"Down the well-known avenue and lanes, the bearers advanced, looking like a great band of choristers. I saw nothing, but some of the others remarked that as we came away from the house a beautiful silver cloud and rainbow appeared over it.

"Arthur and Augusta left the procession at the foot of the hill and pa.s.sed on before; so he met us at the gate.

"In the centre of the chancel, where I had seen the coffin of Uncle Julius, there the coffin of my own darling lay, but it was covered with no gloomy pall, only garlanded with flowers, the garlands of her new life.

"At the grave, Lea stood on one side of me, Emmie on the other.

Arthur read most touchingly, and in the words of that service one was lifted up, not drawn down: but indeed I felt it very little, I only saw it in a dream.

"Afterwards I think they all came up and kissed me. Then they went away, and Lea and I walked back alone through the shrubbery to Hurstmonceaux Place, and so came home.

"To our most desolate home.

"On the Sat.u.r.day after we went to Hurstmonceaux again. The Sunday services at the church were most beautiful. In the morning 'How bright those glorious spirits shine' was sung, and in the evening, almost in the dark, 'Pilgrims of the night.' Mr. Munn[439] preached on 'Bury me with my fathers--in the cave of Machpelah,' &c., speaking of how she was brought from a distant place, and how, in foreign lands, her great wish had been to be laid at Hurstmonceaux, and so to what I wished of the peculiar connection of my darling's life with Hurstmonceaux, and of how the different scenes in the parish which called up the remembrance of her sweet words and acts connected with them, might also call up the recollection of those truths to which her gentle life was a living witness. When Lea and I went out to the grave afterwards, we found two poor women--Mrs.

Medhurst and Mrs. Harmer--standing there dressed in black, and the little mound covered with flowers.

"I saw it once again next day, and made a little wall of holly and ivy round it. Oh, my darling!--and then we returned here again, to the ordinary life, only the door of the sacred chamber stands open, and the room is cold and empty, and my heart and my life are desolate. 'The sanctuary of sorrow' seems to me an expression full of significance."

_To_ MISS LEYCESTER.

"_Holmhurst, Dec. 1, 1870._--Madame de Sta?l shows how she must have suffered when she wrote--'Le reveil, quel moment pour les malheureux!' To-day is the first of a month in which my darling has no share: each day there is something in which I seem to part with her afresh. My life is so changed that it seems impossible to believe that it is such a short time since I was so happy--only, between the present dumb blank and the happy time are those terrible thirty-six hours of illness, and in the thought of them I am more than satisfied that she cannot go through them again. Each minute of those hours comes back to me now so vividly--the acuteness of the numb misery, which _really_ had no hope, with the determination that she should see nothing but smiles to the last, for my whole life afterwards would be long enough for tears.

"Poor Lea sits with me now for an hour every day after tea, and we talk of every moment of those last days.

"It is most bitterly cold: she would have been _so_ ill."

"_Dec. 17._--Mrs. Tom Bra.s.sey pa.s.sed me to-day, riding with a party. She made them go on, and stopped to speak to me, then burst into tears, and spoke most feelingly of old Mr. Bra.s.sey's death, to whom I believe she was truly attached. Then she revealed the enormous wealth to which they have fallen heirs. They expected to have no more, as the father had already given each of his sons an immense sum, but old Mr. Bra.s.sey has left six millions! She feels the awful responsibility of such a heritage, and spoke admirably and touchingly--said she trusted each of the three brothers would set out with the determination to spend it worthily of their father, and then of all their plans already made for the good of others. It seemed odd to come back from discussing all this to the great anxiety as to whether my income would amount to ?500, and if I should be able to live on at Holmhurst.

"It is actually five weeks this evening since my darling was here, and we were entering upon the utter anguish of that last night.

Sometimes the agony comes back to me, so that I am obliged to _do_ something which requires close attention to set it aside; but at other times--generally--I can think with composure of the five weeks she has spent well, and _warm_, and happy."

MRS. ARNOLD _to_ AUGUSTUS J. C. HARE.

"_Dingle Bank, Nov. 21, 1870._--You will be in such deep grief that I hardly know how to write to you; and yet I so loved the dear Mother you have lost, so reverenced her goodness and sweetness and holiness, that I cannot but hope you may like a few words from me of truest sympathy, and indeed I can feel for you. To those at a distance it is the thought of a dear friend transplanted from earth to heaven, but to you there is the thought of the daily companionship, the loving nursing, the perpetual consciousness of what you were to her. In this, however, in the sense of the continual help and comfort and love that she received from you, will be your great consolation.

"I have never lost the impression made on me by her own _more_ than resignation when she spoke to me at Rugby of her own separation from what was dearest to her upon earth--there seemed such joy in _his_ happiness, such a realising of it to herself, that earthly clouds and shadows disappeared.

"I will not say more now, but for _her_ dear sake, and that of my long and affectionate interest in you, I hope you will sometimes let me hear of you."

LADY EASTLAKE _to_ AUGUSTUS J. C. HARE.

"_7 Fitzroy Square, Dec. 4._--I have seen a notice in the _Times_ which has sent a pang through my heart, and hasten to tell you how intensely I feel for you. None but those who know the bitterness of a great sorrow can really sympathise with you, for only they can measure the length and breadth of the suffering. I know of no consolation but the conviction that G.o.d knows all and does all, and that He will reunite in His good time to the Beloved One. Sorrow is a mighty force, and its fruit ought to be commensurate: we sow truly in tears, but the reaping in joy is, I believe, reserved for another state. Still there is much to be done by sorrow's husbandry even here, and a.s.suredly were the fruits of the Spirit to be attained without suffering, G.o.d would not put His poor children through it.

"I fear that life must look very joyless before you, and that all things for a time must seem altered, your very self most so. I can only say be patient with _yourself_, and take every mitigation that offers itself. I should be very glad to hear from you when you have heart and leisure. You have seen me in bitter anguish, and will not be shy of one who has drunk of that cup to the very dregs. G.o.d's holy will be done!"