THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LII, Issue 369, 21 April 1910, Page 6

THE STORYTELLER.

a CHANCE LIKENESS. (By Katherine Tynan). The great surgeon had sat Reside Miss Carita Le Mesurier at a London dinner party, and she had interested him. She -had 'been dressed in softest ! white like a girl he remembered: Mary Leonard had always worn white. Her | eyes were brown like Mary's, gentle I and faithful. As she lifted them to liis I face in soft appeal, for a second the ! crowded dinner-table was forgotten. He j was holding Mary in his arms in a Kent ' orchard. The drift of apple-blossom was ' all about them. They were heart-brok- , en. lie could hear the girl's soft crying | and feel her hair under his lips, j A mist swim before his eyes. How j did this girl come to have Mary's eyes? To look lii<e Mary's daughter? After • all, Mary had been neither for him nor for the rich man whom her people would have forced her to marry. They I had met at her graveside; and loo'king j across that barrier the hatred and reI sentment between them had fallen I 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 j was a. time of great national trouble. ; and yet people dined and talked ana j laughed: at intervals, for there were I days when a cloud was on the faces j in the street, a blackness that could Ibe felt like the winter fog. There had I been 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 ! are things that can only be borne in I silence. j The talk at the dinner-table had been of wounds and battle and death, gloomy talk, but what ipeople thought of fhey | talked of; and there was nothing but trouble in men's minds. I Yet the trouble in her eyes was ■ something more personal, more intimate j than the common trouble. Was it posI sible she was a soldier's daughter, sister, sweetheart? ■He bent his head to hers. Opposite to them sat a lady who had a certain frosty likeness to Miss Le Mesurier. He had ail idea that the girl by his side shrank when she met the lady's eyes. .Mother and daughter. Why, it was another parallel to the story of Mary Leonard. He was grateful to the growing lily-of-flic-valley. the leaves of which inaau a delicate shade for the electric light bulb, but. it threw, his face and the girl's in shadow. "I hope yon have not anyone out there—in that carnage," he said, almost in a whisper. The color came to. her cheek as it had always come to Mary's on slight ■provocation. She sent a startled glance across the table before replying. He took up carelessly the fan that lay in her lap and fanned her with it. "You are very kind," she said. The voice was softness itself. He had not heard much softness in a woman's voice since he and Mavv had said good-bye. ''Yes, I have someone." Poor child! The lids were down over he' .yes. They .-were as transparent as the eyelids of a child. They way she folded her hands in her lap had to his mind a touching suggestion of patience, of endurance. . "You know 1 am going out?" he said, apparently fanning her with assicmity. "I know. I envy you!" She lifted her eyes and the sudden passion of them was a revelation. After all she was stronger than Mary; she was capable of fighting for her love, for her happiness. He sighed an odd little sigh of relief and glanced towards the hard face across the the (lowers and the elec- ; trie light. The lady was evidently interested in the discussion between himself and Miss Le Mesurier. 'T am going rather as an observer than an actor," he said, "to see what is to be seen. If I should happen to run across anyone—you are interested in " "His name is James Dundas —Captain James Dundas, of the " "Carita, my dear," said a cold voice, across the dinner-table, "our hostess is making a move." The girl stood up with a startled air. There was a rnstle of silk as the ladies all trooped out of the room. Sir John Lockhart did not sit long over his wine, although he was an excellent judge, and the host's cellar was of the best. He had a curious desire to see Oarita again, as though it gave him pleasure to go back to the pain and passion of his youth. Usually he contributed something to the afterdinner gaiety, but on this occasion he

I prayed to bo excused. "Lockhart is full of his jouvnev," j said the host. "He goes out in less | than a -week." x j But he might as well have sat over the. vintage port for all lie saw of ' Carita Le Mesurier that evening. | She was at the piano playing when j he entered the drawing-room). Over j her hung with an infatuated air a : foppish voutlh who had left the dinncrj table even earlier than himself. The 1 protuberant eyes, the narrow forehead, the coarse mouth, stirred a curious rase and resentment in Sir John's \ elderly" heart. Tie might have known ! such a jealousy if Carita had been his ' daughter. Why —eonofund the fellow! 1 couldn't he have found something more : suited to him than this delicate piece j' of womanhood? He was quite capable of dismissing ' the objectionable youth: he was a nvasJ terful person, and not given to thinking ■ of the conventionalities: but there was | another iperson involved. Lady Lc Mesurier was oil guard. She spoke sweetly, making room for him on the couch on •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 picnic!" The last words were said to himself, noo to the lady.

There was a crow ! ui 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. The groups .in the drawing-room broke up and shifted. Only tile pair at the piano remained unchanged. Sir John, from the other end of the room, glared in their direction. A little woman spoke at his elbow, his hostess, whom he liked.

"1 saw you were interested in Carita Le Mesurier," she said. "She is a special pet of mine. What do you think of the swain?" "That little brute!" Sir John was not used to mincing his words. "Lord' Padstow's son and heir, the Hon. Rupert uonne. An old title and immensely rich." "A degenerate. Haven't I heard his name before?"

''There was a breach of promise case,"

"To be sure, a young lady from the halls. I remember now he haa to pay. It is one of the consolations of old bachelorhood that one cannot have a son of that kind. What does the woman wean by Jetting him hang about her daughter?" "You see they were left ratlier pool'. Sir Allan speculated unfortunately. 1

am sorry for Carita, poor child! There was -a detrimental whom this war providentially—from Lady Le Mesuvier's point of view—took out of the way. Carita swears she will wait for the detrimental. Her mother is equally certain she shall marry the little 'orute, as you call him. Poor Carita!" Tite lady's attention was distracted for a moment; and when she could attend to him again she found that Sir John was. saying farewell.

