THE OTHER WOMAN.

New Zealand Times, Volume LXXII, Issue 4824, 29 November 1902, Page 4 (Supplement)

THE OTHER WOMAN.

(By H. Frances Leitch.) “You Lave come! .... Not too soon. X ieur my child is dying." /inch was the disjointed greeting bestowed by Mrs Gilbert on u young woman in the simple costume of a hospital nurse, bister Winion, murmured a word of comfort. tixrew oil her cloak and bonnet and pix-parod to enter the sick room, which opened off tho apartment where the two women had met. Tho mother, a graceful creature, apparently of gypsy extraction, impetuous in every action, fiery emotion iu her eyes, and on her richly coloured face the glow of changing emotions, made a striking contrast to her companion, a woman perhaps a cuupio of years her junior, rather less of stature, and British to the backbone. Her sunny Jiuir, gathered carelessly beneath a muslin cap. lay in soft ripples above a face not merely beautiful as regards feature, but possessing also that ra-er grace suggesHvo of a deep sadness. L’.'iW of mini were visible round iho duik grev eyes iu whoso depths lay the shadow of a .stormy, tragic past And yet, in the manner mul gait of this Puritanically attired woman there was a something untamed and proud, an air of mingled srlf-reliauco and gentleness born, of noble sacrifice and long-concealed sor-

“Gome now! You are ready? You will watch him all night and see that no harm comes to him, (Jail mo if he is womo through the night. You see, we have the gas down " “Don’t speak so much!” interrupted the nurse with professional hrusqucncsfc. . “I'm lolling you before we go *ih, because my husband will be cross if I don't go immediately and dress for " Nurse Winion moved hastily into the darkened bed-room. The warm air- was heavy with the odour of hot-house blossoms., medicine, and bad ventilation, which are considered by nufny tho necessary adjuncts of the sick-room. A lire glowed m a tiled grate at Hie farihest-off corner, and by tho faint light of a pinkshaded lamp, turned almost out, might be discerned the general scheme of furnishing—simple, but in good taste. On a bed near by, sheltered on one side by a Japanese screen and at the other obstructed by a table laden with toys and fruit, lay a little figure, with arms tossing restlessly to and fro. Even as the two women drew near the dark curly head moved hastily, and a quivering sigh escaped the open lius. The nurse laid her cold hand on the child’s head and, as only the woman with true maternal instincts knows how, quietened tho sobs as they rose. At tho top of tho bed stood the mother, hysterical already at the signs of suffering on hor darling’s face. “lie’s very ill, nurse." “Keep back; ho must have air!" was tho sharp rejoinder. For, in a paroxysm of grief, the weeping mother had cast herself on her knees, caressing tho child’s hair, and sobbing convulsively as only incoherent murmurs escaped tho fevered lips. “Look! Look! Tell mo ho is not dying!" And with a hurried gesture she screwed up tho lamp, letting the warm light fall directly on tho unconscious features and prostrate form. ‘Tie’s not dying? Say he is not!" sho sobbed, her hands clasped fearfully together. For a moment tho other woman stood silent; her • face had grown strangely white, and the hand that lay on tho child’s forehead trembled violently, but tho mother, unseeing, only repeated—- “ You’re sure he won’t?"

And quietly the nurse responded—" Not if I can help it. For his sake, please go," With a farewell glance, the mother departed; the frou-frou of silken draperies grew fainter, a distant door closed softly, and all was silent save for the laboured breathing and restless tossing of the unconscious child.

The woman bent forward eagerly, a hungry light in her eyes, and gazed. Tho features, the eyes that now and again opened wide but unseeing, the very curls as they lay on the forehead, wore a counterpart; and the name—Gilbert—at the moment she had scarcely noticed it;now to her overwrought brain it placed tho truth of her discovery beyond a doubt. Tho boy opened liis eyes, and gazed up at her for a moment, then turned on his side. She pressed his head more gently, and, kneeling down, sobbed with the low nteasity of a woman long used to restrain her feelings before a cruel world, but knowing tho deep pains of love. Slowly the hours of night crept on. Tho distant banging of doors told that the family wore going to bed. Nellie replenisnea the fire, gave her patient a draught, arranged everything carefully, opened the window, and, having lowered the lamp, came slowly back to her post. In the darkness, intensified by tho smouldering firelight, which cast only unfathomable shadows, she could not see him; but she knew every feature, and, as she gently soothed his pains, the mothcrliness in her. half dormant, but long developed deep in her lonely heart, burst forth, and she prayed, prayed for the life of his son—and the child of another woman.

