the path of the king-第50节

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Stanton　moved　to　the　foot　of　the　bed　like　one　in　a　dream。　He　saw　that　Barnes；　the　Surgeon…General；　sat　on　a　deal　chair　on　the　left　side；　holding　the　dying　man's　hand。　Dr。　Gurley；　the　minister；　sat　beside　the　bed。　He　noted　Sumner　and　Welles　and　General　Halleck　and　Governor　Dennison；　and　back　in　the　gloom　the　young　Robert　Lincoln。　But　he　observed　them　only　as　he　would　have　observed　figures　in　a　picture。　They　were　but　shadows；　the　living　man　was　he　who　was　struggling　on　the　bed　with　death。

Lincoln's　great　arms　and　chest　were　naked；　and　Stanton；　who　had　thought　of　him　as　meagre　and　shrunken；　was　amazed　at　their　sinewy　strength。　He　remembered　that　he　had　once　heard　of　him　as　a　village　Hercules。　The　President　was　unconscious；　but　some　tortured　nerve　made　him　moan　like　an　animal　in　pain。　It　was　a　strange　sound　to　hear　from　one　who　had　been　wont　to　suffer　with　tight　lips。　To　Stanton　it　heightened　the　spectral　unreality　of　the　scene。　He　seemed　to　be　looking　at　a　death　in　a　stage　tragedy。

The　trivial　voice　of　Welles　broke　the　silence。　He　had　to　give　voice　to　the　emotion　which　choked　him。

〃His　dream　has　come　true；〃　he　said〃the　dream　he　told　us　about　at　the　Cabinet　this　morning。　His　ship　is　nearing　the　dark　shore。　He　thought　it　signified　good　news　from　Sherman。〃

Stanton　did　not　reply。　To　save　his　life　he　could　not　have　uttered　a　word。

Then　Gurley；　the　minister；　spoke；　very　gently；　for　he　was　a　simple　man　sorely　moved。

〃He　has　looked　so　tired　for　so　long。　He　will　have　rest　now；　the　deep　rest　of　the　people　of　God。　。　。　。　　He　has　died　for　us　all。　。　。　。　　To…day　nineteen　hundred　years　ago　the　Son　of　Man　gave　His　life　for　the　world。　。　。　。　　The　President　has　followed　in　his　Master's　steps。〃

Sumner　was　repeating　softly　to　himself；　like　a　litany；　that　sentence　from　the　second　Inaugural〃With　malice　toward　none；　with　charity　for　all。〃

But　Stanton　was　in　no　mood　for　words。　He　was　looking　at　the　figure　on　the　bed；　the　great　chest　heaving　with　the　laboured　but　regular　breath；　and　living　again　the　years　of　colleagueship　and　conflict。　He　had　been　Loyal　to　him：　yes；　thank　God　　he　had　been　loyal。　He　had　quarrelled；　thwarted；　criticised；　but　he　had　never　failed　him　in　a　crisis。　He　had　held　up　his　hands　as　Aaron　and　Hur　held　up　the　hands　of　Moses。　。　。

The　Secretary　for　War　was　not　in　the　habit　of　underrating　his　own　talents　and　achievements。　But　in　that　moment　they　seemed　less　than　nothing。　Humility　shook　him　like　a　passion。　Till　his　dying　day　his　one　boast　must　be　that　he　had　served　that　figure　on　the　camp…bed。　It　had　been　his　high　fortune　to　have　his　lot　cast　in　the　vicinity　of　supreme　genius。　With　awe　he　realised　that　he　was　looking　upon　the　passing　of　the　very　great。　。　。　。　There　had　never　been　such　a　man。　There　could　never　be　such　an　one　again。　So　patient　and　enduring；　so　wise　in　all　great　matters；　so　potent　to　inspire　a　multitude；　so　secure　in　his　own　soul。　。　。　。　Fools　would　chatter　about　his　being　a　son　of　the　people　and　his　career　a　triumph　of　the　average　man。　Average！　Great　God；　he　was　a　ruler　of　princes；　a　master；　a　compeller　of　men。　。　。　。　He　could　imagine　what　noble　nonsense　Sumner　would　talk。　。　。　。　He　looked　with　disfavor　at　the　classic　face　of　the　Bostonian。

But　Sumner　for　once　seemed　to　share　his　feelings。　He；　too；　was　looking　with　reverent　eyes　towards　the　bed；　and　as　he　caught　Stanton's　gaze　he　whispered　words　which　the　Secretary　for　War　did　not　condemn：　〃The　beauty　of　Israel　is　slain　upon　thy　high　places。〃

The　night　hours　crawled　on　with　an　intolerable　slowness。　Some　of　the　watchers　sat；　but　Stanton　remained　rigid　at　the　bed…foot。　He　had　not　been　well　of　late　and　had　been　ordered　a　long　rest　by　his　doctor；　but　he　was　not　conscious　of　fatigue。　He　would　not　have　left　his　post　for　a　king's　ransom；　for　he　felt　himself　communing　with　the　dying；　sharing　the　last　stage　in　his　journey　as　he　had　shared　all　the　rough　marches。　His　proud　spirit　found　a　certain　solace　in　the　abasement　of　its　humbleness。

A　little　before　six　the　morning　light　began　to　pale　the　lamps。　The　window　showed　a　square　of　grey　cloudy　sky；　and　outside　on　the　porch　there　was　a　drip　of　rain。　The　faces　revealed　by　the　cold　dawn　were　as　haggard　and　yellow　as　that　of　the　dying　man。　Wafts　of　the　outer　air　began　to　freshen　the　stuffiness　of　the　little　room。

The　city　was　waking　up。　There　came　the　sound　of　far…away　carts　and　horses；　and　a　boy　in　the　lane　behind　the　house　began　to　whistle；　and　then　to　sing。　〃When　I　was　young；〃　he　sang

　　　　　〃When　I　was　young　I　used　to　wait　　　　　　At　Magea'n　table　'n'　hand　de　plate　　　　　　An'　pais　de　bottie　when　he　was　dry；　　　　　　An'　brush　away　de　blue…tailed　fly。〃

〃It's　his　song；〃　Stanton　said　to　himself；　and　with　the　air　came　a　rush　of　strange　feelings。　He　remembered　a　thousand　things；　which　before　had　been　only　a　background　of　which　he　had　been　scarcely　conscious。　The　constant　kindliness；　the　gentle　healing　sympathy；　the　homely　humour　which　he　once　thought　had　irritated　but　which　he　now　knew　had　soothed　him。　。　。　。　　This　man　had　been　twined　round　the　roots　of　every　heart。　All　night　he　had　been　in　an　ecstasy　of　admiration；　but　now　that　was　forgotten　in　a　yearning　love。　The　President　had　been　part　of　his　being；　closer　to　him　than　wife　or　child。　The　boy　sang

　　　　　〃But　I　can't　forget；　until　I　die　　　　　　Ole　Massa　an'　de　blue…tailed　fly。〃

Stanton's　eyes　filled　with　hot　tears。　He　had　not　wept　since　his　daughter　died。

The　breathing　from　the　bed　was　growing　faint。　Suddenly　the　Surgeon…General　held　up　his　hand。　He　felt　the　heart　and　shook　his　head。　〃Fetch　your　mother；〃　he　said　to　Robert　Lincoln。　The　minister　had　dropped　on　his　knees　by　the　bedside　and　was　praying。

〃The　President　is　dead；〃　said　the　Surgeon…General；　and　at　the　words　it　seemed　that　every　head　in　the　room　was　bowed　on　the　breast。

Stanton　took　a　step　forward　with　a　strange　appealing　motion　of　the　arms。　It　was　noted　by　more　than　one　that　his　pale　face　was　transfigured。

〃Yesterday　he　was　America's；〃　he　cried。　〃Our　very　own。　Now　he　is　all　the　world's。　。　。　。　Now　he　belongs　to　the　ages。〃



