"DISTRICT NURSE"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 27 January 1939, Page 10

"DISTRICT NURSE"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT, COPYRIGHT.

BY

FAITH BALDWIN.

CHAPTER XXlV.—(Continued.)

“Frank, I didn't know . . I didn't know. You —he —could have lied to Gladys ... as an excuse—or you could have lied to me.” She was becoming more and more confused. “I mean, that’s what I thought . . then . . .” “Lie to you? When I've been asking you to marry me, ever since practically—we first met.” “No—”

“Couldn’t you guess . . that much? If

I didn’t make speeches about it,” he said angrily, "it was because you held me off. I know why. I know why now. It was, of course, O’Connor.” He added, “I wish you joy of him.” She was on her feet now. “Jim —?”

What right had he . . ? It was like him, she thought, like a lawyer to twist things, turn them, put you in the wrong. She had been ready to ask his pardon, on her knees, beg for it, weep out her relief against his breast. But he didn’t want it, the apology, or the other—he was looking at her as if he hated her —

“Yes, Jim . . it —it may please you to know I’ve something of a line on Jim, I ”

Gladys was calling her from the bedroom. Ellen said, “I don't want to hear. It isn’t important ” “Of course you don't. Get that girl in here, and let me talk to her,” he ordered. “Not in that tone. She —it wasn't her fault she came here,” said Ellen bravely, “and it's not necessary to put her on the witness stand She’s been through enough.” “Why not? Don’t you think I’ve had some interest in knowing who’s been using my name?” he demanded.

Ellen went without a word into the bedroom. Gladys assured her she was all right. Presently they came back together, Gladys with the utmost reluctance.

But he was gentle enough with her, brief, too, business-like. He settled her in a chair, ignored Ellen, asked his patient questions. But Gladys could tell him only what Ellen knew; where she had met the man calling himself Frank Bartlett; the places they had gone together; obscure restaurants, speakeasies. He’d always had money, or seemed to have. He’d given her presents, oh, stockings, perfume, nothing valuable. Yes, she could describe him. “Older than you, Mr Bartlett, short and thick-set. His hair’s getting grey, a little. He has blue eyes.”

No, there was nothing more to tell. Gladys stammered, I'm so sorry ... I thought . . . she thought ” “I know,” said Bartlett. His glance at Ellen said, I know what you thought. It was an ugly glance, on the surface. Too ugly for her to see the wound, the pain. Innocence wears a less convincing face than guilt, even acknowledged innocence.

Gladys said, “We’ll go now.” She added quaintly, “I’m sorry we give you this trouble, Mr Bartlett. Me passing out and all. Only, I was so sure, see? And then you come in. And I’d never laid eyes on you before . . .” Ellen said, “I’ll get our things and we’ll go.” She left them together for a moment. When she came back carrying the things, Gladys was saying, “No, please, I can’t take it, she . . she’ll help me . . I’ve got a place to go.” Bartlett pushed the bills into his pocket. He took them to the door. There was not time, no moment alone, no speech between them, except for Ellen’s faint, “Frank, I’m so sorry—”

But he did not answer. Going back in the taxi she held Gladys close; the girl was shaking with sobs. She was saying pitifully, “What I mind most . . lying like that . . saying he was a gentleman . . a big shot, somewhere . . and not being . . . not like him, he’s the real thing—”

Suddenly something broke in upon her bewildered mind. She controlled herself, sat upright. “You did know him, then. Mr Bartlett? Well, 1 mean ... I mean . . you thought . . She looked at Ellen, astonished beyond adequate speech—“and you went to him . . with me . . .” Ellen said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“I didn't mean,” said Gladys, “to get you into no trouble. I mean, if you and him . . ."

“There’s nothing between me and him,” said Ellen steadily. She knew she spoke the truth. Nothing. It was finished. Over and done with. He would never forgive her. Listening, unhearing, to Gladys talk the rest of the way home, talk and speculate, resigned, Ellen said, "Never mind. I’ll find the other man for you. Don’t worry. I’ll find him. There must be a way.” There would be a way. Il wouldn’t, she thought, help her now. even if it helped Gladys. Nothing would help her now.

But a wave of pure anger took her. shattered her. Why had he been so . . . implacable? Couldn’t he see that she had had no other choice than to believe what she had believed? Men believed evidence, even circumstantial evidence. She remembered now all they had said of Dot Brown around the supper table that night. She had fancied herself deaf to their voices. Now it came back to her. Dan had left her because of something that had been evidence to him, because of something he had heard and had believed. Men were quick enough to believe.

But if a dream were over ana a hope extinguished, life went on resistlessly; and there was Gladys to think of and her immediate necessity.

