Mary's Great Mistake.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXI, Issue 3023, 21 October 1908, Page 2

Mary's Great Mistake.

By EFFIE ADELAIDE ROWLANDS. Author of Selina's Love Siory "An Inherited Feud," " Brave Barbara," K A Silendid Heart," etc., etc.

CHAPTER V.—Continued. Most truly her foolish, stubborn girlish rebelion—her sin, if such a mistake could be called by so harsh a name —had brought its own punishment, a punishment greater than she could bear. She paid the woman of the house in full. Had her mind been less distraught, it is more than certain she would have questioned the truth of this money having come from Ballaston. Fortunately for her own poor tortured heart's sake she did not doubt this, yet the time came when she did doubt, and when the hot blush of pride rose to her face, as she knew to whose generosity she was indebted for this timely help. Now, she could think of nothing but of her escape from this place, far from all or any one who could come to her ■with words of commiseration, or •with looks of pity that would hurt her as keenly as though they were sharp physical blows. She drove to the station just as a train was starting fof London. It was her cabman who came to her rescue. With his own hand she flung her trunk into the luggage van, and Mary, obeying his rough, genial voice, like one in a dream, found herselt in an empty third-class carriage, while the slowly moving panorama of frost-decked bushes and banks outside told her she had accomplished the task, so fax, at least, that she was being taken away from all she feared, all she hated; being borne swiftly, with ever-increasing speed to a new place and a new life of which she knew nothing, and for which she had inade„no plans. It was this hurried departure, unseen, or, rather, unnoticed, by any of the station officials, that made Paul's search so difficult. She sat crouching in a corner of the cold, hard seat. She ' was shivering all over, yet it seemed as though she were on fire. "I must thijik—l must think," she said over and over to herself in a dull, set way; but she got no further than that, and hy and by the noise of the rushing train, the rough jolting of the car, seemed to rock her into a curious dream, a dream full of the strange forms and ideas, and places, and when she awoke she was lying in this narrow bed, and there was a big paper-covered screen around it, and a bright-faced woman was bend- ' ing over her. It was some days after this before she was allowed to open her lips and . ask questions; in fact, she was so desperately weak and frail at first, she had no desire to co anything but lie on her piUow and fall int) heavy sleep. She was an object of great interest and corresponding curiosity to the nurses of the ward in which she had been placed, having been brought there one cold, frosty afternoon by a railway guard, who, finding her in an insensible and, as he feared, dying condition on the arrival of the train at the London terminus, proved himself a true disciple of the great doctrine, humanity, and conveyed her himself, and at his own cost, to the nearest hospital. Here Mary had lain for days engaged in a desperaste fight for life. It was almost over with her more than once, but the doctor who took her case particularly into his hands, and the nurse who had been the first to attend to her, were mutually resolved that by no failing or fault of theirs should this, apparently most desolate, and certainly most beautiful, young creature pass into the shadow of the grave if it were given to human skill and human patience to prevent it. Success crowned their efforts when hope was almost gone; and when the crisis was passed, Mary became , stronger 'and better almost every hour. They had put a screen about her when she had been delirious, and the nurse kept it there, after she had grown into a faint, shadowy likeness of her > old self. She was a 'lady herself, this bright, clever girl, who had chosen the sick-room for 'her life's vocation, and she had seen immediately that Mary was her equal, if not her superior. The doctor, a man of about thirtyfive, with a dark, resolute, clever face, distinctly not handsome, but having a charm peculiarly its own, recognised as sharply as the nurse that this patiejit, who had given him 'gome moments of grave professional anxiety, was not of the usual class that throng the wards of a London hospital. He stood beside her bed, looking down at the wasted, lovely face, the transparent hapds and fragile form, in silence for a few moments on the day when they had at last vanquished death, and the crisis was passed. His brows were contracted as he stood there in silent' thought; then, as he iou-ed himself, he sighed quickly: "Wi;o knows, perhaps we have been cruel, not kind. Poor child, she doe?, not seem tn have found life so desirable." "She is so young; life can only be just begun for her, surely." the nurse paid. She was a very practical, unsentimental young woman as a rule; but Mary hud touched a hidden chord ofromatc- ih-it was latent in her heart, as ic is in the heart of most women, and she had fallen . in love with her beautiful patient. George Cartwright bent and brushed the hair softly from the pallid brow. "The first volume has been written," he said, more to himself than to the other. • '-itten in sorrow and tears of blued " He pause-J abruptly, went on brushing the hair back, almost tenderly, <hen he exchanged some, few provisional words with the nurse, and i alked down the long room with his loose, swinging stride and wellcarried head. Marv came l tk to consciousness,

of life and of herself by very slow degrees. One of her first requests had been to have the screen removed. "1 want to see the world," she said with a very faint smile. "You shall have your wish," the nurse answered brightly, while to herself she said she did not see how any human creature could refuse any request of this lovely woman. Mary lay and turned her large brown eyes down the room. The afternoon sun was shining in through the big windows. Some of the nurses were standing in a group in one of these windows, laughing and chatting together; except for an occasional cough or querulous word, and except for the rows of clean, narrow beds, there was hardly anything to mark the element of sickness and suffering. "It looks very bright," Mary said softly; and then she looked up at her nurse. "But it is very big," she added half wistfully. "I must get used to it by degrees. The nurse replaced the screen, and felt glad to do so. She had taken Mary very much under her wing, and she liked to shield her and keep her apart from the rest of the patients. "Shall I read to you?" she asked, sitting down by the bedside. Mary did not answer at once; when she did, it was with the question: - "How long have I been here?" "You were brought here on the afternoon ot the thirtieth." "And to-day is " "The twenty-seventh of January." Mary lay silent a moment. "A month," she said,' when she could speak; and the nurse saw it was r.ot easy for her to do so. "A month!" she paused a moment. "What a merciful month it has been." "Dr. Cartwright said I was not to let you talk too much," the nurse said gently, noting the quick rush of colour to the thin cheeks. "Itdoes me good," Mary replied, a little restlessly. She lay looking at her small hands, that were so white and so very, very slender. "When shall I be well?" she asked next. "If you are good, and do all I tell you, and take your proper nourishment, in about another three weeks, perhaps a fortnight." Mary's colour faded. "So soon," she said to herself under her breath, but the nurse caught the words. "You ought togo to a nice warm sea air when you leave here," she remarked in the most natural of voices. "Perhaps you will be able to manage it." She was above all else 1 eager not to hurt the proud spirit that shone out of those big brown eyes. "Perhaps, ' Mary / answered, and after that she closed r her eyes, and the nurse, thinking fehe would sleep, softly stole away. It was not sleep, but awakening that came to the poor chili, for indeed Mary was little more than that. In a vague, far-off way «he had been telling herself during the last few days that the end of her peace was drawing near, and that the necessity for thinking, and planning, and acting was even nearer still. But the absolute reality of this had not come to her until this moment. • (To be continued.)