"DISTRICT NURSE"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 25 January 1939, Page 10

"DISTRICT NURSE"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

COPYRIGHT.

BY

FAITH BALDWIN.

CHAPTER XXII. Ellen gave her name to the girl at the switchboard. It was, she said, important. The secretary, coming on the wire, was pleasant. Mr Bartlett had stepped across the hall, she said. He would be right back. Would Miss Adams hold the wire or should he call her back . . what was the number? “I’ll wait, I’m in a booth, Miss Marlowe.” . -

Three minutes, five. Interminable, a hundred years, an eternity. Then he spoke. Ellen, hello—what’s on your mind . ? She said steadily, brushing the greetings aside, the thread of laughter like a visible smile ran through the words, “I have to see you, Frank. It’s terribly important.” “Where are you, I’ll come down?” She thought. No. If she took him to Gladys, the mother might return; there might be a thousand contretemps. She said aloud, “No, I have to finish my work, I ” “I’ll come over tonight, then?” “No, please.” Then she spoke, making up her mind, “This is something that can’t be discussed at home. Could I . . if I came to your apartment . .tonight . . early?” * She could feel the blank astonishment at the other end of the wire. Suddenly, she was crying. She hated herself, she despised herself; she was clinging there for support, leaning against the greasy pencil-scrawled wall, crying, bitterly. He could hear her, the forlorn catch of her voice. “What is it, darling?” he said. “Is it your mother, or Coral . . ? Not Nancy? What’s happened.” She said, brokenly, “No . . If I come at eight o’clock, then?” “Of course But I can’t understand . . I mean, wljy can’t I take you out or —I mean . . Ellen. Ellen . . .” He jigged the receiver frantically; there was no sound. “Operator,” he shouted, “you cut us off!” “Sorry, the party disconnected,” reported the operator blandly. “Get them back,” demanded Bartlett. “Sorry,” said the operator “what was the number?” “I don’t know,” Frank said blankly, “they called me.” His secretary, a tactful woman, had been out of the room. She returned to find him scarlet with rage. He said, “Miss Adams . . I can’t get her back, it was so important . . .” Miss Marlowe said soothingly, “She told me she was phoning from a booth.” “Oh,” . . .He set the telephone aside and ran his hands through his hair. His blue eyes were anxious and bewildered. What had happened . . what could have happened? He thought, “I must go to her now, immediately.” But he couldn’t; he didn’t know where she was, even. No use calling the sub station, asking her to get in, touch with him when she made her reports. Nothing to do but fret through the rest of the day, somehow. And wait. . A little after four that afternoon, Miss Marlowe came in to him smiling. “It’s Bill,” she said. “Mr Bartlett, he came to see you, to bring his report card.” Bartlett grinned. Bill was always a tonic. He dismissed for a moment all the things that had been puzzling and worrying him for hours, and sat back in his chair. Bill marched in, very well dressed, very conscious of it. Yes, he had his report card. That was now a routine matter between the two, the report card, marked with the shining “A” for attendance. “I brung it along,” said Bill casually. Bartlett offered him a chair gravely. Took the card in his hand, smiled over an item or two, shook his head over another. Then returned the report card with a brand now dollar bill. This also was a recent routine. Bill volunteered, "I seen Mis’ Ellen when I was making for the subway She didn't see me. I hollered at her though.” Bartlett’s brief respite from anxiety was over. He said, “How is she?” mechanically enough, without much reason. Bill answered literally. . “I don’t know. She looked sumpin’ fierce. Maybe,” said Bill thinking himself rather brilliant, “it’s the boy friend.” “Boy friend?” asked Bartlett astonished. “Sure, you know, Jim O'Connor. They’re going together,” said Bill with importance, but afraid, and sorry somehow. He looked at his hero anxiously. “Oh, they're old friends." Bartlett said, smiling easily. Bill snorted a little. “Sunday—you know, when you took me around, I went back, after. I’d left my gloves,” explained Bill blushing at the mere thought of the effiminate admission, “and they was there, him and her . . . doing a regular Garbo . . ." “Never mind, Bill,” said Bartlett shortly, angrily. Bill shuffled the feet in the new shoes. “Gee, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spill nothing, Frank, only I thought . . .” “Never mind what you thought. Gentlemen don't talk about ladies.” said Bartlett. Bill rose to go. He looked up at Bartlett, at his preoccupied face, his estranged eyes and burst out, not able to restrain himself another moment. “I suppose you're sore, but I had to tell you, Frank. Gee,” said Bill, sighing with utter adoration, “you're such a square guy, Frank, and wimmin,’ said Bill, “are funny as hell!” “I —that’s all right, I understand. Run along, Old Timer.” He gave Bill an abstracted pat on the shoulder. “I’m not sore.” Bill departed, wondering if he had been clever or dumb. Perhaps the’ don’t want to know if their janes is double-crossing them after all, he reflected as many an adult has reflected before him. Bartlett, left alone, had

