Margot Asquith, an Autobiography Part 6

"He lit so many fires in cold rooms."

After Alfred's death, my husband said this of him in the House of Commons:

It would not, I think, be doing justice to the feelings which are uppermost in many of our hearts, if we pa.s.sed to the business of the day without taking notice of the fresh gap which has been made in our ranks by the untimely death of Mr. Alfred Lyttelton. It is a loss of which I hardly trust myself to speak; for, apart from ties of relations.h.i.+p, there had subsisted between us for thirty- three years, a close friends.h.i.+p and affection which no political differences were ever allowed to loosen, or even to affect. Nor could I better describe it than by saying that he, perhaps, of all men of this generation, came nearest to the mould and ideal of manhood, which every English father would like to see his son aspire to, and, if possible, to attain. The bounty of nature, enriched and developed not only by early training, but by constant self-discipline through life, blended in him gifts and graces which, taken alone, are rare, and in such attractive union are rarer still. Body, mind and character, the schoolroom, the cricket field, the Bar, the House of Commons--each made its separate contribution to the faculty and the experience of a many-sided and harmonious whole. But what he was he gave--gave with such ease and exuberance that I think it may be said without exaggeration that wherever he moved he seemed to radiate vitality and charm. He was, as we here know, a strenuous fighter. He has left behind him no resentments and no enmity; nothing but a gracious memory of a manly and winning personality, the memory of one who served with an unstinted measure of devotion his generation and country. He has been s.n.a.t.c.hed away in what we thought was the full tide of buoyant life, still full of promise and of hope. What more can we say? We can only bow once again before the decrees of the Supreme Wisdom. Those who loved him--and they are many, in all schools of opinion, in all ranks and walks of life--when they think of him, will say to themselves:

This is the happy warrior, this is he Who every man in arms should wish to be.

On the occasion of Alfred Lyttelton's second visit to Glen, I will quote my diary:

"Laura came into my bedroom. She was in a peignoir and asked me what she should wear for dinner. I said:

"'Your white muslin, and hurry up. Mr. Lyttelton is strumming in the Doo'cot and you had better go and entertain him, poor fellow, as he is leaving for London tonight.'

"She tied a blue ribbon in her hair, hastily thrust her diamond brooch into her fichu and then, with her eyes very big and her hair low and straight upon her forehead, she went into our sitting-room (we called it the Doo'cot, because we all quarrelled there). Feeling rather small, but, half-shy, half-bold, she shut the door and, leaning against it, watched Alfred strumming. He turned and gazed at the little figure so near him, so delicate in her white dress.

"The silence was broken by Alfred asking her if any man ever left Glen without telling her that he loved her; but suddenly all talk stopped and she was in his arms, hiding her little face against his hard coat. There was no one to record what followed; only the night rising with pa.s.sionate eyes:

'The hiding, receiving night that talks not.'

"They were married on the 10th of May, 1885. "In April of 1886, Laura's baby was expected any day; and my mother was anxious that I should not be near her when the event took place. The Lytteltons lived in Upper Brook Street; and, Grosvenor Square being near, it was thought that any suffering on her part might make a lasting and painful impression on me, so I was sent down to Easton Grey to stay with Lucy and hunt in the Badminton country. Before going away, I went round to say good-bye to Laura and found her in a strange humour.

"LAURA: 'I am sure I shall die with my baby.'

"MARGOT: 'How can you talk such nonsense? Every one thinks that.

Look at mamma! She had twelve children without a pang!'

"LAURA: 'I know she did; but I am sure I shall die.'

"MARGOT: 'I am just as likely to be killed out hunting as you are to die, darling! It makes me miserable to hear you talk like this.'

"LAURA: 'If I die, Margot, I want you to read my will to the relations and people that will be in my bedroom. It is in that drawer. Promise me you will not forget.'

"MARGOT: 'All right, darling, I will; but let us kneel down and pray that, whether it is me or you who die first, if it is G.o.d's will, one of us may come to the other down here and tell us the truth about the next world and console us as much as possible in this!'"

We knelt and prayed and, though I was more removed from the world and in the humour both to see and to hear what was not material, in my grief over Laura's death, which took place ten days later, I have never heard from her or of her from that day to this.

Mrs. Lyttelton has told the story of her husband's first marriage with so much perfection that I hesitate to go over the same ground again, but, as my sister Laura's death had more effect on me than any event in my life, except my own marriage and the birth of my children, I must copy a short account of it written at that time:

'On Sat.u.r.day, 17th April, 1886, I was riding down a green slope in Gloucesters.h.i.+re while the Beaufort hounds were scattered below vainly trying to pick up the scent; they were on a stale line and the result had been general confusion. It was a hot day and the woods were full of children and primroses.

"The air was humming with birds and insects, nature wore an expectant look and all the hedge-rows sparkled with the spangles of the spring. There was a p.r.i.c.kly gap under a tree which divided me from my companions. I rode down to jump it, but, whether from breeding, laziness or temper, my horse turned round and refused to move. I took my foot out of the stirrup and gave him a slight kick. I remember nothing after that till I woke up in a cottage with a tremendous headache. They said that the branch was too low, or the horse jumped too big and a withered bough had caught me in the face. In consequence I had concussion of the brain; and my nose and upper lip were badly torn. I was picked up by my early fiance. He tied my lip to my hair--as it was reposing on my chin-- and took me home in a cart. The doctor was sent for, but there was no time to give me chloroform. I sat very still from vanity while three st.i.tches were put through the most sensitive part of my nose. When it was all over, I looked at myself in the looking- gla.s.s and burst into tears. I had never been very pretty ("worse than that," as the Marquis of Soveral [Footnote: The Late Portuguese Minister.] said) but I had a straight nose and a look of intelligence; and now my face would be marked for life like a German student's.

