The house was but an empty shell. Sir Richard
Burton's death had been so sudden and unexpected that none of Lady
Burton's near relatives, her sisters, were able to reach her in time;
and though they had telegraphed to her offering to come at once, she
had replied asking them not to undertake the journey. And so it came
about that, in this hour of sorest trial, she was absolutely alone.
She had no one to turn to in her grief; she had no children's love to
solace her; she had no son to say, "Mother, lean on me"; no daughter
to share her sorrow. Friends she had in plenty, and friends such as
the world rarely gives, but they could not intrude their sympathy
overmuch at such a time as this. Moreover, she had concentrated all
her affections on her husband; she had lived so entirely for him, and
in him, that she had not formed any of those intimate friendships in
which some women delight. She had, in short, put all her earthly
happiness in one frail barque, and it had foundered.
Hitherto we have followed her through her wedded life, that beautiful
union which was more like a poem than an ordinary marriage. We have
seen how the love which she bore her husband had sanctified her life,
and his, lifting it above and beyond the ordinary love of men and women,
glorifying all things, even her meanest tasks, for they were done in
love's holy name. We have seen how she knew no fear, spared herself
no pain, heeded no rebuff in the service of the man she loved.
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