“DISTRICT NURSE”

Manawatu Times, Volume 63, Issue 97, 27 April 1938, Page 7

“DISTRICT NURSE”

(By FAITH BALDWIN)

Instalment 21.

Synopsis of Preceding Instalments:

Ellen Adams was a district nurse serving tbe New York poor in the neighbourhood in which she was born. She lived there still with her widowed mother and sister Nancy, a night telephone operator. Ellen was 24, Nancy 20. Their older sister Carol had left home eight years ago to go on the stage. She had failed as dancer, then Hollywood extra and salesgirl, and even servant. Finally jobless, she tried to end her life with gas. The interne on the ambulunce was Pete McGregor, who had loved Carol before her disappearance. Ellen nurs-. her back to health and she and Pete became engaged. Ellen only recently had met Frank Bartlett, a young lawyer. They were very much in love but she asked Frank to wait for her answer as she had her semi-invalid mother to care for. They met when Bartlett's car knocked down the pet dog of little hard-boiled Bill Donnelly as Ellen was asking why he wasn't at school. Frank became interested in Bill and sent him to the country daring school vacation. Ellen had grown up with Jim O'Connor, now & real estate agent, who also loved her. When she returned home one evening she found not only Frank but Bill, all outfitted with new clothes, and Jim as well. Jim remained after Frank left with Bill. Jim was jealous of Frank, and taking the resisting Ellen in his arms, demanded again that she marry him. Just then Bill came back for his new gloves, which he had forgotten, and saw Ellen in Jim's arms. Several days later Glady Markey 'phoned Ellen at her office, saying she must see her.

Ellen looked over at Miss Kenwick, the grey hair brushed back smoothly, the sagacious unastonished eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses, the capable clever hands. Gladys hadn't asked for her advice professionally. Or had she? In any case there might be something they could do. She went over and sat down beside Miss Kenwick’s desk and spoke to her, briefly, frankly. Miss Kenwick nodded. They'd get together on it, she said, if the girl was willing to put her case in their hands. Meantime Ellen had a free hand to do what she could.

Ellen managed to see Gladys during the morning. Ellen found herself going dispiritedly up the stairs wondering if before Gladys were willing to follow up her impulse toward confidence the mother would interfere. She knocked and Gladys' voice said, “Come in." She was alone, huddled near the window in a chair. The mother was not in in evidence. She saw Ellen’s quick glance around and tried to smile . . . “She's not home, she went out, she won't be back till night," Gladys reassured her. She looked wretched. Ellen sat down beside her and asked her a few entirely practical questions. “What are you going to do, Gladys?" the said.

“I want to get away somewhere, anywhere, until—until it’s all over," Gladys told her hysterically. “I tell you I can’t stand it any more. Mother nags at me all day. I've got to get away ..."

“It can be arranged, I think," Ellen taid quietly. “There is a very good place. But you will have to stay six months afterwarda, and work out your time. Those who can't pay have to work. The child will then be sent out for proper adoption, if you wish."

“What else can I do?" she muttered. “I need money," Gladys went on wildly. “If I had money I wouldn't have to stay in that place. I have got to have money. But t , She looked down at her hands. “I haven’t worked since last summer," she said. “Someone said something ... I was fired." “Have you seen the man again?" Ellen asked her.

Gladys shook her head, and her disordered hair masked for a moment her expression; then she pushed it back from her forehead with both hands.

“I telephoned," she admitted after a while. “I used to sneak out and walk and walk until I got somewhere where people wouldn't be likely to know me and go into a booth." She stopped a moment and Ellen could see her, standing in the booth, sweat running down her forehead, hoi* hands wet with it. “I called his office. There was always a girl answered on a switchboard. I’d ask to speak to him. ‘What name shail I say?' or ‘Who is calling?' she’d ask me. I wouldn’t tell. ‘He'll know, all right, let me speak to him, I came back at her. And twice I got someone else after that. A secretary, I suppose. The second time I told her straight, ‘Tell him it's Gladys—Gladys Markey, ‘I said, ‘and he'll talk. He’s got to!' But he didn’t. He was there, though. I heard her say to him: ‘lt's someone called Gladys Markey; she says yon know' her.' And she comes back to the 'phone, ‘Mr. Bartlett says he does not know you. Can you give me the message?' " The blood rushed to Ellen’s face, receded. She felt faint. She thought, how silly, as if there weren’t a hundred—

She asked, palling herself together, “Where did you meet him, Gladys?"