returned to his desk. Legs straight out before him, hands in pockets, he thought things over . . Doing a regular Garbo . . That could mean . . no, it could mean only what Bill had meant it to convey. Was this the explanation . . ? Ellen had notified Gladys. She’d gone back to the house after work. She told her what to do and where td go. Gladys demured, hung back, was suddenly desperately frightened .Ellen was abrupt with her, insistent. “It’s the only thing to do,” she said. “After all you won't be alone. I’ll be with you. Then she went home and listened to Nancy and Carol comment on her appearance. “Heavens, you look dreadful,” said N«ncy, “like something the cat would scorn to bring in.” She exchanged a glance with Carol. The glance said . . what’s up? . . she’s been crying . . . Ellen, who never cried . . . “I’ve a headache,” said Ellen briefly. “Look here, I’ve got to go out tonight. On a case.” “Don’t they give you time to sleep?” asked Carol disgusted. “You’re almost as bad as Pete.” “This is special,” Ellen told her. Nancy looked at her sister sharply. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. She had an instinct to protect her, and as she put it to herself, to call them off the trail. She said, suddenly, “Dot’s husband has left her, next door.” Mrs Adams said, “I’m not surprised.” but Carol’s face clouded. “Poor devil,” said Carol slowly. That was the wrong lead, thought Nancy, annoyed with herself, and Ellen hadn’t even heard. She hadn’t taken off her uniform. Wasn’t going to, perhaps. Yes, she was. She rose and went slowly into the bedroom. Nancy looked after her, frowning. Presently she came out again in a dark dress and put her coat and hat and bag on a chair. “I got out of your way,” she told Nancy. “You’re going out with Chick, aren’t you?” She looked over at her mother, “What about you?” she began. “Pete’s night off,” said Carol, “we’ll stay in. Mother dotes to hear him talk about operations.” She laughed, the momentary cloud gone. , “I do not,” said Mrs Adams indignantly. But she did, in a way. And she was proud of Pete. “My daughter’s fiance,” she would say importantly. “Doctor McGregor.” She would mention his hospital . . . Pete, on his rotating service, always had something to tell. If he had wanted to stay at the hospital yet another year as some of the luckier men could, he never said. He Couldn’t really; he owed it to Mallory to get out and go to work, especially after disappointing him. Some day he’d pay back Mallory every cent. He’d told him so. “But I don’t want you to, son. I’ve been trying to pay you,” Mallory said. “But if I paid it double, the money I mean,” ' Pete told him earnestly, “I wouldn’t be repaying you really . . for all -you’ve done for me,” Pete reminded him stubbornly. Now he had Carol to look after, to guard, to love. The colour was back in her cheeks, there was flesh on. her bones, she was the girl he’d always loved; he’d be so careful of her, she’d never regret it. And neither would he. He knew that now. Ellen had set him straight, had helped him to fight it out himself, to set and keep himself straight. At supper Mrs Adams was engrossed with the subject of Dot Brown arjd her misfortune, despite Nancy’s warning interruptions. “I said it would hapnen,” she said, “I told you so, didn’t I, Ellen?"

Ellen, coming back from her dark thoughts, looked up from her untouched plate. She had staring down at it for five minutes.

“I’m sorry, mother,” she murmured, 'I wasn’t listening.” They had to tell her about Dot all aver again. A quiver of something like distaste, of a faint bitter sorrow passed over her set, very pale face. She made no comment. Nancy said briskly, fighting a sensation of pure, and it seemed baseless fear, “Look here, let’s talk about something cheerful. Christens, for instance.” (To be Continued.)