Margot Asquith, an Autobiography Part 7

I sat on the stairs listening to the roar of London and the clock in the library. The doctor--Matthews Duncan--patted my head whenever he pa.s.sed me on the stair and said, in his gentle Scotch accent:

"'Poor little girl! Poor, poor little girl!'

"I was glad he did not say that 'while there was life there was hope,' or any of the medical plat.i.tudes, or I would have replied that he LIED. There was no hope--none! ...

"One afternoon I went with Lucy to St. George's, Hanover Square.

The old man was sweeping out the church; and we knelt and prayed.

Laura and I have often knelt side by side at that altar and I never feel alone when I am in front of the mysterious Christ- picture, with its bars of violet and bunches of grapes.

"On my return I went upstairs and lay on the floor of Laura's bedroom, watching Alfred kneeling by her side with his arms over his head. Charty sat with her hands clasped; a single candle behind her head transfigured her lovely hair into a halo. Suddenly Laura opened her eyes and, turning them slowly on Charty, said:

"'You are HEAVENLY! ...'

"A long pause, and then while we were all three drawing near her bed we heard her say:

"'I think G.o.d has forgotten me.'

"The fire was weaving patterns on the ceiling; every shadow seemed to be looking with pity on the silence of that room, the long silence that has never been broken.

"I did not go home that night, but slept at Alfred's house. Lucy had gone to the early Communion, but I had not accompanied her, as I was tired of praying. I must have fallen into a heavy sleep, when suddenly I felt some one touching my bed. I woke with a start and saw nurse standing beside me. She said in a calm voice:

"'My dear, you must come. Don't look like that; you won't be able to walk.'

"Able to walk! Of course I was! I was in my dressing-gown and downstairs in a flash and on to the bed. The room was full of people. I lay with my arm under Laura, as I did in the old Glen days, when after our quarrels we crept into each other's beds to'make it up.' Alfred was holding one of her hands against his forehead; and Charty was kneeling at her feet.

"She looked much the same, but a deeper shadow ran under her brow and her mouth seemed to be harder shut. I put my cheek against her shoulder and felt the sharpness of her spine. For a minute we lay close to each other, while the sun, fresh from the dawn, played upon the window-blinds. ... Then her breathing stopped; she gave a shiver and died. ... The silence was so great that I heard the flight of Death and the morning salute her soul.

"I went downstairs and took her will out of the drawer where she had put it and told Alfred what she had asked me to do. The room was dark with people; and a tall man, gaunt and fervid, was standing up saying a prayer. When he had finished I read the will through:

My Will [Footnote: The only part of the will I have left out is a few names with blank s.p.a.ces which she intended to fill up.], made by me, Laura Mary Octavia Lyttelton, February, 1886.

"I have not much to leave behind me, should I die next month, having my treasure deep in my heart where no one can reach it, and where even Death cannot enter. But there are some things that have long lain at the gates of my Joy House that in some measure have the colour of my life in them, and would, by rights of love, belong to those who have entered there. I should like Alfred to give these things to my friends, not because my friends will care so much for them, but because they will love best being where I loved to be.

"I want, first of all, to tell Alfred that all I have in the world and all I am and ever shall be, belongs to him, and to him more than any one, so that if I leave away from him anything that speaks to him of a joy unknown to me, or that he holds dear for any reason wise or unwise, it is his, and my dear friends will forgive him and me.

"So few women have been as happy as I have been every hour since I married--so few have had such a wonderful sky of love for their common atmosphere, that perhaps it will seem strange when I write down that the sadness of Death and Parting is greatly lessened to me by the fact of my consciousness of the eternal, indivisible oneness of Alfred and me. I feel as long as he is down here I must be here, silently, secretly sitting beside him as I do every evening now, however much my soul is the other side, and that if Alfred were to die, we would be as we were on earth, love as we did this year, only fuller, quicker, deeper than ever, with a purer pa.s.sion and a wiser worship. Only in the meantime, whilst my body is hid from him and my eyes cannot see him, let my trivial toys be his till the morning comes when nothing will matter because all is spirit.

"If my baby lives I should like it to have my pearls. I do not love my diamond necklace, so I won't leave it to any one.

"I would like Alfred to have my Bible. It has always rather worried him to hold because it is so full of things; but if I know I am dying, I will clean it out, because, I suppose, he won't like to after. I think I am fonder of it--not, I mean, because it's the Bible--but because it's such a friend, and has been always with me, chiefly under my pillow, ever since I had it--than of anything I possess, and I used to read it a great deal when I was much better than I am now. I love it very much, so, Alfred, you must keep it for me.

"Then the prayer book Francie [Footnote: Lady Horner, of Mells.]

gave me is what I love next, and I love it so much I feel I would like to take it with me. Margot wants a prayer book, so I leave it to her. It is so dirty outside, but perhaps it would be a pity to bind it. Margot is to have my darling little Daily Light, too.

"Then Charty is to have my paste necklace she likes, and any two prints she cares to have, and my little trefeuille diamond brooch --oh! and the Hope she painted for me. I love it very much, and my amethyst beads.

"Little Barbara is to have my blue watch, and Tommy my watch-- there is no chain.

"Then Lucy is to have my Frances belt, because a long time ago the happiest days of my girlhood were when we first got to know Francie, and she wore that belt in the blue days at St. Moritz when we met her at church and I became her lover; and I want Lucy to have my two Blakes and the dear little Martin Schongaun Madonna and Baby--dear little potbellied baby, sucking his little sacred thumb in a garden with a beautiful wall and a little pigeon-house turret. I bought it myself, and do rather think it was clever of me--all for a pound.

