"o gentle wind that bloweth south
to where my love re-paireth,
convey a kiss to his dear mouth
and tell me how he fareth."
—old ballad.
"he that well and rightly considereth his own works will find little cause to judge hardly of another."—thomas à kempis.
on june 24th, 1891, mr. parnell drove over to steyning to see that all the arrangements for our marriage at the registrar's office there on the next day were complete. mr. edward cripps, the registrar, had everything in order, and it was arranged that we should come very early so as to baffle the newspaper correspondents, who had already been worrying mr. cripps, and who hung about our house at brighton with an inconvenient pertinacity. we had given mr. parnell's servant elaborate orders to await us, with dictator in the phaeton, at a short distance from the house about eleven o'clock on the 25th, and told him he would be required as a witness at our wedding. this little ruse gave us the early morning of the 25th clear, as the newspaper men soon had these instructions out of the discomfited young man, who had been told not to talk to reporters.
on june 25th i was awakened at daybreak by my lover's tapping at my door and calling to me: "get up, get up, it is time to be married!" then a humming and excitement began through the house as the maids flew {313} about to get us and breakfast ready "in time," before two of them, phyllis bryson, my very dear personal maid—who had put off her own marriage for many years in order to remain with me—and my children's old nurse, drove off to catch the early train to steyning, where they were to be witnesses of our marriage. phyllis was so determined to put the finishing touches to me herself that she was at last hustled off by parnell, who was in a nervous fear that everyone would be late but the newspaper men. phyllis was fastening a posy at my breast when parnell gently but firmly took it from her and replaced it with white roses he had got for me the day before. seeing her look of disappointment he said, "she must wear mine to-day, phyllis, but she shall carry yours, and you shall keep them in remembrance; now you must go!"
he drove the maids down the stairs and into the waiting cab, going himself to the stables some way from the house, and returning in an amazingly short time with dictator in the phaeton and with a ruffled-looking groom who appeared to have been sleeping in his livery—it was so badly put on. parnell ordered him in to have a cup of tea and something to eat while he held the horse, nervously calling to me at my window to be quick and come down. then, giving the groom an enormous "buttonhole," with fierce orders not to dare to put it on till we were well on our way, parnell escorted me out of the house, and settled me in the phaeton with elaborate care.
as a rule parnell never noticed what i wore. clothes were always "things" to him. "your things become you always" was the utmost compliment for a new gown i could ever extract from him; but that morning, as he climbed in beside me and i took the reins, he said, {314} "queenie, you look lovely in that lace stuff and the beautiful hat with the roses! i am so proud of you!"
and i was proud of my king, of my wonderful lover, as we drove through that glorious june morning, past the fields of growing corn, by the hedges heavy with wild roses and "traveller's joy," round the bend of the river at lancing, past the ruined tower where we had so often watched the kestrels hover, over the bridge and up the street of pretty, old-world bramber into steyning, and on to the consummation of our happiness.
parnell hardly spoke at all during this drive. only, soon after the start at six o'clock, he said, "listen," and, smiling, "they are after us; let dictator go!" as we heard the clattering of horses far behind. i let dictator go, and he—the fastest (driving) horse i have ever seen—skimmed over the nine miles in so gallant a mood that it seemed to us but a few minutes' journey.
mr. cripps was in attendance, and mrs. cripps had very charmingly decorated the little room with flowers, so there was none of the dreariness usual with a registry marriage. as we waited for our witnesses to arrive—we had beaten the train!—my king looked at us both in the small mirror on the wall of the little room, and, adjusting his white rose in his frock-coat, said joyously, "it isn't every woman who makes so good a marriage as you are making, queenie, is it? and to such a handsome fellow, too!" blowing kisses to me in the glass. then the two maids arrived, and the little ceremony that was to legalize our union of many years was quickly over.
on the return drive my husband pulled up the hood of the phaeton, and, to my questioning look—for it was a hot morning—he answered solemnly, "it's the right thing to do." as we drove off, bowing and laughing {315} our thanks to mr. cripps and the others for their kind and enthusiastic felicitations, he said, "how could i kiss you good wishes for our married life unless we were hooded up like this!"
