A CHANCE LIKENESS

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LII, Issue 244, 20 November 1909, Page 4

A CHANCE LIKENESS

OHAPTJiII L-LNTEKEST. The great surgeon Jiad sat beside Hiss t'arita Le jUesurier at a Loudon diuner party, and she had iiiteresteu huii. fcne had beu dressed in softest white like a girl he remembered: Maryl Leonard had always worn white, fieri eyes were brown like Mary's, gentle ami faithful. As she lifted them to his fate in a soft -appeal or a second the crowded dinner-table was forgotten. He was iio.umg Mary in his arms in a Kentish orchard. The drift of apple-blossom was all about them. They were heartbroken. He could hear the girl's soft crying and feel her hair under 'his lips. A mist swam before his senses, llow did this girl come to have Mary's eyes—to look like Mary's daughter? After all, Mary had been neither for him nor tor the rich man whom her people would have forced her to marry. They hail met at her graveside; and, looking across that barrier, the hatred and resentment between them had fallen dead. What use was it, since she had been for neither of them, though both had loved her?

And there was a trouble in this girl's eyes as there had been in Mary's. It was a time of great national trouble, and yet people dined and talked and laughed: at intervals, for there were days when a cloud was on the faces in the street, a blackness, that could be felt like a winter fog. There had he: u many such days. He recalled a railway journey made one morning a week earlier. In the crowded carriage no one had spoken, Men had read their newspapers in a grim silence. There arc things that can only be borne in silence. The talk at the dinner-table bad been of wounds and battle and death, gloomy talk, but what people thought of they talked of ; and there was nothing mitJ trouble in men's' minds. Yet the trouble in her eyes was some-1 thing more personal, more intimate,! than the common trouble. Was ii. i> >ssiWe she was a soldier's daughter, sister, sweetheart?

He bent his head to hers. Opposite to them sat a lady who bad a certain frosty likeness' to Miss Lp Mesuricr. lie had an idea that the girl by his side shrank when she met the hull's eye-. Mother and daughter. Why, it'was another parallel to the story of Haw Leonard.

He was grateful to the growing lily-of-tlic-vallcy, the leaves of which made a delicate shade for the electric light bulb, that it threw his face and t'le girl's into shadow. J "I hope you have not anyone ouvthcrc—in that carriage," he said, almost in a whisper. j The color came to her choel; as it had always' come to Mary's on slight provocation. She sent a startled glance across the table before replying. He tool; up carelessly the fan tliat"lay in her lap and fanned her with it. "You are very kind," she said. The voice was softness itself. Ho had not beard such softness in a woman's voice since he and Mary had said good-bye. " i'es', I have someone." Poor child! The lids were down over her eyes. They were as transparent as the eyelids of a child. The way slic folded her hands in her lap had to his mind .1 touching suggestion of patience, of endurance.

"You know I am going out?" he said, apparently fanning her with assiduity. "I know. I envy you!" She lifted her eyes, and the sudden passion of them was a revelation. After ail, she was stronger than Mary; she was capable, of fighting for her lovo, for her happiness. He sighed an odd little sigii of relief, and glanced towards the hard face across the flowers and Hie electric light. The lady was evidently intcrsstcd in the discussion between himself and Miss Lc Mesurier.

"I am going rather as an observer than ar. actor," he said, "to see what is to be seen. If I should happen to conic across anyone—you are interested in "

"His name is James Dundas—Captain James Dundas, of the " "Carita, my dear," said a cokl voice across the dinner-table, "our hostess is making a move."

The girl stood up with a startled air. There was a rustle of silk as the ladies all ilocked out of the room. Sir John Lockhart did not sit long over his wine, although lie was an excellent judge, and the host's cellar was of the test. He had a curious desire to see Carita again, as though it gave him pleasure to go back to the .pain and passion of his youth. Usually he conti'i- [ butcd something to the ' after-dinner gaiety, but on this occasion he praved to be excused.

"Lockhart is full of his journey,'' said the host, "lie goes out in less'than a week."

But he might as well have sat over the vintage port for all he saw of Carita Le Mesurier that evening. She was at the piano playing when he entered the„ drawing-room. Over Tier hung with an infatuated air a lumpish youth who had left the dinner-table even earlier than himself. The protuberant eyes, the narrow forehead, the coarse mouth, stirred a curious rage and resentment in Sir John's elderly heart. lie might have known such a jealousy if Carita had been his daughter. Whyconfound the fellow! couldn't he have found 'something more suited to him 'than this delicate piece of womanhood? He was quite capable of dismissing I the objectionable youth; he was a masterful person, and not given to thinkhg of the conventionalities; lint there was another person involved. Lady Le Mesurier was on guard. She spoke sweetly, making room for him on the couch (in which she was sitting. "I hear we are to lose you soon, Sir John," she said, catching'his unwilling eye. "Our loss, but then the enormous gain of those who need you more." "Not at all, ma'am, not at all," said Sir John brusquely. "I'm going for pleasure—for my own selfish pleasure. Good Lord, what a picnici!" The last words were said -to himself, not to the lady.

