MOTHER’S SON.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXXIII, Issue 3711, 21 December 1912, Page 14

MOTHER’S SON.

(By Elsie Palmer.)

It was a dear little red-brick, redtiled cottage standing in the centre of a square'of well-kept lawns and flower-beds. The morning sun shone through the open Latticed windows of the breakfast-room. It shone on the snowy tablecloth of the breakfast

table; on the large bowl of freshlygathered roses, and glittered amongst the dainty silver. The man sat at the foot of the table, his breakfast growing cold on the plate in front of him, and his big broad shoulders and clean-shaven handsome face hidden from his wife’s view behind the large sheets of the morning paper. She was daintily c-lad in her fresh cambric dress. Her fingers toyed with her egg-spoon—and the egg stood halfeaten before her. She drank her cup of coffee, and pushed the food away from her impatiently. Her appetite, like her temper, she found growing very uncertain these last few months. The twittering of birds at play on the little lawn in front of the window came musically to her ear. Early summer was in the air, and the sky was its bluest. The little marble clock on the mantlepiece chimed half-past S o’clock. “Bruce.” she said, “If you miss the 20 to 9 train you will be late for the bank.”

• The man put his paper down and went on eating his half-cold cutlet. .After he had eaten a mouthful he put his knife and fork down, and said: ' “Not going this morning, Girlie: I've resigned.” "Resigned?" she echoed, with a start. He smiled at her amazed countenance. "Yes. You know you said you never liked my doing office work, so now I've got something better to do than drive a pen. I didn't want to tell you about it until I bad looked into it all and seen that everything was all right. I am going in halves with Dowse in a plantation in Fiji—-sugar-cane, you know. Plenty of money in it. He knew of a good place, cheap; hut hadn’t enough capital, so I’m putting in half, and he’s going to show me the ropes, and I’ll soon know how everything’s done. The life will suit me. though I’m afraid, little woman, I won’t be able to let you live there all the year —the climate plays up with a woman. But when I make my money, which shouldn’t be long ” At last she interrupted. In a cold hard little voice she asked: —“And you’ve done this without consulting me?” Without waiting for his-re-ply, she continued in a passionate outburst: “And where is your capital to come from? You have nothing: all your salary goes to keep us. I sup]X>so you reckoned on my money—and this cottage? Perhaps you thought T’d sell my father's wedding present to provide you in capital to sink " He sat back in his chair, watching her flushed, angry face. How differently slie bad received bis news to wliat he had expected! For wasn’t she tolling him. morning, noon, and night, that she “hated the bank —and. oh! if he were only his own master!” “Girlie, Girlie, let me explain ’’ ho began. But she arose from the table and pushed back her chair. "I don’t need any explanations. I see it all now. Of course, you married me for my money. Let me finish. I say ! It’s true —you know it is ! I can see it now in your face: and I—l think I loathe, hate, and distrust you more than—than anyone in the world.’ He also had pushed back bis chair, and, with a white, angry face, he looked into her passion-laden eyes. i “Girlie, listen to me! ' Yen'll b« sorry for your words when you hear— ’’ “T don’t want to hear. I tell yen. I bate you. and I’d give all my wretched money to be Leo of you.” She sank down amongst the pretty chintz-covered cushions of the lounge, and her passionate sobbing shook her slight form. With a heavy tread he walked to the door and opened it. “Thank you! I will not give you an opportunity to tell me that again 1” he said, and passed into the sunlit, polished hallway, and out of the house. Presently her sobbing ceased, and her anger with it. She waited, expecting him to come back and take < h°r in his arms and kiss her tear-stain-ed face, as he had done after other little 'wifi’s.” She sighed happily < when she t>'might of the great secret she would whisper to him as she nest- - l°d in his arms. . . . Sim imagined 1 the dear, wondering look that would j

and there her little son was born. She wished to die until she felt the warm little form lying near her heart, and then she decided to live, for her son — and his! That all happened four years ago. To-day was the fifth anniversary of her wedding-day, and her little son’s birthday; and they were spending a day, as many other sunny summer mornings were spent, on the beach at Manly, watching the white-c-rested waves roil over the golden sands in front of them. “Mother’s Son,” unnoticed, had wandered down the beach. Around the bend, on the yellow sands, seated on a seat behind the pine-trees, sat a man. He was what the world calls a “successful man.” He was making a fortune. His square-shaped chin was hidden beneath a closely-trimmed, short, pointed, dark beard. An empty pipe was between bis lips, and his lounge hat was shading the wide brow and intellectual grey eyes.

* *' '* He was watching the leaping, tum- ' Wing, white-crested waves rush in on the beach and dissolve into the soft : damp sand. They were not happy eyes, though once their merry, boyish 1 light had been a sight to gladden lifewearied hearts. ; "Bruce’s shoes full of sand!” A baby voice was speaking his own name. AYith a start he turned his ' gaze to the little figure standing at his side. A little pink-cheeked cherub of a boy, wfth soft rounded limbs and body in a little brown knitted suit, was holding up his chubby leg for his inspection. "Eh? AYhat’s that?” the man asked, and “Mothers’ Son” smiled divinely. “Sand gotted in Bruce’s shoes, *' he said again, resting a dimpled hand on the man’s leg. The man put his empty pipe in his pocket- and tried to see the baby’s blue eyes again. They had touched a string of memory, and had sent a sharp pain through his heart. EL© drew the little chubby form on to bis knee, "So the sand’s got- into your-shoes, little man? We’ll have to get it out. won’t we, eh?” “Is your name Bruce, old chap?” the man asked presently; and “Mother’s Son” nodded his little fair head. “Bruce, what else?” asked the man, an dhis voice had grown husky. “No-thing else: only Bruce.” They both started as a voice called softly: "Bruce! Bruce!" and the woman came around the b?nd. The man’s teeth had fastened tightly together, and his brown face bad paled. "Here I am. muver,” “Mother’s Son” replied, wriggling his little chubby legs, but still keeping firm hold’of his seat. The man tried to lift him down; but the baby arms caught him tightly around the neck. “Me want to stay with you,” he said. The man tried to loosen the tight grasp of the firm little arms, and. failing. stood up to meet the boy’s mother. His feif hat was rakishly on one side of his head, and the .smiling face of his iew little friend turned l.appily to greec his mother. “1 am sorry—your —your little boy seems to have taken possession of iuc." sakf the man. Bnme, mo‘’ier wants you. u she said touching the clinging little fig\tic- and Bru v allowed himself to b© drawn into his moGier’s arms. Manfully lie fought against the tears that wear waiting to be shed, and hold out Ins little hand to his new friend. Dood-bye ; you come to our h* ns© and I’ll show you all the fings I gotted for my birfday,” he said. The. man’s hands closed around the little hand, and his voice was broken when he said: “Fate’s been kind to you, Girlie. He’s a- great little chap.” "Oh. Bruce, Bruce, can’t you see?’ * she cried. “Are you blind?” He’s your son. too!” "Oh, Girlie! Oh, my wife! May God forgive me!” fie sanl brokenly. And, unconscious of the people that were beginning to congregate on the beach, he gathered his own into Ids • arms.