Mary's Great Mistake.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXI, Issue 3039, 9 November 1908, Page 2

Mary's Great Mistake.

By EFFIE ADELAIDE ROWLANDS. Aufact of Selina'slLove Story »An Inherited Feud," » Brave Barbara," " A Splendid Heart," etc., etc.

CHAPTER Xlll.—Continued. "I suppose you know you will have to go through all sorts of examinations, and do all manner of disagreeable things, before you can he a duly qualified and certificated nurse".'" the doctor said, and this time he spoke "Is that absolutely necessary? Must I really go into a hospital?" Mary's lovely face was shadowed a little, as he nodded affirmatively.

* "Then I am afraid I must give up the idea," she said, with a little sigh; "fori don't feel equal to all that part of the matter." "And even if you did," Dr Cartwright said briskly, I, for one, should not allow you to do it." "Am I going to belong to you all my life, pray, Dr. Cartwright?" Mary answered, with almost a touch of merriment in her laugh. The man made no immediate reply, his lips quivered, and a flush came on his dark face. The hesitation was only momentarily, and had passed before Mary could possibly remark

it. "I really see no reason to prevent such a contingency," he said, in the calmest way possible. Mary laughed again. It seemed strange to her that she could laugh, but health is a marvellous thing though her sorrow was always with her; though her life was blighted forever, the shadow of this sorrow had grown considerably less since she had become strong and well again. She felt another creature now, more as she had been in the old days before she had ever known the meaning of the word pain, or tasted the biterness of humiliation, and misery. GeorgeXartwright rejoiced in this change] he nuticed each minute difference in her, saw each restored beauty, and felt his interest deepen, and grow more vital to him, more binding each time he met her. To condemn such a woman to the perpetual atmosphere of the sick-room was absolutely repugnant to him; he was glad to see her work; it was the best thing that could happen to her that he knew well, but h 3 did not wish her career of work to be the one she now put before him for his consent and approval. "Can you not find enough to do here?" he asked her, when he had said this to her briefly, and in his own curt fashion.

Mary smiled, yet there were tears in her eyes. "You know how much I am. really needed here?" she answered him gently, and with unconcealed emotion. "You think I have not understood all you did, but you see I am not so dull- : not so blind. I have not held the post of lady superintendent so long without knowing why that post was constituted." Ihere was silence between them here for a moment. "Why do you object to my being a nurse?" she asked, when she spoke again. He looked at her. "You are too beautiful," he answered, almost involuntarily; "far too beautiful for such a life," Mary coloured hotly. "Oh, you hurt me when you say that. Do you know, I have grown to hate such words. If I am beautiful, 1 can. fin I nothing but reproach for my beauty? What good is it to me? Will it do anything for me? What has it done for me? Will it restore me all I have lost? Will it help me to forget the past, give me hope in the future? Oh, I cannot bear that you should speak like this. I look to you to help me to help myself to bring me the only happine&s I tan know, the happiness of work." He made no immediate reply to her passionate outburst; when he did speak, his voice was cold and calm. It was the force of the constraint he put on himself that made it so. "I will think over your wishes, Mrs Barnes, and will see how and in what way I can best serve you. Meanwhile, since you have, as you say, a decided inclination toward the vocation of a nurse, it will be best for you to devote yourself to that vocation. Go as much as you like into the wards here; devote yourself, however to medical, not surgical, cases, and get Miss Davis to give you all the instruction she can; you will find no better instructor. I have no doubt I can help you later on in a way that will be pleasing to us both." He was moving away, but Mary stopped him. "You are not angry with me? she said, with quivering lips. "Oh, please do not say that; remember you are my only friend, my best and truest irie'nd, and I could not bear to have done anything to " He smiled down at her reassuringlv - ,\ „ "Be quite certain of one thing, he said eently; "whatever I may seem, I shall never be really, angry •with you, Mary- never, never." He left her with that, and walked quickly away, leaving her touched in a deep and not altogether describable way, and bearing in his own heart the keenness of a pain he had never felt before. "I must see her as little as possible," he said to himself. "She has grown already too deeply into my thoughts, and, where there is no hope, it is best to avoid all that gives hope' life and form." For George Cartwright had heard enough of her real story from Mary's unconscious lips during her illness to know that she was not free, that she wan a wife, with her wifedom empty, and dishonoured by the man she had to call husband. The outcome of that short conversation between them was the arrival cf a letter to Mary some three weeks Ja'er She read it with much excite-

merit, for letters to her were few and far between. Her London nurse wrote sometimes, Dr. Cartwright only at odd times except, of course, on matters concerning the Home, which received his constant attention; and. once, Laurie Hungerford had written, repeating her thanks for the recovery of her locket; but this letter was from none of these. It was from Mrs Massingham, and she wrote saying Dr. Cartwright had desired her to do so. Her object was to ask Mrs Barnes if she would be willing to undertake the nursing care of Squire Massingham, who was only just recovering from a severe attack of rheumatic gout, and required an attendant. "My difficulty," : Mrs Massingham wrote, in a frank, pleasant fashion, "has been to procure my husband just the attention he requires. He has absolutely refused to have another professional nurse about him; he says they bring too much hospital atmosphere into his room, and the last certainly was not a success. He is very hard to please; I tell him he really wants a paragon of perfection, a refined companion, some one whose is pleasant, gentle and amusing; some one , too, of course, experienced in illness. In despair, I went to Dr. Cartwright, as I always do in such matters, and he has sent me to you. lam almost afraid to hope too much, for I fear you may find the case too hard; but if you will^undertake to consider my offer " And here Mr* Massingham had mentioned the terms she could give, which were more than liberal. Mary sat down immediately, and wrote two letters, one to Mrs Massingham, accepting her offer, the other to George Cartwright, with a few eloquent words of thanks that were given from her heart. The next day, after an affectionate farewell with Miss Davis, whom she now called another friend, Mary took herself and her modest belongings away from the Whiterock Convalescent Home, and entered in another new, and this time most vital, path of her career.

It was by no means an easy task that was put into our heroine's hands. She found herself, despite all her courage, almost wishing she had never undertaken it at the end of the first few days; but, at the end of a week, she began to change her opinion. She grew accustomed to Squire Massingham's angry, explosive manner, realising the kind hear that lay hiddei behind it, and learned how to best meet it in the way that suited them both. Mrs Massingham was delighted with the new companion Dr. Cartwright had been the means of introducing to her husband and herself. Of course, she fell madly in love with Mary, and, equally, of course, the squire did the same, though he was too gruff to admit this. But, as he ceased to grumble, and refused to let Mrs Barnes out of his sight more than was absolutely necessary, his wife, nearly worn out with bis illness, and his temper, could not but recongise that the new nurse was more than a success, and to be exceedingly grateful in consequence. (To be continued.)