just as we drove out of steyning we passed the newspaper men arriving at a gallop, and we peered out doubtfully at them, fearing they would turn and come back after us. but i let dictator have his head, and, though they pulled up, they knew that pursuit was hopeless. my husband looked back round the hood of the phaeton, and the groom called out delightedly, "they've give up, and gone on to mr. cripps, sir."
on our return to walsingham terrace we had to run the gauntlet between waiting pressmen up the steps to the house, but at my husband's imperious "stand back; let mrs. parnell pass! presently, presently; i'll see you presently!" they fell back, and we hid ourselves in the house and sat down to our dainty little wedding breakfast. parnell would not allow me to have a wedding cake, because he said he would not be able to bear seeing me eat our wedding cake without him, and, as i knew, the very sight of a rich cake made him ill.
meanwhile the reporters had taken a firm stand at the front door, and were worrying the servants to exasperation. one, a lady reporter for an american newspaper, being more enterprising than the rest, got into the house adjoining ours, which i also rented at that time, and came through the door of communication on the balcony into my bedroom. here she was found by phyllis, and as my furious little maid was too small to turn the american lady out, she slipped out of the door and locked it, to prevent further intrusion.
then she came down to us in the dining-room, found {316} on the way that the cook had basely given in to bribery, having "just let one of the poor gentlemen stand in the hall," and gave up the battle in despair—saying, "will mrs. o'shea see him, mr. —— wants to know?"
"phyllis!" exclaimed my husband in a horrified voice, "what do you mean? who is mrs. o'shea?"
poor phyllis gave one gasp at me and fled in confusion.
then my king saw some of the newspaper people, and eased their minds of their duty to their respective papers. the lady from america he utterly refused to see, as she had forced herself into my room, but, undaunted, she left vowing that she would cable a better "interview" than any of them to her paper. they were kind enough to send it to me in due course, and i must admit that even if not exactly accurate, it was distinctly "bright." it was an illustrated "interview," and parnell and i appeared seated together on a stout little sofa, he clad in a fur coat, and i in a dangerously décolleté garment, diaphanous in the extreme, and apparently attached to me by large diamonds. my sedate phyllis had become a stage "grisette" of most frivolous demeanour, and my poor bedroom—in fact, the most solid and ugly emanation of early victorian virtue i have ever had bequeathed to me—appeared to an interested american state as the "very utmost" in fluffy viciousness that could be evolved in the united capitals of the demi-mondaine.
i showed this "interview" to my husband, though rather doubtful if he would be amused by it; but he only said, staring sadly at it, "i don't think that american lady can be a very nice person."
after he had sent the reporters off my king settled into his old coat again, and subsided into his easy chair, smoking and quietly watching me. i told him he must {317} give up that close scrutiny of me, and that i did not stare at him till he grew shy.
"why not?" he said. "a cat may look at a king, and surely a man may look at his wife!"
but i refused to stay indoors talking nonsense on so lovely a day, and we wandered out together along the fields to aldrington. along there is a place where they make bricks. we stood to watch the men at work, and parnell talked to them till they went off to dinner. parnell watched them away till they were out of sight, and then said, "come on, queenie, we'll make some bricks, too. i've learnt all about it in watching them!" so we very carefully made two bricks between us, and put them with the others in the kiln to burn. i suggested marking our two bricks, so that we might know them when we returned, but when we looked in the kiln some hours later they all appeared alike.
then we got down to the sea and sat down to watch it and rest. far beyond the basin at aldrington, near the mouth of shoreham harbour, we had the shore to ourselves and talked of the future, when ireland had settled down, and my king—king, indeed, in forcing reason upon that unreasonable land and wresting the justice of home rule from england—could abdicate; when we could go to find a better climate, so that his health might become all i wished. we talked of the summer visits we would make to avondale, and of the glorious days when he need never go away from me. of the time when his hobbies could be pursued to the end, instead of broken off for political work. and we talked of ireland, for parnell loved her, and what he loved i would not hate or thrust out from his thoughts, even on this day that god had made.
