THROUGH THE NIGHT.

Hastings Standard, Volume XII, Issue 5846, 9 May 1908, Page 4 (Supplement)

THROUGH THE NIGHT.

Hot with resentful retrospect, Tom Sardon leaned heavily upon the parapet ot the bridge. All around the silent streets, the absence of lite, the darkness, accentuated more than illumined by the even-spaced gas lamps, seemed to convey the idea ot a deserted city—as if man, awed by the devastation he had wrought on fair Nature's face, had fled from his grim handiwork. Like virgin souls engulfed in a mire of sin the snowflakes fell silently and vanished in the grimy-looking water that flowed sullenly underneath the bridge. On both sides of the river tall warehouses reared their tops to a seemingly (indefinable height; dark, squat, lifeless barges hugged the deep shadows of the tall buildings as if seeking to escape notice or to shelter from the inclement night. Farther down the river a heavy shadow was flung athwart the stream, the tint flame of a lamp placed in the centre of it alone revealing to the deductive mind more than the observing eye that the apparent shadow was a reality—a bridge. Through his thin coat the man scarcely felt the iron hardness of the parapet ; his miserable shoes failed to remind him that the slush of the city sreets had found an easy way to his poorly-shod feet. Physical wretchedness was banished for a time by the feverish glow of the bitter feeling that surged over him. Why had the world treated him so? He had always been a "straight" man. He had never wished any man ill. The success of he undeserving had never called from him anything more than a shrug, or his favorite maxim that "All sorts go to make a world."

It was true that he had left England apparently in disgrace; but the conviction that he had been in the right buoyed him up under all sorts of trying circumstances —his failure in the Colonies, the working his passage back to his motherland, the hopelessness of his efforts to earn a decent lining. Not many hours before he arrived back in his native city—the city which had never felt his loss, not even by one faltering pulse-beat of its mighty, cruel heart. Not far away from where he was stood his home, but he had no thought of going there He leaned forward to stare down into the murky river. Once in there and then forgetfulness. But the thought was flung back even as it came. Nothat was the coward's way, and he had never been a coward. Hot-tempered he had been, and was now; unlucky he might still continue to be, but a Sardon had ever stood with his face to the foe. But the injustice of it all. His father's stern, angry words; the news of his only brother's perfidy came up again with all their first intensity. Had the old man been blind "I beg your pardon." The lurch of a heavy body against the broding man brought him back sharply to the present. A belated traveller, the sound of his footsteps deadened by the mantle of snow which by this time had turned sidewalk and roadway into one level highway, had slipped on a snow-tipped heel and fallen against the loiterer on the bridge. The latter, so brusquely aroused to time and place, started at the sound of the other man's voice, and peered, with set eyes, into his face. The recognition was mutual. "Lionel I" "Torn!" The tones of their voices differed; one was of glad amazement, the other of bitter intensity. "My dear lad, who'd have thought of meeting you here?" Lionel held out his hand, but the proffered mark of friendship was unheeded. With body erect and taut, in a voice which a blend of bitterness and anxiety made to tremble, Tom asked: — "Did you marry Miss Arley?" "'Yea," returned the other. "Then I wish you much happiness!" snapped out angry Tom, and, turning on his heel, strode off, not noticing, in his hot mood, that he was going in the direction which Lionel had been pursuing. For a tew moments the latter stood looking at his brother's retreating figure, then with a smile of comprehension he harried after the wanderer.

"Come along home with me, Tom. Let us have a talk about old times."

"Do you imagine I have" any desire to discus the past? My father drove me from his presence with a bitter taunt. You married the one girl " "Come, now, old fellow, look here; let us deal plainly with each other as man to man. Nay, you shall hear me. Where are you going to? What are yon doing now? Down on your luck, eh?"

" What 13 that to you ? I want no sympathy, not even justice, from any of my own kin." *' Well, now come! If you saw me down what would you do? What happened when we were lads? Do you remember when you pulled me out of the river, just above the weir? Who was it saved me from a licking when I was the scapegoat in my youthful days? Do you want a monopoly of pleasant deeds? Give me the pleasure of your company for the nest few hours, and—if I don't alter your opinions, never call me brother again. He put his hand on the elder man's shoulder and set his jaws tight as he felt the bone through the thin covering of ragged coat. Tom's face worked. Recollections of old times, the affection ho once felt for his brother, the better feelings which, for a time, had been rudely crushed out of sight by misfortune and a sense of irreparable wrong, struggled for place, till at last, with a sigh and a shrug, he nodded assent. Instinctively he crooked his elbow. With a laugh and an inward chuckle Lionel locked his arm into his brother's. "I live in the old house. Tom. You see, it is near the warehouse and we are short-handed at present. I'm the manager. The head of the firm had been absent for some years," with a glance at his brother. Courtesy compelled Tom to ask how business was. "Oh, fine!" replied Lionel. "I always was lucky, old chap—more lucky than I deserved. The business is twice as prosperous as it was when dad "What! Is father dead, then?" Tom stopped. All this long time he had been nursing his resentment against the old-fashioned, honourable merchant and. till their quarrel, fond parent. And he was dead! Well, it could not be helped '. " Yes; he died soon after you left so mysteriously. You never let ns know your address, so I advertised for you in the Colonial papers, for he left a sealed letter addressed to you, and 1 was very anxious that you should reciv© it. What did you quarrel about, Tom? The old man would never tell mo a word, for when I began to question him about it he curtly cut me short. Y'ou know how abrupt he always_ was after mother died." "Yes. I know his abruptness, too well. But " He staggered and, but for his brother's upholding arm, would have fallen. "Stead, old chap, we're neaily home. You've been running yourself too fine. Here we are!" By this time they had reached a house which stood, an oasis of home

