02-the death of jean-第2节

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this　morning。　　She　had　had　no　attack　for　months。





Jean　was　so　full　of　life　and　energy　that　she　was　constantly

is　danger　of　overtaxing　her　strength。　　Every　morning　she　was　in

the　saddle　by　half　past　seven；　and　off　to　the　station　for　her

mail。　　She　examined　the　letters　and　I　distributed　them：　　some　to

her；　some　to　Mr。　Paine；　the　others　to　the　stenographer　and

myself。　　She　dispatched　her　share　and　then　mounted　her　horse

again　and　went　around　superintending　her　farm　and　her　poultry　the

rest　of　the　day。　　Sometimes　she　played　billiards　with　me　after

dinner；　but　she　was　usually　too　tired　to　play；　and　went　early　to

bed。



Yesterday　afternoon　I　told　her　about　some　plans　I　had　been

devising　while　absent　in　Bermuda；　to　lighten　her　burdens。　　We

would　get　a　housekeeper；　also　we　would　put　her　share　of　the

secretary…work　into　Mr。　Paine's　hands。



Noshe　wasn't　willing。　　She　had　been　making　plans　herself。

The　matter　ended　in　a　compromise；　I　submitted。　　I　always　did。

She　wouldn't　audit　the　bills　and　let　Paine　fill　out　the　checks

she　would　continue　to　attend　to　that　herself。　　Also；　she　would

continue　to　be　housekeeper；　and　let　Katy　assist。　　Also；　she　would

continue　to　answer　the　letters　of　personal　friends　for　me。　　Such

was　the　compromise。　　Both　of　us　called　it　by　that　name；　though　I

was　not　able　to　see　where　my　formidable　change　had　been　made。



However；　Jean　was　pleased；　and　that　was　sufficient　for　me。

She　was　proud　of　being　my　secretary；　and　I　was　never　able　to　persuade

her　to　give　up　any　part　of　her　share　in　that　unlovely　work。



In　the　talk　last　night　I　said　I　found　everything　going　so

smoothly　that　if　she　were　willing　I　would　go　back　to　Bermuda　in

February　and　get　blessedly　out　of　the　clash　and　turmoil　again　for

another　month。　　She　was　urgent　that　I　should　do　it；　and　said　that

if　I　would　put　off　the　trip　until　March　she　would　take　Katy　and

go　with　me。　　We　struck　hands　upon　that；　and　said　it　was　settled。

I　had　a　mind　to　write　to　Bermuda　by　tomorrow's　ship　and　secure　a

furnished　house　and　servants。　　I　meant　to　write　the　letter　this

morning。　　But　it　will　never　be　written；　now。



For　she　lies　yonder；　and　before　her　is　another　journey　than　that。



Night　is　closing　down；　the　rim　of　the　sun　barely　shows　above　the

sky…line　of　the　hills。



I　have　been　looking　at　that　face　again　that　was　growing　dearer

and　dearer　to　me　every　day。　　I　was　getting　acquainted　with

Jean　in　these　last　nine　months。　　She　had　been　long　an　exile　from

home　when　she　came　to　us　three…quarters　of　a　year　ago。　　She　had

been　shut　up　in　sanitariums；　many　miles　from　us。　　How　eloquent

glad　and　grateful　she　was　to　cross　her　father's　threshold　again！



Would　I　bring　her　back　to　life　if　I　could　do　it？　　I　would　not。

If　a　word　would　do　it；　I　would　beg　for　strength　to　withhold

the　word。　　And　I　would　have　the　strength；　I　am　sure　of　it。　　In

her　loss　I　am　almost　bankrupt；　and　my　life　is　a　bitterness；　but　I

am　content：　　for　she　has　been　enriched　with　the　most　precious　of

all　giftsthat　gift　which　makes　all　other　gifts　mean　and　poor

death。　　I　have　never　wanted　any　released　friend　of　mine　restored

to　life　since　I　reached　manhood。　　I　felt　in　this　way　when　Susy

passed　away；　and　later　my　wife；　and　later　Mr。　Rogers。　　When　Clara

met　me　at　the　station　in　New　York　and　told　me　Mr。　Rogers　had　died

suddenly　that　morning；　my　thought　was；　Oh；　favorite　of　fortune

fortunate　all　his　long　and　lovely　lifefortunate　to　his　latest

moment！　　The　reporters　said　there　were　tears　of　sorrow　in　my

eyes。　　Truebut　they　were　for　ME；　not　for　him。　　He　had　suffered

no　loss。　　All　the　fortunes　he　had　ever　made　before　were　poverty

compared　with　this　one。





Why　did　I　build　this　house；　two　years　ago？　　To　shelter　this

vast　emptiness？　　How　foolish　I　was！　　But　I　shall　stay　in　it。　　The

spirits　of　the　dead　hallow　a　house；　for　me。　　It　was　not　so　with

other　members　of　the　family。　　Susy　died　in　the　house　we　built　in

Hartford。　　Mrs。　Clemens　would　never　enter　it　again。　　But　it　made

the　house　dearer　to　me。　　I　have　entered　it　once　since；　when　it

was　tenantless　and　silent　and　forlorn；　but　to　me　it　was　a　holy

place　and　beautiful。　　It　seemed　to　me　that　the　spirits　of　the

dead　were　all　about　me；　and　would　speak　to　me　and　welcome　me　if

they　could：　　Livy；　and　Susy；　and　George；　and　Henry　Robinson；　and

Charles　Dudley　Warner。　　How　good　and　kind　they　were；　and　how

lovable　their　lives！　　In　fancy　I　could　see　them　all　again；　I