yet, as we sat together, silent now, even though we {318} spoke together still with the happiness that has no words, a storm came over the sea. it had been very hot all day and a thunderstorm was inevitable; but, as we sheltered under the breakwater, i wished that this one day might have been without a storm.
reading my thoughts, he said: "the storms and thunderings will never hurt us now, queenie, my wife, for there is nothing in the wide world that can be greater than our love; there is nothing in all the world but you and i." and i was comforted because i did not remember death.
the news of our marriage was in all the evening papers, and already that night began the bombardment of telegrams and letters of congratulation and otherwise! the first telegram was to me, "mrs. parnell," and we opened it together with much interest and read its kind message from "six irish girls" with great pleasure. the others, the number of which ran into many hundreds, varied from the heartiest congratulation to the foulest abuse, and were equally of no moment to my husband, as he made no attempt to open anything in the ever-growing heap of correspondence that, for weeks i kept on a large tray in my sitting-room, and which, by making a determined effort daily, i kept within bounds.
"why do you have to open them all?" he asked me, looking at the heap with the indolent disgust that always characterized him at the sight of many letters.
"well, i like reading the nice ones, and i can't tell which they are till they're opened," i explained. "now here is one that looks the very epitome of all that is good and land outside-thick, good paper, beautiful handwriting—and yet the inside is unprintable!"
parnell held out his hand for it, but i would not give {319} anything so dirty into his hand, and tore it across for the wastepaper basket, giving him instead a dear little letter from a peasant woman in ireland, who invoked more blessings upon our heads than heaven could well spare us.
little more than three months afterwards the telegrams and letters again poured into the house. this time they were messages of condolence, and otherwise. and again their message fell upon unheeding ears, for the still, cold form lying in the proud tranquillity of death had taken with him all my sorrow and my joy; and as in that perfect happiness i had known no bitterness, for he was there, now again these words of venom, speaking gladness because he was dead, held no sting for me, for he was gone, and with him took my heart.
the very many letters of true sympathy which reached me after my husband's death were put away in boxes, and kept for me till i was well enough for my daughter to read them to me. among these were many from clergymen of all denominations and of all ranks in the great army of god. as i lay with closed eyes listening to the message of these hearts i did not know i seemed to be back in the little church at cressing, and to hear my father's voice through the mists of remembrance, saying: "and now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity." ...
among our many wedding presents was a charming little alabaster clock from my husband's sister, emily dickinson. it was a ship's "wheel," and we were very gay over its coming, disputing as to which of us should henceforth be the "man at the wheel." parnell's mother also was very sweet and kind to me, sending me several much prized letters. other members of my husband's family also wrote very kindly to me, and i can still see {320} his tender smile at me as he saw my appreciation of his family's attitude.
the presents we liked best, after mrs. dickinson's clock, were the little humble offerings of little value and much love sent by working men and women, by our servants, and by others of far countries and near. parcels arrived from the four quarters of the globe, and many were beyond recognition on arrival, but the fragments were grateful to me as bearing a message of true homage to my king.
of other feeling there was little among these wedding gifts, though one evening my eldest daughter who was with me, remarked casually to me that she had confiscated a newly arrived "registered" parcel addressed to me. "oh, but you must not," i exclaimed, "i want them all!" but she answered gloomily that this parcel had contained a mouse, and "not at all the kind of mouse that anyone could have wanted for days past." so i subsided without further interrogation.
once when parnell and i were staying at bournemouth we became very fond of some old engravings hanging in our hotel sitting-room, illustrating "the dowie dens of yarrow," and now, through these fighting months in ireland, we used this old ballad as a medium for private telegrams, as we could not be sure they would not fall into other hands. the idea took root when he first left me to attend what i feared would be a hostile meeting in ireland. he had wired the political result to me, but had not said how he was feeling. i telegraphed to him: "o gentle wind that bloweth south," and promptly came the reply to me: "he fareth well."
