02-the death of jean-第3章

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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　gracious　hand　of　death！　　When　Jean's　mother　lay　dead；　all

trace　of　care；　and　trouble；　and　suffering；　and　the　corroding

years　had　vanished　out　of　the　face；　and　I　was　looking　again　upon

it　as　I　had　known　and　worshipped　it　in　its　young　bloom　and　beauty

a　whole　generation　before。



About　three　in　the　morning；　while　wandering　about　the　house

in　the　deep　silences；　as　one　dies　in　times　like　these；　when　there

is　a　dumb　sense　that　something　has　been　lost　that　will　never　be

found　again；　yet　must　be　sought；　if　only　for　the　employment　the

useless　seeking　gives；　I　came　upon　Jean's　dog　in　the　hall

downstairs；　and　noted　that　he　did　not　spring　to　greet　me；

according　to　his　hospitable　habit；　but　came　slow　and　sorrowfully；

also　I　remembered　that　he　had　not　visited　Jean's　apartment　since

the　tragedy。　　Poor　fellow；　did　he　know？　　I　think　so。　　Always　when

Jean　was　abroad　in　the　open　he　was　with　her；　always　when　she　was

in　the　house　he　was　with　her；　in　the　night　as　well　as　in　the　day。

Her　parlor　was　his　bedroom。　　Whenever　I　happened　upon　him　on　the

ground　floor　he　always　followed　me　about；　and　when　I　went

upstairs　he　went　tooin　a　tumultuous　gallop。　　But　now　it　was

different：　　after　patting　him　a　little　I　went　to　the　libraryhe

remained　behind；　when　I　went　upstairs　he　did　not　follow　me；　save

with　his　wistful　eyes。　　He　has　wonderful　eyesbig；　and　kind；　and

eloquent。　　He　can　talk　with　them。　　He　is　a　beautiful　creature；

and　is　of　the　breed　of　the　New　York　police…dogs。　　I　do　not　like

dogs；　because　they　bark　when　there　is　no　occasion　for　it；　but　I

have　liked　this　one　from　the　beginning；　because　he　belonged　to

Jean；　and　because　he　never　barks　except　when　there　is　occasion

which　is　not　oftener　than　twice　a　week。



In　my　wanderings　I　visited　Jean's　parlor。　　On　a　shelf　I

found　a　pile　of　my　books；　and　I　knew　what　it　meant。　　She　was

waiting　for　me　to　come　home　from　Bermuda　and　autograph　them；　then

she　would　send　them　away。　　If　I　only　knew　whom　she　intended　them

for！　　But　I　shall　never　know。　　I　will　keep　them。　　Her　hand　has

touched　themit　is　an　accoladethey　are　noble；　now。



And　in　a　closet　she　had　hidden　a　surprise　for　mea　thing　I

have　often　wished　I　owned：　　a　noble　big　globe。　　I　couldn't　see　it

for　the　tears。　　She　will　never　know　the　pride　I　take　in　it；　and

the　pleasure。　　Today　the　mails　are　full　of　loving　remembrances

for　her：　　full　of　those　old；　old　kind　words　she　loved　so　well；

〃Merry　Christmas　to　Jean！〃　　If　she　could　only　have　lived　one　day

longer！



At　last　she　ran　out　of　money；　and　would　not　use　mine。　　So

she　sent　to　one　of　those　New　York　homes　for　poor　girls　all　the

clothes　she　could　spareand　more；　most　likely。





CHRISTMAS　NIGHT。This　afternoon　they　took　her　away　from　her

room。　　As　soon　as　I　might；　I　went　down　to　the　library；　and　there

she　lay；　in　her　coffin；　dressed　in　exactly　the　same　clothes　she

wore　when　she　stood　at　the　other　end　of　the　same　room　on　the　6th

of　October　last；　as　Clara's　chief　bridesmaid。　　Her　face　was

radiant　with　happy　excitement　then；　it　was　the　same　face　now；

with　the　dignity　of　death　and　the　peace　of　God　upon　it。



They　told　me　the　first　mourner　to　come　was　the　dog。　　He　came

uninvited；　and　stood　up　on　his　hind　legs　and　rested　his　fore　paws

upon　the　trestle；　and　took　a　last　long　look　at　the　face　that　was

so　dear　to　him；　then　went　his　way　as　silently　as　he　had　come。

HE　KNOWS。



At　mid…afternoon　it　began　to　snow。　　The　pity　of　itthat

Jean　could　not　see　it！　　She　so　loved　the　snow。



The　snow　continued　to　fall。　　At　six　o'clock　the　hearse　drew

up　to　the　door　to　bear　away　its　pathetic　burden。　　As　they　lifted

the　casket；　Paine　began　playing　on　the　orchestrelle　Schubert's

〃Impromptu；〃　which　was　Jean's　favorite。　　Then　he　played　the

Intermezzo；　that　was　for　Susy；　then　he　played　the　Largo；　that　was

for　their　mother。　　He　did　this　at　my　request。　　Elsewhere　in　my

Autobiography　I　have　told　how　the　Intermezzo　and　the　Largo　came

to　be　associated　in　my　heart　with　Susy　and　Livy　in　their　last

hours　in　this　life。



From　my　windows　I　saw　the　hearse　and　the　carriages　wind

along　the　road　and　gradually　grow　vague　and　spectral　in　the

falling　snow；　and　presently　disappear。　　Jean　was　gone　out　of　my

life；　and　would　not　come　back　any　more。　　Jervis；　the　cousin　she

had　played　with　when　they　were　babies　togetherhe　and　her

beloved　old　Katywere　conducting　her　to　her　distant　childhood

home；　where　she　will　lie　by　her　mother's　side　once　more；　in　the

company　of　Susy　and　Langdon。





DECEMBER　26TH。　　The　dog　came　to　see　me　at　eight　o'clock　this

morning。　　He　was　very　affectionate；　poor　orphan！　　My　room　will　be

his　quarters　hereafter。



The　storm　raged　all　night。　　It　has　raged　all　the　morning。

The　snow　drives　across　the　landscape　in　vast　clouds；　superb；

sublimeand　Jean　not　here　to　see。





2：30　P。M。It　is　the　time　appointed。　　The　funeral　has　begun。

Four　hundred　miles　away；　but　I　can　see　it　all；　just　as　if　I　were

there。　　The　scene　is　the　library　in　the　Langdon　homestead。

Jean's　coffin　stands　where　her　mother　and　I　stood；　forty　years

ago；　and　were　married；　and　where　Susy's　coffin　stood　thirteen

years　ago；　where　her　mother's　stood　five　years　and　a　half　ago；

and　where　mine　will　stand　after　a　little　time。





FIVE　O'CLOCK。It　is　all　over。





When　Clara　went　away　two　weeks　ago　to　live　in　Europe；　it　was

hard；　but　I　could　bear　it；　for　I　had　Jean　left。　　I　said　WE　would

be　a　family。　　We　said　we　would　be　close　comrades　and　happyjust

we　two。　　That　fair　dream　was　in　my　mind　when　Jean　met　me　at　the

steamer　last　Monday；　it　was　in　my　mind　when　she　received　me　at

the　door　last　Tuesday　evening。　　We　were　together；　WE　WERE　A

FAMILY！　the　dream　had　come　trueoh；　precisely　true；　contentedly；

true；　satisfyingly　true！　and　remained　true　two　whole　days。



And　now？　　Now　Jean　is　in　her　grave！



In　the　graveif　I　can　believe　it。　　God　rest　her　sweet

spirit！



…



1。　　Katy　Lear