Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  When Mrs. Henry Wood began to write East Lynne, France had ceased to be the home of herself and her husband. They had come to England, and were staying temporarily in a furnished house at Upper Norwood, where the air was supposed to be specially suited to Mrs. Wood’s sensitive organisation.

  The Norwood of that time was very different from the Norwood of to-day. Then it was a charming suburb, with nothing unsightly about it but the huge Crystal Palace, still in the freshness of youth. The place itself, apart from the triangular village which had long existed, consisted of a few scattered houses. The air was wonderfully pure and fresh. Rural walks abounded; country lanes and hedges; extensive views from the heights over several counties of England. Cattle grazed peacefully in the fields, and on roads near at hand one frequently met with all the sights and sounds of a farmyard. All this has changed.

  In spite of the air, Mrs. Wood’s health became seriously affected. Mysterious illness baffled the skill of the wisest doctors. For eighteen months she suffered so severely that at length life seemed threatened. At one time she herself had quite given up hope, and perhaps her patience and faith had never been more keenly tried.

  The paroxysms were peculiar. The first day severe hot and cold shivering fits and inability to rise from her bed; the second day intense agony in the region of the liver; the third day freedom from pain — the invalid able to leave her room, but with the complexion of an orange; the fourth day she would be and would look perfectly well — hope revived; the fifth day the series of symptoms would begin again, and steadily run their course.

  So it went on for eighteen months without variation. The sufferer grew painfully weak and thin; she never went out without wearing a thick veil, and a very short walk exhausted her. At length to expect recovery seemed almost hoping against hope. Dr. Hetley of Norwood constantly attended but failed to cure her; yet his view of the case from the commencement differed from that of other doctors, and proved correct.

  During this trying period many remedies were adopted, many doctors consulted, without effect. Change of air was suggested, and many parts of England were visited: amongst other places, Worcester and Malvern — Malvern which in days gone by she had so much disliked. But it was thought possible that her native air might possess healing virtues beyond other places.

  Whilst here she wrote two letters upon the subject of her illness to one of her children, a boy visiting in Leicestershire.

  The letters have long since been destroyed, but every word remains in the memory. They were simple letters, but the one came laden with happiness, the other with despair.

  “I have good news for you,” the first began. “My illness seems to have taken a turn at last; the usual paroxysm has not come; for three days I have felt perfectly well. How thankful I shall be if this really proves the turning-point, and I recover health and strength. I had really begun to lose hope. No one knows what the suffering has been.... How do you like Leicestershire?” the letter presently continued. “Your grandmother used to visit the Carews many years ago: perhaps was given the very guest-chamber you are now occupying; but to her the charm of the place consisted in its society: the tame monotony of the surrounding country wearied and depressed her. I think I should feel the same.”

  This good news was soon to be contradicted. A few days passed, and then came a second letter.

  “I think I must never again speak of myself or my illness,” it said. “The very day after I last wrote to you another attack came on, more intense, I think, than usual; as though it had only gathered strength by delay. I need not say that I feel depressed. It seems all the harder and more painful for the short respite, the hope which had begun to revive in me. Shall I ever recover? I begin to question it. I think you should also accustom yourself to look at it from this point of view — the possibility of a day coming when you will have to do without me. The thought that I may have to leave you is inexpressibly painful; but you must remember there is One who cannot err; all must be for the best, however dark and mysterious it may seem. If it is well that I should recover, I know that I shall do so. Let us rest upon this thought as long as hope remains.”

  This second letter was a great blow. There had been three days of hope and high spirits, the bright surrounding life fully entered into, the society of a large and charming household thoroughly appreciated. But again the sunshine was withdrawn. And still the illness went on, and the attacks continued with the regularity of day and night. Mrs. Wood returned to Norwood apparently no better than she had left it some months before.

