At noon I had the most sad pleasure of receiving Mr. and Mrs. Smelt. They had heard in York of the illness of the king, and had travelled-post to Windsor. Poor worthy, excellent couple!—Ill and infirm, what did they not suffer from an attack like this—so wonderfully unexpected upon a patron so adored!
They wished the queen to be acquainted with their arrival, yet would not let me risk meeting the princes in carrying the news. Mr. Smelt I saw languished to see his king: he was persuaded he might now repay a part of former benefits, and he wished to be made his page during his illness, that he might watch and attend him hourly.
I had had a message in the morning by Mr. Gorton, the clerk of the kitchen, to tell me the Prince of Wales wished our dining-parlour to be appropriated to the physicians, both for their dinner and their consultations. I was therefore obliged to order dinner for Miss Planta, and myself in my own Sitting-parlour, which was now unmaterial, as the equerries did not come to tea, but continued +altogether in the music-room.
In the evening, of course, came Mr. Fairly, but then it was only to let me know it would be of course no longer. He then rang the bell for my tea-urn, finding I had waited, though he 0 declined drinking tea with me; but he sat down, and staved half an hour, telling me the long story he had promised which Was a full detail of the terrible preceding night. The transactions of the day also he related to me, and the designs for the future. How alarming were they all! yet many particulars, he said, he omitted, merely because they were yet more affecting, and could be dwelt upon to no purpose.
Saturday, Nov. 8-This was, if possible, the saddest day yet passed: it was the birthday of Princess Augusta, and Mrs. Siddons had been invited to read a play, and a large party of company to form the audience. What a contrast from such an intention was the event!
When I went, before seven o’clock in the morning, to my most unhappy royal mistress, the princes were both in the room. I retreated to the next apartment till they had finished their conference. The Prince of Wales upon these occasions has always been extremely well-bred and condescending in his manner, which, in a situation such as mine, is no immaterial circumstance.
The poor queen then spoke to me of the birthday present she had designed for her most amiable daughter. She hesitated a little whether or not to produce it, but at length meekly said, “Yes, go to Miss Planta and bring it. Do you think there can be any harm in giving it now?”
“O, no!” I said, happy to encourage whatever was a little less gloomy, and upstairs I flew. I was met by all the poor princesses and the Duke of York, who inquired if he might go again to the queen. I begged leave first to execute my commission. I did; but so engrossed was my mind with the whole of this living tragedy, that I so little noticed what it was I carried as to be now unable to recollect it. I gave it, however, to the queen, who then sent for the princesses, and carried her gift to her daughter, weeping, who received it with a silent courtesy, kissing and wetting with her gentle tears the hand of her afflicted mother.
During my mournful breakfast poor Mr. Smelt arrived from Kew, where he had now settled himself. Mr. de Luc also joined us, and they could neither prevail upon themselves to go away all the morning. Mr. Smelt had some thoughts of taking up his abode in Windsor till the state of things should be more decisive. The accounts of the preceding night had been most cruel, and to quit the spot was scarce supportable to him. Yet he feared the princes might disapprove his stay, and he well knew his influence and welcome at Court was all confined to the sick-room: thence, there could now issue no mandate.
Yet I encouraged him to stay; so did Mr. de Luc; and while he was still wavering he saw Dr. Warren in the courtyard, and again hastened to speak with him. Before he returned the Prince of Wales went out and met him; and you may imagine how much I was pleased to observe from the window that he took him by the arm, and walked up and down with him.
When he came to us he said the prince had told him he had better stay, that he might see the queen. He determined, therefore, to send off an express to Mrs. Smelt, and go and secure an apartment at the inn. This was very soothing to me, who so much needed just such consolation as he could bestow and I begged he would come back to dinner, and spend the whole day in my room, during his stay.
