In the fortnight that followed, things passed from bad to worse for the dwellers in the Upper Lodge. To add to the general disquiet and apprehension, Mrs. Schwellenberg arrived from Weymouth “all spasm and horror.” Then, by order of the Prince of Wales, intercourse with the outer world was practically suspended. As the King’s condition did not alter, the physicians told Mr. Pitt plainly that his ailment was lunacy; and on the 28th it was decided that he should be transferred to Kew, a place he detested, but where it was possible for him to take exercise without observation. Accordingly, on that day, the Queen and Princesses made precipitate and miserable exodus to Kew, amid the tears of the sorrowing household,—even the sentinels crying bitterly as they looked on. Then came the difficult task of persuading the King to follow, which he eventually did, being induced thereto by the promise that he should see the Queen,—a promise which was not kept, with the result that the night which ensued was one of the most violently bad of any yet passed. And so, “in all its dark colours, dark as its darkest prognostics,” began the “Kew campaign” from which, as usual, Mrs. Schwellenberg was not absent.
To recapitulate the discomforts of the cold and carpetless building at Kew, never intended for a winter residence, and lacking sadly both in space and accommodation, is here needless. But, notwithstanding Miss Burney’s “darkest prognostics,” a brighter day was happily dawning. New doctors were added to the old; and the new were better. Dr. Francis Willis and his son, both of whom had special experience in mental disease, henceforth, and much to the satisfaction of the household, took practical charge of the case. Honest, open, cheerful and high-minded, their moral influence over their patient, in combination with a gentler and more humane method of treatment, was not slow to produce its effect. The King began to walk regularly in the gardens; and hopes of his recovery fitfully revived. But while his health vacillated, the world outside was agitating for a Regency. The Willises—of whom there were now three—persevered no less with their regimen. And so,—omitting many immaterial things,—we come to the 2nd February, a day memorable in Fanny’s annals. For the sake of her health, she had been advised to walk daily either at Richmond or at Kew, according to the report she received of the King’s whereabouts. On this particular day, she had been told that His Majesty would walk in Richmond Park, and she therefore directed her steps to Kew Gardens. It had been arranged that if, on any occasion, the King chanced to see her, she was to be allowed to run off. By some misapprehension, he _was_ in the Gardens, and at once detected her presence. What was worse, she soon heard him hurrying after her, calling hoarsely “Miss Burney! Miss Burney!” Terrified beyond measure, she continued to run until she was peremptorily bidden to stop by the Willises, as His Majesty was doing himself harm. “When they were within a few yards of me,” she writes, “the King called out, ‘Why did you run away?’” Making a violent effort to regain her composure, she turned to meet him, when to her astonishment, the poor invalid, with “all his wonted benignity,” despite the wildness still in his eyes, put both his hands round her shoulders, and kissed her on the cheek, going on to exhibit such delight at seeing her again, that she straightway lost all her fear. A long, disconnected conversation ensued. He rallied her about Mrs. Schwellenberg. She was not to mind: he (King George) was her friend. He talked about the pages; about her father; about Handel, some passages of whose Oratorios he tried to sing—hoarsely. He spoke also, with tears in his eyes, of Mrs. Delany. At length, after repeated injunctions on the part of his medical attendants, he let her go—his last words being to reassure her upon the subject of Mrs. Schwellenberg. All this—some of the Schwellenberg part excepted—Fanny recounted faithfully to the Queen on her return.