all through these fighting months in ireland he telegraphed to me always in the morning and also in the {321} evening of every day he was away from me, and whenever he could snatch a moment he wrote to me. he was in no way unhappy in this last fight, and had only the insidious "tiredness" that grew upon him with such deadly foreshadowing of the end we would not see given him a little respite, he could, he said, have enjoyed the stress and storm of battle. to bend these rebels in ireland to his will became but a secondary driving force to that of gaining for ireland the self-government to which he had pledged himself for her, and i think it gave that zest and joy in hardness to the battle that all the great fighters of the world seem to have experienced.
i am not giving all his letters of this time; just a few of the little messages of my husband's love in these last days i must keep for my own heart to live upon; but the two or three that i give are sufficient to show the high, quiet spirit of the man who was said to be "at bay." letters, i think, rather of a king, serene in his belief in the ultimate sanity of his people and of the justice of his cause.
ballina,
march 24, 1891.
the reception here yesterday was magnificent, and the whole country for twenty-five miles from here to the town of sligo is solid for us, and will vote 90 out of 100 for us, the priests being in our favour with one exception, and the seceders being unable to hold a meeting anywhere. i am to keep in this friendly district, and to hold meetings there, and shall not go outside of it.
the town of sligo, and the district from there to cliffony, is hostile, the priests being against us, and i shall not go into it, but we have a good friendly minority even in this district, whom our agents will canvass privately. you will see the situation on the map.
wire me to ballina, every day, which will be my headquarters; also write particulars if any news.
{322}
big rock quarries, arklow, co. wicklow,
august 15, 1891.
my own wifie,—your telegram only received this evening, in consequence of my being at the mine.
i think you might fix the end of the year as the time you and i would guarantee the payment of the costs.[1] if wontner accepts this or any modification of it which would give me, say, three months to pay, telegraph pym as follows: "no." if he declines to accept, or you cannot come to any definite arrangement with wontner by tuesday at midday, telegraph pym "yes." i have written pym advising him accordingly about the appeal, and sending the lodgment money, but it would be better if possible that you should telegraph pym on monday afternoon. i trust to be able to cross on tuesday morning or evening at latest. it is very fine here, but i have had no shooting, and do not expect any, as i have to be in dublin all day monday arranging about new paper.—-with best love, your own husband.
you should ask wontner to telegraph you definitely as early as possible on monday.
morrison's hotel, dublin,
september 1, 1891.
my own wifie,—i have received magurri's letter safely, and hope to be able to leave here on wednesday (to-morrow) evening, sleeping at holyhead, and visiting the place in wales[2] next morning on my way back to london.
macdermott says he does not think i can get the loan from hibernian bank concluded within a fortnight, but will hasten matters as much as possible. the bank and their solicitors approve the security and proposal generally, but it will take a little time to make the searches and go through other formalities which lawyers always insist upon in such cases.
by to-morrow i expect to have done as much as i possibly can for the present in the matter of the new paper. it has been a very troublesome business, as a dispute has arisen between different sections of my own friends as to who shall {323} have the largest share in the management of the new organ. this dispute somewhat impedes progress and increases the difficulties. however, the matter is not so pressing, as the freeman question is again postponed for another fortnight. i expect to make a satisfactory arrangement about my freeman shares, under which i shall lose nothing by them. kerr is making progress in getting up a small company to buy a steamer, and i think he may succeed.
i have been very much bored, as i am obliged to remain in the hotel all day every day, waiting to see people who may call about the different undertakings. i wonder whether you have been driving at all, and how the eyes are, and how you have been doing. you have not written to tell me.—with much love,
my own little wifie's husband.
morrison's hotel, dublin,
monday, september 7, 1801
my own wifie,—i have told kerr that he cannot have any of the first thousand, so he is going to manage without it for the present, so you may reckon on that amount
the bank was to have given me that sum to-day, but a hitch occurred on saturday which i removed to-day, and the board will meet to-morrow and ratify the advance.
your own husband.
in great haste.
the trouble about the jealousies of would-be directors on the new board still continues, and have postponed selection till next week—crossing to-morrow night.
on my husband's return home from ireland in september, after having established the irish daily independent, he was looking so worn out and ill that i was thoroughly alarmed about his health. he was very cheerful and happy while he was at home, and i had much difficulty in keeping him quietly lying down to rest on the sofa. but, though he protested while following my wishes, i saw as i sat watching him while he slept that {324} the tired, grey shadows were growing deeper upon his beautiful face, and that in sleep he had that absolute stillness which one only finds in very healthy children or in the absolutely exhausted sleep of adults.
i tried to induce him to see sir henry thompson in town, but he would not consent—saying that he could not waste a moment of his little time at home, and that, though he did feel tired, that was all.