  It would be impossible to forget the evening of her homecoming after the first long separation life had known. A flood of sunshine seemed to have entered the house; everything was changed and beautified. As she sat in her easy-chair, talking in her calm sweet voice, her soft dark eyes haunting one with their sad expression, she resembled more a beautiful shadow than a human being.

  Was it to become a reality? It almost appeared so, for she seemed to belong more to heaven than to earth. It was difficult to hope. Her absence had been prolonged, famous doctors had prescribed, yet she appeared only the worse. Amongst others, her friend the celebrated Henry Carden of Worcester — whom she was fond of occasionally bringing into her Johnny Ludlow stories — had her for some time under his care; but for once the great surgeon was at fault. His very anxiety perhaps interfered with his skill. He took a wrong view of her case. As we have said, Dr. Hetley was the only one whose opinion was correct, and even his was rather negative than positive: he could tell what it was not; he could not be sure what it was.

  She spoke a little of herself that first night “Everything appears useless,” she said. “The doctors can do nothing. I only seem worse after every fresh advice. It is certain that my strength cannot hold out much longer. I am worn to a shadow.”

  But a brighter day was at hand. There were still many years of life for Mrs. Henry Wood — years of earnest labour, for not one of her works had yet appeared. “Man’s extremity is God’s opportunity,” and in the present instance the saying may truly be quoted. All human aid had been tried in vain.

  One day she came down looking calm and resigned, but very sad. She was asked if she felt less well than usual. No; but she had less hope. She had taken up one of her husband’s medical books — it was Dr. Hooper’s Vade Mecum — and lighted upon a malady which exactly described her case. In her own mind there was no doubt about it. “This disease is incurable and ends in death,” said the book. All hope seemed over.

  Her husband gently remonstrated with her for referring to medical works in her present state, declaring that many in perfect health might read such a book at any moment and fancy themselves suffering from every complaint. The remark brought no consolation. She pointed out that the fatal description answered to every symptom of her malady, and when her doctor called that afternoon she told him what she had found, and her conviction. “You must have known this,” she remarked, “and have kept it from me in mistaken kindness.”

  Dr. Hetley looked grave, and felt he should have some trouble to restore confidence. “It is a mistake to take up these books,” he said. “You may do yourself great harm. Fancy goes far with us in our illnesses for good or evil. Faith heals as much as in days of old. Mr. Wood must keep his books under lock and key; they are only for such men as he and I, who can go to the root of these matters. You must promise me never to meddle with them again.” Then he pointed out how and where she was mistaken. The malady alluded to was not hers. Of certain symptoms which must accompany it she had none. He admitted that her illness perplexed him. “Not,” he added, “that I think I don’t understand it, but because it refuses to yield to remedies. I have tried everything I can think of, and can do no more. At the same time I see no reason why you should not recover.”

  So far this was consoling; but it remained a time of sadness, sorrow and anxiety. Month after month hope and despair fought with each other. In this manner a year and a half passed away. It seemed that the end could not be far of
f. And it was during this time, between the paroxysms of illness, life looking sad and dark, that East Lynne was written. The author often wondered whether she should live to finish it. Yet through all she was resigned and cheerful, dreading the worst for the sake of others far more than for her own sake; feeling also, no doubt, that if she died, her gift would remain unknown, her song unsung.

  All this was sufficient to overwhelm any spirit less sure of itself, less dependent upon a higher Power. Yet her work at this time has no touch of morbidness: it is healthy and vigorous; if it has its pathos, it has also its humour.

  So she sat with hands folded, reduced to the utmost, waiting, wondering what was next to be done. Her doctor had plainly said he could do no more. She had been brought into a narrow way, and there seemed no turning to right or left — nothing but the dark road leading to the end.

  Help came unexpectedly in the form of an old woman, who declared she would cure if permitted. It seemed absurd to suppose that where much medical skill had failed an old dame should succeed. Desperate diseases require desperate remedies, it has been said, but in this instance the exception proved the rule. The remedy suggested was simplicity itself.