What, however, was my concern and amaze, when, soon after, hastily returning, he desired to speak to me alone, and, as Mr. de Luc moved off, told me he was going back immediately to Kew! He spoke with a tremor that alarmed me. I entreated to know why such a change? He then informed me that the porter, Mr. Humphreys, had refused him re-entrance, and sent him his great coat! He had resented this impertinence, and was told it was by the express order of the prince! In utter astonishment he then only desired admittance for one moment to my room, and having acquainted me with this circumstance, he hurried off, in a state of distress, and indignation that left me penetrated with both.
From this time, as the poor king grew worse, general hope seemed universally to abate; and the Prince of Wales now took the government of the house into his own hands. Nothing was done but by his orders, and he was applied to in every difficulty. The queen interfered not in anything she lived entirely in her two new rooms, and spent the whole day in patient sorrow and retirement with her daughters.
The next news that reached me, through Mr. de Luc, was, that the prince had sent his commands to the porter, to admit only four persons into the house on any pretence whatever these were Mr. Majendie, Mr. Turbulent, General Harcourt, and Mr. de Luc himself; and these were ordered to repair immediately to the equerry-room below stairs, while no one whatsoever was to be allowed to go to any other apartment.
From this time commenced a total banishment from all intercourse out of the house, and an unremitting confinement within its walls.
Poor Mr. de Luc, however, could not forego coming to my room. He determined to risk that, since he was upon the list of those who might enter the house. I was glad, because he is a truly good man, and our sentiments upon this whole melancholy business were the same. But otherwise, the weariness of a great length of visit daily from a person so slow and methodical in discourse, so explanatory of everything and of nothing, at this agitating period, was truly painful to endure. He has often talked to me till my poor burthened head has seemed lost to all understanding.
I had now, all tea-meetings being over, no means of gaining any particulars of what was passing, which added so much to the horror of the situation, that by the evening I was almost petrified. Imagine, then, alike my surprise and satisfaction at a visit from Mr. Fairly. He had never come to me so unexpectedly. I eagerly begged an account of what was going on, and, with his usual readiness and accuracy, he gave it me in full detail. And nothing could be more tragic than all the particulars every species of evil seemed now hanging over this unhappy family.
He had had his son with him in his room upstairs; “And I had a good mind,” he said, “to have brought him to visit YOU.”
I assured him he would have been a very welcome guest; and when he added that he could no longer have him at the Equerry table to dinner, as the Prince of Wales now presided there, I invited him for the next day to mine.
He not only instantly accepted the proposal, but cried, with great vivacity, “I wish you would invite me too.”
I thought he was laughing, but said, “Certainly, if such a thing might be allowed;” and then, to my almost speechless surprise, he declared, If I would give him permission, he would dine with me next day. He then proceeded to say that the hurry, and fatigue, and violent animal spirits of the other table quite overpowered him, and a respite of such a quiet sort would be of essential service to him. Yet he paused a little afterwards, upon the propriety of leaving the Prince of Wales’s table, and said “He would first consult with General Budé, and hear his opinion.” Sunday, Nov. 9.—-No one went to church—not a creature now quits the house: but I believe devotion never less required the aid and influence of public worship. For me, I know, I spent almost my whole time between prayer and watching. Even my melancholy resource, my tragedy, was now thrown aside; misery so actual, living, and present, was knit too closely around me to allow my depressed imagination to fancy any woe beyond what my heart felt.
In coming early from the queen’s apartment this morning I was addressed by a gentleman who inquired how I did, by my name; but my bewilderment made him obliged to tell his own before I could recollect him. It was Dr. Warren.
I eagerly expressed my hopes and satisfaction in his attendance upon the poor king, but he would not enter upon that subject. I suppose he feared, from my zeal, some indiscreet questions concerning his opinion of the case; for he passed by all I could start, to answer only with speeches relative to myself-of his disappointment in never meeting me, though residing under the same roof, his surprise in not dining with me when told he was to dine in my room, and the strangeness of never seeing me when so frequently he heard my name.
I could not bring myself to ask him to my apartment, when I saw, by his whole manner, e held it imprudent to speak with me about the only subject on which I wished to talk—the king; and just then seeing the Duke of York advancing, I hastily retreated.
