"DISTRICT NURSE"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 21 January 1939, Page 10

"DISTRICT NURSE"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

FAITH BALDWIN.

CHAPTER XT (Continued.)

He listened gravely, fingering a pencil. He said, “It’s a damned shame. Of course, I agree with you entirely. She shouldn't marry him. But—you know these people, Ellen, there is nothing you can do.” She said, anxiously, “you know every one in the neighbourhood. You know people, perhaps, who know this Fontana. If the police can do nothing, perhaps you can. Find out about him. Get something on him, get him out of town.”

“I’ll do my best, Ellen," he said. But perhaps you are making a mistake. Shouldn’t you let them run it? It’s their show after all.” It was, she realised dully, as she left. It wasn't hers. Her job was looking after the sick bodies of people. And yet—her job? Wasn’t it sick minds as well, sick hearts and souls? When she got home, there was a letter, with a scrawled address which read simply. “Nurse”—and the number and street. It had, of course, reached her. The postman had been much amused. “That's fame for you,” he had said to Coral. ;r

The paper told nothing, nor the unformed hand, but the printed letters carried a definite threat . . “Keep out of this."

What was it? Coral asked, and Nancy was curious.

“Just one of my kids,” Ellen told them, lightly, and crumpled it up in her hand.

Bartlett came again. Driving up town, he urged her once more to clear her skirts. i “Keep out of it. What good will it do you? You can’t tell about these people, hot-blooded, impulsive, quick to quarrel, to kill, even.” She admitted, under his literal crossexamination, that she had had a letter. “Where is it?” he demanded. “You must take it to the police; they must give you protection.” Nonsense, she said, she could take care of herself. She had, of course, destroyed the letter. She wouldn’t give up. She’d go, once more, talk to Gilda.

“Ellen, you're crazy,” he said, “you can’t meddle like this.” He said angrily, because he was afraid for her, “You women are all alike, trying to make the world over . . ." She resented that, very much; and told him so in no uncertain terms. Suddenly they were quarreling bitterly; he, because he loved her, because she seemed no nearer to surrender than months before, and because he was in terror for her; she because of the emotional strain she had been under; and because where she had looked for sympathy and understanding she had received instead a scolding which might have been directed at a careless and stupid child. “Oh, this doesn't get us anywhere,” she said wearily, after a while. “Please Frank, take me home.” They drove home almost in silence. There was no embrace in the car, in the hallway. She went into the apartment wearily, alone. CHAPTER XIX.

The next day was Sunday. Ellen slept later than usual, worn out, and toward noon went once more, determined if not hopeful, to the Espositos. Gilda let her in. The parents were not in evidence.

“I’ve come,” Ellen began, and then stopped. Fontana was there, resplendant in a checked suit, happiness written plainly all over his face. It was the first good look she had had at him. Not a weak face, not a very noticeable one. Yet good humoured, even gay. She couldn’t somehow reconcile him with —everything. She felt a little dizzy, wondering.

Gilda made the introduction with an almost absurd punctiliousness. Fontana regarded Ellen closely. His small dark eyes were quite gentle, intent on her own. But she had a feeling that if she made a false move, a false step— Under some strange compulsion she asked him, clearly, “You wrote me, did you not, Mr Fontana?” “Scusi?” asked Fontana, apologetically. “Ask him." said Ellen to Gilda. “if he wrote me . . a letter.” Gilda's eyes widened. She shot a look al Fontana, black, despising. She asked him, rapidly. He spread his hands with deprecation, and chattered for a moment. Gilda turned. "Yes. he had some one write it for him. He says he was afraid you would make me change my mind." A ready admission. Ellen looked at the young man, the great strength of his physique, heavy in the shoulders and chest, narrow in waist and hips, a taller man than most of the Italians she knew. She thought . . a dreadful man, unspeakable . . nothing, he slopped at nothing . . kidnappingBut there was something childlike about him, something disarming. That was the key to him. ho was a child, who took what he wanted; he knew no laws, he disregarded everything but his desires. She hardened her heart, she spoke to him directly, without anger in her tone, with a sort of curiosity, as one would question a visitor from Mars. “Why did you do it?"

He understood that. He broke into torrential Italian. Ellen looked at Gilda. Slow colour came into Gilda’s face. She turned, shrugging her slim shoulders, unwilling to interpret. So Fontana himself tried, carefully, with his smattered English, his unaccustomed speech stripped to essentials . . .