  This old dame one day called, asked to see Mrs. Wood, and was admitted. She wore a poke bonnet and gray shawl, and carried a large umbrella. Dropping a curtsey, she sat down, leaning both hands on her Gamp-like weapon. Her manner of talking was direct and decided. We will call her Davey.

  “Ma’am,” said Mrs. Davey, “I have heard of your illness, I see and know what’s the matter with you, and I can cure you if allowed to do so.”

  There was confidence in the very tones of the old woman. She evidently believed herself and her remedy infallible. It may at once be stated that she was influenced by the sole wish to do good; she desired no reward, would accept none.

  As time went on, she proved a very exceptional woman in her way; gifted with sense and penetration. A broad forehead, full at the temples, distinguished her; keen gray eyes that glittered, and a square, expressive jaw denoting force of character: a hard, stern face, but very vigorous. A strength of will that kept her alive to a very advanced age, after Mrs. Wood herself had passed away, though many years her senior.

  The statement so boldly put forward was not more startling than the way in which it was delivered; the singular figure, with its earnest face, leaning forward impressively upon her umbrella; the fingers of her gloves long drawn out, and looking like the claws of a bird; the strong, powerful features; the bushy eyebrows, beneath which the keen eyes looked out upon the world, allowing nothing to escape them — all helped to make her appear like an old seer or prophetess of the world gone by rather than a nineteenth-century woman.

  “Do you know,” said Mrs. Wood, “that you are undertaking to succeed where many doctors have failed? I have had every advice, and neither doctors, medicine, nor change of air have had any effect upon me.”

  “Then, ma’am, that is something like the case of the woman we read of in the Bible who spent all her substance upon physicians, yet was none the better. It is often so in these days. I have no great respect for the Faculty, as they call themselves. Many an old medicine woman with her herbs and simples can do more — not that I deal in herbs or simples either. The moment a case is a little out of common they are all at sea, not curing the ill but often increasing it by experiments. They are all very well for cutting off limbs, or watching a fever; but they cannot see below the surface and in puzzling cases only guess at what is wrong. More often than not they make a mistake.”

  “And how do you profess to be wiser than they?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am; it was born with me. It is not education, for I never had any: as much as I can do to sign my name and read my Bible. The more I think about things, the more I seem to understand them. Perhaps I was intended for a man and a doctor, and Nature made a mistake in forming me a woman. Nature makes mistakes sometimes, just as men make them generally. Many a woman would rule and govern well, whilst many of our idle men are no better than weak old women. That has been my experience in life.”

  Poor Mrs. Davey, it was discovered, had not to stray far from home for an example.

  “I don’t think that is the fault of Nature,” returned Mrs. Wood, smiling at Mrs. Davey’s forcible language, to which a strong north - country accent gave additional colouring. “Nature never makes mistakes; it is weak wills and infirm purposes that are to blame — bad qualities whether in men or women. And now tell me what you propose to do.”

  “Ay, ma’am, that is the point. You’ll excuse the liberty I have taken; but I seldom have an opportunity of speaking a word. People about me in my own class don’t understand me, and I have to think my thoughts and keep them to myself.”

  Then this singular woman proceeded to state her case and give her reasons. The advice was so harmless it seemed the height of credulity to act upon it; impossible that it could touch an illness which had lasted eighteen months and had resisted much skill and thought. Mrs. Wood naturally expressed her doubt.

  “Ma’am,” returned Mrs. Davey, “do you remember the case of Naaman and his illness? How he went to the prophet and expected that he would be bidden do some great thing, or that the prophet would come down and lay hands on him with great ceremony? How he turned away offended, because to wash seven times in Jordan was beneath his dignity? It was a miracle, you will say; but for all that it was the simplest of remedies for the worst of diseases. And it cured him. So now it is the simple remedies that cure when strong drugs can do no good. I have explained the nature of your illness, and how my remedy will affect it. Will you not give it a trial?”