While I was dressing, Mr. Fairly rapped at my door. I sent out Goter, who brought me his compliments, and, if it would not be inconvenient to me, he and his son would have the pleasure of dining with me.
I answered, I should be very glad of their company, as would Miss Planta. Miss Goldsworthy had now arranged herself with the Lady Waldegraves.
Our dinner was as pleasant as a dinner at such a season could be. Mr. Fairly holds cheerfulness as a duty in the midst of every affliction that can admit it; and, therefore, whenever his animal spirits have a tendency to rise, he encourages and sustains them, So fond, too, is he of his son, that his very sight is a cordial to him and that mild, feeling, amiable boy quite idolizes his father, looking up to him, hanging on his arm, and watching his eye to smile and be smiled upon, with a fondness like that of an infant to its maternal nurse.
Repeatedly Mr. Fairly exclaimed, “What a relief is this, to dine thus quietly!”
What a relief should I, too, have found it, but for a little circumstance, which I will soon relate.
We were still at table, with the dessert, when Columb entered and announced the sudden return from Weymouth of Mrs. Schwellenberg.
Up we all started; Miss Planta flew out to receive her, and state the situation of the house; Mr. Fairly, expecting, I believe, she was coming into my room, hastily made his exit without a word; his son eagerly scampered after him, and I followed Miss Planta upstairs. My reception, however, was such as to make me deem it most proper to again return to my room. What an addition this to the gloom of all! and to begin at once with harshness and rudeness! I could hardly tell how to bear it.
Nov. 10.—This was a most dismal day. The dear and most suffering king was extremely ill, the queen very wretched, poor Mrs. Schwellenberg all spasm and horror, Miss Planta all restlessness, the house all mystery, and my only informant and comforter distanced. Not a word, the whole day through, did I hear of what was passing or intending. Our dinner was worse than an almost famished fasting; we parted after it, and met no more. Mrs. Schwellenberg, who never drinks tea herself, hearing the general party was given up, and never surmising there had ever been any particular one, neither desired me to come to her, nor proposed returning to me. She took possession of the poor queen’s former dressing-room, and between that and the adjoining apartments she spent all the day, except during dinner.
Nov. 11.—This day passed like the preceding; I only saw her majesty in the morning, and not another human being from that hour till Mrs. Schwellenberg and Miss Planta came to dinner. Nor could I then gather any information of the present state of things, as Mrs. Schwellenberg announced that nothing must be talked of.
To give any idea of the dismal horror of passing so many hours in utter ignorance, where every interest of the mind was sighing for intelligence, would not be easy: the experiment alone could give it its full force; and from that, Heaven ever guard my loved readers!
Nov. 12.—To-day a little brightened upon us some change appeared in the loved royal sufferer, and though it was not actually for the better in itself, yet any change was pronounced to be salutary, as, for some days pas’’ there had been a monotonous continuation of the same bad symptoms, that had doubly depressed us all. My spirits rose immediately; indeed, I thank God, I never desponded, though many times I stood nearly alone in my hopes.
In the passage, in the morning, I encountered Colonel Gwynn. I had but just time to inform him I yet thought all would do well, ere the princes appeared. All the equerries are now here except Major Garth, who is ill; and they have all ample employment in watching and waiting. From time to time they have all interviews; but it is only because the poor king will not be denied seeing them: it is not thought light. But I must enter into nothing of this sort-it is all too closely connected with private domestic concerns for paper. After dinner, my chief guest, la Présidente, told me, “If my room was not so warm, she would stay a little with me.” I felt this would be rather too superlative an obligation; and therefore I simply answered that “I was too chilly to sit in a cold room;” and I confess I took no pains to temper it according to this hint.
Finding there was now no danger Of disagreeable interviews, Mr. Fairly renewed his visits as usual. He came early this evening, and narrated the state of things; and then, with a laugh, he Inquired What I had done With my head companion, and how I got rid of her? I fairly told him my malice about the temperature.
