Mary's Great Mistake.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXI, Issue 3024, 22 October 1908, Page 2

Mary's Great Mistake.

By EFFIE ADELAIDE ROWLANDS. Author of Seiina's Love Story "An Inherited Feud," " Brave Barbara," "A Splendid Heart," etc., etc.

» CHAPTER V.—Continued. She lay very still. She might have "been asleep she as so still, but within her there was a fire of activity, a fire of anxious thought, of nervousness, of fear. Her illness had made her week in her meniaj goriu.'t. lo "' asjri'fier bfldjjy, Sb,e fcatj always" ] been brave, even {Q a fault, bufc » u -' m art feel, brav* --£ With ..uelming rush came the tide of past events to torture and to crush her while before here stretched the world, the cold, hard, cruel world, in the whole of which she did not know where toturn to find a corner for shelter or for rest. She was in London. The «ty that •was so rich, and yet so fearfully poor; in another three weeks, perhaps a fortnight, she would be pronounced well she must leave the hospital, and go—where? She had not a single friend who could help her. Before her marriage, in the dear, happy days of her girlish life at Thrapstone Court, she had been in London once, she and lsobel, with Uncle Henry. What a time they had spent! what excitement! what theatres! what lovely frocks and bonnets in the shop windows! what glorious jewels in others! And the park! the park, with its crowd of smart folk, and its horses and carriages, Mary could remember distinctly, she had grown weary of admiring and enjoying so much. When they had all assembled in the carriage to go back to Thrapstone and its quiet joys, she had nestled up to Uncle Henry and laid her fair cheek on his arm. "Did my Molly enjoy herself?" his kind voice had asked. And she had given a big sigh that was eloquent with satisfaction for answer. There had been, indeed, not a cloud on the sunshine of that visit, save the little continual shadows that Isobel's jealousy always produced. Mary knitted her brows sharply. Why did she recall that visit of "long ago? How could ic help her now? What use in stirring up old memories? Was not her anguish great enough as it was. Why could she not let the past lie in its grave? She knitted,her brows more closely and pressed her lips tightly together. She must, think of the future, the inexorable, terrible future! What must she do, where go, when this haven ot rest was closed to her? She told herself feebly she was a coward, but the overwhelming weakness that prostrated her would have made a coward of even a stronger, braver nature than hers. She was literally destitute. She had not even a penny. The little money that had remained to her had been given, at her request, by the nurse to the railway guard, who had called now and then to inquire for thi poor young lady whom he had helped. % "I did not pay for my ticket. I remember now," she had said to her mirse when she had been able to hear an account of her first appearance at the hospital, and learned the goodness of the working-man who had rescued her: "and there was the cab here. Please give him what money there is in my purse when next he covnes. I will try and thank him as he Bhould be thanked when I am well enough to see him." The nurse bad obeyed her. though she had curious pain at her heart when she saw what a little store of money there was in the purse; ani the guard had hesitated when she had delivered Mary's message, but the girl's gentle, proud influence prevailed on him, as on the nurse, and her wiah was carried out.

The discharging of this debt, then, left her absolutely penniless, and in another fortnight she "would be cure'd, and she must go.

A quiver passed over her wan, beautiful face, a cry of despair rang out from her heart."

"Oh! if she could only havel died in the delirium of the fever; if she might.still be permitted to die during the next few days." s^3 Some one moved into the circle of her small room, as formed by the screen, at this moment. She tried to smooth the contraction from her brows, and to loosen the tension of her lips. She even tried to smile. "I—l am not asleep, nurse," she said, and with that she opened her eyes.

It was not the nurse's crim figure who stood beside her, looking down upon her so intently but the tall masculine form of her doctor. He sat down, and did not speak for a moment. Then he bent forward, looked at her keenly, and spoke abruptly: "Why do you wish to die?" ho asked. Mary's lovely eyes were full of startled surprise. "How du you kv.aw I have such wi-ih?" she answered in hsv faint, sweet voice. . "It was written on your i'acfi just now. - It is written in your heart always." "Are you a magician, Dr. Cartwright?'*' Mary asked, with a wan f nile coming about her pallid lips i\>r a rroment. "Nd; only a student of human nature." "You hav.' It-en studying me?" she asked next. "I have bten trying to." Mary lay silent. She lifted her delicate, beautiful hands, looking at i tem in an apparently intent mariror \ A seeing nothing. It was a trick she had acquired since she bad be (om« convabsc-rt and spoke to the man more eloq o--.tly than words could of the meuJ strain she was enduring, uf the greater mental pfcruggle she had sustained for some i past. "I am afraid I am neither an interesting nor instructive subject for study," she said after a long pause. "I-must beg to ..i.Ter with you on

that point, Mrs " Dr. Cartwright paused. "I do not think I have heard your name as yet." Mary coloured deeply at his words. The colour made her loveliness still greater. "i will be honest with you," she said, not very easily. "I would j-athpr not give you my real name* J Mrs Barnes. My Christian name is Mary." . "The most beautiful name in t^ ifi world," Ueorge Cartwrightj sai( j gently. • " He sat back in the chair, crossed his leg?, and clasped his hands about his knee. Mary looked at him with her sad, brown eyes. He was lost in thought apparently, and she ould gaze at his face undisturbed. She had always liked him; there was an element of strength about him, of comfort, of protection. His dark, stern face appealed to her irresistibly. "I should like to call him friend," was the thought that formed itself in her mind as she lay looking at him. George Cartwright turned his head, and his steel-gray eyes met hers at this instant. "Why not?" he asked quietly, as though the unuttered wish had been spoken aloud. Again that wave of hot colour mantled Mary's face. "JNow I know you are a magician," she said, half seriously, half laughingly, and just a little nervously. •She had never met anyone like this man before.

"Mrs Bsrnes, I am going to be honest with you—one good turn deserves another. You were honest with me just now; you confided in me to a certain extent, and I want to show you I am not unappreciative of the honour you have done me. I want to help you. I should call myself a proud man if I might indeed be ranked among your friends. Doctors are priviledged persons, you know. That old truims must be my excuse for broaching a subject that otherwise would be closed to me, and for venturing to address you in the manner I now do."

Mary did not answer immediately. "Dr. Cartwright," she said, when she could find her voice, "I will anticipate your questions. Something within me tells me you will indeed be my friend; you have read my thoughts so well. You perhaps do even not need my words' to tell you that I,—l am in a desperate state. lam friendless. lam penniless. I am alone in the world. I have prayed for death, but Heaven will not be merciful to me. It is willed that I shall not die, but live on—live to suffer, to endure, to struggle as " She broke off for an instant, and pressed one trembling hand over her eyes. When she spoke again she was quite calm. "Since I may not die I must live. The question of the immediate moment is, "How am I going to live when I leave here?"

"You will go to my convalescent home at Whiterock."

Dr. Cartwright said this in the most casual of tonas, in exactly the same voice, in fact, as be should have used if Mary had been a millionaire patient, and he were ordering her to the Riviera for change and warmth. (To be continued.)