SUNRISE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3882, 7 August 1928, Page 82

SUNRISE.

By W. Bubnabd Phillips.

He was tall and thin; so thin that the dry yellow skin of his face seemed ready to split, like a piece of rotten canvas, before the constant pressure of the prominent cheek-bones. The clothes he wore were voluminous, but monotonous. They consisted of three overcoats and two pairs of trousers; a battered cap rested on his ears, while his feet were attached to some scraps of leather that, one presumes, were once a pair of boots. Those were all—except an elusive shirt, whose fragments came to view at odd places, but lacked cohesion.

The exact age of most ruins is a debatable point; he was no exception—probably 50, possibly 70. His left toe pointed in the line of his shoulder, so that he moved with an odd lurching gait, maintaining his equilibrium with the long stick which he carried in his right hand like a shepherd’s crook; continually prodding the pavement and levering himself forward.

Thg suburb of Horner’s Bridge intimated categorically at a thousand points that hawkers were not tolerated; as for tramps—“ disgusting, my dear, they shouldn’t be allowed.” In these surroundings he had an exotic appearance; the houses ■were so new, clean, and respectable, he was equally old, filthy, and disreputable. His worried look may have been due to a realisation of his incongruity, or to his anxiety to discover some place where he might sleep. It was past 12 o’clock, and suburban policemen were naturaly inquisitive concerning the abnormal which he represented ; it was imperative to find a secluded lodging as soon as possible. He saw on the opposite side of the road a hoarding, which protected a half-constructed building; shuffling across the road, he examined the flimsy door, and pulling out the piece of wood winch had been placed through the staple in lieu of a padlock, he closed the door behind him. He began to thread his way over the wooden beams which littered the site; muttering a half-strangled grunt, he slowly crumpled and sank to the ground unconscious.

At 7 o clock on the following morning two labourers arrived; one of them noticed that the peg wab missing from the staple. “What the ’ell,” he muttered, and pushed the door open. ~ He stopped abruptly. “My Gawd!"’ he whispered. Then called out “ Bill, ’ere’s a bloke lying ’ere —all crumpled up—looks as if ’e’s a ‘ gonner.’ ”

His mate lounged through the door and bent over the huddled figure. “ Nah, e ain’t dead—’ad a ’ell of a swipe, though, from something.” Lies still, don’t ’e? You’re sure ’e’s not ”

‘ Ain’t I told yer—unconscious—knocked aht, that’s abaht it. ’Op orf and get a copper; tell ’im ter bring a hambulance.”

“ Orlright, I’ll nip orf on me bike.’ F, e . P aused and surveyed the scene. “ ’Ere, Bert, I see it —’ow it happened,” he spoke quickly. “’E must ’ave stepped on that bit of four by free—look —it was just balanced over that joist—when he shoved ’is foot on it, the other end flew up and ’it ’im.” . “ Yus, that’s abaht it—didn’t ’arf give ’im a start, I’ll bet; ’op orf quick—’e must ’ave bin ’ere all night.” Within 15 minutes the casualty was admitted to the local cottage hospital. “ Concussion,” diagnosed the alert young house surgeon; “ put him somewhere quiet—Ward C, I think. Umthree layers of clothes and Lord knows how many of dirt. Well, I don’t envy you the job, sister.”

During the following days the derelict lay in uneasy semi-consciousness, occasionally muttering with laboured articulation. The sister was anxious to discover. the purpose of his murmurings, thinking he might drop a clue to his identity and so enable the hospital authorities to acquaint his relatives, if it were possible for such a one to have acccessible kin.

She leant over the bed. “ Milliccnt— I’m looking—still looking—it’s very difficult—so—so difficult.” His voice faded to a whisper, his lips continuing to form soundless words. Then it grew more distinct; she caught a few more phrases—“ Yes, I’m trying—but—just once, Millicent—like you used to—you will when I find—-yes, you always say that—but I’m afraid—it’s so difficult— r and I’m getting tired—tired.” The sister studied him intently; the service of humanity in the mass had not yet killed her interest in the individual; she resolved to discover the whole story, if that; could, be achieved without appearixur nriidalv