"The next day a telegram arrived saying: "'Laura confined--a boy-- both doing well.'

"We sent back a message saying: "'Hurrah and blessing!'

On Sunday we received a letter from Charty saying Laura was very ill and another on Monday telling us to go to London. I was in a state of acute anxiety and said to the doctor I must go and see Laura immediately, but he would not hear of it:

"'Impossible! You'll get erysipelas and die. Most dangerous to move with a face like that,' he said.

"On the occasion of his next visit, I was dressed and walking up and down the room in a fume of nervous excitement, for go I WOULD.

Laura was dying (I did not really think she was, but I wanted to be near her). I insisted upon his taking the st.i.tches out of my face and ultimately he had to give in. At 6 p.m. I was in the train for London, watching the telegraph-posts flying past me.

"My mind was going over every possibility. I was sitting near her bed with the baby on my arm, chattering over plans, arranging peignoirs, laughing at the nurse's anecdotes, talking and whispering over the thousand feminine things that I knew she would be longing to hear. ... Or perhaps she was dying... asking for me and wondering why I did not come... thinking I was hunting instead of being with her. Oh, how often the train stopped! Did any one really live at these stations? No one got out; they did not look like real places; why should the train stop? Should I tell them Laura was dying? ... We had prayed so often to die the same day.

... Surely she was not going to die... it could not be... her vitality was too splendid, her youth too great... G.o.d would not allow this thing. How stiff my face felt with its bandages; and if I cried they would all come off!

"At Swindon I had to change. I got out and sat in the vast eating- room, with its atmosphere of soup and gas. A crowd of people were talking of a hunting accident: this was mine. Then a woman came in and put her bag down. A clergyman shook hands with her; he said some one had died. I moved away.

"'World! Trewth! The Globe! Paper, miss? Paper? ...'

"'No, thank you.'

"'London train!' was shouted and I got in. I knew by the loud galloping sound that we were going between high houses and at each gallop the wheels seemed to say, 'Too late--too late!' After a succession of hoa.r.s.e screams we dashed into Paddington.

"It was midnight. I saw a pale, grave face, and recognised Evan Charteris, who had come in Lady Wemyss' brougham to meet me. I said:

'"Is she dead?' "To which he answered: "'No, but very, very ill.'

"We drove in silence to 4 Upper Brook Street.

Papa, Jack and G.o.dfrey Webb stood in the hall. They stopped me as I pa.s.sed and said: 'She is no worse'; but I could not listen. I saw Arthur Balfour and Spencer Lyttelton standing near the door of Alfred's room. They said: "'You look ill. Have you had a fall?'

"I explained the plaster on my swollen face and asked if I might go upstairs to see Laura; and they said they thought I might. When I got to the top landing, I stood in the open doorway of the boudoir. A man was sitting in an arm-chair by a table with a candle on it. It was Alfred and I pa.s.sed on. I saw the silhouette of a woman through the open door of Laura's room; this was Charty.

We held each other close to our hearts... her face felt hot and her eyes were heavy.

"'Don't look at her to-night, sweet. She is unconscious,' she said.

"I did not take this in and asked to be allowed to say one word to her. ... I said:

"'I know she'd like to see me, darling, if only just to nod to, and I promise I will go away quickly. Indeed, indeed I would not tire her! I want to tell her the train was late and the doctor would not let me come up yesterday. Only one second, PLEASE, Charty! ...'

"'But, my darling heart, she's unconscious. She has never been conscious all day. She would not know you!'

"I sank stunned upon the stair. Some one touched my shoulder:

"'You had better go to bed, it is past one. No, you can't sleep here: there's no bed. You must lie down; a sofa won't do, you are too ill. Very well, then, you are not ill, but you will be to- morrow if you don't go to bed.'

"I found myself in the street, Arthur Balfour holding one of my arms and Spencer Lyttelton the other. They took me to 40 Grosvenor Square. I went to bed and early next morning I went across to Upper Brook Street. The servant looked happy:

"'She's better, miss, and she's conscious.'

"I flew upstairs, and Charty met me in her dressing-gown. She was calm and capable as always, but a new look, less questioning and more intense, had come into her face. She said:

"'You can go in now.'

"I felt a rus.h.i.+ng of my soul and an over-eagerness that half- stopped me as I opened the door and stood at the foot of the wooden bed and gazed at what was left of Laura.

"Her face had shrunk to the size of a child's; her lashes lay a black wall on the whitest of cheeks; her hair was hanging dragged up from her square brow in heavy folds upon the pillow. Her mouth was tightly shut and a dark blood-stain marked her chin. After a long silence, she moved and muttered and opened her eyes. She fixed them on me, and my heart stopped. I stretched my hands out towards her, and said, 'Laura!'... But the sound died; she did not know me. I knew after that she could not live.

"People went away for the Easter Holidays: Papa to North Berwick, Arthur Balfour to Westward Ho! and every day G.o.dfrey Webb rode a patient cob up to the front door, to hear that she was no better.