"i am not ill," he said, "only a little tired. queenie, my wife, you do not really think i am ill, do you?"
knowing the one weakness of his brave heart, his anger and terror at the idea of illness and of the far-off death that might divide us, i answered only that i thought he was too tired, that nothing, not even ireland, was worth it, and i besought him now at last to give it all up, and to hide away with me till a long rest, away from the turmoil and contention, had saved him from the tiredness that would, i feared, become real illness if he went on.
he lay watching me as i spoke, and, after a long pause, he answered, "i am in your hands, queenie, and you shall do with me what you will; but you promised."
"you mean i promised that i would never make you less than——-"
"less than your king," he interrupted, "and if i give in now i shall be less than that. i would rather die than give in now—give in to the howling of the english mob. but if you say it i will do it, and you will never hear of it again from me, my love, my own wife." and as i gazed down into the deep, smouldering eyes, where the little flames always leapt out to meet mine, i knew i could not say it, i knew that in the depths of those eyes was more than even my love could fathom, that in the martyrdom of our love was to be our reparation.
{325}
i sent him off bright and happy to the last meeting at creggs. as he drove off to the station and dictator rounded the corner of the house, he turned, as usual, to wave to me, and raised the white rose in his buttonhole to his lips with an answering smile.
he sent me a telegram from london as he was starting from euston station, one from holyhead, and another from dublin. for the creggs meeting he stayed with mr. and mrs. mahoney, and his telegram from their house was cheerful, though he said he was not feeling very well.
in the few lines i had from him here i knew he was in much pain again from the rheumatism in his left arm. he always told me exactly how he was feeling, as he knew that unless he did this i would have suffered untold misery from apprehension while he was away. from creggs he telegraphed that he was about to speak, and it was "terrible weather." i thought with satisfaction that i had put a special change into a bag for him, and he had promised not to be parted from it, so i knew he would find means of changing his things directly after the meeting. his "good night" telegram did not reassure me; he was in bad pain from the rheumatism, but hoped to get it out with a turkish bath on the way home.
he stayed in dublin to see about the new paper which though "going" well, was a perpetual trouble to him owing to the petty jealousies of the staff. he crossed over from ireland feeling very ill, with violent pains all over him; he was implored to go to bed, and remain there for a few days till he felt better, before starting for england; but he only replied: "no, i want to get home; i must go home!"
he telegraphed to me from holyhead as usual, and {326} directly he got to london, and before coming on to brighton he had a turkish bath in london.
he seemed to me very weak when he got out of the buggy. i had sent a closed fly to meet him, as well as the buggy, but as a forlorn hope, for he would always be met by dictator in the buggy at the station
i helped him into the house, and he sank into his own chair before the blazing fire i had made, in spite of the warm weather, and said: "oh, my wifie, it is good to be back. you may keep me a bit now!"
i was rather worried that he should have travelled immediately after a turkish bath, but he said it had done him much good. i did not worry him then, but after he had eaten a fairly good dinner i told him that i wanted him to have sir henry thompson down the next day. he laughed at the idea, but i was very much in earnest, and he said he would see how he felt in the morning.
he told me that he had had to have his arm in a sling all the time he was away, but that he thought he had become so much worse because the change of clothes i had packed separately in a small bag (which he had promised not to be parted from) in case he had to speak in the rain, had been taken home in error by his host, and he had had to sit in his wet things for some hours.
i was much vexed when i heard this, for i always made such a point of his not keeping on damp things, and provided against it so carefully when starting him off.
he said: "it is no matter, really, i think, and i won't go away again till i'm really well this time. they were all so kind to me, but i was feeling so ill that i had to point out that breakfast was made for me, not i for breakfast, when i was expected to come down quickly for it. {327} i do hate being away from home, especially when i feel ill."
