II.

The next scene that stands out clearly against the background of the past is that of my father’s death-bed.  The events which led to his death I know from my dear mother.  He had never lost his fondness for the profession for which he had been trained, and having many medical friends, he would now and then accompany them on their hospital rounds, or share with them the labors of the dissecting room.  It chanced that during the dissection of the body of a person who had died of rapid consumption, my father cut his finger against the edge of the breast-bone.  The cut did not heal easily, and the finger became swollen and inflamed.  “I would have that finger off, Wood, if I were you,” said one of the surgeons, a day or two afterwards, on seeing the state of the wound.  But the others laughed at the suggestion, and my father, at first inclined to submit to the amputation, was persuaded to “leave Nature alone”.

About the middle of August, 1852, he got wet through, riding on the top of an omnibus, and the wetting resulted in a severe cold, which “settled on his chest”.  One of the most eminent doctors of the day, as able as he was rough in manner, was called to see him.  He examined him carefully, sounded his lungs, and left the room followed by my mother.  “Well?” she asked, scarcely anxious as to the answer, save as it might worry her husband to be kept idly at home.  “You must keep up his spirits”, was the thoughtless answer.  “He is in a galloping consumption; you will not have him with you six weeks longer.”  The wife staggered back, and fell like a stone on the floor.  But love triumphed over agony, and half an hour later she was again at her husband’s side, never to leave it again for ten minutes at a time, night or day, till he was lying with closed eyes asleep in death.

I was lifted on to the bed to “say good-bye to dear Papa” on the day before his death, and I remember being frightened at his eyes which looked so large, and his voice which sounded so strange, as he made me promise always to be “a very good girl to darling Mamma, as Papa was going right away”.  I remember insisting that “Papa should kiss Cherry”, a doll given me on my birthday, three days before, by his direction, and being removed, crying and struggling, from the room.  He died on the following day, October 5th, and I do not think that my elder brother and I—­who were staying at our maternal grandfather’s—­went to the house again until the day of the funeral.  With the death, my mother broke down, and when all was over they carried her senseless from the room.  I remember hearing afterwards how, when she recovered her senses, she passionately insisted on being left alone, and locked herself into her room for the night; and how on the following morning her mother, at last persuading her to open the door, started back at the face she saw with the cry:  “Good God!  Emily! your hair is white!” It was even so; her hair, black, glossy and abundant, which, contrasting with her large grey eyes, had made her face so strangely attractive, had turned grey in that night of agony, and to me my mother’s face is ever framed in exquisite silver bands of hair as white as the driven unsullied snow.