"DISTRICT NURSE"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 14 January 1939, Page 10

"DISTRICT NURSE"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT. /■ z O z

, J z f BY

FAITH BALDWIN.

CHAPTER Xll.—Continued.

“Nothing. She turned her face to the wall,'' said Pete, “ and cried.”

After a long moment, he said, “I ought to hate her.” “You?” asked Ellen. She looked at him gravely, the grey eyes sombre. “You?”

He remembered some of the things he’d done—after Coral had gone. He thought back, eight years, eight crowded years. He defended himself as a child might. . . . “Her fault.” “You believe that,” asked Ellen scornfully.

She left him and went to.the ward he had designated. The long ward with the white beds and the little tables, and the charge nurse at the desk. A good friend of hers, the stocky, sturdy, Mannering. If Mannering knew anything, if Nancy had told or betrayed herself, Mannering didn't speak of it. She merely nodded and said, “She’s all right, Adams.;,. Don’t worry.” So, she did know something. Not that it mattered.

There was a white curtain about the bed. Nancy was sitting on the straight chair. She looked tired to death. Coral was asleep

“She’s been sleeping,” said Nancy, “ever since I came, almost. She's been awfully sick, they told me. You know.” Ellen knew.

“I'll stay. Go out and get something to eat. I’ll stay until my hour's up. Come back if you can. Can you stick it out? I’ll tell mother tonight. Nancy, did she know you?” . “Nancy’s pretty mouth shook. She put her hands to the curly cap of dark hair. Her head hurt her; it wasn’t just a headache.

“Of course she knew me, she told Ellen. She said “Nancy? Grown up.” She began to cry. Pete’s been here a dozen times. She always cries when she sees him—she—”

“Run along,” said Ellen, “and get hold of yourself, somehow.” She sat down presently on the chair, waited, her sttong finger on the pulse beating in the too thin wrist. A good pulse, rapid perhaps, but good in tone and quality. Presently Coral opened her eyes. Such very blue eyes. The lashes, broken short with mascara, were heavy. She said .. . “Nancy?” She said, “It isn’t Nancy . . it’s Ellen.” She tried to sit up. Ellen eased her back on the pillow. Take it easy, Coral,” she said, her tone perfectly matter of fact.

“Does mother know . . ?” whispered Coral.

“No. . . you’ll come home tomorrow. We’ll say you’ve been ill, in the?hospital. I’ll tell her. You’re not to worry.”

“Tell Pete, please—stay away—” said Coral.

Nothing astonished her. She was going home. She was too weak and sickened to ask questions. She’d leave it to Ellen—to Ellen . . Once, before she slept again she raised the incredible eyes—she said, and tried to smile, “What are you made up for, Ellen?” and indicated the uniform. Then she slept. Nancy came back and Ellen went out, to get her calls, to do the rest of her work. The afternoon, was light enough. She was able to be back at the hospital, quite early. “What about mother?” she asked Nancy.

“I phoned Mrs Meader to tell her that one of the girls was sick and had no one and I’d gone to the Y.W. to see what I could do.” She was drooping with weariness. “Go home and go to bed, until time to get to work,” Ellen ordered her. “I'll see to all this.” They were talking in the corridor. Then Ellen went back to the ward. “All right, Coral?" “So much better. I-—" “Don’t try to talk. Rest. You'll be taken care of here, tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll bring you home." Tomorrow, she thought, my vacation starts. A lucky break. It all fits in. “Sleep, Coral . . .” She could sleep. She could eat a little, a very little. Pete, his young face set and old under his sandy hair, spoke with the charge nurse. “Go easy,” said Pete. Half starved. A malnutrition case, if ever I saw one." It had all been fixed up. The paragraph in the papers wouldn't amount to a hill of beans. People wouldn’t even notice it. So many suicides anyway. Suicides, attempted or otherwise, weren't news, unless they concerned well known people, brokers jumping out of windows, or men who took the leap from bridges and made their going a sensational one. A girl, who took a room for the night and turned on the gas—that wasn't news, was it? Just a commonplace, an every-day commonplace. CHAPTER XIII. “She won't talk to me." Pete said to Ellen. “Later,” said Ellen. "We’ll take her home tomorrow. You'll sign her out. Pete?" “Sure—" Hands in pockets, very hard-boiled. He’d given ’ Coral's name. The stage name—Coral Carmen. The name he had hated. It had been bitter on his tongue ... Tomorrow, they'd sign Cora Carmen out. Ellen said, “You’ll see she's looked after tonight?" “Run along," he said. “I’ll look after her.” Afterwards he wondered if it hadn't been a vow. She said, “Tomorrow I start my vacation. I'll come and get her. She — she hasn’t talked much, but I think she's glad.” She went back alone to the bed and slipped into the tiny space. The curtains were still drawn. Theye were other women in the ward. Some, indescribable.