"And Posie is to have my little diamond wreaths, and she must leave them to Joan, [Footnote: My niece, Mrs. Jamie Lindsay.] and she is to have my garnets too, because she used to like them, and my Imitation and Marcus Aurelius.

"I leave Eddy my little diamond necklace for his wife, and he must choose a book.

"And Frank is just going to be married, so I would like him to have some bit of my furniture, and his wife my little silver clock.

"I leave Jack the little turquoise ring Graham gave me. He must have it made into a stud.

"Then I want Lavinia [Footnote: Lavinia Talbot is wife of the present Bishop of Winchester] to have my bagful of silver dressing-things Papa gave me, and the little diamond and sapphire bangle I am so fond of; and tell her what a joy it has been to know her, and that the little open window has let in many sunrises on my married life. She will understand.

"Then I want old Lucy [Footnote: Lady Frederick Cavendish, whose husband was murdered in Ireland] to have my edition of the "Pilgrim's Progress," that dear old one, and my photograph in the silver frame of Alfred, if my baby dies too, otherwise it is to belong to him (or her). Lucy was Alfred's little proxy-mother, and she deserves him. He sent the photograph to me the first week we were engaged, and I have carried it about ever since. I don't think it very good. It always frightened me a little; it is so stern and just, and the 'just man' has never been a hero of mine.

I love Alfred when he is what he is to me, and I don't feel that is just, but generous.

"Then I want Edward [Footnote: The late Head Master of Eton] to have the "Days of Creation," and Charles [Footnote: The present Lord Cobham, Alfred's eldest brother] to have my first editions of Sh.e.l.ley, and Arthur [Footnote: The late Hon. Arthur Temple Lyttelton, Bishop of Southampton] my first edition of Beaumont and Fletcher; and Kathleen [Footnote: The Late Hon. Mrs. Arthur Lyttelton.] is to have my little silver crucifix that opens, and Alfred must put in a little bit of my hair, and Kathleen must keep it for my sake--I loved her from the first.

"I want Alfred to give my G.o.dchild, Cicely Horner,[Footnote: The present Hon. Mrs. George Lambton.], the bird-brooch Burne Jones designed, and the Sintram Arthur [Footnote: The Right Hon. Arthur Balfour.], gave me. I leave my best friend, Frances, my grey enamel and diamond bracelet, my first edition of Wilhelm Meister, with the music folded up in it, and my Burne Jones "spression'

drawings. Tell her I leave a great deal of my life with her, and that I never can cease to be very near her.

"I leave Mary Elcho [Footnote: The present Countess of Wemyss.]

my Chippendale cradle. She must not think it bad luck. I suppose some one else possessed it once, and, after all, it isn't as if I died in it! She gave me the lovely hangings, and I think she will love it a little for my sake, because I always loved cradles and all cradled things; and I leave her my diamond and red enamel crescent Arthur gave me. She must wear it because two of her dear friends are in it, as it were. And I would like her to have oh!

such a blessed life, because I think her character is so full of blessed things and symbols. ...

"I leave Arthur Balfour--Alfred's and my dear, deeply loved friend, who has given me so many happy hours since I married, and whose sympathy, understanding, and companionship in the deep sense of the word has never been withheld from me when I have sought it, which has not been seldom this year of my blessed Vita Nuova--I leave him my Johnson. He taught me to love that wisest of men--and I have much to be grateful for in this. I leave him, too, my little ugly Sh.e.l.ley--much read, but not in any way beautiful; if he marries I should like him to give his wife my little red enamel harp--I shall never see her if I die now, but I have so often created her in the Islands of my imagination--and as a Queen has she reigned there, so that I feel in the spirit we are in some measure related by some mystic tie."

Out of the many letters Alfred received, this is the one I liked best:

HAWARDEN CASTLE,

April 27th, 1886. MY DEAR ALFRED,

It is a daring and perhaps a selfish thing to speak to you at a moment when your mind and heart are a sanctuary in which G.o.d is speaking to you in tones even more than usually penetrating and solemn. Certainly it pertains to few to be chosen to receive such lessons as are being taught you. If the wonderful trials of Apostles, Saints and Martyrs have all meant a love in like proportion wonderful, then, at this early period of your life, your lot has something in common with theirs, and you will bear upon you life-long marks of a great and peculiar dispensation which may and should lift you very high. Certainly you two who are still one were the persons whom in all the vast circuit of London life those near you would have pointed to as exhibiting more than any others the promise and the profit of BOTH worlds. The call upon you for thanksgiving seemed greater than on any one--you will not deem it lessened now. How eminently true it is of her that in living a short she fulfilled a long time. If Life is measured by intensity, hers was a very long life--and yet with that rich development of mental gifts, purity and singleness made her one of the little children of whom and of whose like is the Kingdom of Heaven. Bold would it indeed be to say such a being died prematurely. All through your life, however it be prolonged, what a precious possession to you she will be. But in giving her to your bodily eye and in taking her away the Almighty has specially set His seal upon you. To Peace and to G.o.d's gracious mercy let us heartily, yes, cheerfully, commend her. Will you let Sir Charles and Lady Tennant and all her people know how we feel with and for them?

Ever your affec.

W. E. GLADSTONE.

Matthew Arnold sent me this poem because Jowett told him I said it might have been written for Laura:

REQUIESCAT

Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew!

In quiet she reposes; Ah, would that I did too!

Her mirth the world required; She bathed it in smiles of glee.

But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound, But for peace her soul was yearning, And now peace laps her round.

Her cabin'd, ample spirit, It flutter'd and fail'd for breath.