Her face was of waxen whiteness, and her voice weak,
but the brave, indomitable spirit shone from her eyes still, and she
talked cheerfully for a long time about her literary labours and her
plans and arrangements for some time ahead.
At Eastbourne she took a cottage, and remained there from September,
1895, to March 21, 1896. It was evident to her sister and all around
her that she was fast failing; but when ever she was well enough she
did some work. At this time she had begun her autobiography. When
she was free from pain, she was always bright and cheerful, and enjoyed
a joke as much as ever.
Early in the New Year, 1896, she became rapidly worse, and her one wish
was to recover sufficiently to go home. One of the last letters she ever
wrote was to her friend Madame de Gutmansthal-Benvenuti:
"I never forget you, and I wish our thoughts were telephones. I am very
bad, and my one prayer is to be able to get home to London. The doctor
is going to remove me on the first possible day. I work every moment I
am free from pain. You will be glad to hear that I have had permission
from Rome for Mass and Communion in the house, which is a great blessing
to me. I have no strength to dictate more."[6]
The second week in March Lady Burton rallied a little, and the doctor
thought her sufficiently well to be removed to London. She accordingly
travelled on March 21. She was moved on a bed into an invalid carriage,
and was accompanied by her sister, who never left her side, and the
doctor and a priest.
Pages:
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409