after dinner that night he sat before the fire trying to smoke a cigar, but he did not care for it as usual, and presently threw it away half smoked. he wanted to "feel" i was there, he said, so i sat by his feet on the rug, and leant my head against his knee while he stroked my hair. i stopped his hand because i feared the pain might come on again, and held it while he smiled assent to my suggestion that he should try to sleep a little. grouse and pincher, our setter and terrier, had to come close by us, and, as they settled by his feet, he said: "this is really a beautiful rest."
he dozed now and then, and i could see how wan and exhausted the still, clear-cut face was, and i vowed to myself that he should not again leave my care until his health was completely re-established.
presently he asked for his stick and wanted to go into the other room for a while, but he could not walk without my assistance, his legs were too weak to support him. i was terribly worried now, but did not let him see it, and only said: "now you are up you must let me help you to bed, so that you can get all the rest you need—and you are not going to leave home again till you take me for a real honeymoon in a country where the sun is strong enough to get the cold out of your bones. we will get out of england this winter." and he answered: "so we will, wifie, directly i get that mortgage through."
then, as we made our painful way up the stairs—for the last time—he laughed at the irish setter, who was trying to help him lift the stick he used, and said: "grouse thinks we are doing this for his own special benefit." i undressed him, and got him into bed, and he said: "come {328} and lie down as quickly as you can, wifie," but i rubbed him with the firwood oil, and packed his arm in the wool he so much believed in, before i lay down.
he dozed off, but woke shortly, and could not sleep again. he asked me if i thought the champagne dr. kenny had made him take in dublin had made him worse, but i reassured him, for he had been so exhausted he had required something, and no doubt dr. kenny had known that it would do him good, although in a general way it was bad for him.
during the night i made him promise he would see a doctor in the morning. presently he said: "i would rather write to thompson, as he understands me." i said i would telegraph to him to come down, but this excited my husband, who said, "no, the fee would be enormous at this distance." i pointed out that his health was more precious than the quarries and saw-mills at arklow, on which he was just proposing to spend some hundreds of pounds, but he put me off with, "we'll make it all right in the morning, wifie."
finding he still did not sleep, i gently massaged his shoulders and arms with oil, and wrapped him in wool again.
he talked a good deal, chiefly of the irish peasantry, of their privations and sufferings, the deadly poverty and the prevalence of the very pain (rheumatism) from which he was suffering, in their case aggravated by the damp, insanitary cabins in which they lived. and he murmured under his breath: "there are no means at hand for calculating the people who suffered in silence during those awful years of famine." that was what j. h. mohonagy said of the famine, from '79 to '80. and he went on: "i wish i could do something for them—the irish {329} peasantry—they are worth helping. i have always wished it, but there is so much between—and they 'suffer in silence,' wifie."
in the morning he felt better, and was much happier about himself. he absolutely refused to let me send for sir henry thompson, and, sitting up in bed after a good breakfast, smoked a cigar while he wrote notes for a speech. during his last absence i had bought a large engraving of lord leighton's picture "wedded," and, seeing this hanging in the room, he made me bring it and put it up at the foot of the bed for him to see. he was very much amused at the muscular young couple in the picture, and waving his cigar at it said: "we are a fine pair, wifie; hang us up where i can look at us."
i had ready for him to sign an agreement to rent a house near merstham, surrey, that we had arranged to take so that he could get to london more quickly, and have a change from the sea. it was a pretty little country house, and he had taken great interest in it. i would not let him sign it now, or do any business, but he made me read the agreement over to him, and said that part of our real "honeymoon" should be spent there. he later insisted upon writing to his solicitor (his brother-in-law, mr. macdermott) about a mortgage he was raising on his estate, as he wished to have the matter completed quickly. (it was not completed, owing to his death.)
on sunday he was not so well, but insisted that what he had written to sir henry thompson was enough, as he would answer at once. my persistence seemed to fret him so much that i desisted, and told him that i had sent for a local doctor, as i could not bear to be without advice about the pain.
