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Noble Woman The Life-Story of Edith Cavell

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<h2>XV</h2> <h3>CONCLUSION</h3> It may be urged against this simple chronicle of the life and death of Edith Cavell that an Englishman could be expected to approach the subject only in too heated and partisan a spirit to set forth the case dispassionately. There is no occasion to import factitious bitterness into the tragedy, which was born in prejudice, suckled in suspicion, and reared to its foul maturity on hatred. All the cogent and damning facts dealing with the arrest, trial, and death of the heroic Red Cross nurse are vouched for by the American Legation in Brussels; these facts[Pg 168] are embodied in the statements communicated by Mr. Whitlock to Mr. Page for transmission to Sir Edward Grey, and may be read in the British 'White Paper,' Miscellaneous No. 17 (1915), entitled, 'Correspondence with the United States Ambassador respecting the execution of Miss Edith Cavell at Brussels.' The American Legation summed up the truth so far as the Germans would allow the truth to be made known—and it may be accepted that what details they permitted to escape from their net of secrecy and deceit would be only those that would enable them to put the best face on what they were pleased to consider merely a regrettable, but inevitable, incident of warfare. In this old world of ours, however, 'murder will out.' Whatever steps Potsdam cunning took to keep the secret in its own dark bosom, the enormity was disclosed to a scornful world, and the Germans found themselves in a common pillory upon which beat the fierce light of a[Pg 169] merciless criticism and well-merited opprobrium. The German authorities may be safely left to the judgement of fair-minded peoples; and in passing it may be remarked that civilized communities have an inherent regard for justice, even when it operates to their own immediate disadvantage. It would be a sorry world if it were otherwise; how sorry a few nations who consigned their honour to the melting-pot can make it, we know only too well. It would be sorrier still but for the firm conviction that in the end right will triumph over might, justice will prevail over injustice, encouraging us to look forward to the time when 'Civilization smiles; Liberty is glad; Humanity rejoices; and Pity exults.' When the welter of blood and the ruinous dissipation of treasure is at an end, and we can appraise our tangible losses in life and money and endeavour to form some conception of the moral gains resulting from the conflict, amid the innumerable individual deeds that make us proud of those of our[Pg 170] race the heroism in life and death of Edith Cavell will shine forth like a precious jewel. It is well to remember that 'of every tear that sorrowing mortals shed, some good is born, some gentler nature comes'; and in her death and the tears that we shed for it, the martyr leaves behind her an inestimable legacy that will yield rich dividends to humanize the souls of those who are left behind to admire and reverence the example of a noble woman. <hr class="short" /> When the foregoing paragraph was written, one's faith in the strength of our Empire and belief in the righteousness of our cause justified the sure knowledge that we had not witnessed the real conclusion of this pathetic soul-rending incident, that was without exact parallel in our varied Empire story; but one could only wait—and wonder. For three further searing years the war continued its desolating course, that entailed the death and mangling of millions of the[Pg 171] combatants and the expenditure of uncountable wealth. The end came with dramatic suddenness that almost paralysed the suffering nations, who could scarcely realize that intense courage, energy, and determination had at length given the Allies the victory. Even while the Germans stood at the bar of justice at the Peace Conference, Mother Empire decided the time had arrived to take Edith Cavell to her own broad bosom; and the dust of one of the most gallant women of our race was brought from Belgium to be reinterred under the shadow of Norwich Cathedral, in the county that must ever be proud that it gave her birth. From Dover the body of Nurse Cavell came through Kent towards the capital; the orchards were in full blossom, the fields golden with buttercups, every bank blue and white with wild flowers, as if England had put on her richest garment to receive her own. From Victoria Station the funeral cortège[Pg 172] passed into the streets amid the wonderful stillness and silence of vast crowds, a tribute of silence that acclaimed the dead no less surely and splendidly than the living heroes of the war had been welcomed home by the heartfelt cheers of the multitude. To the roll of the drums, the stately tread of escorting Coldstreamers, the beautiful melody of funeral marches by the Scots and Welsh Guards' bands, the gun-carriage and its honoured burden came to Westminster Abbey, where, in the shadows of the dim old church, the first portion of the funeral ceremony was to be performed. A great congregation, representing all classes of society, had assembled, and the nursing profession and the various branches of the women's military services were largely in evidence. For fully half an hour the waiting gathering listened enraptured to entrancing and uplifting music of the Grenadier Guards' band. The last notes died away. Suddenly the assembly rose as Queen Alexandra was ushered to her seat. With her was Princess[Pg 173] Victoria; and the King was represented by the Earl of Athlone. A few moments later the strains of Chopin's funeral march could be heard outside the Abbey, betokening the arrival of the cortège; and then beautiful voices echoed and re-echoed through aisle and transept as the choir met the coffin, which progressed slowly from the great west door towards the catafalque that waited to receive its noble burden. Tall Guardsmen bore shoulder high the coffin, covered with the Union Jack, which Edith Cavell had honoured with her life. To rest upon the glorious colours Queen Alexandra had sent a magnificent wreath of red and white carnations and arum lilies, to which an autograph card was attached upon which she had written: <blockquote>In memory of our brave, heroic, never-to-be-forgotten Nurse Cavell. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Life's race well run, Life's work well done, Life's crown well won, Now comes rest. From Alexandra. </div> </div> </blockquote> [Pg 174] The service was marked by severe simplicity that savoured nothing of exultation over a fallen foe; and yet there was the beautiful exultation that belongs essentially to the Church of England Order for the Burial of the Dead, which proceeded with tense emotion until the congregation and choir united in singing 'Abide with me.' The Dean pronounced the blessing. The Dead March from Saul was played with all the poignant appeal of rolling and booming drums, wailing reeds, and the triumphant clangour of brass. The 'Last Post,' heralded by a roll of drums, commencing so softly as scarcely to be audible, swelled to a roar before it died into the silence, on which broke the bugles; and last the 'Réveillé.' Out of the shadows of the centuries into the sunlit street the flower-decked coffin was borne by the eight Guardsmen bearers to be replaced on the gun-carriage, which passed through the crowded City to Liverpool Street Station, en route for Norwich, and every yard of the way there was[Pg 175] evidence that the spirit of Edith Cavell was living in the throngs who mourned her loss, even as they honoured her sacrifice. Later in the day came the final scenes in the obsequies of Edith Cavell at Norwich Cathedral, where the ashes of the world-famous victim of an unchivalrous foe had come home for sepulture in an atmosphere of intimate and almost personal concern. The citizens turned out in tens of thousands. Every department of the civic life of the county was represented, but again the nurses were in the forefront of the picture. Wreaths came from near and far, and among not a few from Belgium was one inscribed 'Elizabeth, Reine des Belges.' The tribute of Empire had already been paid in London, and the closing ceremony was more in keeping with the sweet simplicity of her who was being laid to rest by the side of her mother amid the peaceful and mellow surroundings of the ancient Close, in a sequestered little corner called 'Life's Green.' At the graveside the Bishop of Norwich[Pg 176] delivered a touching address, in which he dwelt more upon the manner of Nurse Cavell's death rather than the work of her life. In conclusion he said: 'Edith Cavell rests under the shade of our cathedral in its eight-hundredth year, adding one more to the long line of those blessed saints of God over whom it has watched in life and death. We will think of her while her body rests in its keeping as herself alive unto God and present with the Lord, and we will look on to the glad day when she and we and all we love, having waited and watched for the glory of the Resurrection, at last shall see <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> The splendour of the morning Dawn on the hills.' </div> </div> <hr class="full tight" /> Printed by the Southampton Times Company, Ltd., 70 Above Bar <hr class="full tight" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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