"Thus while Thy several mercies plot
And work on me, now cold, now hot,
The work goes on and slacketh not."
                                                                —VAUGHAN.
 
 
Willie was away more than ever after this, and I became so bored and lonely that I told him that I must join him in London if he meant to be there so much. He then proposed to give up the Patcham house and move the small household to Harrow Road, London, temporarily, till we had time to find something less depressing.
 
In going we also hoped to shake off an acquaintance who haunted us at Brighton and Patcham, a Mr. D., but he soon found us out, and, realizing that I was determined to be "not at home" to him, he took to leaving gifts of beautiful Spanish lace at the door, directed to me, and only the words "from Romeo" inside.
 
This man had lived most of his life in Spain, and was a remarkably good judge of Spanish lace, and I must confess I was tempted to keep the rich creamy-white stuff that arrived anonymously. This "Romeo" was more than middle-aged, and, when he wrote that for "safety's sake" he would address messages to me through the "agony" column of the newspapers, Willie's wrath was unbounded.
 
He wrote to poor "Romeo" in sarcastic vein, alluding to his age and figure, his insolence in addressing "a young and beautiful" woman with his "pestilent" twaddle. He told him, too, that he withdrew from all business transactions {35} with him, and would have much pleasure in kicking "Romeo" if he dared call at the house again. I was almost sorry for the foolish old man; but that was wasted on him, for he continued, undeterred by Willie's anger, to address "Juliet" in prose and verse in the daily papers. As he said, the "Daily Press was open to all, and the Captain could not stop that!" I used to laugh helplessly as Willie opened the morning paper at breakfast, and, first gravely turning to the "agony" column, would read the latest message to "Juliet" from her devoted "Romeo," becoming so angry that breakfast was spoiled to him. The sudden cessation of our acquaintance prevented our making that of Mme. Adelina Patti though "Romeo" had arranged a dinner in order that I should meet her.
 
A few weeks after we arrived in Harrow Road Willie began to complain of feeling ill, and a swelling that had formed on his neck became very painful. He was confined to bed, and after great suffering for weeks, Mr. Edgar Barker, who was constantly in attendance, said he must operate to save Willie's life. I had no nurse, as at this time we were in such financial straits that I really did not know which way to turn, and Willie was too ill to be asked about anything. Mr. Barker said to me, "You must hold his head perfectly still, and not faint." So he operated, and all went well, in spite of my inexperience in surgical nursing. Mr. Barker, for whose kindness at this time I can never be sufficiently grateful, helped me in every way, and would not allow even Willie's mother and sister to do so, as their presence irritated the patient so intensely.
 
During this time of trouble a Mr. Calasher, a money-lender, called to have some acceptances of Willie's met. I left Willie's bedside for a few minutes to see him, and he was kindness itself, agreeing to a renewal on my signature {36} alone, and most kindly sending in some little delicacies that he thought Willie might fancy. When Willie had recovered and went to see Mr. Calasher about the bills, it being then more than ever impossible to meet them, he (Mr. Calasher) would not consent to a further renewal, but tore the bills across and gave them back to Willie, saying, "Don't worry yourself, Captain O'Shea, but pay me when you can, and add six per cent. interest if you are able." I am glad to say we did this within the year. His courtesy about these bills was a great relief to me, as Willie was far too ill to be spoken to about business, and I was at my wits' end for money to meet everyday expenses. The accommodating Jew who lends the indiscreet Christian his money—naturally with a businesslike determination to increase it—has so much said against him that I am glad to be able to speak my little word of gratitude of one who was considerate and chivalrous to Willie as well as myself, to his own detriment.
 
Better circumstances arising on Willie's recovery of health, we were anxious to get away from the depressions of Harrow Road, with its constant procession of hearses and mourners on the way to Kensal Green Cemetery. After a weary hunt we finally decided upon a house in Beaufort Gardens. My French maid rejoiced in returning to her light duties as lady's maid, and reigned over a staff of maids in unison with the butler. Selby, at last convinced that race-horses were out of the question with us, left us, with mutual expressions of esteem, to seek more congenial surroundings.
 
We went to Beaufort Gardens in 1872, and Willie insisted upon my making many new acquaintances. We soon found ourselves in a social swirl of visits, visitors and entertainments. I had always disliked society, as such. {37} Willie, however, thoroughly enjoyed this life, and as he was always worrying me to dress in the latest fashion, and would have a Frenchman in to dress my hair before every party, I became very rebellious.
 
Here my eldest daughter was born, and I was glad of the rest from parties and balls—even though so many people I did not care to see came "to cheer me up!" As soon as I was about again the life I found so wearisome recommenced. After escorting me home from a dance or reception that I had not wanted to go to, Willie would go off again to "finish up the night," and one night, when in terror I was seeking for burglars, I found a policeman sitting on the stairs. He explained genially that the door was open, and he thought it better to come inside and guard the door for the Captain's return!
 
