"DISTRICT NURSE"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 31 January 1939, Page 10

"DISTRICT NURSE"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

FAITH BALDWIN.

CHAPTER XXVII. • Continued. “Yes. He's.. . the organiser. He has men, working for him. He has ways of getting lofts and hideaways. He can take care of whatever it is they bring in, and of men, too, when they have to hide. He has his real estate business . . . it’s like a false front on a shop. The others do the hard work, the dangerous work. After . . after Pasquale met me he wanted to quit. He told Jim O’Connor so. But he wouldn't let him. He said he was in it; he'd have to stay in it. But after .. we married, he did quit. He went down to see O’Connor. He had a knife. He put it on the desk; he said, keeping his hand on it. ‘l’m quittin.’ He said, ‘l’ll keep my mouth shut, you needn’t worry, but . . I’m quitting.’ O’Connor was . . . ugly. And while they were quarreling . . it was at night . . in the back room of the office . . a man came in ... his name was Brown. ‘l’m Dan Brown,’ he kept saying. Pasquale had never seen him before. He was like a crazy man, he told me. He kept screaming at O’Connor . . “You stay away from my wife . . I’ll see that you stay away from her.’ He had a gun. Pasquale is bigger, stronger. He got it away from him. He said he didn’t want to be mixed up in a shooting. He said he could take care of his own affairs, but he didn’t want to be in on any one else’s. He took the man out. He walked him, blocks, miles. The man, this Brown, talked, all the time. Pasquale didn’t understand, much. Only that O’Connor had been hanging around his wife making her unhappy, and that Brown couldn’t stand it. Brown kept saying, ‘Now, now I don’t know what to believe. I don't know what to believe.”

- “He walked all the fight out of him,” Pasquale said, Gilda went on, while Ellen sat there, still as if carved from wood, her heart the only living thing about her, she thought, leaping against her side, hurting. “And then he went .back to find O’Connor. He was still there. He was ‘drinking; he had been frightened. He told Pasquale that he had only flirted with Brown’s wife a little, and she got sore at something he said and said she’d tell her husband . . that was all, he said. He then thanked Pasquale for what he had done. Pasquale said he hadn't done anything; perhaps he shouldn't have interfered. All he wanted now was for O'Connor to let him alone." Gilda sighed.

“So you see, he quit. O’Connor didn’t urge him any more and he went on with his little trucking business. But trade was scarce. Sometimes he’d' find his tyres cut. Sometimes other things were the matter. Another man, here in the district, one of O'Connor’s men gave better prices . . and for the last week or so O'Connor’s tried to get him back. He said to him, “See, you couldn’t make a go. of it. Better change your mind. I’ll put you in the way of something good.” Gilda began to beat her hands together. “I’m afraid he’ll go back,” -she wept. “I’m afraid. And something will happen. Gaol. Or he’ll be killed, some night. .. he doesn’t want to go back. But he keeps thinking of me. I’m going to have a baby,” said Gilda. “He keeps thinking of us . . . I’m afraid O’Connor’s beaten him . . . and he’ll go back.” Ellen said through stiff lips. “He won’t go back . . .”

Gilda shrieked. She hurled herself at Ellen, caught her knees, huddled there on the floor beside her, all the restraint, all the ways of the new world fallen from her; a woman, Gilda, fighting for her man. Whether she loved him or not was not important. She belonged; she was loyal . . . “You won't tell . . . you won’t get him into trouble?” Ellen said, “No, I didn’t mean that. Gilda, stop. Get up. Here, come over here, sit beside me. I won’t tell. I’ll find a way out for all of you, somehow.”

“You won’t . . go to the police? . . . about O’Connor? If he’s caught,” sobbed Gilda, “he’ll turn the other men up, all of them, to save himself, if he can . .

“I’m not going to the police.” said Ellen. “I’m going to get you and Pasquale away. Into the country . . somewhere. A house of your own, room for the baby to play in, to breathe in. Sunshine. Right away out of the city. We're going to do that somehow. Find work for Pasquale, and a place for you to live in. Where you won’t be bothered . . any more . . .” That was what she had to do; how, she didn’t know. She went back to the office. It was past five o’clock. She had spent the last hour of her time with Mrs Maloney and Gilda. But her calls had been finished. Miss Renwick was alone in the office, ready to leave.

