第55部分(第1/7 页)

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　fe