Ellen took the girl home; went in with her. Mrs Markey was waiting in the cluttered room . . “And where have you been?” she began shrilly at Gladys, weariness dragging at her.

opened the door. Then she saw Ellen. Ellen was brief with the hostile woman. She explained only as much as was necessary. Gladys had come to her: together they had ascertained that the man had given, not his own name, but another’s. There was nothing to do now, but to look after Gladys. EK len would do that —if Mrs Markey would promise not to make any trouble. She put it to her practically and brusquely. She had no sympathy whatever with this sharp-eyed woman whose soiled palms so obviously itched; and she had a very shrewd suspicion that Mrs Markey had not been deaf, dumb and blind in the beginning of the affair. At least she had made no effort to interfere. Easy Street was Easy Street to her, and it apparently didn’t matter to her how Gladys came to it, by what devious and heartbreaking, hidden paths or by what open highway. Gladys said suddenly. “Never mind Ma.” She shot a vindictive look at her mother. She added, “She isn’t anyway—” Mrs Markey went an unattractive scarlet. “Haven’t I tried to do my best by you?” she demanded, “haven't I slaved and worked and done for you as if you was my own?” Gladys shrugged. Ellen looked from one to the other. Gladys was outspoken in her subsequent recital. Mrs Markey was Markey’s second wife, a cousin of Gladys’s mother. He had married the woman shortly after his wife’s death in childbirth, in order to maintain his home and keep his child with him. Ellen thought, so that's it . . . I'm glad . . . It made things a little easier for every one concerned. Gladys had, of course, no other woman. Mrs Markey had never told, had sworn her husband not to tell, for, as she had put it to him, the child’s sake. At his death there had been a matter of some insurance, and a few possessions. Naturally, the mother would take it all, pro-

vide for “their” daughter. It had beer only during the last few months that Gladys, during a bitter quarrel, had been told the facts. Ellen left presently and went home. Pete said, getting up from the table, where he and Coral and Mrs Adams were playing three-handed bridge, “you look all in . . I was just going, Ellen, we won’t keep you up any longer.” He took her aside and asked anxiously, “What’s up. anything I can do?” There was nothing, she told him, trying to smile. Then he left, and after a while she got into the bed davenport and tried to think . . of what she must do for Gladys; of . . of . . Frank. There wasn’t much sleep for her that night; too tired to sleep, she told herself; too unhappy, she knew. Early the next morning, she tried to write to Frank. She made several attempts, tore them up. If he really cared, she told herself, he would understand . . would forgive her . .would realise that in the face of evidence so overwhelming, any woman would have doubted. ' If he really cared, she would hear

from him. But the next day Ellen did not hear from Frank, nor the next, nor the next. Meanwhile she learned that the man who had used Bartlett’s name was a book keeper named Nelson, employed by Smith, Lambert, Mason and Co., a firm of offices in the same building as Bartlett and on the same floor. Nelson explained to Ellen that he gave Gladys the first name popped into his head. He saw Bartlett's name on the door every day, and when the door of the room in which he worked was open he faced it. Explaining his possession of Bartlett’s business card, he said Bartlett was the personal attorney of Mr Lambert, and one day left his card on Lambert’s desk. For no particular reason, Nelson picked it up and put it in his pocket, and when he met Gladys and wished to pose as a “big shot,” produced Bartlett’s card. That was all; he had forgotten about it. Nelson said he was married and the father of three little children, but had been separated from his wife for some time. The evening of the day Ellen took Gladys to the hospital, the Adams telephone rang. She was tired; she'd told

Jim she was too tired to go out. But it would be like him to call up and see if she would change her mind. “Ellen?” asked Bartlett, ovoi - the wire. No. she was not too tired to see him. He came that night, within the hour. He wouldn't stay long, he said; it was, more or less, business. Carol managed things; she took her mother off into the bedroom and shut the door, to discuss the furniture of the new flat. He was friendly enough, restrained. The estrangement was still there. He came to the point at once. It was about Bill. Bill hadn’t shown up with, his last report card, and he had learned that Bill had returned to his old habit of playing hookey. Would Ellen see what she could do? She had always had a great influence over him. Ellen said she would. , "You’ll look after him, I know,” he said. Then the door closed after him. Was Bill only an excuse . . why hadn't she helped Frank . . made it easier for him? She stood staring at the door. Why didn’t she call out to him . . you don’t love me any more . . you haven’t, really, forgiven me. Or had he forgiven . . come to tell her so? Or, in forgiving, ceased to really care for her . . . ? That happened sometimes. What had she said to Pete . . in love there isn’t any such word as forgiveness. (To be Continued.) 1