  “Certainly,” returned Mrs. Wood; “I should be wrong not to do so, since all doctors have failed me.”

  The remedy was adopted, and with almost magical effect The attack returned on the appointed day, but with half its intensity; and never returned again. From that hour it may be said that Mrs. Wood recovered health in greater measure than she had ever before possessed it. The home-rejoicing can perhaps be imagined: how thanksgiving arose for so great a mercy vouchsafed; how sad eyes grew bright, and laughter and merriment no longer seemed out of place.

  Mrs. Davey, it has been said, refused any reward; but it was good to hear her triumphant “I told you so!” when her success was placed beyond doubt. She carried her head, if possible, a little higher, emphasised her periods with the point of her umbrella, and was treated as one to whom honour was due.

  “Reward I cannot accept,” she said; “I might be taken up for practising without a diploma. And what reward, ma’am, could equal the pleasure of seeing you well again? Who would know you for what you were when I first called three months ago? I confess that my heart sank when I thought how I might have delayed until it was too late — for it took me weeks to screw up my nerve to come to you. Every morning on getting up I said, ‘To-day I will go,’ and every night still hesitated, until at last I took my courage and my umbrella in both hands, and away I started, come what might. And what, after all, have I done to merit reward? Exercised a little of the gift, or whatever it may be called, which Heaven bestowed upon me, and is something quite beside me. My spirit is always longing for a field in which to exercise its faculty; I go through life like a clipped bird, longing in vain to try my wings. If I had a host of patients to attend to, night and day, I should be happy. But I might as well ask for the Crown jewels as hope to turn doctor!”

  “Did it ever occur to you to become a hospital nurse?” asked Mrs. Wood.

  “Yes, ma’am, but I felt it would be worse than useless. I never could be at any one’s beck and call. Nature gave me some poor reasoning powers, and I think out things for myself. The doctors would have wanted their way, I have wanted mine, and we should always have been at variance. I fear there is something of the Radical in me — a slight setting at naught of authority. It is a bad quality, and it is at the root of all Radicalism. Radicals don’t want reform: put them in high places, and what tyrants they beco
me. Dictators, every one wanting his neighbour’s vineyard. I do not want the things of others, and would render honour where it was due; but I do want my own way, and I should like to go through life healing bodies, just as a good parson heals souls. Ah, ma’am! if I had lived in the days of the Apostles, I should have taken my stand with St Luke, for he was the ‘beloved physician.’”

  This Mrs. Davey was indeed a strange, peculiar, and most unusual character. She was a woman whom Nature had placed altogether out of her sphere. No doubt, as she expressed it, her life was more or less sacrificed to a longing for work and a field of labour denied to her by her want of position and education. Her mental capacities, lying fallow, only rendered her supremely unhappy. She had married, but as women of strong minds often do — measuring others’ capacities by their own until the awakening — she had chosen a man her inferior in all mental qualities; weak, irresolute; neither industrious nor amiable; as she once remarked of him, neither useful nor ornamental. As time went on she had to become the breadwinner and home-supporter. Of children she fortunately had none, and therefore life was not as hard with her as it might have been.

  In earlier days she had gone through some great crisis or tragedy which had left its mark upon her for good, and from which she had come forth a strong, determined, thoughtful woman; going her way in silence, minding her own business, thinking nothing of her neighbours’ affairs; biding her time, as she one day observed, until she passed out of this existence into one where possibly she might find more congenial surroundings. What the tragedy had been was never known, but she once remarked that it was more tragic, more wonderful, and more overwhelming than anything imagination had ever conceived. As she spoke, her very face turned pale, her eyes glowed, she shuddered dramatically; but never again would she approach the subject even with the faintest confession. No earthly power could have induced her to utter a word or perform an action against her will. In the days of torture she would have gone through all to the bitter end; neither rack nor stake turning her from her purpose.