“I lov’ her so mooch. Si. Crazy for her. You know? I see her, long time ago. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. I say, that girl, my wife. She won’t lessen. I gotto have her. I—gooda man for her.”

He broke off, crimson under the swarthy skin tone. He went, quick

and soundless as a cat into the kitchen. He came back with small brimming glasses, one, two. Gilda jumped up. “Stupido!" cried Gilda. She went out. came back with a tray. Ellen’s throat constricted. That was tragic, somehow. “You drink?" asked Fontana coaxingly, childlike, “to me . .to Gilda . . wine good for you. Like da medicina." Gilda's lips were shaking. Ellen reached out and took a glass and touched her lips to it. Out of all reason that she should drink their health. She said, “Gilda?" once, appealing, and finally rose to go. Fontana took her hand in a tremendous grip.

"Gooda-bye . .” said Fontana, beaming. He turned to Gilda, he said something . . simpatica, Ellen heard that much. “Evert'ing okay?" asked Fontana. proud of his good English. He was sorry he had sent the letter, he told her brokenly. When he and Gilda were married she must come see them, he added, in his own tongue, Gilda, stony faced, translating. She tried to draw Gilda out into the hall with her. Fontana, his big hand lightly on the girl's shoulder was watchful, smiling, and did not permit it. Gilda said, quickly, “Never mind me. It’s all right. I'll—l'll make the best of it.”

Ellen went back home. Gilda would make the best of it. Somehow that was heartening. And yet . .

Wrong, terribly wrong. She shuddered, thinking. And yet, that young ignorant creature .... I lov’ her so mooch "

There was nothing she could do now; she had probably done more harm than good. Frank, if he knew, would tell her so. He didn't, couldn’t understand. There was, in certain respects, a gulf between them. Even Jim, who understood better, had regarded her with tolerant eyes and advised her not to “meddle.”

She had meddled. Much good it had done her —or Gilda.

Astonishing of Gilda, Gilda whom she knew as vivacious, clever even, entirely Americanised, ambitious . . . Gilda had, as it were reverted. Could not, somehow, break the old tabus. Could any one, safely? Jim came that afternoon. He had been inquiring about Fontana. Fontana was well enough off. A small trucking business. Nothing on him. “Nothing to be done.” His eyes were anxious, regarding Ellen. “You look tired, you’ve let this get on your nerves.” “Perhaps I have. It's all right, Jim, don’t bother any more. Gilda has consented to marry him; they’ll be married as soon as possible. I've nothing more to do with it. I’ve phoned the police to drop the case.” Jim was obviously relieved. “Let’s he said, “go to the movies and. forget it." They went. A drama, an emotional drama unfolded itself on the screen. Life, thought Ellen, regarding the fleeting pictures, listening to the voices raised in anger, in terror, in pleading, is so much more melodramatic, so much cruder, and so much more inexplicable. There aren’t any solutions to life, and happy ending don’tJstay that way, if there are happy endings. The play doesn't stop, the screen doesn’t darken, the audience doesn’t file out. It goes on . . .

Gilda would go on, “making the best of it.” She would marry Fontana, she would keep his house and bear his ■children, she would forget her ambitions, her Americanisation. Perhaps, in a way, she would be content. Would he ever revenge- himself for her long refusal? Ellen thought not. He was avenged. He would be gentler with her perhaps, remembering that she had been impossible to win. This marriage was wrong; more than wrong. Yet Gilda, relinquishing her bright dreams, would “make the best of it." There was a ray of hope there. Perhaps, after all. she would not so much alter but would transfer her ambitions to her husband, and to the house she must keep. Perhaps what Ellon vaguely termed her “reversion” was something of the blood and spirit, something traditional and bonebred and had nothing to do with those traits of character which were released in action and which, for all their surface importance, were in the last analysis non-essentials.

She tried to say something of this to Jim. endeavouring to put into clumsy mould of words something of her fluid thoughts. He listened, a little puzzled. “Oh. sure, she’ll be all right,” he agreed. "Fontana's a good sort, even if he isn’t quite up to the Esposito standards . . the old man thinks he's somebody. you know. He comes, they say, from good stock back in the old country." he added carelessly. (To be Continued.)