He could not help laughing, though he instantly remonstrated against an expedient that might prove prejudicial to my health. “You had better not,” he cried, “try any experiments of this sort: if you hurt Your nerves, it may prove a permanent evil; this other can only be temporary.”
He took up the “Task” again; but he opened, by ill luck, upon nothing striking or good; and soon, with distaste, flung the book down, and committed himself wholly to conversation.
He told me he wished much he had been able to consult with me on the preceding morning, when he had the queen’s orders to write, in her majesty’s name, to the Archbishop of Canterbury, to issue out public prayers for the poor king, for all the churches.
I assured him I fancied it might do very well without my aid. There was to be a privy council summoned, in consequence of the letter, to settle the mode of compliance.
How right a step in my ever-right royal mistress is this! If you hear less of her now, my dearest friends, and of the internal transactions, it is only because I now rarely saw her but alone, and all that passed, therefore, was in promised confidence. And, for the rest, the whole of my information concerning the princes, and the plans and the proceedings of the house, was told me in perfect reliance on my secrecy and honour.
I know this is saying enough to the most honourable of all confidants and friends to whom I am writing. All that passes with regard to myself is laid completely before them.
Nov. 13—This was the fairest day we have passed since the first seizure of the most beloved of monarchs. He was considerably better. O what a ray of joy lightened us, and how mildly did my poor queen receive it Nov. 14—Still all was greatly amended, and better spirits reigned throughout the house.
Mr. Fairly—I can write of no one else, for no one else did I see—called early, to tell me he had received an answer relative to the prayer for his majesty’s recovery, in consequence of which he had the queen’s commands for going to town the next day, to see the archbishop. This was an employment so suited to the religious cast of his character, that I rejoiced to see it fall into his hands.
He came again in the evening, and said he had now got the prayer. He did not entirely approve it, nor think it sufficiently warm and animated. I petitioned to hear it, and he readily complied, and read it with great reverence, but very unaffectedly and quietly. I was very, very much touched by It; yet not, I own, quite so much as once before by another, which was read to me by Mr. Cambridge, and composed by his son, for the sufferings of his excellent daughter Catherine. It was at once so devout, yet so concise—so fervent, yet so simple, and the many tender relations concerned in it—father, brother, sister,—so powerfully affected me, that I had no command over the feelings then excited, even though Mr. Cambridge almost reproved me for want of fortitude; but there was something so tender in a prayer of a brother for a sister.
Here, however, I was under better control for though my whole heart was filled with the calamitous state of this unhappy monarch, and with deepest affliction for all his family, I yet knew so well my reader was one to severely censure all failure in calmness and firmness, that I struggled, and not ineffectually, to hear him with a steadiness like his own. But, fortunately for the relief of this force, he left the room for a few minutes to see if he was wanted, and I made use of his absence to give a little vent to those tears which I had painfully restrained in his presence.
When he returned we had one of the best (on his part) conversations in which I have ever been engaged, upon the highest and most solemn of all subjects, prayers and supplications to heaven. He asked my opinion with earnestness, and gave his own with unbounded openness.
Nov. 15-This morning my poor royal mistress herself presented me with one of the prayers for the king. I shall always keep it—how—how fervently did I use it!
Whilst I was at breakfast Mr. Fairly once more called before he set off for town and he brought me also a copy of the prayer. He had received a large packet of them from the archbishop, Dr. Moore, to distribute in the house.
The whole day the king continued amended.
Sunday, Nov. 16.—This morning I ventured out to church. I did not like to appear abroad, but yet I had a most irresistible earnestness to join the public congregation in the prayer for the king. Indeed nothing could be more deeply moving: the very sound of the cathedral service, performed in his own chapel, overset me at once; and every prayer in the service in which he was mentioned brought torrents of tears from all the suppliants that joined in them. I could scarcely keep my place, scarce command my voice from audible sobs. To come to the House of prayer from such a house of woe! I ran away when the service was over, to avoid inquiries. Mrs. Kennedy ran after me, with swollen eyes; I could not refuse her a hasty answer, but I ran the faster after it, to avoid any more.
