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 then only did I realize that all was 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:
June 3rd, 1888.
A most extraordinary and agitating event occurred this afternoon. A person of the name of Hardysides came to see me and made a proposal for dear Eva’s hand. I very naturally said that I could not possibly consider this matter, and bid him good day; but the whole affair has upset me dreadfully. Supposing that Eva were in time to marry? Not Hardysides, of course, the idea is ridiculous, but supposing (which God be thanked is unlikely owing to our very retired position) that some young man of family and fortune were to make an offer for her? What could I say? For Eva’s presence here is very necessary to me. If she left me, who would