he was a good patient in one way, scrupulously {330} following his doctor's directions, but in another a very difficult patient, as he was so very easily depressed about himself, all the fatalism that was natural to him tending to overcome his immense desire for health. a short talk with the doctor who saw him seemed to inspire him with confidence, and he said he felt better.
that night (sunday) he did not sleep, and this worried him a great deal, as he had a superstition that if he did not sleep for two consecutive nights he would die. i tried at first to reason him out of this idea, but he said he had always "felt" this, and had never before failed to sleep. i besought him to let me telegraph for sir henry thompson now, but he would not allow it, and became so feverish at the idea that i did not press the point, though i determined to consult the doctor in attendance about this in the morning. towards morning he became very feverish, and it was difficult to keep his skin in the perspiration that he desired.
that morning sir henry thompson telegraphed recommending me to call in dr. willoughby furner, but as dr. jowers was already in attendance, and my husband liked him, there was no reason to change. that day he was in much pain, afraid to move a finger because of it. he heard from sir henry thompson and, after i read the letter to him, he said: "you see, sweetheart, i was right; thompson says just what jowers does; there's no need to have him down."
after my husband's death i received the following letters from sir henry thompson:—
35 wimpole street, w.,
october 7, 1891.
dear mrs. parnell,—i am indeed shocked and distressed by the news which the afternoon journals announce here to-day.
{331}
so little did i think when i received the letter written by my old esteemed patient, dated october 3, that his end was so near.
with the feelings which this shock have aroused i cannot do otherwise than ask permission to express my sincere sympathy and condolence in the terrible and, i imagine, even to you who must have known more of his health than anyone else, this sudden affliction. the more so as i think you accompanied him once, if not more than once, in his visits to me in wimpole street. of such expression of feeling towards you in this great trial you will at least find multitudes ready to join, and may find some slight consolation in the knowledge that sympathy with you will be widely felt both here and in america.
under present circumstances i cannot expect or wish to trouble you to communicate with me. but i should be deeply interested in knowing (for my private interest in him and in what befell him) what followed the communication i made to you, whether you had attendance (professional) on the spot before my letter arrived, and what was said, or supposed, to have been the cause of the fatal result, or any details which some friend could send me.
with renewed assurance of my deep sympathy,—believe me, yours truly, henry thompson.
i think i must have received one of his very last letters, if not his last.
35 wimpole street, w.,
saturday afternoon, october 10, 1891.
dear mrs. parnell,—i am very glad you have written me, if the doing so, or if the reply i may be able to send you, can in any way help to mitigate any one of the numerous and infinitely painful circumstances, or their influence, rather, on your mind just now.
such inquiries as those which suggest themselves to you are so natural that it is impossible to repress them.
one never knows exactly what might have happened in any incident of life had some other course been taken. but whatever course may be supposed, it is useless to pursue it, {332} since only one can ever be taken in this life, namely, that one which is chosen by the individual in every case.
in reference to that asked by you, i feel very strongly that the sad catastrophe was by no means the outcome of any one act—or omission to act—and is far more truly indicated in that passage in yours which describes him as saying to dr. jowers, "had he only been able to follow my advice during the last few months," etc. there is the gist of the matter! i doubt whether anything would have saved him when passing through london. a blow had been struck—not so heavy—apparently a light one; but his worn-out constitution, of late fearfully overtaxed by a spirit too strong for its bodily tenement, had no power to resist, and gave way, wholly unable to make any fight for itself against the enemy. hence what would in a fairly robust state of health have been only a temporary conflict with a mild attack of inflammation, developed into a severe form, overwhelming the vital force with great rapidity and rendering all medical aid powerless. i don't believe that any medicine, any treatment, could have enabled his weakened condition to resist successfully. he wanted no medicine to combat the complaint. he wanted physical force, increased vitality to keep the attack at bay. i have nothing to say of the prescription, except that it appears to me quite appropriate under the circumstances and these i have learnt from the public press. dr. jowers is an experienced and most capable man, and i think you may rest assured that he could scarcely have been in safer hands.
