THE BROTHER OF LOVE.

Observer, Volume XXI, Issue 1177, 20 July 1901, Page 18

THE BROTHER OF LOVE.

Death is the brother of Love ; twin-brother Is he, and la only More austere to behold. — Longfellow.

HATED having my hueband for a whole year, bat I bad been in poor health for a long time, nnd the doctor had declared that the voyage and a lengthy stay at home would do wonders for me ; and although I had to leave my baaband, I conld take my child with me, and it pleased me to think that I should have an opportunity of introducing my little three-year old boy Bonnie to the admiring grand-patents and uncles and aunts who had seen numerous photographs of him, but who would gladly weloome the little man himself. My husband and I had gone to Australia immediately after our marriage, five years ago, and since then he had never been able to leave bis business long enough to pay a vißit to England. However, I atla^t made up my mind to go, and I said good-bye to him, feeling that I would far rather stay, and almost before I realised it we were off. For the first few days I conld do nothing. I am a wretched sailor, and Bpsnt the time in my cabin, bnt gradually I recovered and went on deck, to find that Bonnie had wormed himself into the affections of every person, from Captain Pearson downward. Strange to say, he was the only child on board, and all seemei to weloome the amusement afforded by his baby prattle and innocent games — all, that ia to say, bnt one, for I soon noticed what Bonnie had already discovered that the tall, dark man with the kind, sad face, called Mr Brereton, never took any notice of him, and whenever possible kept away from him. John Brereton was the quietest man I have ever met He certainly took pirt — a very passive part, always — in the various entertainment* and amusements got op on the ship, but he never sought friendthip or even companionship. Bonnie rather re sented the inattention Bhown to his im portant little self, and made up his mind that he would force the man to join the ranks of his admirers, bo he used all his most captivating wiles to make Mr Brereton notice him. 'His eyes shine when he looks at me. mother,' be announced one day, in great excitement, ' like yours did when you kissed father good-by ' When Bonnie told me this I forbade him to bother the gentUmin any mire, for I arranged in my own mind that the poor man had lost a child of about Bonnie's age, and that my boy reminded him of his sorrow. But Bonnie persisted in his efforts, and was finally rewarded, tor one day, as I came quickly round a corner, I saw John Brereton catch the child into his arms and kies him with a frenzy of affection which puzzled me a good deal, and from that time Bonnie hid no more devoted companion than John Brereion. All that we knew of this quiet passenger was that he was a wealthy EoglUhmin who had been out to Australia to look after some property. Hia wife was too delicate to accompany him, and had remained at home in the little vilUge of Bedruth, in Cornwall, where, so gosßip aaid, be had a moat lovely estate Now that Bonnie had broken the ice, I felt 1 might Bpeak to the lonely man, and one day 1 t^ld him that I hoped my little boy, who, I feared, was rather spoiled, did not bother him. 'He doesn't trouble me at all, th ink you,' he said. 'On tho contrary, I enjoy having him with me, for I am devoted to ohildren.' And after that he often talked to me, and told me about bis wife, with whom he was deeply in love. She was so Borry not to have accompanied him, he said, and he went on to tell me how rre.ty she was, and many other things, and one day he said, suddenly, with a little catch in bU voice : ' Our great sorrow is that we have no children. We are bo.h devoted to them. I would give anything to have a son to beat my name after me, and my wife would be more pleased than 1 can say ; but, alihoagh we have b eu married ten years, Heaven has njt blessed its with a child. Thia ia the reason why, although I love ohildren, I could not make friends with your little boy at first. When- 1 am with children I feel my want' more acutely.'