There was a crowd of black coats in the door, and in the diversion of the men's entry Sir John passed away from the lady's invitation without too irksome a sense of having been a boor. Tho groups in the drawing-room broke up and shifted. Only the pair at the piano remained unchanged. Sir John, from the other end of the room, glared in their direction. Allltle woman spoke at his elbow—his hostess, whom he liked. "II saw you were interested in Carita Le Mesurier," she sa-id. "She is a special pet of mine. What do you think of the swain!" > "That little brute!" Sir John was not used to mincing Ihis words. "Lord Padstow's son and" -hsir, the Hon. Rupert Donne. An old title, and immensely rich."

1 "A degenerate. Haven't I heard liis| ■ name betorej" j "There was a breach of promise ease." i' "To be sure, a young lady from the halbj. 1 'remember now he had to pay. It is one of the consolations of old bachelorhood that one eaimot have a sou of that kind. What does the woman ■mean by letting ihim hang" about her daughter';" "Sou see, they were left rather poor. Sir Allan speculated unfortunately. I am sorry for C'arilu, poor child! There was a detrimental whom this war provtdentially—from Lady Lo llesurier's point of view—took out of the way. t'arita swears she will wait for the detrimental. Her mother is equally certain she shall marry the little brute, s you call him. Poor Carita!" The lady's attention wiw districted for a moment, and when she could attend to him again she found that & John was saying farewell.

CHAPTER iJ.-IXTKKKtSTKD. A couple of niuiitlis Inter «' littlo curly-haired, cheerful Army nmii was .showing Sir John Lockliai't over the fold 'hospital at Picti rsdori. Sir John 'had visited several such plates since his arrival in the coiintr,, ami his visits had not iiccn chcerlol occasions, lie found muddle everywhere; stores locked up in one piacc that wunid have meant lito in another; an m-iit licienc.v of everything; dwindling app!i antes of ail kinds; shortage id blankets, of lineii, of medicine, ol anaesthetics worst of all in many eases, and it was so at l'ietersdorf—no antiseptics. The harassed-lookiug muses, the boy ish doctor and his stall, were doing their best—hut—no antiseptics! ilieio was a sickening odour within the tent, although the canvas was looped up to let the dry, parcning air of the veicii stir beneath it. The little doctor stood ou tiptoe to whisper a word in Sir jlolifl'a car—gangrene. There was no use in operating. The wounds were poisoned through and through. All those poor fellows lying there were so many dead men. Wharf, a muddle it all was!

Sir John nodded his assent. What was tlie good of operating' .None, certainly. The men were as good as dead. They lay quietly, fur the most part unconscious of what was happening. Only one pair of quiet eyes wataicd hiin from a pallet with intelligence in their expression.

Sir John went straight in their direction.

"And this fellow?" he asked. "Shot in the arm. Wound gangrened like the rest. Xo hope of a successful operation."

Sir John stooped down to the patient. The others were lying still as the dead, though some 'muttered in their sleep. Here was one who knew what was happening.

"liver been under chloroform?" he asked.

"Ever :beeu under chloroform?' The words came slowly, with pauses between. "Ever been under chloroform? 1 should jolly well think 1 had. fiaow all the brands, 1 believe. . I prefer C.M.ti. It's nice—nice thick, sweet otulf. It gives good dreams. Oha.p told me once Uial he heard a whole carpenter s shop of 'em—all making Ins coltin. Aasiy mat. Tisifl |i| a . that with me. Sir John stooped lower. "V. iiaL is it like with you?''

"English country. Light far away; end of a wood or something; someone coming. Can't you sec' This is how I like it. Don't make me sick cither. If it did, the dreams would be worth it." ■Sir John Lotkhart was one for making up his mind quickly. He had so often occasion to do it," when promptness meant life, hesitation 1 death. He tinned to the curly-haired voting doctor, with a thought 'that it was a thousand pities Mich a one should he found in such a situation. All right for doctoring old women in a country village. Nothing at all to receive "remnants' of men after a battle, to cut and hew mercifully till the place was liku a slaughterhouse—no chance at'such a time, no time, to administer unaes-. thcties—a poor thing to be iu charge when gangrene held the field hospital and there was nothing to fight it with. Audyet, better so. Finer material than the young, cheerful doctor could aot have endured it. "1 believe this fellow will live,'' he said. "Anyhow, 1 am going to operate."