On the fourth day the patient appeared sufficiently normal to give her the necessary details required by the office staff. “ First of all,” she asked, “ your name ? ” “ Name —my name—does it mattei ? I’ve rubbed along without one for a good while now.” “ But we must have a name,” she expostulated, prompted by her love of correct routine. “I mean—all patients have that—we’ve never ” “ Never had a man without a name,” he smiled slowly; “there are lots about. Well, if you must, put down—er—Johu Brown—yes, John Brown, and soon ‘ mouldering in the grave.’ ” He chuckled grimly. “ Rubbish, you’ve lots of kick left yet, ’ she said sharply, roused by his morbidness, “ and don’t forget the rest of it, ‘ His soul goes marching on.’ ” “Where did you learn that, sister?” . “ France.” “ Um, so did I. Do you believe it. T mean do you think—even—failures—will ” “Go marching on ? Of course; onlv perhaps they won’t be failures —then.” * “ I wonder, of course, the others—they do; yes, I’m sure of that.” He lowered his voice. “ Quite sure.” She thought quickly and decided to risk it. One of them—was her name Millicent? ”

“ How do you know ? ” “ You. told me,” she smiled, not once, but ever so many times in the last thre“ days.”

.“ Yes,” he said simply, “ she was mv wife.” He paused, then added, “ Snc died 30 years ago.” There was nothing she could say. He continued after a few moments. “ I lost her until eight years ago, but I found her again, or perhaps she found me—ye a , that s it; you see I had hidden myself too well He saw the question in her face. May I tell you—all of it ’” he said earnestly. “ I’d like your adviceno, not advice exactly—opinion—yes, your opinion.”. She consulted her wrist watch “ Per haps some other day—l’ve work to do nnxv— ”

No—noy , please— it won’t take Ion" —I promise that,” he stretched a pleading hand towards her. 1 « X, e , ry WC V — but not to ° long.” 11 cut it short. I married youn" —we were both just 21; and life was a brave and beautiful adventure then Me found happiness, Millicent and land joy and fun and laughter—all these were ours Troubles, of course, but we aughed at those too—she had such a snli,e - I used to sav it was like the sun coming out—a wornout simile perhaps—l expect I got it from Longfellow— but it was like that and when she smiled I felt a new man —fit to tackle anything. We had been married a year, and a hope of a new joy came to us. Thirty years ago—but 1 tha * room now —and see myself sitting still for hours and hours just sitting and waiting.” “And then •”

i When 1 be “ an to feel that I had lived my whole life in that room—they came and told me. He had a round shiny, bald head—the doctor. I remember I stared at it and wondered if he polished it. ‘ A boy,’ he said, very slowly, and I looked at him and knew. ‘ Yes ’ he said, and began to mumble somethin" about every effort, but I didn’t hear a word. I rushed out of the house—down the street—on and on—l didn't know where I went ”

“ But the child—your son ” I never saw him—he meant nothin" a ! 1 1 col,ld think of was that Millicent had gone right away—l should never see her again—life had lost its meaning. I have an idea I spent two nights in a wood, I can vaguely remember the trees which seemed to blot out the sky and the stars. Then I found myself at the docks. I’ve no idea how I got there—l was just aimlessly wanderin" about. There was a man there goin" to Australia with a shipment of horses and dogs; he tripped on a rope and broke ns leg as he was going aboard. I got his job—l was always keen on animals. Out there I worked at all kinds of things—sheep, mining, a trip on a pearler, and finally timber felling. I was with a gang falling jarrah for railway sleepers when the war broke out. My mate and I enlisted and arrived in France after Gallipoli. He was nearly 60, but he kidded them he was only 40; he did it for his son who was at an engineering college. This chap—Waters his name was—had sweated for years to give his son a good chance—and he was afraid the boy might leave the college and join up. So Waters came with inc, and then wrote and told the boy it was his duty to stand by his mother that one in the family was good enough.”

