by Ellen Wood
On the last Sunday night of all she again sat up, and never had looked more herself. She conversed in her quiet tones, and for the sake of those about her wondered if she might yet recover for a time. She spoke upon many topics: amongst others of a book which had lately appeared, and created some sensation, saying that had she been in her usual health, she should have wished to read it; asking for some of its points to be described to her.
Then presently she referred calmly to her approaching end, and with unwavering voice gave directions as to the plainness and simplicity of the last ceremony of all. The very tomb was discussed, and one asked her whether, if it were possible, the husband, who had died many years before, might be removed to another vault. “I leave you to do exactly as you like in all ways,” was her quiet reply. Her eyes never dimmed, her glance spoke of a peace not of this world. The heroism that had been with her through life remained with her in death.
On the Monday morning there appeared a great change for the worse. For a short time she thought the immediate end was at hand. Then came a slight rally, and she revived. But it was evident that the time could not be prolonged. Yet again that day she rose for a time with all her wonted bravery, and sat and talked in her easy-chair to those about her, but everything indicated that the end was approaching.
That last day was one of great suffering and exhaustion; but again she rose towards evening and sat up for an hour. On returning to bed, she felt the effort had been too great; and she said to one of her sons, when he entered the room: “It is nearly over.” Then added, after a pause: “The end must come for us all.”
A little later on, speaking of her past work and life, she remarked: “I once thought of writing the experiences of a governess in the same manner that I have written Johnny Ludlow. I am quite sure they would have been very popular. But it is all over — all over.”
Again, later, she said to one very near and dear to her, who was sitting beside her in the sorrow which makes no sign: “It is nearly over.”
“Life is short,” was the reply; “we shall soon come to you.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” she fervently answered. “Only do your best — in all ways,” she added, with intense earnestness. The last sentence she ever spoke to him was a prayer for God’s blessing. After that all seemed over in this world.
Always thoughtful for others, she insisted that no one should sit up with her that night, showing in this her wonderful courage and self-reliance, for it was equivalent to meeting death alone; she must have felt and known there would be no next morning for her.
But, unknown to her, her maid remained in an adjoining room, accompanied by a nurse who had that day been sent in by her doctor. If she needed anything in the night she had promised to ring, but when the end was at hand the power to ring had departed. In the night, her maid went in quietly, and saw that the great Change was approaching. She could no longer speak, but the beautiful eyes were still full of expression, full of thought, realising and saying as plainly as eyes could indicate that the supreme moment was at hand.
All were hastily summoned to the presence they would never have left but at her expressed wish and command. When one entered the room who had been so intimately associated with her in work and companionship throughout life, the eyes were closed, never again to open in this world. But life was still there, and consciousness as great as ever, and with her hand in his, the awful moments passed until the pure and beautiful spirit had winged its flight, and time was swallowed up in eternity.
At the very last instant she made a movement of the head, as full of intelligence and consciousness as at any time of her life; and though unable to make any sign, it was evident that she knew all that was taking place, and those who were present. On Wednesday morning, the 10th of February 1887, about half-past three, she passed away. And upon those who watched there fell a sorrow that would never cease. Well for all that
“Far out of sight, while sorrow still enfolds us,
Lies the fair country where our hearts abide.”
CHAPTER XXVI
“But in my spirit will I dwell,
And dream my dream and hold it true;
For though my lips may breathe adieu,
I cannot think the thing farewell.”
To the world the death of Mrs. Henry Wood came as a surprise. Her illness had not been reported, and it was but little known that the pen had fallen for ever from the hand that had done so much good and earnest work.
Here, as in everything else in life, she was simple and unobtrusive. At all times she disliked any personal attention. To have appeared in public or faced a crowd, this would ever have been impossible. She would read with wonder of ladies who attended meetings and addressed multitudes from a platform. She loved a domestic life, to be surrounded by friends, to extend her hospitalities and shed happiness abroad. But from contact with the outer world she shrank with the sensitiveness of extreme refinement and physical helplessness. And so when she became ill, and hope gradually passed away, she would allow only her most intimate friends to be made aware of the truth. In like manner she expressed a wish that her funeral should be as simple and quiet as possible, so that the end of all should not be inconsistent with her life. Her wishes were regarded; but things cannot be kept secret, and both in the church of St. Stephen’s and at the cemetery a crowd had assembled to pay their last respects to one whom in life, whether they knew her personally or not, they had loved.
From public and private sources came innumerable notices and regrets, and amongst the former none gave greater pleasure than the following lines. We quote them because they were so true, so full of appreciation: the unknown writer earning the gratitude of hearts bowed down.
