FullReads

“I make you my executor,” she murmured, “as to the drama. But my other manuscripts place, when I am gone, under my head, and let them be buried with me. They are not many–those you have and these. See!”

I followed her gesture, and saw under her pillows the edges of two more copybooks like the one I had. “Do not look at them–my poor dead children!” she said tenderly. “Let them depart with me–unread, as I have been.”

Later she whispered, “Did you wonder why I came to you? It was the contrast. You were young–strong–rich–praised–loved–successful: all that I was not. I wanted to look at you–and imagine how it would feel. You had success–but I had the greater power. Tell me, did I not have it?”

“Yes, Aaronna.”

“It is all in the past now. But I am satisfied.”

After another pause she said with a faint smile, “Do you remember when I fell asleep in your parlor? It was the good and rich food. It was so long since I had had food like that!”

I took her hand and held it, conscience-stricken, but now she hardly seemed to perceive my touch. “And the smoking?” she whispered. “Do you remember how you laughed? I saw it. But I had heard that smoking soothed–that one was no longer tired and hungry–with a cigar.”

In little whispers of this sort, separated by long rests and pauses, the night passed. Once she asked if her aunt was asleep, and when I answered in the affirmative she said, “Help her to return home–to America: the drama will pay for it. I ought never to have brought her away.”

I promised, and she resumed her bright-eyed silence.

I think she did not speak again. Toward morning the change came, and soon after sunrise, with her old aunt kneeling by her side, she passed away.

All was arranged as she had wished. Her manuscripts, covered with violets, formed her pillow. No one followed her to the grave save her aunt and myself; I thought she would prefer it so. Her name was not “Crief,” after all, but “Moncrief;” I saw it written out by Aunt Martha for the coffin-plate, as follows: “Aaronna Moncrief, aged forty-three years, two months, and eight days.”

I never knew more of her history than is written here. If there was more that I might have learned, it remained unlearned, for I did not ask.

And the drama? I keep it here in this locked case. I could have had it published at my own expense; but I think that now she knows its faults herself, perhaps, and would not like it.

I keep it; and, once in a while, I read it over–not as a memento mori exactly, but rather as a memento of my own good fortune, for which I should continually give thanks. The want of one grain made all her work void, and that one grain was given to me. She, with the greater power, failed–I, with the less, succeeded. But no praise is due to me for that. When I die “Armor” is to be destroyed unread: not even Isabel is to see it. For women will misunderstand each other; and, dear and precious to me as my sweet wife is, I could not bear that she or any one should cast so much as a thought of scorn upon the memory of the writer, upon my poor dead, “unavailable,” unaccepted “Miss Grief.”