"my true love hath my heart and i have his."
—sir philip sidney.
once when parnell had to go to ireland by the morning mail, after a late sitting of the house, i went up to the st. pancras hotel, where he had a room that night, and made the waiter bring up a tray into the bedroom, with a cold bird, some tomatoes and materials for salad dressing, adding a bottle of still moselle (parnell always drank still moselle by his doctor's, sir henry thompson's, orders, and no other wine). i knew he would be rushed to catch the train when he returned in the early morning, and that he would miss the little meal i always had ready for him, and this missing a meal was very bad for him.
when i had prepared the supper table to my liking i sat down by the open window and watched the flare of light in the sky and the wide panoramic view of mean streets and wide spaces i had from this window, of one of the rooms highest up in this high building; and the shrieks and oaths of men and women came up to me as they quarrelled, and the drunken brawls of some past semblance of humanity floated up to me till dawn brought peace to the city, as these poor dregs of life slunk back to their dens to seek the oblivion of sleep. i shall never forget the sights and sounds of that night, for never before had the horror of a great city's streets at night been so forcibly brought before me.
{251}
in the early dawn parnell came, and, seeing his supper there, sat down to eat it without question, as i had known he would. he ate in a preoccupied way as he thought over his speech, and after telling of various points in it, suddenly said, "ah, i was really hungry; and you found some tomatoes. i'll make the salad if you'll eat some." so he made a delicious salad, and we feasted upon it before i left him to go down to eltham by the early train, and to give him time for a short rest before catching the mail train for ireland.
* * * * * *
"there is one great comfort about this," i used to say to myself, after two hours' walking up and down that most uncomfortable station, waterloo junction, "and that is that he always comes at last." i had often to comfort myself with that reflection as i waited about at various stations for parnell.
when he had to be late i often went up to the house to fetch him out to dinner at a restaurant. he hated dining in the house, and there were one or two points in the diet ordered him by sir henry thompson that i insisted upon for him where he would not take the trouble to insist for himself. after dinner i would drive him nearly back to the house. there he got out, and if he felt lonely at the idea of driving down to eltham by himself as he sometimes did, or if he thought he would want to talk to me again before he came home (as he very often did!) i would promise to wait for him at some station, so that he could find me without observation. it would have been much more comfortable, of course, for me to have waited in a house or rooms somewhere, but people were so extraordinarily curious about parnell that it would have been {252} impossible so to get any peace unless we changed the address every week, and this would have been decidedly too expensive. as it was, he was often followed to the station by a detective or some private busybody who could not realize that even a public man may possible prefer to keep a little of his life to himself.
so very many hours i waited for him at various stations! the officials (at each and all) were most kind and considerate to the lonely lady who had to be driven, by sheer force of regulations, from one waiting-room to another as the lights were put out, and who finally would take to a steady tramp up and down the station platform till at length (such a long length sometimes!) she was joined by her husband and almost lifted into the hansom-cab they invariably drove off in.
when i felt that he really wanted me to wait i could not bear to go home, and though waterloo was the most uncomfortable station of all to keep vigil in i often chose it, as, owing to the early morning trains at the junction, i could always be sure that it would not be altogether shut up.
i think the officials must have known who parnell was, as i always had a free pass (from him) for all these lines, but they never intruded, and, in spite of my pass, received and kept his telegrams for me (he often telegraphed from the little office near the house, in the name "preston") with perfect tact. the porters were very good to me also, and many a scuttle of coal was recklessly emptied on a waiting-room fire after hours as "reg'lations 'gainst keepin' on gas strong, but it will be fairly cheerful like with the firelight, ma'am." the railway men are a kindly race, for i rarely tipped these men.