The king was worse. His night had been very bad; all the fair promise of amendment was shaken; he had now some symptoms even dangerous to his life. O good heaven, what a day did this prove! I saw not a human face, save at dinner and then, what faces! gloom and despair in all, and silence to every species of intelligence....
It was melancholy to see the crowds of former welcome visitors who were now denied access. The prince reiterated his former orders; and I perceived from my window those who had ventured to the door returning back in deluges of tears. Amongst them to-day I perceived poor Lady Effingham, the Duchess of Ancaster, and Mr. Bryant; the last sent me In, afterwards, a mournful little letter, to which he desired no answer. Indeed I was not at liberty to write a word.
Nov. 19.—The account of the dear king this morning was rather better.
Sir Lucas Pepys was now called in, and added to Dr. Warren, Dr. Heberden, and Sir George Baker. I earnestly wished to see him, and I found my poor royal mistress was secretly anxious to know his opinion. I sent to beg to speak with him, as soon as the consultation was over; determined, however, to make that request no more if he was as shy of giving information as Dr. Warren, poor Mr. de Luc was with me when he came; but it was necessary I should see Sir Lucas alone, that I might have a better claim upon his discretion: nevertheless I feared he would have left me, without the smallest intelligence, before I was able to make my worthy, but most slow companion comprehend the necessity of his absence.
The moment we were alone, Sir Lucas opened upon the subject in the most comfortable manner. He assured me there was nothing desponding in the case, and that his royal patient would certainly recover, though not immediately.
Whilst I was in the midst of the almost speechless joy with which I heard this said, and ready to kiss the very feet of Sir Lucas for words of such delight, a rap at my door made me open it to Mr. Fairly, who entered, saying, “I must come to ask you how you do, though I have no good news to bring you; but—”
He then, with the utmost amaze, perceived Sir Lucas. In so very many visits he had constantly found me alone, that I really believe he had hardly thought it possible he should see me in any other way.
They then talked over the poor king’s situation, and Sir Lucas was very open and comforting. How many sad meetings have I had with him heretofore; first in the alarming attacks of poor Mr. Thrale, and next in the agonizing fluctuations of his unhappy widow!
Sir Lucas wished to speak with me alone, as he had something he wanted, through me, to communicate to the queen; but as he saw Mr. Fairly not disposed to retire first, by his manner of saying “Sir Lucas, you will find all the breakfast ready below stairs,” he made his bow, and said he would see me again.
Mr. Fairly then informed me he was quite uneasy at the recluse life led by the queen and the princesses, and that he was anxious to prevail with them to take a little air, which must be absolutely necessary to their health. He was projecting a scheme for this purpose, which required the assistance of the Duke of York, and he left me, to confer upon it with his royal highness, promising to return and tell its success.
Sir Lucas soon came back, and then gave me such unequivocal assurances of the king’s recovery, that the moment he left me I flew to demand a private audience of the queen, that I might relate such delightful prognostics.
The Duke of York was with her, I waited in the passage, where I met Lady Charlotte Finch, and tried what I could to instil into her mind the hopes I entertained: this, however, was not possible; a general despondency prevailed throughout the house, and Lady Charlotte was infected by it very deeply.
At length I gained admission and gave my account, which was most meekly received by the most patient of sorrowers.
At night came Mr. Fairly again; but, before he entered into any narrations he asked “DO you expect Sir Lucas?”
“No,” I said, “he had been already.”
“I saw him rise early from table,” he added, “and I thought he was coming to YOU.”
He has taken no fancy to poor Sir Lucas, and would rather, apparently, avoid meeting him. However, it is to me so essential a comfort to hear his opinions, that I have earnestly entreated to see him by every opportunity.