life, amidst tho desert of warehouses, printing offices, and the like. The ponderous, polished knocker, the wide steps, the arche<l fanlight over the door, and the solid aspect of the building told of a time when merchants were content to live amidst the scenes of their labours. With his left hand Lionel unlocked the door and then supported and helped Tom up the steps into the hall and caused him to sit in a chair. Quietly relastening the front door, he turned into a small room on a level with the hall. After lighting the gas he poked the fire, which had been left burning for him, into a blaze, placed a small kettle on the fire, and returned to Tom, who sat, white and tired, looking at the portrait of a gen-tle-faced lady hung opposite to him. ''Now, we're right," said Lionel. "Come in here, Tom." He helped his brother to a cosy armchair near the fire, and busied himself with setting out somo bread and cold meat, which was ready cut, from a'cupboard, talking rapidly and vivaciously all tho while.

"This is my sanctum. I'm left here undisturbed. lam hungry. Travelling makes you so doesn't it? AVill you join me in a little snack? Sis o'clock in the morning is a funny time for a meal, but I believe in eating when you are hungry. There, now. You take the head of the table, as befits you. I'll just make a drop of something warm, now that the kettle has boiled." Tom looked at these preparations and listened to his lively remarks in silence. How long was it since he had been in a place so cosy and homelike before? The dancing firelight, the sober-looking furniture, the air of coinFort and good taste, the orderliness without primness, soothed and yet irritated him. He took the proffered tea, surprised to find his resentment fading away like a mist under the sunny influence and good humour of Lionel's tactful attentions. But he would not be cheated out of his dues like this. He was no prodigal returned. He had been wronged and injured. "Lionel, you are very good and kind, but I will not eat nor drink till I have seen my father's letter.' " But the liquor is warm, and I am ready for it. Have a drink first. Come —a toast! You won't refuse that, will vou? To my wife!"

He held out his glass towards the portrait of a lady which stood in the centro of the mantelpiece. With fierce eyes Tom looked at the picture of a gentle lady sitting enthroned as a happy mother, with her two children, one standing by her side, and the other nestling in her arms. "That—your wife!" said Tom. Amazement was followed by a quick gleam of hope. "You told me that you married Miss Arley!" "So I did. 7 ' Lionel's eyes twinkled. " A health ! To my wife I" "Your wife!'' and wonderingly Tom drank the toast. Lionel kept his brother served with the simple meal, and under the influence of his surroundings and the badly-needed stimulant and food Tom seemed to forget everything else but to satisfy the craving of his hunger. " Would you like my slippers, old man? That beastly snow 6nds a way through the best of leather," he added, laughingly, " How upset mother used to be over my getting my feet wet. I was an adept at getting into mischief." As he bent down to unlace his miserable shoes, Tom asked, in a husky voice, and without raising his eyes : —■

"Li. give me father's letter." "Right, when you've got those slippers on. And sec, here's a dressingjacket that's just your fit. It always was too large for me. You're the giant of the familv, ycu know."

Lionel went to a desk, unlocked it, and took out a square, blue envelope, sealed and addresed in a firm, clerky hand, to "My son Thomas." Handing it to Tom. he said:—

" Now. I leave you for a minute or two while you read your epistle. I sha'n't be long away." Softly closing the door, he crept upstairs chuckling to himself at everystep. "What a lark! Poor old Tom!"

Tom waited till his brother had c'.osed the door, and then ripped open the envelope and took out the letter.

