That is what Katy said.When I heard the door open behind the bed's head without a preliminary knock, I supposed it was Jean coming to kiss me good morning, she being the only person who was used to entering without formalities.
And so--
I have been to Jean's parlor.Such a turmoil of Christmas presents for servants and friends! They are everywhere; tables, chairs, sofas, the floor--everything is occupied, and over-occupied.It is many and many a year since I have seen the like.
In that ancient day Mrs.Clemens and I used to slip softly into the nursery at midnight on Christmas Eve and look the array of presents over.The children were little then.And now here is Jean's parlor looking just as that nursery used to look.The presents are not labeled--the hands are forever idle that would have labeled them today.Jean's mother always worked herself down with her Christmas preparations.Jean did the same yesterday and the preceding days, and the fatigue has cost her her life.The fatigue caused the convulsion that attacked her 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.
No--she 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 Iwas 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 Iam content: for she has been enriched with the most precious of all gifts--that 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 life--fortunate to his latest moment! The reporters said there were tears of sorrow in my eyes.True--but 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, Icould call the children back and hear them romp again with George--that peerless black ex-slave and children's idol who came one day--a flitting stranger--to 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 death--but I will not think of that now.