“Novelists like Mrs. Henry Wood should never die. We miss them too much — miss them particularly at the present moment, when the art of fiction-writing is on the decline, when novelists appear to think that the breaking and patching up again of the Seventh Commandment is the be-all and end-all of domestic romance and story-telling. A quarter of a century has passed since the world, rushing to the libraries in search of East Lynne, declared to Mrs. Henry Wood that she had become famous. Nor has the verdict ever been reversed. The book is read as freely and as generally to-day as it was a decade ago. Its theme has been parodied a thousand times. Its plot has given good material for minor novelists to spoil. The story has been prepared for the stage by more dramatists than one; but with regard to this latter, the author has gained not one shilling. Of this wide and vexed question, however, it is not now our intention to speak. We do not wish to dilate upon a writer whose brains have been robbed so that other people might become rich. We have quite enough in hand when we are driven to contemplate the fact that one of the most prolific, and at the same time most delightful of novelists has been removed. For Mrs. Henry Wood was an active, a zealous, and an industrious worker in the field of literature. She was more than that — she was an ornament to it. The pure and wholesome tones and textures of her many books all proclaim that by her death literature has lost a counterfoil to that baser form of modern writing which seeks not the advancement of noble thought, but the mental gratification of aimless and senseless passions.
“As to the work achieved by Mrs. Henry Wood, the record is a long but dignified one. If all her novels — and they number over thirty — were not of equal merit, she only proved that it is impossible for a writer to be always at his or her best. Her earlier work appeared in periodicals which she had outlived. Her connection with it made that popular magazine the Argosy. Her sketches by Johnny Ludlow will remain in popular favour, just as her novels will be inquired for when generations have passed away.
“We do not propose now to analyse the methods which as a weaver of fiction Mrs. Henry Wood adopted. We are content to admit their great and lasting success. It is perhaps because, when what we know as sensation creeps into them, the sensation is always of a homely and domestic kind. There is much that is strongly dramatic in what Mrs. Henry Wood has written, but the
dramatic incidents and effects, if they surprise and interest, never terrify. Readers do not rush for a volume by Mrs. Henry Wood if they wish to be terribly frightened. The skilful manipulation of plot may amaze, but it does not quicken morbid desires nor heighten unworthy passion. Novels that do this seldom live. They are written to meet the whims and caprices of a given age, in which, perhaps, a certain taint of indelicacy has got the upper hand in the minds of the more frivolous of men and women. The novels of Mrs. Henry Wood have been suited to the tastes of the past, and they will be found suitable to the cravings of the future. To the regular and inveterate novel-reader the death of Mrs. Henry Wood will raise many a sorrow and regret. We do not like to know that the pen which has instructed and amused us so often is to weave no more garlands of homely story for us. Such novels as we have been alluding to become our companions. The characters in them become living pictures in that gallery of life in which we walk and muse. These pictures may age and become immortal, but we would fain believe that their creator was immortal as well. But this cannot be, and the best tribute, therefore, we can pay the dead novelist is to remember and revere her in the graceful works she has bequeathed to us and to posterity.”
It was a true and graceful recognition of a writer who had passed away, of work well done.
One of the principal daily papers, in a leading article, made the following remarks:
“Mrs. Henry Wood, whose death is announced this morning, was one of the most voluminous and the most successful of modern novelists. She commenced her literary career under the care of the House of Bentley, and unlike the average successful novelist, from Dickens downwards, who beats about for fuller advantage with new publishers, the connection between author and publisher remained undisturbed to the last....
“When East Lynne appeared, the new novelists reputation was at once established. An enormous number of the work has been sold. It has been translated into all Continental languages and some Oriental ones. But this is only one branch of the success the story has attained. It was at an early date adapted to the stage, where its success was almost equal to that attained in book form. At the present time there are three dramatic versions of East Lynne nightly presented to the English-speaking public in various parts of the world. Had the author been granted even a small percentage on the returns, she would have been a rich woman. We believe that as a matter of fact she never received during the past quarter of a century a single penny in acknowledgment of the profits made by others from the stage presentation of East Lynne.
The adapters of East Lynne grew rich, and Mrs. Henry Wood was kept out of their calculations.
“Since the appearance of East Lynne, Mrs. Henry Wood has written some thirty novels, which have varied only in the measure of success. In Australia the sale of her works Ivies with that of Charles Dickens’s books.” [It has since exceeded them.] “Hers was indeed a busy and a happy life. The pen fell from her hand only in the last days of failing strength. Up to the last her mental activity withstood the insidious approaches of growing physical weakness. Unlike Dickens and Thackeray, Mrs. Henry Wood leaves no unfinished work behind.... Like most authors whose names are prominently before the public, Mrs. Henry Wood had an enormous correspondence with literary aspirants. Young authors turned instinctively to her for advice and counsel, and seldom turned in vain.... Like her life, her end was placid and full of hope.”
A week later the same newspaper had the following record of her funeral:
“In the bright sunshine of yesterday forenoon, a procession which attracted general attention, and evoked much sympathy and manifestations of respect, passed by the northern boundary of Regent’s Park, up the main road to Highgate Cemetery. The procession consisted of sixteen carriages, and its character was proclaimed by that which came first. This was an open funeral car, drawn by four black horses; and the polished oak coffin, with its massive brass mountings, was heaped up with fragrant wreaths of choice hot-house flowers, mostly snow-white, and set about with delicate ferns. These memorial offerings of sorrowing friends not only covered the coffin, but were piled up on either side to the lid, and hung upon the pinnacles of the hearse roof. Bystanders uncovered as this procession passed along, and the response to the oft-repeated questions whispered from house to pavement was always the same— ‘It is Mrs. Henry Wood, the novelist.’ ‘I never saw such a sight,’ said one working man to another, uncovering as the procession passed them.
