the days of my life-第67部分

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droom。　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　what　might　have　chanced　to　him？　And　the　holy　love　which　was　between　us；　might　it　not　have　faded　after　the　fashion　of　this　world？　As　things　are　it　remains　an　unchangeable；　perfect；　and　eternal　thing。　Further；　notwithstanding　all；　I　am　glad　that　he　lived　with　us　for　those　few　years。　His　sufferings　were　short；　his　little　life　was　happy　while　it　endured；　he　　the　world；　and；　lastly；　I　believe　that　the　soul　which　has　been；　is　and　will　be。22
21　My　son　died　suddenly　of　a　perforating　ulcer　after　an　attack　of　measles。　Perhaps　surgery　could　have　saved　him　today。　—　H。　R。　H。
As　for　myself；　I　was　crushed；　my　nerves　broke　down　entirely；　and　the　rest　of　the　Mexican　visit；　with　its　rough　journeyings；　is　to　me　a　kind　of　nightmare。　Not　for　many　years　did　I　shake　off　the　effects　of　the　shock；　indeed　I　have　never　done　so　altogether。　It　has　left　me　with　a　heritage　of　apprehensions；　not　for　myself　personally　—　I　am　content　to　take　what　es　—　but　for　others。　My　health　gave　out。　I　left　London；　which　I　could　no　longer　bear；　and　hid　myself　away　here　in　the　country。　The　other　day　I　found　a　letter　of　this　period；　sent　to　me　as　an　enclosure　on　some　matter；　in　which　the　writer　speaks　of　me　as　being　“quite　unapproachable　since　the　death　of　his　only　son。”　So；　indeed；　I　think　I　was。　Moreover；　at　this　time　the　influenza　attacked　me　again　and　again；　and　left　me　very　weak。
We　did　not　e　home　at　once　—　what　was　the　good　of　returning　to　the　desolated　home？　Our　boy　had　died　in　a　strange　house　and　been　brought　to　Ditchingham　for　burial。　What　was　the　good　of　returning　home？　So　there；　far　away；　in　due　course　letters　reached　us　with　these　dreadful　details　and　heart…piercing　messages　of　farewell。
And　now　I　have　done　with　this　terrible　episode　and　will　get　me　to　my　tale　again。　The　wound　has　been　seared　by　time　—　few；　perhaps　none；　would　guess　that　it　existed；　but　it　will　never　heal。　I　think　I　may　say　that　from　then　till　now　no　day　has　passed；　and　often　no　hour；　when　the　thought　of　my　lost　boy　has　not　been　present　with　me。　I　can　only　bow　the　head　and　murmur；　“God’s　will　be　done！”
I　remember　reading　in　one　of　R。　L。　Stevenson’s　published　letters；　written　after　he　had　helped　to　nurse　a　sick　child；　that　nothing　would　induce　him　to　bee　a　father；　for　fear；　I　gathered；　lest　one　day　he　might　be　called　upon　to　nurse　his　own　sick　child。　I　can　well　understand　the　effect　of　the　experience　on　a　highly　sensitive　nature；　and；　as　a　matter　of　fact；　he　died　childless。　Yet；　as　I　read；　I　wondered　what　he　would　have　felt　had　such　a　lightning　shaft　as　fell　upon　my　head　from　heaven　smitten　and　shattered　him。
Perhaps；　being　frail；　he　would　have　died。　But　I　was　tougher；　and　lived　on。　More：　I　went　among　murderers　and　escaped；　I　wandered　into　the　fever　lands；　and　never　took　it；　the　brute　I　rode　fell　in　a　flooded　river；　and　I　did　not　drown；　I　was　in　peril　on　the　sea；　and　came　safe　to　shore。　It　was　decreed　that　I　should　live　on。
On　our　arrival　in　New　York　on　our　way　to　Mexico；　on　January　10；　1891；　I　was　seized　upon　by　numbers　of　reporters。　Now　the　single　reporter　may　be　dealt　with；　preferably　by　making　him　talk　about　himself；　which　is　a　subject　far　more　int