Christmas Pudding and Pigeon Pie (11 page)
‘Let me see, let me see,’ said Paul, fixing on to his nose a pair of pince-nez through which, in fact, he could hardly see anything
at all, but which he felt to be in keeping with his new character as tutor. (Amabelle had with great difficulty restrained him from making his appearance at Compton Bobbin arrayed in a platinum blonde wig, moustache and eyebrows.)
‘Ah! Hum! Hem! Yes! “Breakfast at eight-thirty, work from nine to eleven, ride from eleven to one.” That won’t do, you know, Lady Bobbin, won’t do at all, I fear. Let me see now, “luncheon at one o’clock, ride or play golf from two till four” – that’s all right – “from five till seven-thirty more work or a game of squash rackets”. Yes, a very excellent programme, if I may say so, but there is one thing about it which I shall be obliged to alter. We
must
have the whole morning for work.’
‘Has Mr. Pringle given Roderick so much to do?’
‘Yes, indeed. A very great deal. I am afraid from what Mr. Pringle tells me that Roderick is an idle, a backward boy.’
‘I know he is.’
‘Mr. Pringle doubts whether Roderick will pass into Sandhurst at all unless we read the whole of Horace, selections, which he has made for us, from Pliny and Virgil, the letters of Julius Caesar, the
Iliad
, most of the Greek Anthology, Gibbon’s
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
, Burton’s
Anatomy of Melancholy
, and Froude’s
Essays,’
said Paul wildly, and at random. ‘And besides all that he urged on me the importance of coaching Roderick thoroughly in mathematics and European history. Personally I think it seems rather a pity to pin the boy down to his lessons when he could be reaping so much benefit from fresh air and exercise, but you know what these schoolmasters are like. Besides, you must yourself be anxious for him to pass into Sandhurst, and if he is to do so with any degree of certainty we shall, I fear, be obliged to give up more time to our work than you have allowed for on this programme.’
‘Very well,’ said Lady Bobbin, ‘I’m sure I don’t wish the boy’s work to suffer, and as you say, I am very anxious that he should pass for Sandhurst. And that reminds me of something I wanted
to mention to you – please do all that you can to persuade Roderick that he wants to go into the army. He has an absurd idea of becoming a diplomat, which I should very much dislike. I myself am a soldier’s daughter and a soldier’s wife – ’
‘So am I,’ said Paul. ‘At least I am a soldier’s son and my mother was a soldier’s wife.’
‘And I particularly wish Roderick to become a soldier, to carry on the tradition in his father’s regiment, so that I shall be very much obliged to you for any influence you may bring to bear in this direction. Now tell me how you intend to arrange your day, and then I must go out.’
‘I fear that it will be necessary for us to work from nine to one a.m. Personally, I am a great believer in morning work for young people. I think it most valuable. The whole afternoon will then be free for outdoor exercise – I am glad to hear that there are some squash courts near-by, as we shall be able to play them after it is too dark for riding or golf. We will see how the work is going, but I expect that I shall be obliged to call upon a couple of hours of his time after dinner as well.’
‘I see that you intend to be very severe with Roderick, so much the better. The boy has needed a man’s hand for some years. I’m afraid I have been rather inclined to spoil him myself. All right, then, we’ll leave it at that. I should be obliged if you would let me know from time to time how the work is getting on.’
So saying, Lady Bobbin hurried away to the stables.
‘That’s grand,’ said Bobby, when Paul had told him with a good deal of unseemly merriment, the results of his interview. ‘I’m thankful you were quite firm about the morning work. Actually, of course, what I shall do is to tuck up on this sofa; it doesn’t suit my constitution to be awake before lunch time, while you get on with great-grandmamma’s journal. You might read out any juicy bits that you happen to come across. Then the moment lunch is finished we’ll hack over to Mulberrie Farm. Amabelle says there is a groom who can exercise the horses for us,
while we play bridge and gossip with her – I’ll tell him to jolly well tire them out, too. If we get back late we’ll pretend that we stopped at Woodford Manor (that’s Major Stanworth’s) for a game of squash and some tea. Mother will be awfully pleased. Well, thanks to you, Paul, old boy, I’m looking forward to the decentest hols, for years.’ And Bobby flung himself on to the sofa, where he immediately fell asleep.
