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I have described his character in my introduction to “The Life and Adventures of J。 G。 Jebb；” by his widow； from which I quote a short passage。
In the city of Mexico； where business men are — business men； he was respected universally； and by the Indians he was adored。 “He is a good man； Jebb；” said an honourable old Jewish trader of that city to me — “a man among a thousand； whom I would trust anywhere。 See； I will prove it to you； amigo： he has lived in this town doing business for years； yet； with all his opportunities； he leaves it poorer than he came here。 Did you ever hear the like of that； amigo？”
Would that there existed more of such noble failures — the ignoble are sufficiently abundant — for then the world might be cleaner than it is。 It matters little now： his day is done； and he has journeyed to that wonderful Hereafter of which during life he had so clear a vision； and that was so often the subject of his delightful and suggestive talk。 But his record remains； the record of a brave and generous man who； as I firmly believe； never did； never even contemplated； a mean or doubtful act。 To those who knew him and have lost sight of him there remain also a bright and chivalrous example and the memory of a most perfect gentleman。
Unfortunately for myself； a connection in the City had introduced me to certain Mexican enterprises in which he was concerned that in due course absorbed no small sum out of my hard earnings。 Also he introduced me to Jebb； which good deed I set against the matter of the unlucky investments。
Jebb urged me to e to Mexico and write a novel about Montezuma； both of which things I did in due course； also as a bait he told me a wonderful and； as I believe； perfectly true tale of hidden treasure which we were to proceed to dig up together。 Of this treasure I will write hereafter。
Jebb and Mrs。 Jebb returned to Mexico during the year 1890； where my wife and I made arrangements to visit them at the mencement of 1891。
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。