the days of my life-第60部分

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And　now　I　e　to　a　very　sad　and　terrible　event　that　pierced　me　with　a　sudden　thrust　which　has　left　my　heart　bleeding　to　this　day。　Yes；　still　it　bleeds；　nor　will　the　issue　of　its　blood　be　stayed　till；　as　he　passes　by；　I　touch　the　healing　robes　of　Death。　I　refer　to　the　death　of　my　only　son。
This　child　—　he　was　just　under　ten　when　he　died　—　possessed　a　nature　of　singular　sweetness；　so　sweet　that　its　very　existence　should　have　and　indeed　did　warn　me　of　what　fate　held　in　store　for　us。　So　far　as　my　experience　goes；　children　who　bring　with　them　to　the　earth　this　twilight　glow　of　the　bright　day　in　which　perchance　they　dwelt　elsewhere；　who　wear　upon　their　brows　this　visible　halo　of　an　unnatural　charm　and　goodness；　rarely　remain　to　bless　it　long。　That　which　sent　them　forth　soon　calls　them　back　again。　And　yet；　could　we　but　understand；　their　short　lives　may　not　lack　fruit。　Through　their　influence　on　others　they　may　still　work　on　the　world　they　left。
My　son　Rider　—　he　was　by　his　own　wish　called　Jock；　to　avoid　confusion　between　us　—　was　such　a　child　as　this。　I　can　never　remember　his　doing　what　he　should　not；　save　once　when　he　teased　his　little　sisters　by　refusing　to　allow　them　to　e　out　of　a　place　where　he　had　prisoned　them；　and　for　his　pains　had　the　only　scolding　I　ever　gave　him。　Yet　he　was　no　milksop　or　“mother’s　darling。”　He　bore　pain　well；　would　ride　any　horse　on　which　he　could　climb；　and　even　while　he　was　still　in　frocks　I　have　known　him　attack　with　his　little　fists　someone　who　made　pretence　to　strike　me。　He　was　an　imaginative　child。　One　example　will　suffice。　We　left　London　on　our　holiday：　it　was　the　year　in　which　I　ain。”　When　we　drove　from　the　station　to　the　farm　the　full　moon　shone　in　the　summer　sky。　“Look；　dad；”　he　said；　pointing　to　it；　“there　is　God’s　lamp！”
The　boy　was　beloved　by　everyone　who　knew　him；　and　in　turn　loved　all　about　him；　but　especially　his　mother　and　myself。　How　much　I；　to　whom　all　my　children　are　so　dear；　loved；　or　rather　love；　him　I　cannot　tell。　He　was　my　darling；　for　him　I　would　gladly　have　laid　down　my　life。
It　is　strange；　but　when　I　went　to　Mexico　I　knew；　almost　without　doubt；　that　in　this　world　he　and　I　would　never　see　each　other　more。　Only　I　thought　it　was　I　who　was　doomed　to　die。　Otherwise　it　is　plain　that　I　should　never　have　started　on　that　journey。　With　this　surety　in　my　heart　—　it　was　with　me　for　weeks　before　we　sailed　—　the　parting　was　bitter　indeed。　The　boy　was　to　stay　with　friends；　the　Gosses。　I　bade　him　good…bye　and　tore　myself　away。　I　returned　after　some　hours。　A　chance；　I　forget　what；　had　prevented　the　servant；　a　tall　dark　woman　whose　name　is　lost　to　me；　from　starting　with　him　to　Delamere　Crescent　till　later　than　was　expected。　He　was　still　in　my　study　—　about　to　go。　Once　more　I　went　through　that　agony　of　a　separation　which　I　knew　to　be　the　last。　With　a　cheerful　face　I　kissed　him　—　I　remember　how　he　flung　his　arms　about　my　neck　—　in　a　cheerful　voice　I　blessed　him　and　bade　him　farewell；　promising　to　write。　Then　he　went　through　the　door　and　it　was　finished。　I　think　I　wept。
I　said　nothing　of　this　secret　foreknowledge　of　mine；　nor　did　I　attempt　to　turn　from　the　road　that　I　had　chosen　because　I　was　aware　of　what　awaited　me　thereon。　Only　I　made　every　possible　preparation　for　my　death　—　even　to　sealing　up　all　important　papers　in　a　despatch…box　and　depositing　them　in　Messrs。　Gosling’s　Bank；　where　I　knew　they　would　be　at　once　available。