Meanwhile Paul returned to the journal, and was soon in the middle of that part of it which describes at immense length and in great detail the last weeks and hours of Sir Josiah Bobbin, who died, at the age of sixty-one, evidently from chronic over-eating.
Aug. 6th, 1878
.
Spent many happy hours today in the Beloved Sick Room. I occupied some of them by reading aloud from the ‘Idylls of the King’, a work combining such noble sentiments with such an interesting narrative (both of which are, in my opinion, and that of Josiah, a
sine qua non of really great
poetry) that it is truly pleasant and edifying to read. How different from
so much
that is written in these days! My Dear One slept most of the time. He still has, I am most thankful to say, a good appetite, although so unwell, and it is by the means of constant feeding with nourishing foods that we are able to maintain his Precious Strength. It is now very late, almost midnight, the hour always consecrated to my journal. Ah! Faithful Page, to thee how many sorrows have I confided, safe in the knowledge that thou at least will never misconstrue my meaning, never repeat my secrets to a hard, uncomprehending world. Tonight I will unburden more of myself to thee, as I sit beside the Beloved Bed. For the day which is just dawning is the anniversary of the death of Dearest Mamma, who passed away when I was but an unthinking babe of four months old. Oh, cruel Fate which
robbed nine little ones of their Guiding Star at such an early age, leaving them to reach maturity without a Mother’s care.
At such sacred moments I sometimes think that I myself could have made a truer Wife, a more attentive Mother, if I had been less devoted to my Art. Alas! Can it be so? Would Arthur, George, Edward, Albert, Frederick and William, Alice, Julia, Maud, Eva, Louise and Beatrice have been
better
men and women, had I given up my writing? The very thought is a knife in my heart! Would darling Josiah have had a
more perfect
helpmeet but for the cultivation of my Gift? The knife turns! And yet I console myself with remembering that Nature teaches us a different, and, I hope, a truer lesson. The gentle Nightingale can ever find time for the duties of her home in the intevals of charming the woodlands with her silvery note; the merry lark, soaring above the cornfields, the perky robin hopping among the evergreens, each has its little song to sing, yet is not therefore a
neglectful
Mother! And surely it has ever been thus with me? Surely I have no cause for self-reproach on that dread score? I
know
that I have not, otherwise how could I survive another moment at such a melancholy time? Sometimes it comes upon me with a fearful shudder that I am soon to be left a Widow. Widow! Hateful word, how could these fingers fashion thee? Surely I must be spared that unberable, that fatal blow awhile? And yet I saw in the doctor’s eye today a look of cruel foreboding as he said: ‘Give Sir Josiah anything he likes to eat, we must not cross him now.’ That word ‘now’, I shuddered as I heard it, nor dared to ask its meaning.
Ah! Leave, my darling, leave me not awhile
,
Lonely upon this planet sere, and grey;
Spare my poor heart such melancholy trial
,
Lest frail my courage faint and fade away
.
Forget that thou art ill and tired of woe
,
Think rather of the day when first we met
.
Forget the hateful burdens here below
,
Sorrow, ingratitude and loss, forget!
Think only, love, upon our wedding day
,
The lilies and the sunshine and the bells;
Of how, the service o’er, we drove away
To our blest honeymoon at Tunbridge Wells
.
Think of our life together all these years
,
The joys we’ve shared, the sorrows we have known;
The laughter of our children, and their tears
,
The happiness of duty bravely done
.
But if with longing thou art overcome
To leave forthwith this sad and tearful earth
,
E’en should my heart with poignant grief be numb
,
It yet would not begrudge thee Heavenly birth!
Then song of nightingales in the wet leaves
Of churchyard yews shall be thy heavy dirge;
Though for a space alone my bosom heaves
,
It everlastingly with thine shall merge!