“The funeral was, of course, of a private character; but it attracted almost as much attention as if it had been a public ceremony with time and place of burial duly announced beforehand. The procession left the deceased lady’s residence about a quarter past eleven, and halted at St. Stephen’s Church, Avenue Road, where a considerable congregation was already assembled.... From the church the procession proceeded direct to the Upper Highgate Cemetery, and to the grave-side... and the service was concluded in the presence of a large concourse of people who had awaited the arrival of the cortege.
“The vaulted grave had been newly formed out of the turfed space edging the outer circle of catacombs at the very highest point of the cemetery grounds, and at the foot, therefore, of Highgate Church. Into the tomb, within a few hours, had been lowered the coffin, exhumed from its original grave and enclosed in a new coffin of polished oak, of Mr. Henry Wood, husband of the lady who was now to be laid by his side; and large floral wreaths had been placed upon this coffin before the arrival of its companion. A superb cross, composed entirely of Neapolitan violets and lilies of the valley, hid the plate upon Mrs. Henry Wood’s coffin, and smaller wreaths obscured the text upon the brass scroll: ‘I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord! The inscription upon the breastplate was simply the name, date of birth, 17th January 1814, and of death, 10th February 1887. The scores of floral wreaths sent by literary and other friends were arranged and left upon the heavy stone slab, which, at the conclusion of the service, and in the presence of the principal mourners, was rolled to its place, covering the vault.”
The day of the funeral seemed indeed to have been made purposely bright and beautiful; one of the fairest and warmest days that ever dawned in February. The previous days had been gloomy and cloudy, bitterly cold; the day after and many succeeding days were equally cold and gloomy. But the day itself was soft, sunny, and seemed a reflection of the bright spirit that had inhabited the lovely earthly tenement now for ever laid to rest.
The tomb eventually chosen was of red granite, from the quarries of Aberdeen, and was a copy of the tomb of Scipio Africanus in Rome. The lives of both had one thing in common: they were earnestly and unceasingly devoted to good purposes, and both had the welfare of mankind at heart. On the front of the tomb was engraven simply the name, Mrs. Henry Wood; beneath, the short text from Ecclesiasticus: “THE LORD GIVETH WISDOM.” Never was text more fittingly applied, for surely wisdom of every description she possessed. None were so certain of this as they who knew her most intimately, whose companion and counsellor she had been for many long years.
Innumerable were the expressions of sorrow and regret from private sources; from old and tried friends, and from unknown sympathisers. All who had known her bore witness to the influence of her singular charm and goodness. The following are a few extracts taken almost at random from a multitude of letters. Many are from friends whose names are household words in the land, and not a few from those who had never known her in life.
“The painful intelligence met me yesterday afternoon, and while I felt the consolation of knowing that suffering had ceased, and that her truly lovely and lovable spirit had entered into the joy of her Lord, I was deeply saddened by the somewhat selfish consciousness that I and mine and the world at large had lost a benefactor and a friend — of which class we have none of us too many.... The blessed ‘memory of the just’ will be your stay and support through this bitter trial — the latter will lose much of its bitterness as time rolls — the former will be lasting as life itself.”
“I almost h
esitate to break in upon your sorrow, yet feel it not possible to keep silence.... The separation must be bitter indeed.... That she has passed to an eternity of happiness I believe with all my heart, and though it is impossible to find even in this thought consolation for some time to come, yet hereafter this will soften this great grief.... The loss you have sustained is not to be supplied, and must leave a void, and remove from you, as you say, much of the sunshine of your lives.... Instinctively I felt it would be so, for she was no ordinary woman. She was so vividly alive, and so sympathetic, so large-hearted as well as large-minded, that her loss to her children must be felt as irreparable. To you, too, is added the literary companionship, which I know sweetened your work, and often alone made it bearable. I heartily sympathise with you, especially in this last phase. If at such a time I may speak of myself, I like to recall that in a quarter of a century, in which I have had relations with your dear mother, no incident has occurred, not the most trivial, to dim my happy recollections of her. She was always the same to me. Such friends are not replaced, and we go through the rest of life in somewhat of diminished pleasure....”
Again, later on, the same writer: “I have read with great interest your sketch of your mother; and can read between the lines how completely the face of things is altered to you now she is withdrawn. She was a very notable woman; one of those who help to keep England in her straight path of truth; and she was a very kind woman, with a large charity, without any of that weak indifference which sometimes passes for liberality of opinion. I was always much struck with a certain spirited decision upon any point on which she was questioned. She seemed able to bring her faculties together immediately, and focus them on the question before her, and to have a clear insight into the bearings of anything brought before her.... One thing astonished me — her age. Seventy-three! but that I know you know, I should be incredulous.”