"DISTRICT NURSE"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 11 January 1939, Page 10

"DISTRICT NURSE"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

FAITH BALDWIN.

CHAPTER IX. —Continued.

Manlike, he hadn’t asked anything—hadn’t actually proposed. Took it perhaps for granted that she knew. Or. didn’t he? She said, twisting her hands together, “I—we haven’t known one another very long, Frank.” “You don’t mean that. Do you care for me, Ellen, at all?” She wanted to tell him, “Yes, I love you. As much as you love me. More, perhaps, who knows?” But a thousand things crowded into her mind, halted her tongue. She said, faintly as he leaned toward her, tried to tighten the clasp of the arm he had put about her shoulders, “Frank, don’t. Please let me think. I—” she looked up at him in the clear starlight. “I care more for you than any one I know,” she said tremulously, and then at his low, broken laugh, she drew away, “but—l can't be bound,” she said wildly, “there’s so much to consider. I mean . . my mother and—” That sobered him. “I know. She doesn't like me. Why?" he asked gravely.

“You don’t understand her," Ellen said in defence. “She’s had an unhappy time, and is, as you know, an invalid.” She thought, if I explain, I’ll have to tell him about Coral. I can t. I haven’t any right. Not now. Not yet . . .” She’s distrustful of strangers,” said Ellen, low, afraid.

“But,” he began in honest bewilderment.

Ellen went on, “there’s my work,” she said, “I want to make you understand it, Frank. It means so much to me. I was born in the neighbourhood. I grew up there; watched it change. Wanted, always, from the time I was a youngster, to help, to do something constructive for the people I had always known. I —l’ve just begun. I have to go on with it. I couldn’t give it up' now not —” She stopped. She felt her face flush, turn hot with the scarlet colour that spread to her forehead and ears. Why had she said that? He hadn’t asked her to. She heard him saying dimly: “I wouldn’t want you to give it up. Not now. I know how you feel. Sometimes I hate it for you, the things you have to do, the things you have to see — misery, wretchedness, dirt, despair, But I honour you for it, darling. Only I couldn’t wait any longer, I had to tell you, I had to tell you I love you.”

She said piteously, “Can’t we go on, as we were, for a little while?” You won’t keep me waiting too long?” he begged. “You’ve given me something to go on with; that much I'm grateful for, you don’t know how grateful. But you haven’t told me that you love me.” She said, after a moment, under her breath . . “Frank, I don’t know.”

But she did. Presently he straightened up and squared his shoulders. “All right,” he told her, “when you do know, I know you’ll be honest enough to tell me. We won’t plan anything. We’ll just go on. But I’m a difficult person to discourage, Ellen, a little bit of hope goes a long way with me, you see.” She said, “Thank you, Frank . . . . please, will you take me home now?” “It’s early,” he reminded her, disappointed. “I know, but my head aches a little and . . I’d like to think,” she said frankly, “I mean . . .” He nodded and presently they were driving back, in an almost complete silence. She said, as they neared her corner, “I’m not going to ask you in, mother has company with her, and—’’ “That’s all right,” he told her, “I’ll call you tomorrow, if I may. I have to go out of town again soon. Promised some people’ I’d go to them for a weekend. Wish,” he said, smiling, “wish you’d come, Ellen.”

She shook her lovely head. “I couldn't,” she said, “I don't know your friends.” “But you will know them,” he said eagerly. “I want you to. This particular couple, they’re grand people, you’d like them a lot and they’d be crazy about you.” “I couldn’t,” she said again, “I couldr n't leave mother. Nancy’s vacation comes soon.

“Is she going away?" “Not for more than a night or two at a time.”

“What about your month's holiday?” “I’ll stay here,” she said. “Then I shall too," he declared, "and you’ll dine with me every night, and —” “No, Frank "

It occured to her how very little she knew about him. Where he went, what he did, who his friends might be. He led an entirely separate life of his own. She said, quickly. “Please, you mustn't stay in town because of me. I know.” said Ellen, “you must go places and do things summers, don't you?" “Not this summer,” he told her. . CHAPTER X.

When Frank and Ellen reached her house, they sat there a moment, and then as he made no move to get out and open the door for her, she laid her slim handle. His hand touched her shoulder, and drew her back. “Wait, just a moment. Please . .don't go,” he begged, low, “not yet. I —”

Jim O’Connor was at the Lenz house. He was talking to Dot Brown. Dot was on the step, waiting for Dan. Dan was out, working. She was worried about him. Suppose something happened. Jim was saying. “I’m going next door to take my aunt home. You look lonesome, Dot.”

A little laughter, a little wisecracking. A startled exclamation and Jim was leaving, going next door; Dot, her hands to her mouth was crying, furiously, running into the house . . But the two in the car heard nothing, saw no one. “Ellen, please—”

His face was very close to hers. His arms about, her, strong, steady. She gave a half sob and closed her eyes and

lifted her mouth to his own, generously, sweetly. He kissed her, long, hard. He said . . “You’re so terribly sweet Jim, on the steps, saw. He wailed for no second look. He slipped into the entry like a shadow, pressing the button marked Adams with a strong thumb. His dark face was ashen, twisted, his mouth set in a straight line. When Ellen reached the apartment. Jim was there ahead of her. He greeted her casually enough. His aunt, fat, placid, kissed her. “How grand you look,” said Miss O'Connor. “Sure, you’re not working so hard as Jim was saying you are, to have that fine colour.”