Paul recognized these as being the first verses of what later became one of Lady Maria’s best known and most popular poems, ‘At a Husband’s Death-Bed, or The Passing of a Beloved’, set to music by her son-in-law, Lord Otto Pulman, and published shortly after Sir Josiah’s death. Presently he came to the following entry:
Aug. 26th, 1878
.
’Tis o’er. All is over, and I a Widow. Little Hudson came to me just now as I sat by the Loved Remains in a kind of sad trance.
‘Granny,’ he said, in his little lisping voice, ‘what is a widow, granny?’
‘Alas! I am a widow, my love,’ I replied.
‘And granny,’ went on the poor innocent, ‘what is a corpse granny?’
‘Look there,’ I said in awful tones, pointing to the Bed.
‘But, granny, I want to see a corpse. That’s only grandpa, gone to sleep.’
At this I quite broke down, and I think that the tears have done me some little good. Now I must collect my thoughts and try to recall, while it is yet fresh in my memory, every incident connected with The End.
At four o’clock, or it may have been a few minutes later, I went to my room, to rest before tea time. I removed some of my garments and lay down on the couch, and I think I must have dozed for a few moments. At any rate, I remember nothing more until I saw, with a
fearful start
, that darling Alice was standing near me, pointing with her hand towards Heaven. I realized, as soon as I observed this significant and awful gesture, that The End
must
now be very near, so hastily throwing a shawl around my shoulders I returned to the Bedside, where I found dear Arthur, George, Edward, Albert, Frederick, William, Julia, Maud, Eva, Louise and Beatrice standing around it in various attitudes of pious resignation very beautiful to see. As I approached my darling Josiah he turned over in bed, a smile of happy anticipation o’erspread his features and he spoke, not very coherently, a few words. In my agitation I thought at first that he was saying ‘Bring me the oysters,’ a dish to which he has ever been most partial, but of course, as dearest Edward remarked when speaking of it to me afterwards, he must really have said, ‘Bury me in the cloisters,’ a curious fancy as there are no cloisters in this neighbourhood. There was a long silence after this, which my Loved One broke himself. He looked darling
Edward full in the face, said, very loudly, ‘Pass the Port,’ and fell lifeless to his pillow. Edward said immediately, in low but ringing tones, ‘Safe past the Port indeed, Life’s perilous journey done.’ A moment later dearest Alice very reverently took my blue shawl from off my shoulders and replaced it with a black one. Then and only then did I realize that it was all over, and I indeed a Widow. The
best
, the
noblest
husband that woman ever had – I can write no more at present.
Aug. 31st, 1878
.
I have just returned to the house from attending My Angel’s funeral. Such a long, and such a very beautiful service, how he would have rejoiced in it had he but been there to participate. Afterwards I sent for Mr. Brawn, our incumbent, and spoke with him upon the subject, now most dear to my Poor Widowed Heart, that of erecting some Gothick cloisters in the churchyard as a memorial to Him. It was His dying wish. Mr. Brawn, I am thankful to say, is delighted with the idea and has made one or two very feeling suggestions. He thinks, and this shows him to be a man of true sensibility, that the cloisters should have fourteen arches, one for Darling Josiah, one for myself, and one for each of our dear sons and daughters. The Dear Tomb can then repose in the middle.
The children have been very kind and considerate, and so have the poor people, who for miles around came with their little offerings of flowers, most touching. Baby Hudson’s has been the only smiling face on which I have looked for days. I would hardly have it otherwise; he is mercifully too young as yet to know the dreadful anguish which he must else have felt at the loss of Such a Grandfather.
Paul read on for the rest of that day. (It was pouring wet, and even Lady Bobbin conceded, at luncheon time, that their first ride
had better be postponed until slightly more reasonable weather should have set in. Bobby and Philadelphia went instead to Oxford to do some Christmas shopping, and to bring back Lord Lewes, who had telephoned to say that his car had broken down there.)
Lady Maria Bobbin, after the death of her husband, retired to a dower house in the park, where she lived for some years with her only unmarried daughter, Eva, as a companion. Her life there appeared to have been singularly uneventful, except for certain little disagreements with her daughter-in-law, Lady Feodora Bobbin, whom she too evidently detested, until, in 1888, Paul came upon the following entry:
