Mary's Great Mistake.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXI, Issue 3028, 27 October 1908, Page 2

Mary's Great Mistake.

By EFFIE ADELAIDE ROWLANDS.

"A Splendid Heart," etc., etc,

CHAPTER Vll.—Continued. Mary turned from the window and walked to and fro a little hurriedly, putting a chair straight here, a book there. They were unconscious actions. "I feel," said she unsteadily, and there was a sound of tears in her voice—"l feel that life is just beginning for me. The sight of those patient children has touched a chord here"—she struck her breast—"a chord that I thought must be silent forever, when—when my baby came, and was taken from me." He made no remark for a moment ; it was the first time she had mentioned her child, and he had a sensation of keen pain at her words, and her voice. Mary moved about the room still a little ' uncertainly, and his eyes rested on her graceful form with a sort of tender wistfulness. "You get on all right with Miss Davis?" he asked, when he spoke. j "Excellently," Mary answered, | putting aside her emotion with an effort; "she is most kind. She is a j clever, practical woman." "Yes, she knows her business," Dr. Cartwright said. "She ia in love witn you," he added abruptly. "I am glad she likes me," Mary answered, with one of the rare smiles that came over her lovely face now and then. "She has only one fault to find. She says you are too young." Dr. Cartwright did not add, "and too beautiful," which was that the matron ha:! said. "It ia a fault that will mend very soon." "I don't know," he watched her as she sat down again by the table and prepared for business. "How old are you?" he asked her abruptly. She looked at him, with a sudden rush of colour to her cheeks. "I was twenty-one last August." "ifouare a-child, a mere child, then.' Mary laughed softly. He had never heard her laugh before; it was a delicious sound, but the laugh was followed immediately by a sigh. "I wish I were a child again!" she said with that sigh. "Childhood is usually supposed to be the happiest time of our life," the doctor remarked. "Can't say that I experienced it. I had about as rough a time as any youngster need wish for. Some day, Mrs Barnes, I will tell you all about myself if it won't bore you." . "You know it will not," Mary 3aid quickly. Some more words quivered on her lips, he guessed their purport. She would repay his confidence in like fashion when that day came. She would tell him the history of her girlhood, of her happy dr.ys, and of her sorrow. He wondered so often what her story could be. It was as in bitter lines, that he knew; but though there was shame in the sorrow, it was not a shame that belonged to her, that also he knew. In her delirium she had said some few things that let a little light upon the mysery of her destitute condition. She had spoken words of anguish, and of deep distress. There had been moments whsn the immediate past had seemed to slip away from her, when she had been wandering in j \ other days. In these moments she j had called sometimes so piteously for J an "Uncle Henry," and sometimes! she had said the name softly and i tenderly. It was quite evident there ( was some big cause of pain and mental trouble connected with this "Uncle Henry," and also with an . "Isobel," whose visionary form seemed to wound and torment the poor weary, suffering brain. j "I must know all before long. She must not be left alone like this, to fight her way aione in the world unprotected, uncherished. If there i 3 a home left to her, she must return to it. I shall not rest until I have restored her to her proper place." That was what Dr. Cartwright had said to himself over ar.d over again, as the illness had been conquered, and convalescence had begun. He was by no means a sentimental man, though his heart was so big and so tender; but Mary was no ordinary case; he had seen that at a glance, and, apart from her exceeding and unusual beauty, his pity and his charity would have been stirred into action for one whom he knew instantly belonged to that cias3 that ia little fitted for a hand-to-hand struggle for mere existence. She was totally unsuited for physical labour. Yet work was her only : chance. She was bound to have bread. How was she to gain it, 3ave by her own exertions? It is hardly necessary to say that the post George Cartwright eventually offered to Mary was one that he had instituted entirely and solely en her account. The arrangements at his convalescent heme had been most satisfactory, save in a few small matters. Dr. Cartwright massed these small matters in om, and having taken his matron, an old and valued fellcw- ' worker of ye;'.rs, into his confidence, he had announced his intention of placing a lady of his acquaintance in thejpost of superintendent, a position with nominal duties and pleasant privileges, Mary had accepted his aid in perfect faith; she had, in truth, regarded him as her saviour in the darkest moment of her life. She went eagerh into such work as was placed before her, and felt almost the first gleam of happiness she h>'l known since she had left her umie's bouse and joined her lot with Hugh Ballaston. The sight of the children had worked in her immense g«oi Her own sorrows and sufferings became almost infinitesimal; even the shadow o,f her ijusbami'a 3harae ar.d

Author of Selina's Love Story "An Inherited Feud," " Brave Barbara,"

public humiliation of her grew less gloomy and progessive in this atmosphere of childish patience, sweetness and resignation. She felt she could never thank this man enough for iiis help; and then the whole matter was so businesslike. Since he had first brought her down to Whiterock, in the early days of February, Dr. Cartwright had not been near the home. He had left his protegeo to struggle to herself into her groove, and knew he was wise in so doing. He heard about her progress, and he heard from her herself very soun after her arrival, for the change to the sea air, combining with her excellent constitution, soon set her on her feet again. Reports were sent very frequently to the busy doctor in London, and Mary's duty was to write these reports to him and see to the mass of the correspondence. Dr. Cartwright had come down to Whiterock now for a douple purposed One of his little patients in the home was lying in a critical condition, and his skill was needed to see what could be done. Also there was, as he announced to Mary, a grand ball about to be given that very evening at a neighbouring big house in aid of his charity, and at which he supposed it was his duty to show himself at least for half-an-hour. "But you will not surely return to London to-night?" Mary said earnestiy. She looked at him with much concern; it struck her he had a very worn, tired air. "I must. I have a consultation in Harley street at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning," he replied curtly, turning his eyes away from her lovely, earnest ones. "Mrs Massingham, who has been good enough to place htr big room at the disposal of those charitable folk who are interesting themselves on our behalf has been equally kind in offering me hospitality for any length of time; but I must catch the midnighc train from Seacroft Junction without fail." "Where is Mrs Massingham's house, then? Is it near here?" 'Mary inquired. He shook his head with half a smile. "Not very near: that is, as the crow flies, about six or seven miles but by train it takes over an hour to reach, and driving by road would, of course, be longer. I must leave here early. I will have a little dinner before I start." "We must get to work, then, at once," Mary observed, and she spread out all the books and papers. "I hope I don't make many muddles, Dr. Cartwright?" she said wistfully. "You are first-rate," he answered. He always spoke to her in his curtest, shortest fashion; he did not know exactly why he put such a restraint on himself. He was only conscious that the restraint was most necessary. "I should like to carry you off to this ball to-night," he said abruptly, after they had gone through the business that was to to be done. Mary smiled faintly. "I have never been at a ball," she confessed. "I don't believe I know how to dance." "I'll stake any amount you do, and right well, too. A woman who rides as you do is sura to dance well." / Mary opened her magnificent eyes. "But you have never seen me ride," she said in amazement. (To be continued.)