I conld say nothing. I was bo sorry for them both, and he waa so Rood to Ronnie He was always giving him presents, and he made me promise when we reached England to take Ronnie to stay with him at Redrnth for a week. So the days passed, and we were almost at onr journey's end when the horror happened which makeß me sick aa I write, which cornea np freeh before me as I tell it to yon. Ronnie was playing on the deck quite alone. Every one had gone to lancb, and 1 was jast going to fetch him when I saw him climb on to a bench and peer over the side at something in tbe water, and then, before I conld speak or move, he disap peared. I shrieked, and in a moment tbe deck waa alive with people. A boat was lowered instantly. Two sailors leaped after the child, but before them all, almost before the shriek had died away on my lips, I saw a tall figure in gray flannel dive into the water, and then, I suppose, I fainted, for I knew nothing more until after what Beemed like years of blackest darkness. I opened my eyes to find Ronnie in my arms, kissing me, bagging me, clinging to me, crying lustily, bat Bafe and uahurt And as I clasped him to me, feeling tbat I could never let him go from my arms agalD, I caught a glimpse of four sailors carrying something very carefully away — something that was like and yet unlike a man — something horribly still and shapeless. I knew what it waa. It needed not the captain's gentle words of explanation to tell me that Ronnie had been saved at the coat of a man's life, and that man John Brereton. I did not really hear what the captain said. I hardly troubled to listen, for when the result was so appalling I did not see that the cause much mattered. I heard, as in a dream, aomething about Mr Brereton striking bis head against some part of the ship as he leaped, bat all that I really understood was tbat he had given me back my child at the coat of his own life, for they said that, though he might linger on till we arrived in England, no ooe could wish, him to do bo, for he waa injured beyond hope of recovery. Each breath he drew meant a fresh agony, so we could only be glad when the end came, when, with Ronnie's kisses on his lips, with Ronnie's fat hand held tightly in bin, he left as for tbat country from which there is no returning.

Bat before he went he became conscious enough to ask me to tell hia wife bow it happened. ' She will be all alone now,' be said. ' I conld die happ'er if I coold only think Bhe had a ohild to oomfort her.' I conld Bay nothing. I conld not even thank him for saving Bonnie. One thanka a person for passing something, for opening a door, for countlesß trivial actions. To use the same formula for the gift of a hnman life seemed to me impossible. They were all very kind, bat nothing comforted me, and I wae thankful when, one Bunny September day, we steamed slowly into Til bar y Dock. As soon aB we were alongside, some letters were brought on board for passengers, and the captain took charge of several for ' John Brereton, Esq.' 1 was sitting in my cabin, anxions to leave the scene of a horror that would ever haunt me, but not knowing how to break the awfal news to the wife who might even then be waiting for him, when there waß a tap at the door, and the captain came in with an open letter in his hand. 1 Read that,' he said ; and I read : ' Penton Villa, ' Redrutli, '2nd September, 1899. 1 Dear Bbbbbton, — Let me congratulate you. A son was born to you to-day at 12.30 p.m., and he and your wife are well. She sends her love, and hopes that you will forgive her for not telling you before ; she wanted to give you a pleasant surprise when you came home. 'Yours sincerely, ' Henry 0. Ph-llips.' ' 1 suppose he is the doctor,' I said, mechanically, for I could think of nothing sensible to Bay, and my cheeks were wet with tears. ' Do yon notice the tim 6?' asked the captain, in a thick voice ; and then I broke down and cried unreatrainedly, and be went softly ont of the cabin. 1 How can I tell her T' I asked myself over and over again. Almost at the moment when he died to save my child, ehe was facing pain and agony to bring his son into the world — the son for whom he bad so longed, over whom he would have rejoiced so exceedingly if it had only not been too late. I sat and cried. I was not thinking of him bo much as his wife. I remembered how, on the day Ronnie came to me, I went through tortures, was racked with the agonies known only to women, felt that no prize could be worth the pain ; how afterwards, when ease came, I knew that the prize was worth the Buffering, and forgot my anguish for joy that a child was born into the world. I remember how I looked with pride at the soft, little, warm bundle of flannel nestling up to me ; how I thought, ' That ia my son ' ; how a sentence read long ago came into my mmd — ' The greatest poet, the greatest states.

man, the greatest artist, the greatest man the world haß ever seen, has yet to be born, aod this child may be he.' And then I o ame back to the horrible present. How should I tell this woman that, even as she gained her child, she lost her hasband — that in the boor eh 3 was made a mother, she was made alao a widow 7 How tell her ? How break the news ? ' Help me, oh, God I' I prayed, despairingly, hopelessly. ' Show me what to do— tell me !' And the answer came — it oame on a flimsy pieoe of pink paper— for even as I pnytd the captain returned. His eyes were shining, and his breath came in deep gasps, as of a man about to ohoke He eald not a word, bat held toward me a telegram, and never in my life have a few Bdorc words brought me keener relief or greater consolation, for the telegram was from ' Phillip?, Redruth, 1 to • John Brereton, Steamship Gantelonpe, Tilbury Dock,' and it said : 1 Deeply regret to tell you your wife died at ten o'clock ito-day, aud the child only survived her for two hours.'