A couple of months later a little, curly-headed, cheerful Army medical man was showing Sir John Lockhart over the Field Hospital at Pietersdorf. Sir John had visited several such places since his arrival in the country, and his visits had not been cheerful occasions. He found muddle everywhere; stores locked up in one place that would have meant life in another; an insufficiency of everything; dwindling appliances of all kinds; shortage of 'blankets, of linen, of medicine, of anaesthetics : worst of all in many cases, and it was so at Pietersdorf —no antiseptics. The hanassed-looking nurses, the boyish doctor and his staff were doing their ■best—but—no antiseptics! There was a sickening odor within the tent although the canvas was looped up to let the dry, parching air of the veldt stir beneatn it. The little doctor stood on tiptoe to whisper a word in Sir John's ear—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. What a muddle it all was!

■Sir John nodded his assent. What was the good of operating? None, certainly. The men were as good as dead. They lay quietly, for the most part unconscious of 'what was happening. Only one pair of quiet eyes watched him 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. No hope of a successtul 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, "Ever been under chloroform" he asked. "liver been under chloroform?" The wonls came slowly with pauses between.

"Ever . . . been . . .under . . chloroform ? I should . . . jolly well . . think ... I had. . . . Know all ~ie brands ... I believe. . . . I prefer C.M.G. It's nice . . . nice thick sweet stuff. It gives me good dreams. Chap . . told me . . . once that he heard ... a whole . . . carpenter's shop of 'em . . . all making ... his coffin. Nasty . . . that. 'Tisn't like . . . that . . . with me." ■Sir John stooped lower. "What is it like with you?" "English . . . country . . . . Light far a Wit" . . . end of a wood or something . . . someone coming . . Can't vou see? That is how; ... I

like . . . Don't make me sick either . . . If it did . . . the dream would bo .. . worth it." Sir John Lockhart was one for making up his mind quickly. He had had so often occasion to do it, when promptness meant life, hesitation death.

. He turned to the curly-headed young doctor, with a thought that it was a thousand (pities such a one should be 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 like a slaughter house —no chance at such a time, 110 time, to administer anaesthetics —a poor thing to be in chnr,ge when gangrene held the fteldliospital and there was nothing to fight it with. And .yet, better so. Finer material tlwn the young, cheerful doctor could not have endured it.

"I believe this fellow will live," he said. "Anyhow, lam going to operate.'' He was pulling off his coat as -ie spoke, turning up his shirt-sleeves. He had'his own surgical instruments with him, although lie had only come to look 011.

"Lift him out of it," he said, "out of this poisoned place. You have a spare tent. Come! There is nothing to be done for the others. Your best nurse. Ah, that little brown-faced woman—T thought so. Here, orderly,

lend a hand with this. A thousand ■pities we have no antiseptics. But L believe he'll even live without them. Ready for your favorite brand, hey? I believe we'll pull you round . . for the girl who comes through the wood after you've had the chloroform." "How . . . did you komv . . . there . . . was a girl ?"

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

Some weeks later Sir John returned on his way down to Capetown. The field hospital was still there on the baked veldt. He stopped the train to ask about the 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, I've lost two of mv nurses since and a couple more are down with it. Your jiiaii, the one jou operated on. is doing well. You can see him over there, by the door of the bell tent. It's no place {of a convalescent, yet he's hardly strong enough for a journey to the sea."

"Supposing 1 were to take (.'liai'gO of him. ... It can't be worse for him than staying here."

The little doctor rubbed his hands together with a little obsequiousness in his air.

"I nvish all my patients lwd as good a chance as Captain Dundas," he satu. "Dundas." Sir John heard the soft pleading voice, saw the fresh, innocent face, the faithful brown eves of the girl at the, London dinner-*".ble who had reminded him of Mary Lamar*!. !!■■' Vi<l known too. many straivie things in hi- crowded life to be dogmatic «limit anything. Had she compelled him by her prayers, her need, to do just the thing he had done? It looked like it.

"Captain Jim Dundas," he said, holding out his hand, "you ai'e in much better case than when I last saw you. What do you say to coming with mo down to Capetown and to England. You see you are out of the fighting?" "Now? To-day?" the young man asked in 'bewilderment.

"This moment. The train can't delay very long. There are a good many invalids on board. 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 difference to Carita, any more than it would have done to Mary."

"You are very good," Captain Dundas said. "Very good. It will be good to get out of this place where there are always funerals. Nurse Annie was the last. You remember the little nurse with the brown face " 1 "There ... better not talk too much. You are going to get away from it. By tile way . . . an odd thing . . . that girl who used to come through the wood when you had your favorite brand—l've heard since about you. I shouldn't be surprised if you get the V.C.—well, I believe I met that girl in London last January. Her name is Carita Le Mesurier. I told her I would look out for you. I can fancy Miss Carita's eyes when she knows I have brought you home. 'A useless liulk.' My dear fellow, no such thing. Women—women like Carita, at least, don't think of such things except as glorious."

To be sure, it wasi a bitter pill for Lady Le Mesurier when her daughter refused the heir to a peerage and marriage instead a poor gentleman like Jim Dundas, armless, too, and so, out of the service.

However, the thing had its compensations. For one thing Lord Padstow's heir proved himself as time went on to be an uncommonly bad egg. For another there was the extraordinary interest which Sir John Lockhart displayed in the young couple. And Sir John, of course, was unmarried and without near kin, and was known to be rich. On the whole, Lady Le Mesurier came to think as time passed, that in marying the man of her own choice, although he was poor and maimed. Carita had done rather better for herself than if she had accepted her mother's choice. Carita herself had never any doubt of it even if Sir John Lockhart had not taken them to be his children.