The equerries now had their own table as usual, to which the physicians were regularly invited, downstairs, and our eating-party was restored. The princes established a table of their own at the Castle, to which they gave daily invitations to such as they chose, from time to time, to select from the Lodge.
The noise of so large a party just under the apartment of the queen occasioned this new regulation, which took place by her majesty’s own direction.
Nov. 20.—Poor Miss Goldsworthy was now quite ill, and forced to retire and nurse. No wonder, for she had suffered the worst sort of fatigue, that of fearing to sleep, from the apprehension the queen might speak, and want her. Lady Elizabeth Waldegrave now took her place Of sleeping in the queen’s room, but the office of going for early intelligence how his majesty had passed the night devolved upon me.
Exactly at seven o’clock I now went to the queen’s apartment—Lady Elizabeth then rose and went to her own room to dress, and I received the queen’s commands for my inquiries. I could not, however, go myself into the room where they assembled, which Miss Goldsworthy, who always applied to her brother, had very properly done: I sent in a message to beg to speak with General Budé, or whoever could bring an account.
Mr. Charles Hawkins came; he had sat up. O, how terrible a narrative did he drily give of the night!—short, abrupt, peremptorily bad, and indubitably hopeless! I did not dare alter, but I greatly softened this relation, in giving it to my poor queen. I had been, indeed, too much shocked by the hard way in which I had been told it, to deliver it in the same manner; neither did I, in my own heart, despair.
I saw Sir Lucas afterwards, who encouraged all my more sanguine opinions. He told me many new regulations had been made. His majesty was to be kept as quiet as possible, and see only physicians, except for a short and stated period in every day, during which he might summon such among his gentlemen as he pleased.
Mr. Fairly came also early, and wrote and read letters of great consequence relative to the situation of affairs; and he told me he was then to go to the king, who had refused his assent to the new plan, and insisted upon seeing him when he came in from his ride, which, to keep him a little longer quiet, they had made him believe he was then taking. The gentlemen had agreed to be within call alternately, and he meant to have his own turn always in the forenoon, that his evenings might have some chance for quiet, The rest of the day was comfortless; my coadjutrix was now grown so fretful and affronting that, though we only met at dinner, it was hard to support her most unprovoked harshness.
At night, while I was just sealing a short note to my dear Miss Cambridge, who had an anxiety like that of my own Susan and Fredy lest I should suffer from my present fatigues, I heard the softest tap at my door, which, before I could either put down my letter or speak, was suddenly but most gently opened.
I turned about and saw a figure wrapped up in a great, coat, with boots and a hat on, who cautiously entered, and instantly closed the door. I stared, and looked very hard, but the face was much hid by the muffling of the high collar to the great coat. I wondered, and could not conceive who it could be. The figure then took off his hat and bowed, but he did not advance, and the light was away from him. I courtsied, and wondered more, and then a surprised voice exclaimed, “Don’t you know me?” and I found it was Mr. Fairly.
“I cannot,” he said, “stop now, but I will come again; however, you know it, perhaps, already?
“Know what?”
“Why—the—news.”
“What news?”
“Why—that the king is much better, and—”
“Yes, Sir Lucas said so, but I have seen nobody since.”
“No? And have you heard nothing more?”
“Nothing at all; I cannot guess what you mean.”
“What, then, have not you heard—how much the king has talked? And—and have not you heard the charge.”
“No; I have heard not a word of any charge.”
“Why, then, I’ll tell you.”
A long preamble, uttered very rapidly, of “how much the king had been talking,” seemed less necessary to introduce his intelligence than to give him time to arrange it; and I was so much struck with this, that I could not even listen to him, from impatience to have him proceed.
Suddenly, however, breaking off, evidently from not knowing how to go on, he exclaimed, “Well, I shall tell it you all by and by; you come in for your share!”
Almost breathless now with amaze, I could hardly cry,
“Do I?”
“Yes, I’ll tell you,” cried he; but again he stopped, and, hesitatingly, said, “You—you won’t be angry?”
