O, Clara, Clara dear, I am so glad she is out of it & safe—safe!
I am not melancholy; I shall never be melancholy again, I think.
You see, I was in such distress when I came to realize that you were gone far away & no one stood between her & danger but me—& I could die at any moment, & then—oh then what would become of her! For she was wilful, you know, & would not have been governable.
You can't imagine what a darling she was that last two or three days; & how fine, & good, & sweet, & noble—& joyful, thank Heaven! —& how intellectually brilliant. I had never been acquainted with Jean before. I recognized that.
But I mustn't try to write about her—I can't. I have already
poured my heart out with the pen, recording that last day or two.
I will send you that—& you must let no one but Ossip read it.
Good-by. I love you so! And Ossip.
FATHER.
CCXC
THE RETURN TO BERMUDA
I don't think he attempted any further writing for print. His mind was busy with ideas, but he was willing to talk, rather than to write, rather even than to play billiards, it seemed, although we had a few quiet games—the last we should ever play together. Evenings he asked for music, preferring the Scotch airs, such as "Bonnie Doon" and "The Campbells are Coming." I remember that once, after playing the latter for him, he told, with great feeling, how the Highlanders, led by Gen. Colin Campbell, had charged at Lucknow, inspired by that stirring air. When he had retired I usually sat with him, and he drifted into literature, or theology, or science, or history—the story of the universe and man.
One evening he spoke of those who had written but one immortal thing and stopped there. He mentioned "Ben Bolt."