But　alas！　my　spirit　saw　imperfectly。　Or　perhaps　knowing　only　that　Death　stood　between　us；　I　jumped　to　the　conclusion　that　it　was　on　me　of　an　older　generation　that　his　hand　would　fall；　on　me　who　was　about　to　undertake　a　journey　which　I　guessed　to　be　dangerous；　including　as　it　did　a　visit　to　the　ruins　of　Palenque；　whither　at　the　time　few　travellers　ventured。　It　never　occurred　to　me　that　he　was　waiting　for　my　son。
About　six　weeks　later　—　for　I　may　as　well　tell　the　story　out　and　be　done　with　it　—　that　hand　fell。　My　presentiments　had　returned　to　me　with　terrible　strength　and　persistence。　One　Sunday　morning　in　the　Jebbs’　house　in　Mexico　City；　as　we　were　preparing　to　go　to　church；　they　were　fulfilled。　Mrs。　Jebb　called　us　to　their　bedroom。　She　had　a　paper　in　her　hand。　“Something　is　wrong　with　one　of　your　children；”　she　said　brokenly。　“Which？”　I　asked；　aware　that　this　meant　death；　no　less；　and　waited。　“Jock；”　was　the　reply；　and　the　dreadful　telegram；　our　first　intimation　of　his　illness；　was　read。　It　said　that　he　had　“passed　away　peacefully”　some　few　hours　before。　There　were　no　details　or　explanations。
Then　in　truth　I　descended　into　hell。　Of　the　suffering　of　the　poor　mother　I　will　not　speak。　They　belong　to　her　alone。
I　can　see　the　room　now。　Jebb　weeping　by　the　unmade　bed；　the　used　basins　—　all；　all。　And　in　the　midst　of　it　myself　—　with　a　broken　heart！　Were　I　a　living　man　when　these　words　are　read　—　why；　it　would　be　wrong　that　I　should　rend　the　veil；　I　who　never　speak　of　this　matter；　who　never　even　let　that　dear　name　pass　my　lips。　But　they　will　not　be　read　till　I；　too；　am　gone　and　have　learned　whatever　there　is　to　know。　Perhaps　also　the　tale　has　its　lessons。　At　any　rate　it　is　a　page　in　my　history　that　cannot　be　omitted；　though　it　be　torn　from　the　living　heart　and；　some　may　think；　too　sad　to　dwell　on。
This　morning；　not　an　hour　since；　I　stood　by　my　son’s　grave　and　read　what　I　had　carved　upon　his　cross：　“I　shall　go　to　him。”　Now　that　I　am　growing　old　these　words　are　full　of　fort　and　meaning　to　me。　Soon；　after　all　these　long　years　of　separation；　I　shall　go　to　him　and　put　my　faith　to　proof。　If　it　be　true；　as　I　believe；　then　surely　my　spirit　will　find　his　spirit；　though　it　must　search　from　world　to　world。　If；　with　all　earth’s　suffering　millions；　I　am　deluded；　then　let　the　same　everlasting　darkness　be　our　bed　and　canopy。
On　my　return　from　Mexico　I　wrote　a　romance　called　“Montezuma’s　Daughter。”　In　this　tale　the　teller　loses　his　children；　and　I　put　into　his　mouth　what　myself　I　felt。　Here　are　the　words：　I　cannot　better　them　after　all　these　years；　and　they　are　as　true　to　me　now　as　they　were　then。
Ah！　we　think　much　of　the　sorrows　of　our　youth；　and　should　a　sweetheart　give　us　the　go…by；　we　fill　the　world　with　moans　and　swear　that　it　holds　no　fort　for　us。　But　when　we　bend　our　heads　before　the　shrouded　shape　of　some　lost　child；　then　it　is　that　for　the　first　time　we　learn　how　terrible　grief　can　be。　Time；　they　tell　us；　will　bring　consolation；　but　it　is　false；　for　such　sorrow　time　has　no　salves。　I　say　it　who　am　old　—　as　they　are　so　shall　they　be。　There　is　no　hope　but　faith；　there　is　no　fort　save　in　the　truth　that　love　which　might　have　withered　on　the　earth　grows　fastest　in　the　tomb；　to　flower　gloriously　in　heaven；　that　no　love　indeed　can　be　perfect　till　God　sanctifies　and　pletes　it　with　His　seal　of　death。