“No,” I answered, still more amazed, and even almost terrified, at what I had now to expect.
“Well, then,” cried he, instantly resuming his first gay and rapid manner, “the king has been calling them all to order for staying so long away from him. ‘All the equerries and gentlemen here,’ he said, ‘lost their whole time at the table, by drinking so much wine and sitting so long over their bottle, which constantly made them all so slow in returning to their waiting, that when he wanted them in the afternoon they were never ready; and-and-and Mr. Fairly,’ says he, ‘is as bad as any of them; not that he stays so long at table, or is so fond of wine, but he’s just as late as the rest; for he’s so fond of the company of learned ladies, that he gets to the tea-table with Miss Burney, and there he stays and spends his whole time.’”
He spoke all this like the velocity of lightning but, had it been with the most prosing slowness, I had surely never interrupted him, so vexed I was, so surprised, so completely disconcerted. Finding me silent, he began again, and as rapidly as ever; “I know exactly,” he cried, “what it all means—what the king has in his head—exactly what has given rise to the idea—’tis Miss Fuzilier.”
Now, indeed, I stared afresh, little expecting to hear her named by him. He went on in too much hurry for me to recollect his precise words, but he spoke of her very highly, and mentioned her learning, her education, and her acquirements, with great praise, yet with that sort of general commendation that disclaims all peculiar interest; and then, with some degree of displeasure mixed in his voice, mentioned the report that had been spread concerning them, and its having reached the ears of the king before his Illness. He then lightly added something I could not completely hear, of its utter falsehood, in a way that seemed to hold even a disavowal too important for it, and then concluded with saying, “And this in the present confused state of his mind is altogether, I know, what he means by the learned ladies.”
When he had done he looked earnestly for my answer, but finding I made none, he said, with some concern, “You won’t think any more of it?”
“No,” I answered, rather faintly.
In a lighter manner then, as if to treat the whole as too light for a thought, he said, as he was leaving the room to change his dress, “Well, since I have now got the character of being so fond of such company, I shall certainly”—he stopped short, evidently at a loss how to go on; but quickly after, with a laugh, he hastily added, “come and drink tea with you very often;” and then, with another laugh, which he had all to himself, he hurried away.
He left me, however, enough to think upon and the predominant thought was an immediate doubt whether or not, since his visits had reached the king, his majesty’s observation upon them ought to stop their continuance?
Upon the whole, however, when I summed up all, I found not cause sufficient for any change of system. No raillery had passed upon me; and, for him, he had stoutly evinced a determined contempt of it. Nothing of flirtation had been mentioned for either; I had merely been called a learned lady, and he had merely been accused Of liking such company. I had no other social comfort left me but Mr. Fairly, and I had discomforts past all description or suggestion. Should I drive him from me, what would pay me, and how had he deserved it? and which way could it be worth while? His friendship offered me a solace without hazard; it was held out to me when all else was denied me; banished from every friend, confined almost to a state of captivity, harrowed to the very soul with surrounding afflictions, and without a glimpse of light as to when or how all might terminate, it seemed to me, in this situation, that providence had benignly sent in my way a character of so much worth and excellence, to soften the rigour of my condition, by kind sympathy and most honourable confidence.
This idea was sufficient; and I thence determined to follow as he led, in disdaining any further notice, or even remembrance, if possible, of this learned accusation.
Nov. 21.—All went better and better to-day, and I received from the king’s room a more cheering account to carry to my poor queen. We had now hopes of a speedy restoration.
The king held long conferences with all his gentlemen, and, though far from composed, was so frequently rational as to make any resistance to his will nearly impossible. Innumerable difficulties attended this state, but the general promise it gave of a complete recovery recompensed them all.
Sir Lucas Pepys came to me in the morning and acquainted me with the rising hopes of amendment. But he disapproved the admission of so many gentlemen, and would have limited the license to only the equerry in waiting, Colonel Goldsworthy, and Mr. Fairly, who was now principal throughout the house, in universal trust for his superior judgment.