The old pain that had never left her since that day, long years ago, when duty had forced them apart, came back with renewed force; the sickening knowledge that another called him "husband," a woman more beautiful than she, with a grace and charm she wholly lacked—how could he, through all these years of married life, have remembered the woman whose love was above all legal bonds, and who yet for his sake had gone out of his life that ho might fulfil his pledge to another? And she held his child's hand and caressed his damp ciirls, the bright vision of that ono short and glorious summer came back. The distant rumble of London died away, and the sickening warmth of tho bcd.-chaiu.ber was forgotten. The woman hoard naught but tne murmur of a hillside stream, tho far-off thrill of a lark; scent of gorso was in the soft, clear air, and all the world rejoiced. Ho and she, forgetful of all save the golden present, sat hand in hand, and, because of their love, felt earth to be heaven, and fondly dreamed it might last for over. She lived through each day and every on© seemed happier than the preceding. His words of love fell on her ears. And now the birds had twittered themselves to rest, and ho and she. in the darkness of an autumn night, with the 'dying leaves rustling at their feet, and .a moaning wind chilling tho bared trees around, bade each other a long farewell. Honour forced them apart, and through tho long years she had plodded on alone. * Now she had tho chance of saving his child, and for a time at least touching and loving that which was flesh of his flesh. Tho actuality of motherhood she might never know*, but hero was the ideality, with a depth of pain and grief, on insatiable craving that marie it at once less and more than human, Tho father was only a few rooms away. He must not know who was nursing his child. For herself, she seo him again, but feared to rake up old memories and bring back his pain, which she would fain believe had grown less acute.

So she stayed and saw only the doctor and servants. Occasionally the mother came, and the child, in his'conscious moments, stretched np to her, whispering "Mummy, dear!" in tones which made the other woman wince. If his mother had been less kind, if he had shrunk from her and sought the protection of his nurse, it would have been easier to bear, but h© only loved her in a grateful sort of way, and evidently regarded her merely as a kindly outsider. Once tho father camo. strictly enjoined by the doctor not to stay more than a few minutes. The nurse withdrew behind the curtains of the nest room, from where sho could catch a glimpse of the bed.

With clenched hands she gazed at him, secure in the knowledge that she was invisible to him. He was aged and sad; the brown hair was silvery on tho temples; heavy linos of care marked his face, and the expression of his eyes had grown more inscrutable than of yore. She took one

step forward, then stood silent while he enured iho sick-room. She saw him go towards the bed; and gently, but without any warmth, motion his wife aside. The child raised himself and. wilu a flush of delight such as no petting of his mother's had ever awakened, hugged his father, half sobbing in his jcy. The man’s face brightened and the expression which Xfdbo knew so well lit up his eyes as silently and tenderly ns lie clasped the boy in his arms. Scarcely any term of endearment, passed his lips, but the woman who knew the depths of bis nature and sew the effect his sufferings had had upon him, understood something of the love ho bore his son.

Towards night the child, who had got over his original complaint, grew suddenly feverish, and tho doctor, after ordering that none should come near without h:s permission, gave the nurse her orders, lie feared diphtheria; but she was experienced and—tliis in a tone of interrogation —not r.iraid? She shook her head, and said ho might trust her. Midnight struck. The boy was growing more fevered. At one he was struggling for air. She had tried every remedy, and knew that now one only remained. As sho loosened her collar she whispered to herself that the child was his only comfort; it was his son’s love that kept the father’s heart from breaking—little enough to compensate for his miseries, and sadly little that shu* could do to show her unswerving lovo. There was not a moment to bo lost. Nellie pressed her hand to .something that lay on her heart, and, drawing the child to her, held her Ups to his—and slowly, painfully drew the poison from his throat to her own.

“Sho must have been mad to go away like that without a word to anybody, without even her wages I" said Mrs Gilbert the next day. But tho doctor to’ whom she spoke answered shortly; “It’s easy to get someone to nurse your child now. That woman saved his life, perhaps at the cost of her own." “Ami she is a .stranger," said the father brokenly; but the look of thankfulness on his face’ as he bent over his sleeping child would have bean sufficient reward to tho woman who had risked all for his sake.