The sister began to fidget, “ What’s all this to do with it—you said you wouldn’t be long and ”

“It’s important; you’ll see in a minute. When we got in the line old Waters was always talking about his son—of his plans for him; and his high hopes for the lad’s future. You know, sister, in the long night hours, when you’re sentry on the fire-step—you think and think some more—about all manner of weird things. It’s all there is to do. The quietness and the. weirdness of it. seem to make you—well, you get outside yourself and get a new view of things. I thought—oh, yes—a lot; I thought of that son of mine I’d never seen. And I wondered. Until one night she came to me and told me he was alive and yvell. I asked her where he waa and whv aha hadn’t, coma hafnrn •

>she said she couldn’t tell me where. I must find him, and that she couldn’t come until I had woken up. For 20 years she’d waited. And I asked her to smile like she used to, but she said, “I can’t—l can’t—not until you’ve seen him.” And so Igo on looking—day after day—and though I often see her, she never smiles, but always says, “ I can’t, oh, I can’t.”

He pulled himself up in the bed, his eyes shining with a fierce eagerness. “ Sister, do you think I’ll ever find him ? ” The woman in her answered him, “ Yes, you must; it couldn’t be otherwise,” she said quietly. “ For God made faith from Adam’s rib.” When he had recovered sufficiently to leave his bed, he was given a chair in the porch, where he could watch the world going about its business, and regain his strength in the healing sunshine.

’“ What about mouldering in the grave now,” inquired the sister brightly. “ Suppose we say it’s postponed,” he answered with a slow smile, “ for a little while, at least. He’s a great fellow—that doctor—pulled me round like a Trojan—clever chap ” “Clever?” she broke in enthusiastically, “ he’s more than that—brilliant is the word you want. I’ve been nursing 20 years, and I’ve seen a great many clever young men start out, but they mostly finish up just ordinary. But he—well he’s got something better than brains —staying power. He’s got a great future—l don’t think anything can stop him.”

“ I wish him luck, sister, he’s been darn good to me.” When she had left to attend her duties, his roving eye saw a box containing some pamphlets nailed to the wall and bearing the words, “ Please Take One.” He accepted the invitation, and read the printed pages. The hand which held the paper began to tremble; he raised his head and sat motionless, staring at the buildings opposite with unseeing eyes. People brushed by him on their way in and out of the hospital. He neither saw nor heard them. He stood up and shuffled unsteadily down the corridor, where he met the sister.

“ Give me my clothes—quickly, sister —l’m going.” “Bless the man—going where?” “ Away—out of here—l can't stop— ” “Rubbish, you’re not fit yet; go and lie down; you’ll be worse if you ” “ Sister—please—l must go,” he pleaded. “ I daren’t stop,” adding in a whisper, “ I couldn’t risk it.”

“ Brown, do as I tell you,” she snapped officially, “ go to your bed and lie down.” When he answered he seemed to have acquired a certain dignity. “ Sister, I’d hate to offend you, but I think you forget you can’t detain me against my will. Now, may I have my clothes?” Even the hastily summoned matron couldn’t dissuade him; he alternated between “ I can't ” and “ I daren’t.”

His clothes were brought to him; with them came a subtle change in his character —the dignity faded, giving way before the unkempt and almost comical appearance he acquired when the third coat had been secured with one button, one safety pin, and a piece of string. “ Thank yer, mum,” he grunted, “ yer been good ter me—l ain’t ungrateful, but I got ter be moving on.” The sister watched him lurching down the road; a tattered strip of coat lining flapped behind him ludicrouslv. She thought of a dog with its tail* between its legs. Darkness found him several miles beyond the suburb; he had selected the base of a hayrick for his night’s lodging. From the breast pocket of his inner coat he extracted a folded piece of paper, which he spread open carefully, slanting it to catch the light of the full moon.

“ Horner’s Bridge Cottage Hospital,” he read aloud. “ Resident Medical Officer, John Duquesne Prothero.” The voice grew less distinct. “ Millicent Duquesne. Yes, it must be him. I wish I could be sure.”

For a long while he sat without speaking. Then, “ Millicent—you’ve come again. Bless you, my dear. But, you see, don’t you—l had to go—l might have told him who his father was. And it wouldn’t have been fair. I couldn’t hinder his success with a wreck of a father—could I ? But I might—you see the temptation, Millicent—so—l ‘daren’t stop.” Anxiously he continued, “ But I’ve seem him—that’s all you wanted— Millicent—l’m getting tired—life’s very rough—won’t yofl ” He raised his shaking arms to the golden spangled vault above him. And the sun came out at midnight.—Weekly Scotsman.