“You’re going . . ?” Coral clutched at her, with her hot

thin hands. She said, “I —Oh, Ellen, I never meant you to find me. I came back, the way a dog crawls back. I suppose. I thought maybe I'd see you — and mother and father —and Nancy. From a distance. I didn’t mean you to know. There was nothing on me, you see; I couldn't have been identified.” She gasped a little for breath; she said, “I’ve always been a flop —I couldn’t even kill myself—properly.” The bright tears ran down Ellen’s uncontrolled face. Her eyes remained open —wide. She kept her voice steady. It was as if some one else wept. She said, “You’re not to think about anything. You’re coming home.” “I couldn't try it again. I haven’t,” said Coral bitterly, “the guts. 1 was afraid, Ellen, when I lay down on the bed. Afraid, I tell you. No, I couldn’t do it again. Will they take me in at home?” she asked. And she added, “I haven’t any fight left.” No. No fight left. Nothing left with which to fight. Ellen said, “Go to sleep, Coral. I’ll come for you tomorrow.” Then she went home. '

Coral didn’t know that their father had died. She'd have to know, I’ll have to tell her thought Ellen. Her mother must be told something. Yes, what she had agreed with Nancy was as good. as anything else. Coral had come home. On the way home she had been taken ill. What ..? Flu. Flu was as good as anything. High temperature, delirium. She'd been taken to the hospital, unable to tell them who she was. That was the story. It had to be.

She reached the. apartment. Walking up the short flight of the stoop she had thought she couldn’t possibly, go a step further, her mother met her at the door.

“Nancy,” said her mother indignantly, “has been gone most of the day. Some one sick, she said, a girl she knows. As if she didn’t need her sleep. She’ll be sick next. Mrs Meader, her mother went on, “was kind enough to stay until Nancy came home. I declare I’ve been so worried.” Ellen sat down, tossing her hat on the table. She put her fingers through her hair. Her scalp hurt. She ached all over.

Her. mother said, “Nancy’s sleeping

“I’ll get supper,” said Ellen. She rose and dragged herself into the kitchen . . Nancy, before she had gone to bed, had made gestures toward getting things together. “That Mr Bartlett called a few minutes ago,” said Mrs Adams. “I answered.”

She sniffed audibly. Ellen came back from her puzzled and aching thoughts with a start. Frank! A different world. A person she hardly knew. Yet some one she loved. A warmth came over her, she moved about more lighthly, she was freer, she could think more easily. For hours, she’d not thought of Frank. Now, thinking of him was, somehow, comfort. “He said,” Mrs Adams told her, “that he’d call again

He did so, when supper was on the table. Ellen spoke to him, briefly. No, impossible to see him tonight. She’d talk to him, say tomorrow. She hung up on his exclamation of disappointment cutting him short. “I have to run,” she said . . “Call me tomorrow then?” . . . Bye . . .

Supper was over. The most difficult twenty minutes she had ever endured. She carried the dishes to the kitchen. She came back and sat down on the hassock at her mother’s feet. She covered both small hands with her own. She was afraid. Yet joy, joy wouldn’t kill. Joy would do almost anything; it would drive you temporarily insane, but it wouldn’t kill.

She said, “Mother,” very softly, and as Mrs Adams looked at her, startled, apprehensive, she spoke her name again. She said, “Mother, I've news. Such good news. You must be strong enough to hear it. I’ve found Coral, mother,” she said simply, “she’s coming home, tomorrow.” No, joy does not kill. Ellen put out her hand for the little glass with the spirits of ammonia in it that she had set on-the table back of her mother. The amyl nitrate was in the black bag there. But nothing was necessary, no restorative. The little pinched looking face was scarlet with the rush of startled blood, then.it was white again. “Drink this, mother,” said Ellen. The small hands, pushed the glass away.

“No . . . where is she? . . . take me to her . . demanded Mrs Adams. “I—oh. Ellen, Ellen, are you sure?” She was crying, but it was not the sort of weeping which would bring on an attack.

“Quite sure,” Ellen said steadily. I’ve seen her. She’s been very sick. You see, she was coming home from, from out west . . . She was taken sick on the train—it was 'flu, mother. She was very delirious and they took her to a hospital here. They couldn't find out who she was. she couldn't tell them. It was Pete who recognised her finally. And phoned me at the office. I called Nancy. That's where Nancy's been today. I've been there too. She’s thin, and tired, she needs care, but. she’s all right. She was on her way home.” She Was trying, thought Ellen, to find her way home. That much wasn’t a lie. The rest was lame, halting. But perhaps her mother wouldn’t ask. wouldn’t question too closely. "Can't she come tonight?” asked Mrs Adams . . .“Oh, Ellen.” she said, “if I should die before tomorrow!” "You won't darling." Ellen patted her shaking hands. “You won't. Think tomorrow she'll be here! You'll have someone to fuss over and take care of.’ She thought, why didn't I think of that before? That’s what she needs, of course; why didn't I realise it? We’ve always spared her so much. She needs Coral, ill, helpless. It won’t her. It will do her good.

“Why didn’t she write?" asked her mother, “I mean before she was taken sick.” Why?

Ellen said slowly. “I haven't questioned her much. She's pretty weak, you know. But it had been so long perhaps she was afraid.” “Of me?" asked her mother, indignantly, “Coral, afraid of me?" “She doesn’t know about Dad yet," said Ellen, low.

“Of course,” Mrs Adams was silent. She said after a moment, “We'll have to tell her.”

(To be Continued.)