, got a firmer hold of her system. The consequence was that often, for weeks at a time, she was not able to walk a step, and had to be carried bodily downstairs by Sam, her new man-of-all-work, assisted by K——, whom he had married. This absence of walking exercise was a great hardship, for it was among her chief delights to ramble round the lanes with the dogs, seeking the earliest wild blooms and, with the aid of her favourite crook-stick, gathering the honey suckle as it rioted in the hedge-tops. So, with such exercise impossible, recourse was had to the pony-chaise, wherein, with either Sam or K——, for driver, they would amble quietly around the countryside or into Swallowfield Park, near by, where, if they were at home, there was always a sure welcome from Lady Russell or her daughters.
Mary Russell Mitford.
(From a painting by John Lucas, 1852.)
It was during one of these drives that the accident occurred which was to render her still more helpless and to hasten her end. It was caused by the overturn of the chaise, which threw the occupants with great force on to the hard gravelled road. No bones were broken, but the nerves of the hip and thigh were bruised and shattered, and there was some injury to the spine which, though not noticed at the time, soon developed seriously. A long and painful illness was the result, during which the patient suffered the greatest agony, frequently unable to move in order to change her position while in bed. Lady Russell was a frequent and daily visitor, coming through the mud and rain—for it was winter—to bring comforts for mind and body to her sick friend. The spring of 1853 saw a slight change for the better, and among the old friends who came to visit the invalid was Lucas, the painter, who succeeded in getting his old patroness to sit for another portrait. Miss Mitford was delighted with the result—the expression she thought was wonderfully well-caught, “so thoughtful, happy, tender—as if the mind were dwelling in a pleasant frame on some dear friend.” With the approach of summer she had gained sufficient strength to walk out into the garden, where, under a great acacia tree, and near to a favourite syringa-bush, she had a garden-seat and wrote, when not too weary. Here, and in her bedroom, she worked at last on the novel, so long put off. By the end of 1853 it was in the printer’s hands, and every effort was being made to publish it early in 1854. “ Atherton has twice nearly killed me,” wrote Miss Mitford to William Harness, “once in writing—now, very lately, in correcting the proofs.” Talfourd, hearing of his old friend’s illness, went to see her in March of 1854 and sat by her bedside much affected at the change he saw in her. “All the old friendship came back upon both, as in the many years when my father’s house was a second home to him. We both, I believe, felt it to be a last parting”—and that, indeed, it was, for Talfourd died, while delivering a judgment, a fortnight later! The news of his death was a severe shock to Miss Mitford.
Early in April, 1854, Atherton was published in three volumes by Messrs. Hurst & Blackett, and, to the author’s great delight, Mr. Hurst sent her word that Mr. Mudie had told him the demand was so great as to oblige him to have four hundred copies in circulation. The Dedication was “To her Dear Friend, Lady Russell, whose Sympathy has Cheered the Painfullest Hours, as her Companionship has Gladdened the Brightest,” and in the Preface she set forth in detail the awful sufferings which she was forced to endure while writing the work, “being often obliged to have the ink-glass held for me, because I could not raise my hand to dip the pen in the ink.”
