CHAPTER XXIX

A GRAVE ILLNESS

Illness—Convalescence—Musical Discrimination.

He was suffering from a cold, and complained of feeling ill. Mrs. Fawcett had been called away by the fatal illness of her cousin. When she returned to London, it was to hear that her husband’s illness was pronounced to be diphtheria, and it was rendered more serious later by typhoid and other complications.

[Sidenote: Through the Valley and Back.]

Until the end of December his condition was grave. During the first stage of the illness he had frequently been delirious, and remembered little of what had happened. His mind was made up that he would not recover, and he insisted on hearing the bulletins. They were read to him with omissions.

There was to be an important election at Liverpool, and he, remembering its date, asked about the prospect. It was his habit at Christmas to send to a list of country labourers whom he knew, or whose names had been given to him by his father, envelopes each containing a card on which was written ‘Please give to bearer John Smith [so many] pounds of beef or mutton.’ With the card he sent a personal letter after this fashion: ‘Dear John, I enclose a ticket for Christmas beef. Hoping you and the children are well, I am,’ etc. The entire list of these benefactions he kept clearly in his mind. Before he was out of his delirium, he asked his secretary to send out the Christmas letters and food tickets as usual.

A little later, when he was just beginning to recover, a Cambridge crony was permitted to stand for a short time by his bedside. In the midst of his own weakness, Fawcett’s thoughts flew to a Cambridge friend in trouble, and he charged his guest to do the utmost to give whatever help was possible.

The course of Fawcett’s illness was watched with extraordinary anxiety. It was the dominant theme at working men’s meetings and in third-class railway carriages. The Royal Family showed the same interest as the labourers who discussed the latest bulletin in the market-place of Salisbury. The Queen telegraphed for news, at times twice a day. Gradually the patient improved, and the danger was pronounced over.

[Sidenote: Convalescing with _Vanity Fair_.]

The convalescent was permitted to see his friends, who in relays read to him the whole of _Vanity Fair_. After three weeks’ inaction, he was allowed to write to his parents, and amidst great rejoicing the cat and dog were permitted to resume their usual place in the family circle. In the early part of January he went to stay at his father-in-law’s, on the Suffolk coast.

His friend Mr. Sedley Taylor came to play to him. Fawcett would listen to him often for an hour at a time. Though he had little acquaintance with music, he showed for it a genuine appreciation and discrimination. There were two compositions which he particularly enjoyed, one by Mendelssohn and one by Bach, which Mr. Taylor often played in that sequence. One day, however, he inverted the order. After listening with interest, Fawcett remarked: ‘I don’t know how it is, Taylor, but somehow that Bach seems to have taken the taste out of the Mendelssohn.’

[Sidenote: Visits he enjoyed.]

At the end of this visit, Fawcett sent for all the servants, so that he might personally give each a gratuity and shake of the hand, while thanking them individually for the kindness they had shown him. When no more were forthcoming, Fawcett said: ‘Where is that boy that blacks the shoes? I should like to give him a tip too.’ Whereupon the boy, who had been overlooked, was sent for and duly rewarded.

Fawcett went on to pay some other visits in the west of England, which seemed to help him regain his strength. It was at this time that he first successfully amused himself by playing cards, though his former attempts had been so unpromising. His secretary devised the simple and ingenious method of marking the cards, which has been described, so that he could tell each one by touch. Thus he was able with great satisfaction to spend hours at cribbage, écarté and loo.

In February he went to stay with his parents at Salisbury, and there used his enforced leisure to prepare a new edition of his book on Political Economy. It was there that a stranger to the town, not knowing his way, questioned a tall scholarly man who approached briskly. He was given minute directions; the streets and their windings were described in detail, and it was only after an amusing chat that the stranger discovered that his guide was the learned Professor Fawcett, and that therefore he must be blind! It was extraordinary how his own attitude to his affliction caused others to forget it. Not infrequently his cottage friends would tidy up and put things in order ‘in case Mr. Fawcett should drop in.’

[Sidenote: With his Parents again.]

It was a great joy to his old parents in the Salisbury Close to have their busy, cheery ‘boy’ back again; and Miss Fawcett, that brave understanding friend in his affliction and throughout his life, was very happy in his companionship. One day they had been talking together as only those who have always understood each other can, lovingly they had gone over reminiscences of Salisbury and Cambridge, and had fought Parliamentary battles over again. Fawcett told his sister that above all his other work, he cherished his privilege of winning the forests and commons free for the people, theirs to the end of time.

[Sidenote: His Sister and the Cathedral.]

The two sauntered together into the near-by cathedral where, as a tiny, half-scared boy, Harry had gone clinging to his big sister’s hand. Now the tall blind man held her arm, and his cane on the pavement was echoed by the high arches; suddenly a great glory of music broke forth from the organ, magic uplifting notes shook the walls, and piercing with gladness the shadows of centuries, rehallowed the old sanctuary with melody. Fawcett stood leaning slightly against a column, his heroic head uplifted as if he were looking through the vaulting, his whole being suffused with an inward light, and his sensitive ear revelling in the lovely harmonies. The voices of men and women raised in chorus burst forth in a mighty Hallelujah; the organ thrilled in glorious fulness, and again the voices repeated the refrain until it echoed from the wall like a song of triumph of good over evil, of light over darkness. A glad smile broke over the blind man’s face as, pressing his dear companion’s hand, he exclaimed: ‘Oh, how beautiful that is!’

[Sidenote: Back to his Post.]

He returned to his work in March, seemingly in fully restored health.

His reception at the Post Office and the House of Commons showed how deep had been the love and anxiety called forth by his illness. He lived in the hearts of all classes—his bitterest antagonists, Conservatives as well as Socialists, loved and trusted him; never was a man more of a democrat and less of a demagogue.

[Sidenote: Humble friends.]

The old woman who for many years had the care of Fawcett’s rooms at Cambridge had been much distressed by his illness, and had said to the Master of Trinity Hall, ‘Poor Mrs. Fawcett would miss him so terribly.’ ‘Why should she miss him more than any woman would miss the husband she loved?’ sympathetically asked the Master. ‘Because he is such a happy noisy man; whenever he is in the house you know it, he is always shouting so,’ was the tearful reply.

A poor old shoemaker who had never spoken to Fawcett, but whose shop the Postmaster-General passed daily on his way to his work, gave voice to the public feeling when he said, ‘If Professor had died, I should have missed him dreadfully. He always looked so pleased and cheery, it did one good.’