Soon after the death of Burbank's wife, his sister and brother-in-law,
the Gracies, had come with their three children to live with him and to
look after his boy and girl. Trouble between his family and mine,
originating in some impertinences of the oldest Gracie girl, spread from
the children to the grown people until, when he went into the White
House, he and I were the only two on speaking terms. I see now that this
situation had large influence on me in holding aloof and waiting always
for overtures from him. At the time I thought, as no doubt he thought
also, that the quarrel was beneath the notice of men.
At any rate my family decided not to come to Washington during his first
winter in the White House. I lived alone at the Willard. One afternoon
toward the end of February I returned there from the Senate and found
Woodruff, bad news in his face. "What is it?" I asked indifferently,
for I assumed it was some political tangle.
"Your wife--was taken--very ill--very suddenly," he said. His eyes told
me the rest.
If I had ever asked myself how this news would affect me, I should have
answered that it would give me a sensation of relief. But, instead of
relief, I felt the stunning blow of a wave of sorrow which has never
wholly receded. Not because I loved her--that I never did. Not because
she was the mother of my children--my likes and dislikes are direct and
personal. Not because she was my wife--that bond had been galling. Not
because I was fond of her--she had one of those cold, angry natures that
forbid affection. No; I was overwhelmed because she and I had been
intimates, with all the closest interests of life in common, with the
whole world, even my children whom I loved passionately, outside that
circle which fate had drawn around us two. I imagine this is not
uncommon among married people,--this unhealable break in their routine
of association when one departs. No doubt it often passes with the
unthinking for love belatedly discovered.
"She did not suffer," said Woodruff gently. "It was heart disease. She
had just come in from a ride with your oldest daughter. They were
resting and talking in high spirits by the library fire. And then--the
end came--like putting out the light."
Heart disease! Often I had noted the irregular beat of her heart--a
throb, a long pause, a flutter, a short pause, a throb. And I could
remember that more than once the sound had been followed by the shadowy
appearance, in the door of my mind, of one of those black thoughts which
try to tempt hope but only make it hide in shame and dread. Now, the
memory of those occasions tormented me into accusing myself of having
wished her gone. But it was not so.
She had told me she had heart trouble; but she had confided to no one
that she knew it might bring on the end at any moment. She left a
letter, sealed and addressed to me: