THE MORNING OF THE DAY.

Dunstan Times, Issue 2486, 21 June 1909, Page 6

THE MORNING OF THE DAY.

(By John D. Barry.)

As Sir Henry Newman bent over his writing-desk, the morning light fell on his face and brought out the deep lines of worry and fatigue.' He had been sitting up all night, and he seemed considerably older than his fifty-one years. In his dark eyes, under thick gray eyelashes, there was a look that explained his nickname of “Bloody Newman.” During his three years in South Africa he had fairly waded in blood; but his progress had been steadily maintained in the direction of victory. His soldiers respected him as a leader, if they did not love him as a man; his enemies felt for him an admiration mingled with their hatred. One the eve of his departure now, no one regretted that he was going—that is, no one who, directly or indirectly, had ever been subject to his will. For a few moments Sir Henry stopped writing and looked a lout the bare room of the barracks. How he hated the place ! How he had hated his three years in this wretched country ! And to think that just as he was about— He heard shouting outside, and walked toward the window to listen, carefully keeping his tall figure, still slim and soldierly, out of observation from below. The streets were crowded, and groups of women and men were talking excitedly. He felt like cursing, -“v scandal at this time! A possible insurrection! His jaw tightly closed, and the blood mounted to his face. At that moment the telephone-bell Inside his desk gave a sharp peal. He took his seat again and held the receiver at his ear. “Hallo!” he exclaimed. “Yes. There s no one in the room.” As he listened an expression of anger appeared in his eyes. “I can’t see her!” ho said. “I toll you 1 can’t see her. Been down there all night! Why didn’t you turn her out.' Tell her it’s hopeless. He’ll be shot within an hour.”

111? hung up the receiver, and began to write again ; but the sounds of shouting from the streets made it impossible for him to go on. ife toso and looked out of the window. Then he turned impatiently at the sound of a knock on the door. “Come in,” he called An orderly entered. “Serious trouble outside, sir." “What’s the matter now?” “They know you’ve refused to see tne woman, sir. She savs she won t leave till she sees you, air.” “Can’t they lock her up?” “They haven't the heart, sir. The soldiers all feel sorry for her.” Sir Henry’s face Hushed. “I don t care to hear about their sympathy.” He kept his glance tixed on the orderly, but evidently without seeing him. “What docs she look like?” he said at last. _ ( “They say she’s a ’an’some woman, sir. “Young ?” “It’s ’ard to tell, sir She keeps her face out of sight. She says she’ll go away peaceful, sir, if you’ll only see her for a minute, sir.” Sir Henry walked angrily up and down. Suddenly he stopped. “Ho those people outside know she s been here all night?” he asked. "They do, sir.” “Bring her in!’ The orderly saluted and went out. As the door closed, Sir Henry walked quickly to the telephone. He took up the receiver and listened. “Hive me General Manners,” ho said, and he waited, motionless. “Manners? Is that you? 1 hear things are .looking serious. There’s only one thing to be done; we can’t back down now. It would look like cowardice, and it would be fatal to discipline. Just as I m leaving the country, too. If we don t get away by the boat this afternoon, it will mean another month in this cursed hole, and my wife savs another month will be the end of her/ Take the fellow out at once and have him shot.” He lowered his voice, us if fearing to lie overheard. “Don’t let them know of the change in the hour. Hood !” he concluded, with satisfaction, and he went at his writing again A few moments later the orderly entered, followed by a woman who walked slowly, as if she had hardly strength enough to support herself. Her face was swollen with weepin T ; her hair hung in disorder about her ears. She looked intently at Sir Henry, as the orderly left them together, “Well?” he said. “Are you Sir Henry Newman?” The voice was almost inaudible.

Sir Henry bowed, and pointed to a chair.

“Sit down,” he said, and in his tone there was a hint of compassion. The woman sank heavily into the chair. “What do you want?” he asked, growing severe again. She held out both bands in supplication.

"My son !” she whispered. “They are going 1o kill my son!’ Sir Henry’s facg darkened. “I know. They are going to shoot him for striking his "superior officer.” “But the provocation, sir !” “Provocation is no excuse,” Sir Henry angrily retorted.; “The discipline of the army is more important than your son’s feelings.” “He is only a boy! And Lieutenant Fife, think of what he did!” “I know the story. A vulgar fight over a girl—the girl as bad as the rest. And this affair has caused' the- greatest disturbance that has broken out in the army since I’ve been in command here in South Africa It may keep me from going back to England Here lam all ready to sail this afternoon, my wife counting the minutes till she can escape, and bitterly upbraiding me for ever bringing , her here. And just because a miserable—” “She’s a good girl.” For the first time the woman showed some spirit; but it was only for a moment. “But how can you understand?” she said, with a bewildereo air, “a great man like you about the, shameful way the officers—”

“You can’t tell me anything about the army, my good woman,’.’ he interrupted, and his eyes flashed, “I didn’t want, my boy to go into that life,” she went on, as if she hadn’t heard him. "But it was in his blood. Think, sir! He expected to be married in a month., Then this officer came, and tried to get my boy’s girl away. I was afraid there would be trouble; but he promised me that he wouldn’t do anything that might bring harm to us. If they hadn’t met that night in the street. But Lieutenant Fife he said something about her that drove my boy mad. He didn’t know what he was doing.” She held_ out her hands again. “Have mercy, sir! For the sake of your own children—” “I have no children,” Sir Henry sternly interrupted. “He is cnly seventeen,” she went on brokenly, “and Lieutenant Fife had' insulted the girl he lOved. He could have borne anything but that. He is willing to take his punishment. He knows he did wrong. But don’t kill him! Don’t kill him!’ 11. Sir Henry's bronze face hardened. "Oh, I’ve looked up his record, and yours, too. I know all jibout you!” "Oh !” She covered her face with noth hands. "Where is the boy’s father?” “I don’t know,” she replied, still hiding her face. "Is he dead?” “I don’t know.” “Deserted y m?” She bowed her head. Sir Henry hesitated. "Is it true that you weren’t married to him?” “It is true,” she whispered. •■T1..1, I” tt J

Ban: bir Henry turned away with disgust in his face. “Another of those cases!” he exclaimed. “Sailed for England, I suppose, and never- let you hear from him again ?” “Yes.” i “Does he know about the child?” “No.” “And yet you come here—with your record !” The woman rose from her seat. “My sin has been visited upon me. That is enough ! I have been a good mother, and he has been a good son. Oh, how little you can understand—you, who have always had everything, who have always lived in luxury!” Sir Henry burst into a sardonic laugh. “Why, I’ve been a common soldier my self! I’ve lain for days and nights together in the trenches.” “You!”

“I’ve tramped all over South Africa, and I’m a better man for it. I’ve been one of those younger sons that do so much mischief in our army. I never expected to have any responsibilities, or to be any one. Then there came a change in my fortunes, and I learned the importance of duty. And I swear I am going to put down these violations of decency and order, That’s why I am so hard; because I know, because I understand.’

"No,” she said, speaking. very slowly and keeping her eyes fixed on him. “If you understand, you’d have a little pity in your heart.”

"Did you have any pity on your child when you brought him into the world fatherless? It's the women like you who are the cause of these disturbances?” She looked at him with scorn. ‘'Then the men who tempt the women are not to blame?” ‘‘One is as bad as the other. Your boy is getting the punishment that ought to have fallen on you.” She dropped back into the chair. "That's a hard thing to say, but it’s the truth,” he went on. ‘‘Where did you come from?” “Freeport.” “Have you always lived there? ' "Since my Ixiy was born.” “Where did you live before that?" “At Hendin.” Sir Henry looked astonished. “Hendin?” he repeated. “Yes.” “How Jong ago?” 1 “Nineteen years.” They looked intently at each other. “Wiry, I was stationed at Hendin nineteen years ago,” he said They continued to look at each oilier. The woman rose slowly, as if fascinated "That was* in my roystering days, before I dime into my inheritance.” Her eves were still on him

“You!" she whispered. They faced each other, motionless. “You 1” she repeated. Suddenly she broke out; “He is your son! And you're going to have him killed !”

He uttered a choking cry, and his face grew white. “You will save him! Save him ! Save him ! You can’t kill your own flesh and blood.”

He walked swiftly to the telephone. They heard a great shout from outside, and the woman rushed to the window.

“They’re taking him out on the field. They lied to me. They said it wouldn’t be till noon. Oh, quick, quick ! They’re making ready!” Sir Henry held up the receiver. “Stop the execution ! Send word at once. Don't, lose an instant.”

“It’s too late!” she cried. “They’re 'lift ing their rifles. Oh, see him standing there—my boy ! Don’t! Don’t!” The sound of a volley crashed through the room.. “They’ve killed him! .They’ve killed my son !” She fell to the floor, moaning. Sir Henry went to the window and looked out. . Then he turned away and walked toward the table, keeping his back toward her.

She rose slowly, stole to' the door, bolted it, drew a knife from her skirt, and turned tow aid him. He looked around and' faced her. They gazed at each other in silence.

“Now I will Id'll you,” she said, and moved nearer. He stood motionless. “What have you to say for yburself?” “Nothing.” “You broke my heart. You’ve killed my son. Now—”

She raised her arm to strike,- her eyes glaring. He made no effort to defend' himself. For a few moments she held her arm high in the air, tightly clutching the knife. Then her arm dropped, and the knife fell to the floor. She sank on her knees. ‘‘l can’t do it,” she cried, “I can’t do it!” “Why didn’t you?” he said, looking down at her. “I deserved it.” “My boy ! My boy !” she moaned. They heard a tumultuous roar from outside. The woman lifted, herself and went to the window. She looked out, and uttered a cry of happiness. At that moment the orderly burst in. “He’s safe, sir. They all aimed away from him, sir. And they’ve' just got the order. They are carrying him on their shoulders over the parade ground,” “Thank Heaven!” she cried. “Thank Heaven!”

Sir Henry turned to the orderly. “That will do. sir,” When the orderly had left, the woman walked forward and sank on her knees beside Sir Henry. He rested one hand on her shoulder. “So it’s you!” he said in a low voice. “Why didn’t you write and tell me?” “Because —-because I knew you wished to forget me.” “Your father and mother, where are they?” “Dead.” “Did they stand by you?” “My father drove me out of the house.” “How did you jive?” “I worked. I had some one to work for.” , , “Yes. You had some one to work for. And he’s been a good son ?” - “He has made up for everything.” “I will do what I can for him. I am

leaving in a few hours; but I won’t forget. For the present I will have him transferred to Freeport.” Sir Henry sat at the desk and proceeded to write the order. “’lt will be better to get him out of the way for a while. That will be my last act here.”

When he had finished writing, he rang for the orderly, who entered, took the paper, and left the room without looking to the right or left. ‘‘ls there anything I can do for you?” ‘‘Nothing—now.” He held out his hand, and she took it timidly. “I did wrong. I am sorry. Perhaps my punishment has been as great as yours. I’m what the world calls a success. I came unexpectedly into a title and a great place in the world. I made a great marriage. God has denied me nothing—nothing hut happiness. Perhaps I brought my fate on myself. Perhaps I haven’t had the worst of it yet. It would he some comfort to know I had your forgiveness.” ‘‘l forgave you long ago.” ‘‘Thank you. Good-bye.” “Good-bye,” she said. Slowly she turned away, and, as she walked to the door, she looked back at him pityingly. Then she closed the door very softly, leaving him alone.