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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