Alfred Austin—not then Poet Laureate—was a great friend and constant visitor of ours at that time. He had been at school—at Oscott—with Willie, and he was, I remember, extremely sensitive to criticism. "Owen Meredith," Lord Lytton, was also a frequent visitor, especially when my sister Anna was with us—she being sympathetic to his genius.
 
I think Willie and I were beginning to jar upon one another a good deal now, and I loved to get away for long walks by myself through the parks of London. Kensington Gardens was a great solace to me in all seasons and weathers, and I spent much of my time there. I often turned into the Brompton Oratory on my way home for a few minutes' peace and rest of body and soul, and these quiet times were a comfort to me when suffering from the fret and worry of my domestic life.
 
I first made my way to the Oratory when my daughter Norah was baptized, and some little time afterwards one {38} of the Fathers called on me. Finally Father —— undertook to call regularly to instruct me in the Catholic religion. He and the other priests lent me any books I wanted, and "The Threshold of the Catholic Faith," and one other I have now. That I never got beyond the "Threshold" was no fault of these good Fathers, who taught me with endless patience and uncompromising directness. But I had before me two types of Catholic in Willie and his mother and sister, and both were to me stumbling-blocks. The former was, as I knew, what they call a "careless Catholic," and I thought that if he who had been born in that faith that means so much made so little of it, perhaps it was more of a beautiful dream than a reality of life. Yet when I turned and considered those "good Catholics," his mother and sister, I found such a fierce bigotry and deadly dullness of outlook, such an immense piety and so small a charity, that my whole being revolted against such a belittling of God-given life. Now, I know that Mary and the Comtesse disliked me personally, and also that my temperament was antagonistic to theirs, as indeed to Willie's, though the affection he and I had for one another eased the friction between us; but youth judges so much by results, and my excursion into the Catholic religion ended in abrupt revolt against all forms and creeds. This feeling was intensified when my second little girl, Carmen, was born and christened at the Oratory. I would not go in, but stood waiting in the porch, where I had so often marked tired men and women passing in to pray after their hard and joyless day of toil, and I felt that my children were taken from me, and that I was very lonely.
 
My Uncle William, Lord Hatherley, was Lord High Chancellor at this time, and we were a good deal at his house, both at "functions" and privately. His great {39} friend, Dean Stanley, was very kind to me; Dean Hook came, too, and many other Churchmen were continually in and out in their train. My cousin, William Stephens, who afterwards became Dean of Winchester, was then a very good-looking and agreeable young man; he followed my uncle about like a shadow, and my uncle and Aunt Charlotte were devoted to him. But my uncle gathered other society than that of Churchmen about him, and it amused me to watch for the pick of the intellectual world of the day as they swarmed up and down the stairs at the receptions, with the necessary make-weight of people who follow and pose in the wake of the great.
 
Willie insisted upon his wife being perfectly gowned on these occasions, and as he so often got out of going to those functions and insisted on my going alone, certain other relations of Lord Hatherley's would hover round me with their spiteful remarks of: "Dear Katie, alone again I poor dear girl, where does he go? How odd that you are so often alone—how little you know!" I was fond of my old uncle and he of me, but these little amenities did not make me like these social functions better, especially as his wife, my Aunt Charlotte, had a most irritating habit of shutting her eyes when greeting me, and, with her head slightly to one side, saying, "Poor dear! Poor lovely lamb!"
 
This winter, following the birth of my second girl, was bitterly cold, and my health, which had not been good for some time before her birth, caused much anxiety. After a consultation between Sir William Gull, Sir William Jenner, and my usual doctor, it was decided that we should go to Niton, Isle of Wight, as I was too weak to travel far. My dear old aunt, Mrs. Benjamin Wood, sent her own doctor to me, and he recommended me to inject opium—an {40} expression of opinion that horrified Sir William Jenner into saying, "That man's mad, or wants to get rid of you!"
 
Our pecuniary affairs were again causing us considerable anxiety, but my dear aunt played the fairy godmother once more, and sent Willie a cheque so that we could go to Niton without worry or anxiety, and stop there until my health should be re-established. We were delighted with the summer warmth of the sun, and spent a happy Christmas basking in it. Since the hotel was very expensive, Willie established me in lodgings with the children and nurses in Ventnor, and, finding the place decidedly dull, returned to London.
 
The local doctor at Ventnor, who had been put in charge of my shattered health, was not satisfied that it was in any way improving, and, finding one day that I was in the habit of taking sleeping draughts, he snorted angrily off to the chemist and returned with a large tin of meat extract, with which he presented me, adding the intimation that it was worth a dozen bottles of my draught—which happened to be a powder—and that my London doctors were bereft of intelligence. I was too tired to argue the point and contented myself with the observation that all doctors save the one in attendance were fellows in intelligence—a sentiment he considered suspiciously for some moments before snorting away like the amiable little steam engine he was. His specific for sleeplessness was much more wholesome than drugs, and I have always found it so since then.