* * * * * *
{253}
house of commons,
12.30.
i arrived here to-night.
i fear i may be detained till rather late to-night, so hope you will not wait up for me. i expect to return home about 3.30.
the above is a note, one of very many, sent down to me at eltham, so that i should, if i wished, go to bed before parnell came home. i did this only once or twice, as i fancied i heard him directly i closed my eyes, and would go down, only to find a dreary blank of disappointment. so i made him agree to my staying in my sitting-room, where from the open window i could hear for miles the regular trotting of the cab-horse bringing him home.
he only stipulated that i should not go out along the roads to meet him at night. in march, 1887, i thought my king was looking tired and worried. there had been various annoying happenings owing to new reports of his life at eltham having been put about. i had had unpleasant letters from willie, and the latter and i were not now on speaking terms. with this and his hard work parnell was looking fagged and worn. his health, always an anxiety to me, seemed to fail, and the languor that grew upon him frightened me. i determined that he should be spared the long cold night-drive down to eltham, and suggested his having a house near the house of commons to which he could return and get immediate rest after a night sitting. he had a little house at brockley, which he had taken in the name of "clement preston," and furnished, and here he had a man and wife to look after him. i had never lived there, but used to drive over to see him for a short time when it was inexpedient that he should be at eltham. he never liked this house, and hated the way the people used to hang about to see him go in and {254} out, "clement preston" apparently being but a poor protection in keeping off curiosity as to parnell's habits. he wearily said he did not want to live in london unless i would live there too, but, as i pointed out, that was impossible, and i took a house in york terrace, regent's park (furnished), for him. here i installed him with two servants, who absolutely worshipped the ground he walked upon, and, having placed various books about, books that he considered of pleasant relaxation, such as engineering and mining treatises, with a couple of dickens' works that he had always been "going to read," and a few technical journals, i went home haunted by his grave, considering eyes and his sad "you must not leave me here by myself; i don't want to be here without you!" hoping that after a day or two he would settle down and feel the benefit of getting more quickly to bed.
the house was charming, with, on one side, a lovely outlook over regent's park. it was very pretty and comfortable, and i used to make flying visits to him, to sit with him while he ate his breakfast.
for three weeks i congratulated myself on having been self-denying enough to earn him better rest, even at the cost to myself of not having him so much with me; then, on my return from my aunt, whose great age was now beginning to tell upon her, late one evening, i felt anxious and worried about my lover, even though my good-night telegram was awaiting me. he always telegraphed "good-night" if he was away from me. i tried to shake the feeling off, but after dinner i found myself mechanically making up the fire in my sitting-room as i did when sitting up for parnell after a late sitting of the house. i felt amused at my absent-mindedness, and sat down before the fire, thinking that i would take advantage of {255} the beautiful blaze i had made. i sat there idly, thinking of parnell, wondering what exactly he was doing at that moment, and presently, hearing the servants go to bed, and feeling disinclined for bed myself, i got a book.
i could not settle to reading, and began to feel very lonely and to wish i were really waiting up for parnell, as i used to. i thought of my aunt, of how very old she was, of her immense goodness to me ever since i had lived at eltham, and of what a great blank there would be when she died—her life seemed to be like a flame flickering in the wind now, and it might go out any day. i got up to shake off my sad thoughts, and, throwing open my window, leant out and listened to the wind in the trees.
i heard the clock strike two, and listened, as i had always done, about this time, for the regular beat of the horse's hoofs that would bring my king home. i could hear nothing, and my longing for his presence was so great that i called out under my breath, "i wish you would come. i do wish you would come." then i think i became drowsy, for i started up from the window, suddenly hearing three o'clock ring out from the village and the steady trot-trot of a horse in the distance.
i held my breath to listen, my heart beating with an eager joy. i could hear the beat of the hoofs round the corner into the village as they came from the common, then lost as they went up the high street, and suddenly clearer with the jingle of the cab bells as they turned the top of the road and stopped. i knew now, and opened the door quickly as my love came up the little side-walk past the window, giving the familiar signal as he went up the two steps; and i was in his arms as he whispered, "oh, my love, you must not leave me alone again."