Ellen explained her appearance. “I’ve come back to do some writing. Tomorrow morning I’ve long reports. Bui there’s a mental case I want to refer to Miss Allan, and some things I want to clear up, the report I have to take to the Charity Bureau and all . . .” Miss Renwick nodded. “Then you'll lock up,” she said, “when you’re through.” Ellen would. Miss Renwick left presently. Ellen was alone in the bare utilitarian office, with its desks, its writing paraphernalia. The stenographer’s machine was covered; the telephone, that instrument which sounded every moment of the working day, was silent. She sat down at her desk and tried to clear her mind. She must get this work finished, odds and ends of things that she had been meaning to get done for the last few days. She made a note of a child’s name. The polio case across the street, which had been going to the clinic. The orthopaedic staff was looking after him, but

she had met the mother on the street, and had promised to see what she could do about getting clothes for the boy. He could return to school next term if he were clad; the city bus would call

for him. She picked up the telephone and called her house. Coral answered. “I’m at the office,” Ellen said. "I’ll be late this evening.” Then she was alone again, Coral’s friendly pretty voice silenced. Terribly alone, somehow. A six o’clock she was through. She pushed the papers aside ruflled her hair with her hands. Gilda and Pasquale, who must be saved. Jim, who must be . . warned. Yet could one warn Jim without endangering other people What, exactly, was her duty in this instance? Her duty, she knew, and clearly, was to betray Jim. But how many others would suffer? Gilda hadn’t known what forbidden things he dealt in, and if it were narcotics,

Jim must be punished, no mattter how other people were involved . . for the good of the majority . . After a ; while she made up her mind. She said, “There’s just one person,” she said it aloud. She called Bartlett’s office on the off chance that he had not left. There was, for a long time, no answer. Every one had left. She would have to wait until later and call his apartment after she got home . . “Ring them once more, operator.” Then Bartlett’s voice, impatient, tired “Well?” said Bartlett. She replied, laughing a little, “That tone will lose you clients, Frank.” The tone changed, perceptibly. But it was still guarded. “Ellen?” “Yes, Ellen. Frank, listen . . Bill's taken to playing hookey again. He . . he thinks you’re angry at him . . something he told you . . something he misunderstood. You’re the only one who can persuade him to behave. His family would be so grateful . . and the truant officer . . too.” “The little devil . . .” Frank’s voice was changing, surely it was changing; there was warmth in it, eagerness. She went on bravely. “He needs you, Frank. And .. I need you. Awfully. There’s something you can do for me . . .” He said, over the wire, “There's something you can do for me, Ellen . .” She answered after a long moment,

“I think I know. But even if I'm wrong . . it doesn’t matter . . I want you to know . . I love you,” she said, and brokenly, “I love you . . .”

“Ellen . . Ellen . . .’ He was shouting at her . . she put a hand to her ear . . “I’m down at the office," she said. She heard the receiver go down on the other end. She held hers until the operator said tartly, “Number please . .

and then put it down quite gently. She was smiling.

CHAPTER XXVIII. In his downtown office Frank was hurling himself into an overcoat, racing out,' slamming doors, ringing elevator bells to the consternation of the elevator boy and every one who saw I him. He was rushing to the place where his car was parked . . A dark night, clear and very cold. Ellen was waiting there, there in her deserted office. The green shaded desk lights were on, the shades drawn. She stood, waiting, leaning against the desk, in the dark gray uniform with the blue of the tie at her throat, and the magnificent hair tumbled. Her lips were very pale against the pallor of her face, and her eyes were strange and lovely. A car drew up outside, with a squeal of brakes . . .

Somewhere some one was singing. It was Accordian Al, walking the dark cold streets, singing his interminable song . . . “Life is like a city street . .” Frank was coming . . she heard him, there just beyond the door, and in that split second her mind was divided. There was a part which didn’t think, which could not, and a part which was concerned with Al and the boy who had. been burned, who was well but who should, next year, have a skin graft . . .

The door opened. Bartlett said, “Ellen?”

There were no more thoughts; there were no words. She was in his arms, where she belonged. Close. Held safely, held strongly. He said after a long moment. “I was such a fool . . I thought, if she loved me, that night when she came, she would have told me so, not wasted time in apologies. She would have said, “I believed it of you, but I loved you. I love you, now; that's all that matters.” But you didn’t say it, and I thought you didn't care. I thought you cared for O'Connor. I thought . . .” “Never mind what you thought,” said Ellen.

And then, after another interval, he was sitting beside her on the desk and saying sternly, “I’ll attend to Bill.” (To be Continued.)