He was pulling off his coat A3 he spoke, turning up his shirt-sleeves. He had his 1 own surgical instruments with him, although he had only come to look "Lift him out of it," he said; ''out of this poisoned place. Von have a spare tent. Come! There is nothing to he done for the others. Your best nurse. Ah, that little brown-faced woman—l thought so. Here, orderly, lend a hand with this. A thousand pities we have no antiseptics. But I believe he'll live even without them, liendv for your favorite brand, hey 1 ; I believe we'll pull you round—for the girl who comes through the wood after you've had the chloroform."

Sir John turned aside so that his patient should not see the glitter of the knives'. The nurses pressed round the door of the tent in grim silence to .ice the great man operate. For years he had been talking about growing roses in his Berkshire' gardens, but. always the pitiful necessities of hunianitv had refused him his well-earned rest." The little doctor was preparing the chloroform apparatus. •'I was once young myself," Sir John thought. '-And now—for the woodland and the sweetheart at home h England!"

CHAPTER 111.-IXTKHESTLNG. Some weeks' later Sir John returned on bis way down to Capetown. The field hospital was still there on the baked veldt. He stopped the train to ask about his 'patient, and found the young doctor bustling about, as cheerfully as ever in the hospital crowded with enteric patients.

• "The other chaps all died," he said. "If you were to go up on that kopje, Sir John, you would see their graves, ll've lost two of my nurses since, and a couple more arc down with it. Your man, the one you operated on, is doing well. You can nee him over there bv the door of the bell tent. It's no place for a convalescent, yet he's hardly strong enough for a journey to the sea." "Supposing 1 were to take charge of him. It can't be worse for him llian staying here." The little doctor rubbed his hands tugetlier with a little obsequiousness in i his air.

"I wish all my patients had as good a chance as Captain Dundas," ,e .said. "Dimdus!" Sir John heard the soft pleading voice, saw the fresh innocent face, the faithful brown eyes of the girl at the London dhincr-taiblc who had reminded him of Mary Leonard. He had known too many strange things in his erowdc 1 life to be dogmatic about anything. Had she compelled him by hiv jiravers, li<"' need, to do just the tl.ing he had done? It looked like it.

"Captain Jim Dundas.' lie said, holding out his band, "you \rc a much better ease than when I saw you las'. What do you say to coning' with 'lie down to I'npotowii and to liiigland'; You ■we, you are out of the lighting." "Now? Today?" the young man asked in bewilderment.

"This moment. The train can't delay very long. There are a good many iii-.' valids aboard. I've passed you as fit to travel. I'll see to you on the way down and the voyage home." "Hum!" he said to himself. "Been fretting over the loss of his arm. I don't; think it will make any ditVerean' to Carita, any more than it would have (lone to Mary."

"\ou are very good," Captain Dumksaid. "Very good. It will he good le get out of this place where there an always funerals. Nurse Annie was tin last. You remember the little niiisv with the brown face ■" "There-better not talk too much You arc going to get awav from it. Il\ the way—an odd thing—that girl wh'r used to come through the wood who you had your favorite 'brand V l. heard since about you; 1 shouldn't he surprised if you got the V.C.—well 1 believe I met that gi,| in London l.isl January. Her name is Carita l> ■Mesurier. f> told her I would -look oul'foi you. I can fancy Miss Carila's evewhen she knows'l have hroiHit von home. Here come the orderlies Wcshall have time to talk ab„„t R on om way home. 'A useless hull;.' J|y ,!,.„,• fellow, no such thing. Women-women like Carita, at least, don't think of such things except as glorious.

To bo sure it was it bitter pill for l-ady Lo Mesurior wlien her TiniiffliLor refused Uio licir to a peerage and mar ried instead a poor {fentlemiin like .Tim Dimdas, armless too, and so out of the service. However, the thing had its compensations. For one thin™. T.ord Padstow's licir proved hinwelf, as time wont, on, to he an uncommonly bad o<r;r, For a"iother, there was the extraordinary in^ terest winch Sir Jolin Lockhart" die-

played in the young couple. And Sir J, John, of course, was uumr-.i'd and ' without near kin, and was known to nc ' rich. On the whole, Lady l.c Mcs'iner ', came to think as time passed ilint in ■ ■marrying the man of her own ' hide . | although he was poor anil u u i"<l. , Carila hail done rather better for herself ■ than if she had accepted her nnl'ier.. • choice, t'arita herself had ne>."r .11 v ', doubt of it—would have had no ■lmi'ii . of it even if Sir John Lockliurt nail no l . ■ taken them to lie his children.—liy " Catherine Tvnan. .