“In the cafeteria near where 1 workad. He came in one day and sat at my table. We got talking. Pass the salt, or something. You know how it is ..." She laughed without mirth. “He said he hadn’t never been there before. He said he was glad he come." She was slipping back into her mother’s way of talking as she leaned forward, more animated, as it helped her to tell, as if in a way she were proud of telling. “He was a wiseacre," said Gladys, reminiscently. “He kept me laughing; he certainly could clown." She paused, remembering, and then ed him back, see? He said, ‘You eat

here often?’ and I said, ‘Sure, big boy, every day except when my car calls to take me to the Kitz.’ And he laughed aud said, ‘You’re a wise-cracker, aren’t you?’ Aud theu he said —I was getting ready to go—‘l’ll be seeing you.’ ” “And then!” Ellen prompted. ‘‘He came back, not the next day, but the next. He told me then who ho was.” Ellon made a little gesture and theu sat back, waitiug. Hut, Gladys went on, ‘‘Then he started meeting me for lunch. Other places. You know, funny places downtown, whero there’s sand on the floor and little booths, like. He said, ‘We can be quiet here.’ Then he got mo to go out to dinner ...” “Ho never came to your house?” “Who—him? Not likely,” said Gladys in sincere astonishment, “he—he’s a big man. He’s a lawyer ...” Ellen said faintly, “What was his name . . . ?”

Gladys said after a minute, “1 said I’d never tell. But I sort of gave myself away a while back, didn’t I? She added, after a moment, matter of factly, “Bartlett, Frank Bartlett.” Ellen thought, "It isn’t possible. I’m not sitting here, in this room, listening . . .” It was a nightmare, it was madness. She looked at Gladys, dimly trying to see, trying to understand that that the ravaged features were not what he had seen; trying to remember that Gladys had been pretty and pert, a wisecracker . . .

She thought she cried out —No—NO. But she hadn't moved or spoken. “Gee, you look funny," Gladys said curiously. “Do you know him?"

Ellen said slowly, “Perhaps. Are you sure? Sure of the name and-——-" She couldn’t go on.

Gladys said impatiently, “Of course, I'm sure. You can look him up in the book. I seen his card once. The name, the address ..."

“Have you written him?" Ellen asked. She thought, “I've got to get away from here, got to go somewhere and think, I must "

“No," said Gladys, “that secretary—do you think I want every one knowing my business? I been down a couple of times, hanging arouud there, waiting. But I never seen him."

Ellen said, perfectly aware that sho was not asking merely professional questions, aware that sho sad to ask, had to drag out of this girl every last little detail, had to know, had to kill herself knowing. “He—said he was in love with you?" . . . Promised to marry you?" ••Who—him?" Gladys was amazed again. “No , . . I mean, he said he loved me . . . and that some day . . ." She was silent. She went on while Ellen’s throat grew more and more constricted with the tension she put on herself, tho suicidal restraint. “Ho was married, see? I mean, not living with his wife, or anything. They didn't get ulong. He hated her, he said. They were separated , , . She wouldn't divorce him."

Not Frank. It couldn’t bo Frank. And yet . . . what proof has she that Frank wasn’t married —separated from his wife? Or, had he lied to Gladys? Or was it to her he had lied? “Look here," said Gladys desperately, “I don’t want to get him in no trouble, see? I went into it with my eyes open. I wasn’t born yesterday. I —if he’d help me, if he'd give mo the money to get away, that's all I ask, all I want. But I’m afraid of Ma. She knows something, or pretends she does. I haven't no letters, or anything. But —l'm afraid she's got some way of Gnding out. If she does, she'll go to him—or to the cops —or something. Blackmail," Gladys darkly. “I know her game. All she thinks of is the money."

“And he's a gentleman," Gladys added.

Ellen rose and touched the girl's shoulder. She loathed doing it, she forced herself, her hand was leaden. She said, after a moment, “I’ll do what I can. I'll go with you to him if that seems necessary. Give me a little time to think this over. Then I’ll let you know and we'll see. What time docs your mother get in from work?" Gladys told her. Ellen said, “I'll get in touch with you, Gladys, and we ’ll do what we can."

The girl stammered, there were tears in her eyes. She had been strong enough to bear what she had had to bear all these months. But now she was weak, frightened. Ellen had strength. Ellen would, somehow, see her through.

Ellen went out and down the stairs. She found herself lighting for breath elinging to the dirty railing, unheeding. She thought, “I've got to go through with it." She thought, “It tan’t be true, it isn’t." “I couldn’t be. The name alone would prove nothing, or even the profession. There must be other men by tho name name—but the address? “It wasn't, it couldn’t be." But what, after all, did she know of him?

Her mother had been right, Jim had been right, everyone had been right, but herself. Still, she thought, her brain bruised, it didn't all fit in . . . not with Bill, even. But why not? Why couldn’t he play up to Bill, to her . . . if he saw lit? Why couldn’t he even like Bill, want to help him? Men who murdered, raised gardens, and men who robbed women were kind to animals . .

. She laughed hysterically and people passing looked at her curiously . . . After a long time, during which her work managed to get itself done, she made up her mind. She went into a telephone booth and called Bartlett's office.

The booth was close, stiflng. She stood there waiting, listening to the faint ringing along the wires, waiting tnd thinking. (To be continued.)