I　wrote　just　now　that；　for　reasons　I　hope　to　set　out　later　in　this　book；　I　believed　my　faith；　which　amongst　other　things　promises　reunion　of　the　death…divided；　to　be　a　true　faith。　Indeed；　if　it　be　otherwise；　what　a　hell　is　this　in　which　we　live。　Thrusting　from　the　memory　all　other　trials　and　sorrows；　not　for　any　finite　earthly　life　that　could　be　promised　me　would　I　endure　again　from　year　to　year　the　agony　I　have　suffered　on　the　one　count　of　this　bereavement；　which　is　after　all；　so　mon　and　everyday　a　thing。　If　ever；　in　some　dread　hour；　faith　in　all　its　forms　should　be　proved　a　dream　and　mockery；　surely　in　the　same　hour　will　sound　the　death…knell　of　all　that　is　best　in　the　educated　world。　Brutes　which　guess　of　nothing　better　can　live　happy　till　the　butcher　finds　them：　men　who　believe　can　endure　till　God　consoles　or　calls　them。　But　will　the　much…developed　man　whose　heart…strings；　like　those　of　the　Aeolian　harp；　must　thrill　and　sob　in　every　wind　of　pain　—　will　he　continue　to　endure　if　once　he　is　assured　that　beneath　the　precipice　from　which　he　will　presently　be　hurled　there　is　—　Nothing？　Knowing　all　they　must　be　called　upon　to　suffer　at　the　best；　will　he　breed　children；　perhaps　to　see　them　thrown　from　the　stark　cliff　before　his　eyes　and　there　to　cease　to　be　for　ever？　（The　case　of　France；　where　I　believe　faith　grows　very　weak；　seems　to　give　answer　to　this　question。　Yesterday　I　read　that　in　that　country　during　1911　the　deaths　exceeded　the　births　by　over　thirty　thousand。　My　conviction　is　that；　unless　faith　returns　to　her　in　some　form；　as　a　nation　France　is　doomed。　She　will　fall　as　Rome　fell；　and　from　the　same　cause。）
In　short；　I　hold　that　God　and　a　belief　in　a　future　life　where　there　is　no　more　pain　and　tears　are　wiped　from　off　all　faces　are　necessities　to　civilised　and　thoughtful　man；　and　that　without　them；　slowly　perhaps；　but　surely；　he　will　cease　to　be。　He　will　mit　suicide　when　Fortune　frowns；　as　did　the　Roman　who　had　outgrown　his　gods；　he　will　refuse　to　propagate　his　kind；　as　do　the　French。　Why　should　he　breed　them　to　be　the　bread　of　Death？
Such　are　the　conclusions　at　which　I　have　arrived　after　many　years　of　reflection　which　began　at　the　time　of　my　great　grief。　They　may　be　right　or　they　may　be　wrong；　that　the　future　history　of　the　white　races　will　reveal。　At　least　I　believe　in　them。　Nor　do　I　believe　alone。　But　yesterday　I　was　speaking　on　these　matters　to　a　bishop　of　the　English　Church；　a　very　able　and　enlightened　man。　I　found　that　my　views　were　his　views；　and　my　conclusions　his　conclusions。　Also　he　thought；　as　I　do；　that　many　of　our　present　troubles；　industrial　and　other；　arise　from　the　loss　of　faith　among　men。　The　feast　of　Life；　such　as　it　is；　is　spread　before　their　eyes。　They　would　help　themselves　to　the　meagre　and　bitter　fare　they　see；　and　who　can　wonder？　“Let　us　eat　and　drink；　for　tomorrow　we　die。”
To　return　to　the　sorrow　which　gave　rise　to　these　reflections。　I　staggered　from　the　room；　I　wrote　a　cable　directing　that　the　burial　should　take　place　by　the　chancel　door　of　Ditchingham　Church；　where　now　he　lies。　Afterwards　I　took　up　a　Bible　and　opened　it　at　hazard。　The　words　that　my　eyes　fell　on　were　“Suffer　little　children　to　e　unto　me；　and　forbid　them　not。”　The　strange　chance　seemed　to　cheer　me　a　little。　That　afternoon　I　went　for　a　walk　in　the　great　avenue。　Never　shall　I　forget　that　walk　among　the　gay　and　fashionable　Mexicans。　I　did　not　know　till　then　what　a　man　can　endure　and　live。
Now　I　have　e　to　understand　that　this　woe　has　two　sides。　If　he　had　lived　who　knows　w