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shone. She thought her mouth must betray her. sealed, with the crimson seal of Frank’s kiss. She stammered something, fled to the bedroom. A moment or two later Jim and his aunt left. Mrs Adams was tired. Ellen helped her to bed immediately and her mother asked, drowsily. “Did you enjoy the play?” “The play?” She was half in dreams. Her mother said fretfully, “What’s the matter with you, Ellen? Tell me about it. Did you like it?" “We didn’t go,” she answered, after a moment, “It was too hot. We went riding. “Well, I never!” Mrs Adams stared. She said, after a moment, “I see.” It seemed to Ellen that she must see. That every one must see. Mrs Adams said, “I don’t approve of you driving all over town alone at night with that young man, Ellen. But I suppose there’s no use my saying so.” “No use,” admitted Ellen, laughing. But her mother knew that beneath the laughter there ran the undercurrent of absolute determination. She turned her face to the wall, wounded and afraid.

Ellen, back in the living room, was picking up, tidying, opening windows in order to postpone the moment when she would have to go to bed and think. There was a little knock on the door. She opened it, wondering. And stood back. Jim! He said hoarsely, “I had to see you.” “Jim, it’s so late. Mother's in bed." “If she hears, tell her I came back for something my aunt left. Ellen?” His hand shot out, seized her wrist. “Come into the hall a moment.” With a little gasp of resignation she permited herself to be led. The hallway was dim. They were alone. He began at once furiously. “I saw you . . in the car . . in that . . in his arms . . . .” She asked quietly enough. “What business is it of yours?” “It’s my business all right. I’ll make it my business. You belong to me, do you hear?” ■ y His dark tortured young face was thrust close to hers.

“I’m not good enough for you, am I?” he said bitterly. Always putting me off, laughing at me. Giving me a kiss now and. then as you’d give a kid a stick of candy to shut him up. But tonight —I saw you, I tell you. I’ll kill that

She cried out furiously, trying to keep her voice down, twisting he hands, that shook from anger one within the other, “You’ve no right, no right

■ “I have a right,” he said sullen, “to look after my own.” “I am not yours,” she said. “No? Some day you’ll come to your sense,” he told her. Meantime, if you don’t tell Bartlett to lay off, I will.” She said, “you’ll do nothing of the kind. If you dare . . I’ll never speak to you again.” She meant it. He knew it. He turned from anger to pleading, his dark eyes soft, his hand eloquent, his voice gentler. “Ellen . . . please . . forgive me, I’m out of my head with jealousy. I know I’m a fool. But . . all these years . . .

and then, the first man who comes along You know I’m crazy about you

. . . there's no one else . . never will be. Ellen, listen. Forget me, forget my feelings. Think of this. You know me, you’ve always known me; since we were kids. This fellow, what do you know about him? You never laid eyes on him until a few months ago. What do you know about him?” he asked again. Nothing. That's he's a lawyer! That he has an office and a car! How do you know he isn't married? How do you know he isn't playing you for a fool . . . laughing to think how easy you are . . .” "Ellen.” It was her mother calling. “I must go," Ellen said. “Please, please, let me go, Jim. I "

He turned and went down the hall, his shoulders stooped, weariness and despair in every line of his figure. That’s torn it. I guess, he told himself. Would ■he ever forget, he wondered. Ellen, close in Bartlett's arms, kissing

Ellen was back in her mother's room. I went out. into the hall for a moment, Ellen told her. trying to control her voice. “Go back to sleep darling. I'm going right to bed.”

In her room she sat down and regarded herself blindly in the mirror. Here were her eyes, her gray eyes, that wavered and fell before her own regard. Here was the red. shaken mouth which Frank had made his own . . . Jim. Jim had no right. She hated him suddenly, bitterly, and it seemed implacably. And yet ? What did she know of Frank Bartlett? Yet she knew him. By heart. He hadn’t asked her to marry him. Still, if she had said she loved him? She hadn’t said it. He’d said about her work. “I wouldn’t want you to give it up . . .” If he had wanted to marry her, would he have said that?”

(To be Continued.)

She put her suddenly cold hands to her face. Cool against the heat of cheeks. Bewilderment, doubt . . eating at her. She said aloud, after a long moment . . . “I won't believe . . anything." Jim. ranging the street, sunk his hands in his pockets, curled into fists. She was in love with Bartlett then . . .

Some one spoke his name. A stocky man, coming home late. Jim whirled about on his heel. It was Dan Brown.

"What you hanging around here for?" asked Dan grimly. “Knew I was going to be out, didn’t you? Boat it, see?" said Dan. "Dot’s not interested.”

“How,” asked Jim. dangerously, all his emotions of the past hour crystallising into an insane dislike of this intruder, “how do you get that way exactly?” “Dot told me,” said Dan, “how you pass by now and then . . and stop for a friendly word. Leave her alone, do you hear me?” said Dan, “and take this to remember me by." He was shorter than Jim. But ho packed a wollop. “Damn you.” said Jim, staggering a little under lhe blow, his hand flung up to his face.