SEVENTH NARRATIVE

by Wilkie Collins

Frizinghall, Wednesday, September 26th, 1849.

Dear Mr. Franklin Blake,

I’m afraid I have some sad news to share with you. You’ll find your letter to Ezra Jennings returned to you, unopened, in this envelope. He passed away in my arms at sunrise last Wednesday.

I can’t say I’m to blame for not warning you that his end was near. He specifically asked me not to write to you. “I owe Mr. Franklin Blake a debt for the happy days I’ve had,” he said. “Please don’t distress him, Mr. Candy—don’t distress him.”

His suffering in the last hours of his life was heartbreaking to witness. During the moments when he was lucid, I urged him to tell me about any relatives I could contact. He apologized for refusing to share anything with me. Then, without bitterness, he declared that he would die as he had lived—forgotten and unknown. He held firm to that decision until the very end. There’s no hope now of uncovering anything more about him. His story remains a mystery.

The day before he died, he told me where to find all his papers. I brought them to him on his bed. There was a small bundle of old letters that he set aside, his unfinished book, and his diary, which was kept in several locked volumes. He opened the one for this year and tore out the pages that covered the time you spent together. “Give those to Mr. Franklin Blake,” he instructed. “In the future, he may want to look back at what’s written there.” Then he clasped his hands and fervently prayed for God to bless you and those dear to you. He expressed a desire to see you again, but then quickly changed his mind. “No,” he said when I offered to write. “I won’t distress him! I won’t distress him!”

At his request, I gathered the other papers—the bundle of letters, the unfinished book, and the volumes of the diary—and enclosed them all in one wrapper, sealed with my own seal. “Promise me,” he said, “that you will place this in my coffin with your own hand, and that no one else will touch it afterwards.”

I gave him my word. And I kept that promise.

He asked me to do one more thing for him, which was a difficult struggle for me to accept. “Let my grave be forgotten,” he said. “Give me your word of honor that you won’t allow any kind of monument—not even a simple tombstone—to mark my burial place. Let me sleep nameless. Let me rest unknown.” When I tried to persuade him to change his mind, he became violently agitated for the first and only time. I couldn’t bear to see him like that, so I relented. Now, only a small grass mound marks his resting place. In time, tombstones will rise around it, and those who come after us will look and wonder about the nameless grave.

As I mentioned, for six hours before he died, his suffering ceased. He dozed a little, and I think he dreamed. A few times, he smiled. A woman’s name—“Ella,” I believe—was often on his lips during this time. Just minutes before the end, he asked me to lift him on his pillow so he could see the sunrise through the window. He was very weak, and his head fell on my shoulder. He whispered, “It’s coming!” Then he said, “Kiss me!” I kissed his forehead. Suddenly, he lifted his head. The sunlight touched his face, and a beautiful, angelic expression came over him. He cried out three times, “Peace! peace! peace!” Then his head sank back onto my shoulder, and the long struggle of his life came to an end.

So he has left us. I believe he was a great man, though the world never recognized him. He had the sweetest temperament I’ve ever encountered. His loss leaves me feeling very lonely. Perhaps I haven’t been quite myself since my illness. Sometimes, I think about giving up my practice and going away to see what some foreign baths and waters might do for me.

I’ve heard that you and Miss Verinder are to be married next month. Please accept my warmest congratulations.

The pages of my poor friend’s journal are waiting for you at my house, sealed with your name on the wrapper. I was afraid to send them through the post.

Please extend my best regards and good wishes to Miss Verinder. I remain, dear Mr. Franklin Blake, truly yours,

THOMAS CANDY.