My Son,—You and I parted in anger. You have gone away, I know not where, leaving your father and your brother without a 'good-bye.'' You hare not written, and now in my last days I find myself cut off from communication with my elder son. But before I die I wish to set down some particulars of which I feel you arc ignorant. Jacob Arley was my enemy. The only crime he could ever accuse me of was that I married your mother—the girl he professed to love, but who did not love him. Three times he tried to ruin me in business but failed. When you told me that you loved his daughter and wished to marry her I forbade you, on pain of my displeasure, to think of such a tiling. When you persisted—you were always stubborn —I threatened you with loss of my favour and esteem, and to dissuade you —for I loved you, my son—l informed you that your brother Lionel had a cla'im upon -Miss Arley's affections. So he had, but not upon the Miss Arley whom you and I quaielled about. "The woman your brother loved and has just married is Miss Alley's cousin, and tore the same name. I ask you to let the traitorous designs of your father's enemy be the excuse for my deception. I have since repented it. Before Igo to join your mother I wish you to know, should this letter ever fall into your hands, that the hoadstrong course you pursued in leaving home after our quarrel has darkened the closing hours of my life. Some day you will learn that it is the privilege of the old to remonsrate with the voung and the duty of the young to listen in patience to admonishment. The warehouse and the business I have left to you. Your brother holds it in trust till you return. He will be a good steward, for he is upright and generous, and has such an affection for you that I trust you will return it in somo measure. May the peace that welldoing brings be yours. Accept my blessing. But oh !my lad, why did you ever leave your well-meaning but blundering father, Thomas Sardon. The letter dropped from Tom's hand and fell on the hearthrug. Tears, a luxury he had almost forgotten, coursed down his face He was a prodigal returned, after all. His father had fallen on his neck and killed for him the fatted calf. But he would not eat of it. He was too ashamed. Let things remain as they were! He would go out into the world again. Inspired with a clearer view of life, now welling up in his mind through the crust of resentment like a freshly-opened spring, he would have another bout with Fortune, and this time he would win. Confidence regained prompted immediate action. Casting off the dressing-jacket ho held his old coat before the fire fo dry it a little before he left his home a second time; but how different to the first. A knock at the door! ''Come in!"'

Lionel entered. He saw the letter on the rug, the signs of tears on his brother's face, the altered look in his eyes. "Good news, old man?" "' Yes. too good for me. I'll not let you read the letter, Li"—he picked it up, folded it carefully, and thrust it back into the torn envelope—"it is too sacred. But I am off again, Li. I'll write this time to tell you how I get on." "Not without your breakfast, my son.

My wife, will be down soon, and she will be disappointed if you go away without seeing her. I told her the good news or your arrival."

" -Not now, J_ii; some other time- Besides "

" But, wait, man. I have something to show you at breakfast that you must see. It is very important, and has been awaiting you almost since you went away. X'ou must stay." "In these rags? Xot likely." "Oh, hang the togs! I've got plenty. Besides, there are all your old clothes in the chest upstairs. Father ordered them to be put there. Come, now ; let me have the pleasure of entertaining you in a proper manner—if only lor once.''

'• Well, all right. But after breakfast I must say good-bye." "Perhaps," said Lionel. Ho led his brother upstairs, and, with rare tact, left him after giving him the key of the ancient oak clotheschest, where their mother had kept their stock of household linen, their little baby shoes, and other trifles of fond remembrance. Tom unlocked tho chest, and with trembling hands drew out the clothes he had left behind in his hurried departure from his home some years before. Then, after tubbing, he dresed himself and waited. The gong sounded. Lionel appeared and led the way downstairs to the breakfast-room. A pleasant-faced lady there was introduced as Lionel's wife. With womanly intuition she greeted him as if he were an old acquaintance, and busied herself attending to the wants of a little boy and girl who were clamouring for "Auntie Bessie." Tom winced at the name.

"Do you take tea or coffee'"' asked his hostess; but she received no reply. Her brother-in-law had half risen from his chair, his eyes riveted on a lady who stood in the doorway, her hands pressed to her breast, her lisom, greyclad figure outlined against the door's dark background, and swaying with agitation. For a moment a dead silence fell on the room. Then, with a glad cry, Tom broke the spell of astonishment which enfolded him, and rose up in his place. " Bessie!" "Tom!" He strode up to her. " You waited for me, then—through all these years?" " Yes, Tom. I would have waited for ever." The simple words went home. He drew her to him, till her head sank upon his breast. Brokenly he murmured :—• " This is too much happiness. I am not deserving." Lionel, who was almost choking himself in his efforts to continue his breakfast, at last cried out:— "Come along, you two! Breakfast is getting cold." Hand in hand, they turned to tho table. A new light was in Tom's eyes. Reverently he handed his beloved to her chair and, turning to his brother, said :

"Dear lad, I am staying." "Then I shall have to look for work and fresh lodgings. Do you know the conditions of father's will?" " I know it air: he told me in the letter, Li. You have been more than faithful in keeping your trust " "Oh! that's all right." "You and I never part again. There is room in this house for all and to spare. The firm will henceforth be known as Sardon Brothers." A hearty hand-grip and the compact was sealed. " New life has come to me," continued Tom. "I have stumbled into a world of happiness out of the gloom of misery—a happy world in which I feel sure that I shall be able to play the man, for strength and wisdom have come to me through the night."