if i were to regret anything it would be that he had not found a spare half-hour to come and see me some time ago. let me see then how his strength was and whether he could not be fortified a little for the wearing life he was leading. but then these are acts of prudence and foresight which very few ardent men of action ever find time to take. nevertheless, it is then that advice is really efficient. it is in nine times out of ten sought too late; when it is indeed a matter of little consequence what prescription is written, or, indeed, who has written it, provided only that it does no mischief.
i should very much have liked to see him again at any time. after the first visit i always knew my patient, and felt much interested in him, although i never showed any {333} reference to the fact, preferring to follow his own lead in reference to name, a matter he refers to in the letter of the 3rd inst.
by the way, you know, of course, i received that letter only on monday morning, and lost not an instant in replying, telegraphing that i was doing so.
you ask me to return it—"his last letter"—as i suspected. i cannot tell you how i was valuing it, and that i intended to place it among my most treasured souvenirs, of which i have many. but i cannot refuse it to his suffering and heart-broken widow, if she desires me to return it, and will do so. it consists only of a few professional words, a patient to his doctor—nothing more, and it is addressed by yourself—as i believe. it is not here—i am writing at the club; but if you still ask me i cannot hesitate an instant, and will send it to you.
come and see me any time you are able, by and by. i will answer any inquiries you may wish to make. i am at home (only let me know a day beforehand, if you can) every morning from 9.30 to 12—not after, except by quite special arrangement.
with sincere sympathy, believe me, dear mrs. parnell, yours truly, henry thompson.
my husband was in great pain on the monday, and seemed to feel a sudden horror that he was being held down by some strong unseen power, and asked my help—thank god, always my help—to fight against it. he tried to get out of bed, although he was too weak to stand, and i had to gently force him back, and cover him up, telling him how dangerous a chill would be. he said: "hold me tight, then, yourself, till i can fight those others." then he seemed to doze for a few minutes, and when he opened his eyes again it was to ask me to lie down beside him and put my hand in his, so that he could "feel" i was there. i did so, and he lay still, quite happy again, and spoke of the "sunny land" where we would go as soon as he was better. "we will be so happy, queenie; there are so many things happier than politics."
{334}
he did not sleep that night, and the next morning (tuesday) he was very feverish, with a bright colour on his usually white face. i wanted to send the dogs from the room, because i feared they would disturb him, but he opened his eyes and said: "not grouse; let old grouse stay, i like him there."
his doctor said that for a day or two we could not look for much improvement. after his medicine that afternoon he lay quietly with his eyes closed, just smiling if i touched him. the doctor came in again, but there was no change, and he left promising to call early the next morning. during the evening my husband seemed to doze, and, listening intently, i heard him mutter "the conservative party."
late in the evening he suddenly opened his eyes and said: "kiss me, sweet wifie, and i will try to sleep a little." i lay down by his side, and kissed the burning lips he pressed to mine for the last time. the fire of them, fierce beyond any i had ever felt, even in his most loving moods, startled me, and as i slipped my hand from under his head he gave a little sigh and became unconscious. the doctor came at once, but no remedies prevailed against this sudden failure of the heart's action, and my husband died without regaining consciousness, before his last kiss was cold on my lips.
there is little more to add. all that last night i sat by my husband watching and listening for the look and the word he would never give me again. all that night i whispered to him to speak to me, and i fancied that he moved, and that the fools who said he was dead did not really know. he had never failed to answer my every look and word before. his face was so peaceful; so well, all the tiredness had gone from it now. i would not open {335} the door because i feared to disturb him—he had always liked us to be alone. and the rain and the wind swept about the house as though the whole world shared my desolation.
he did not make any "dying speech," or refer in any way at the last to his "colleagues and the irish people," as was at the time erroneously reported. i was too broken then and too indifferent to what any sensation-lovers put about to contradict this story, but, as i am now giving to the world the absolutely true account of the parnell whom i knew and loved, i am able to state that he was incapable of an affectation so complete. the last words parnell spoke were given to the wife who had never failed him, to the love that was stronger than death—"kiss me, sweet wifie, and i will try to sleep a little."