could　call　the　children　back　and　hear　them　romp　again　with

Georgethat　peerless　black　ex…slave　and　children's　idol　who　came

one　daya　flitting　strangerto　wash　windows；　and　stayed

eighteen　years。　　Until　he　died。　　Clara　and　Jean　would　never　enter

again　the　New　York　hotel　which　their　mother　had　frequented　in

earlier　days。　　They　could　not　bear　it。　　But　I　shall　stay　in　this

house。　　It　is　dearer　to　me　tonight　than　ever　it　was　before。

Jean's　spirit　will　make　it　beautiful　for　me　always。　　Her　lonely

and　tragic　deathbut　I　will　not　think　of　that　now。





Jean's　mother　always　devoted　two　or　three　weeks　to　Christmas

shopping；　and　was　always　physically　exhausted　when　Christmas　Eve

came。　　Jean　was　her　very　own　childshe　wore　herself　out　present…

hunting　in　New　York　these　latter　days。　　Paine　has　just　found　on

her　desk　a　long　list　of　namesfifty；　he　thinkspeople　to　whom

she　sent　presents　last　night。　　Apparently　she　forgot　no　one。　　And

Katy　found　there　a　roll　of　bank…notes；　for　the　servants。



Her　dog　has　been　wandering　about　the　grounds　today；

comradeless　and　forlorn。　　I　have　seen　him　from　the　windows。　　She

got　him　from　Germany。　　He　has　tall　ears　and　looks　exactly　like　a

wolf。　　He　was　educated　in　Germany；　and　knows　no　language　but　the

German。　　Jean　gave　him　no　orders　save　in　that　tongue。　　And　so

when　the　burglar…alarm　made　a　fierce　clamor　at　midnight　a

fortnight　ago；　the　butler；　who　is　French　and　knows　no　German；

tried　in　vain　to　interest　the　dog　in　the　supposed　burglar。　　Jean

wrote　me；　to　Bermuda；　about　the　incident。　　It　was　the　last　letter

I　was　ever　to　receive　from　her　bright　head　and　her　competent　hand。

The　dog　will　not　be　neglected。





There　was　never　a　kinder　heart　than　Jean's。　　From　her

childhood　up　she　always　spent　the　most　of　her　allowance　on

charities　of　one　kind　or　another。　　After　she　became　secretary　and

had　her　income　doubled　she　spent　her　money　upon　these　things　with

a　free　hand。　　Mine　too；　I　am　glad　and　grateful　to　say。



She　was　a　loyal　friend　to　all　animals；　and　she　loved　them

all；　birds；　beasts；　and　everythingeven　snakesan　inheritance

from　me。　　She　knew　all　the　birds；　she　was　high　up　in　that　lore。

She　became　a　member　of　various　humane　societies　when　she　was

still　a　little　girlboth　here　and　abroadand　she　remained　an

active　member　to　the　last。　　She　founded　two　or　three　societies

for　the　protection　of　animals；　here　and　in　Europe。



She　was　an　embarrassing　secretary；　for　she　fished　my

correspondence　out　of　the　waste…basket　and　answered　the　letters。

She　thought　all　letters　deserved　the　courtesy　of　an　answer。

Her　mother　brought　her　up　in　that　kindly　error。



She　could　write　a　good　letter；　and　was　swift　with　her　pen。

She　had　but　an　indifferent　ear　music；　but　her　tongue　took　to

languages　with　an　easy　facility。　　She　never　allowed　her　Italian；

French；　and　German　to　get　rusty　through　neglect。



The　telegrams　of　sympathy　are　flowing　in；　from　far　and　wide；

now；　just　as　they　did　in　Italy　five　years　and　a　half　ago；　when

this　child's　mother　laid　down　her　blameless　life。　　They　cannot

heal　the　hurt；　but　they　take　away　some　of　the　pain。　　When　Jean

and　I　kissed　hands　and　parted　at　my　door　last；　how　little　did　we

imagine　that　in　twenty…two　hours　the　telegraph　would　be　bringing

words　like　these：



〃From　the　bottom　of　our　hearts　we　send　out　sympathy；

dearest　of　friends。〃





For　many　and　many　a　day　to　come；　wherever　I　go　in　this　house；

remembrancers　of　Jean　will　mutely　speak　to　me　of　her。　　Who　can

count　the　number　of　them？



She　was　in　exile　two　years　with　the　hope　of　healing　her

maladyepilepsy。　　There　are　no　words　to　express　how　grateful　I

am　that　she　did　not　meet　her　fate　in　the　hands　of　strangers；　but

in　the　loving　shelter　of　her　own　home。





〃MISS　JEAN　IS　DEAD！〃



It　is　true。　　Jean　is　dead。



A　month　ago　I　was　writing　bubbling　and　hilarious　articles

for　magazines　yet　to　appear；　and　now　I　am　writingthis。





CHRISTMAS　DAY。　　NOON。Last　night　I　went　to　Jean's　room　at

intervals；　and　turned　back　the　sheet　and　looked　at　the　peaceful

face；　and　kissed　the　cold　brow；　and　remembered　that　heartbreaking

night　in　Florence　so　long　ago；　in　that　cavernous　and　silent　vast

villa；　when　I　crept　downstairs　so　many　times；　and　turned　back　a

sheet　and　looked　at　a　face　just　like　this　oneJean's　mother's

faceand　kissed　a　brow　that　was　just　like　this　one。　　And　last

night　I　saw　again　what　I　had　seen　thenthat　strange　and　lovely

miraclethe　sweet；　soft　contours　of　early　maidenhood　restored　by

the　g