’The day of the packet’s
sailing. I shall hope to be visited by you here.
The best flowers sent me have been placed in your
little vases, giving life to the remembrance of
you, though not, like them, to pass away.
’Ever
yours,
‘A.
I. NOEL BYRON.’
Shortly after, I was in England again, and had one
more opportunity of resuming our personal intercourse.
The first time that I called on Lady Byron, I saw
her in one of those periods of utter physical exhaustion
to which she was subject on account of the constant
pressure of cares beyond her strength. All who
knew her will testify, that, in a state of health
which would lead most persons to become helpless absorbents
of service from others, she was assuming burdens,
and making outlays of her vital powers in acts of
love and service, with a generosity that often reduced
her to utter exhaustion. But none who knew or
loved her ever misinterpreted the coldness of those
seasons of exhaustion. We knew that it was not
the spirit that was chilled, but only the frail mortal
tabernacle. When I called on her at this time,
she could not see me at first; and when, at last,
she came, it was evident that she was in a state of
utter prostration. Her hands were like ice; her
face was deadly pale; and she conversed with a restraint
and difficulty which showed what exertion it was for
her to keep up at all. I left as soon as possible,
with an appointment for another interview. That
interview was my last on earth with her, and is still
beautiful in memory. It was a long, still summer
afternoon, spent alone with her in a garden, where
we walked together. She was enjoying one of
those bright intervals of freedom from pain and languor,
in which her spirits always rose so buoyant and youthful;
and her eye brightened, and her step became elastic.
One last little incident is cherished as most expressive
of her. When it became time for me to leave,
she took me in her carriage to the station. As
we were almost there, I missed my gloves, and said,
’I must have left them; but there is not time
to go back.’
With one of those quick, impulsive motions which were
so natural to her in doing a kindness, she drew off
her own and said, ’Take mine if they will serve
you.’
I hesitated a moment; and then the thought, that I
might never see her again, came over me, and I said,
‘Oh, yes! thanks.’ That was the last
earthly word of love between us. But, thank God,
those who love worthily never meet for the last time:
there is always a future.
I now come to the particulars of that most painful
interview which has been the cause of all this controversy.
My sister and myself were going from London to Eversley
to visit the Rev. C. Kingsley. On our way, we
stopped, by Lady Byron’s invitation, to lunch
with her at her summer residence on Ham Common, near
Richmond; and it was then arranged, that on our return,
we should make her a short visit, as she said she had
a subject of importance on which she wished to converse
with me alone.