EPILOGUE

Mr。　Francis　Hamilton；　an　honorary　attache　of　the　British　Embassy；　stood　on　the　steps　of　the　Capitol　watching　the　procession　which　bore　the　President's　body　from　the　White　House　to　lie　in　state　in　the　great　Rotunda。　He　was　a　young　man　of　some　thirty　summers；　who　after　a　distinguished　Oxford　career　was　preparing　himself　with　a　certain　solemnity　for　the　House　of　Commons。　He　sought　to　be　an　authority　on　Foreign　affairs；　and　with　this　aim　was　making　a　tour　among　the　legations。　Two　years　before　he　had　come　to　Washington；　intending　to　remain　for　six　months；　and　somewhat　to　his　own　surprise　had　stayed　on；　declining　to　follow　his　kinsman　Lord　Lyons　to　Constantinople。　Himself　a　staunch　follower　of　Mr。　Disraeli；　and　an　abhorrer　of　Whiggery　in　all　its　forms；　he　yet　found　in　America's　struggle　that　which　appealed　both　to　his　brain　and　his　heart。　He　was　a　believer；　he　told　himself；　in　the　Great　State　and　an　opponent　of　parochialism；　so；　unlike　most　of　his　friends　at　home；　his　sympathies　were　engaged　for　the　Union。　Moreover　he　seemed　to　detect　in　the　protagonists　a　Roman　simplicity　pleasing　to　a　good　classic。

Mr。　Hamilton　was　sombrely　but　fashionably　dressed　and　wore　a　gold　eyeglass　on　a　black　ribbon；　because　he　fancied　that　a　monocle　adroitly　used　was　a　formidable　weapon　in　debate。　He　had　neat　small　sidewhiskers；　and　a　pleasant　observant　eye。　With　him　were　young　Major　Endicott　from　Boston　and　the　eminent　Mr。　Russell　Lowell；　who；　as　Longfellow's　successor　in　the　Smith　Professorship　and　one　of　the　editors　of　The　North　American　Review；　was　a　great　figure　in　cultivated　circles。　Both　were　acquaintances　made　by　Mr。　Hamilton　on　a　recent　visit　to　Harvard。　He　found　it　agreeable　to　have　a　few　friends　with　whom　he　could　have　scholarly　talk。

The　three　watched　the　procession　winding　through　the　mourning　streets。　Every　house　was　draped　in　funeral　black；　the　passing　bell　tolled　from　every　church；　and　the　minute…guns　boomed　at　the　City　Hall　and　on　Capitol　Hill。　Mr。　Hamilton　regarded　the　cortege　at　first　with　a　critical　eye。　The　events　of　the　past　week　had　wrought　in　him　a　great　expectation；　which　he　feared　would　be　disappointed。　It　needed　a　long　tradition　to　do　fitting　honour　to　the　man　who　had　gone。　Had　America　such　a　tradition？　he　asked　himself。　。　。　。　The　coloured　troops　marching　at　the　head　of　the　line　pleased　him。　That　was　a　happy　thought。　He　liked；　too；　the　business…like　cavalry　and　infantry；　and　the　battered　field…pieces。　。　。　。　　He　saw　his　Chief　among　the　foreign　Ministers；　bearing　a　face　of　portentous　solemnity。　。　。　。　　But　he　liked　best　the　Illinois　and　Kentucky　delegates；　he　thought　the　dead　President　would　have　liked　them　too。

Major　Endicott　was　pointing　out　the　chief　figures。　There's　Grant　。　。　。　and　Stanton；　looking　more　cantankerous　than　ever。　They　say　he's　brokenhearted。〃　But　Mr。　Hamilton　had　no　eye　for　celebrities。　He　was　thinking　rather　of　those　plain　mourners　from　the　west；　and　of　the　poorest　house　in　Washington　decked　with　black。　This　is　a　true　national　sorrow；　he　thought。　He　had　been　brought　up　as　a　boy　from　Eton　to　see　Wellington's　funeral；　and　the　sight　had　not　impressed　him　like　this。　For　the　recent　months　had　awakened　odd　emotions　in　his　orderly　and　somewhat　cynical