The king, Sir Lucas said, now talked of everybody and everything he could recollect or suggest.
So I have heard, thought I.
And, presently after, he added, “No one escapes; you will have your turn.”
Frightened lest he knew I had had it, I eagerly exclaimed, “O, no; I hope not.”
“And why?” cried he, good-humouredly; “what need you care? He can say no harm of you.”
I ventured then to ask if yet I had been named? He believed not yet.
This doubled my curiosity to know to whom the “learned ladies” had been mentioned, and whether to Mr. Fairly himself, or to someone who related it; I think the latter, but there is no way to inquire.
Very early in the evening I heard a rap at my door. I was in my inner room, and called out, “Who’s there?” The door opened and Mr. Fairly appeared. He had been so long in attendance this morning with our poor sick monarch, that he was too much fatigued to join the dinner-party. He had stood five hours running, besides the concomitant circumstances of attention. He had instantly laid down when he procured his dismission, and had only risen to eat some cold chicken before he came to my room. During that repast he had again been demanded, but he charged the gentleman to make his excuse, as he could go through nothing further.
I hope the king did not conclude him again with the learned; this was the most serene, and even cheerful evening, I had passed since the poor king’s first seizure.
Nov. 22.—When I went for my morning inquiries, Colonel Manners came out to me. He could give me no precise account, as the sitters-up had not yet left the king, but he feared the night had been bad. We mutually bewailed the mournful state of the house. He is a very good creature at heart, though as unformed as if he had just left Eton or Westminster. But he loves his master with a true and faithful heart, and is almost as ready to die as to live for him, if any service of that risk was proposed to him.
While the queen’s hair was dressing, though only for a close cap, I was sent again. Colonel Manners came out to me, and begged I would enter the music-room, as Mr. Keate, the surgeon, had now just left the king, and was waiting to give me an account before he laid down.
I found him in his night-cap: he took me up to a window, and gave me but a dismal history: the night had been very unfavourable, and the late amendment very transient. I heard nothing further till the evening, when my constant companion came to me. All, he said, was bad: he had been summoned and detained nearly all the morning, and had then rode to St. Leonard’s to get a little rest, as he would not return till after dinner.
He had but just begun his tea when his name was called aloud in the passage: up he started, seized his hat, and with a hasty bow, decamped. I fancy it was one of the princes; and the more, as he did not come back.
Sunday, Nov. 23.—A sad day this! I was sent as usual for the night account, which I had given to me by Mr. Fairly, and a very dismal one indeed. Yet I never, upon this point, yield implicitly to his opinion, as I see him frequently of the despairing side, and as for myself, I thank God, my hopes never wholly fall. A certain faith in his final recovery has uniformly supported my spirits from the beginning...
In the evening, a small tap at my door, with, “Here I am again,” ushered in Mr. Fairly. He seemed much hurried and disturbed, and innately uncomfortable; and very soon he entered into a detail of the situation of affairs that saddened me in the extreme. The poor king was very ill indeed, and so little aware of his own condition, that he would submit to no rule, and chose to have company with him from morning till night, sending out for the gentlemen one after another without intermission, and chiefly for Mr. Fairly, who, conscious it was hurtful to his majesty, and nearly worn out himself, had now no chance of respite or escape but by leaving the house and riding out....
I have never seen him so wearied, or so vexed, I know not which. “How shall I rejoice,” he cried, “when all this is over, and I can turn my back to this scene!”
I should rejoice, I said, for him when he could make his escape; but his use here, in the whole round, is infinite; almost nothing is done without consulting him.
“I wish,” he cried, while he was making some memorandums, “I could live without sleep; I know not now how to spare my night.” He then explained to me various miscellaneous matters of occupation, and confessed himself forced to break from the confused scene of action as much as possible, where the tumult and bustle were as overpowering, as the affliction, in the more quiet apartments, was dejecting. Then, by implication, what credit did he not give to my Poor still room, which he made me understand was his only refuge and consolation in this miserable house!