THE LONELY WOMAN.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 6132, 19 March 1898, Page 3

THE LONELY WOMAN.

(Australasian.) She was twenty-seven, slight, brownhaired, and only rather nice looking, till she smiled, when her face became beatified. She was timorous, and hud not an alluring personality, except with children (which, to be sure, was her business, for she belonged to the pampered order of nursery governesses.) Sometimes she received .£3O a year, but in her last situation she had drawn £26, and a sharp attack of pneumonia (that was nob in the contract) from a pair of damp sheets put upon her bed by a careless hoxiseniaid. The little nursery governess acquired a hacking cough that seemed to go through her thin body. She became ill, and could no longer teach. One night the family were startled by hearing a loud voice in the bedroom occupied by the governess ; they listened. The nursery governess was teaching the towelhorse French verbs. It then dawned upon them that the governess was delirious, a doctor was sent for, and death and the governess fought hand to hand in tha stuffy bedroom that the servants would have been disdainful of. Now the little governess's lungs were not made of leather. They were in a very delicate condition. The doctor told her thai; an operation on the left lung would be necessary, and asked her if she had any friends who would pay her expenses at a private hospital. She said she had not, so her employer guaranteed all her expenses. The carriage was brought to the door, and the little governess, with her meagre trunks, was packed off. The children of the house cried after her, for she always had time to make dolls' clothes for them, and to play gay music whilst they danced at dusk in the old schoolroom. The housemaid who bad done the mischief gave her a flaring magenta bed-jacket, and a packet of conversation lollies for her cough. # * $ * #

In the hospital amongst the other patients a woman lay ill. A young, pretty woman in the twenties. She was awaiting an operation, one for which they were starving her, whilst they plied "The Lonely Woman " (for that was what they called the little governess) with dainty food and wines. The rooms of the two patients were opposite. The Lonely Woman could hear her neighbour joking and laughing gaily with the troops of friends that came to see her. Her room was always decked with flowers and baskets of fruit. The Lonely Woman always glanced in at the opposite door, as she came to and fro, and the Pretty Woman was curious to see the governess, for she had coaxed the nurses to tilt her table-mirror, and the eyes of the two women met, and smiled at each other in the glass — one so pretty as she lay upon her frilled pillows, the thick masses of satiny golden-brown hair framing a merry girlish face — the other only pretty when- she smiled. Now, the Pretty Woman was the vainest little being. Every night she coaxed Nurse Charlotte to curl and crimp her hair. One night, the. Lonely Woman heard her say. laughingly, "Now, Nurse Charlotte, if I die, you know, don't you go putting a dowdy old shroud upon me. You bury me in my pretty white silk wrapper." Nurse Charlotte, who was fat and comfortable, laughed, and told her " not to talk nonsense." The visits of the Prefcfcy Woman's friends became more frequent, and her husband and little child scarcely lef b her bedside. The Pretty Woman's laugh was never gayer than now. "Ah, dear God, let her live! Life is so sweet to her," whispered the Lonely Woman to herself. # # * # *

A few days later the Lonely Woman was busy writing, and arranging her small affairs, for she thought it likely she would not recover; and she did not care much, loneliness and poverty seemed to bo her portion in lite. Nurse Charlotte entered the room. Her eyes Avere red. " How is she ?" said the Lonely Woman, for Nurse Charlotte devoted her time wholly to the Pretty Woman of late. " Dead !" said the nurse, wiping her eyes, "and I've put her in her white wrapper she used to joke about." That day the house wa3 filled with the scent of flowers. Nisrht came on and the dead woman lay placid in the room opposite. The Lonely Woman sat alone in her room ; she felt nervous — strangely so. "The quiet dead!" she said; "the quiet dead !" Oh, how distinct every noise was ; her own breath, how horribly loud ! A hairpin fell from her hair to the floor with a ringing sound; she gave a nervous start, every nerve in her body was ticking like a clock — suddenly she started from her seat, rushed headlong through the dim passages, and beat frantically for admittance upon the door of the nurses' sitting-room, and they soothed and comforted the Lonely Woman. *****

For weeks the Lonely Woman lay upon her bed of sickness. She got to know evevy street sound, the bark of every dog. the rumble of the tradespeople's carts in the early morning; even the different footsteps in the street she could distinguish. But there was one sound that attracted her strangely. It came in the first, faiut grey of the winter daylight ; and just at dark, for a few seconds only— it was a voice that whistled faintly a iew bars of an oldfashioned tune that she used to play for the children before she was ill— just a bar or two, no sound of footsteps, then silence— the whistle seemed to vanish round the corner of the street. The Lonely Woman grew to love the shrill whistle; to be grateful for the company it was ; to listen for it eagerly, and to fancy all sorts of sick fancies about it One morning she heard the whistle approaching. She dragged herself to the window and waited— a ragged barefooted lad about ten, his thin coat buttoned tightly across his chest, a cap put on backwards, his feet and legs blue with cold and With a bundle of newspapers strapped round him, darted whistling past the W ThrLonely Woman smiled to herselfshe felt happier for knowing. One evening, when she became convalesvSs»h wbea Aebeardth. boy com, ng . Then she beckoned him to hoiHe I , wondering* to the gate and stood there, looking f^f^A^ dishun, news of th — „ "No thank you, my boy. . "What's up then? Ob, en, yer do look

white about th' gilla, blyme, if yer &m'fcsiclt, ain't yer, lidy P Been Ye long P Thia 'ores anorsopital, ain'tifc P My ward, am t tf a rippin' pitch far fan'ralsi four in a week 1 seen once, comia' out o' here— with toffy plumes on the kerrldges, an' silver on the corfins." "Don't," said the Lonely Woman,shuddering. "I called you to give you this, and she put a sovereign in bis hand. '1 he lad's eyes grow big with wonder. Ho turned the coin over and over; looked at her thoughtfully, suspiciously even, " It, ain't cronk, lidy ?" ' The Lonely Woman shook her head smilingly at the child. The child put the coinin his mouth, bit it, tasted it " Cripes ! this is a chuck-in, lidy ' whafs it fer? I am't done nuthin' fer it, y' k-now." " You whistled as you passed to and fro, and I was very lonely, and it cheered me up." " Yer a rum 'un. 'Ere, take it back," said the child, buttoning his ragged jacket. " Keep it," she urged, " and tell me what you will do with it." The lad considered deeply. " I'll go ter th' theayter, and' take my donah ; an' I'll shout fer a cove I Imow an' 'is donah. Look 'ere, lidy, I'll come an' tell yer all about it, eh, ter-morrow night, on my way home — an' what's lef ' over I'll give ter my old woman. I say, what's yer name, lidy?" "They call me the Lonely Woman," said she smiling. " What is your name ?" "They call me the Little Bloke; well s'long," and he runaway." # * * * *

Next evening he arrived almost breathless on the verandah. " I went ter see Th' Crima o' th' Countess Treen," said the Little Bloke. "It was grand. Treen was awful nice lookin', but she wasn't up ter much — sho was a real snorter. She was dead-nuts on mashin' another lidy's 'usband, so she was awful cute, an' she lay 3 another josser on ter coax this 'ere lidy away from 'er 'ome — see 'er drift ? ' Fly with me, Iserbelle,' 'c sez, 'leave th' tyrant yer calls 'usband, 'c don't luv yer, not fer sour apples ; c's deadshook on another donah ; sides, 'c ain't much chop — come ter Parrus/ sez 'c. " * Wot ?' she says. ' Leave me homo an' jools, an' me busband an' child — never. Viper !* she sez, and sue lets a yell out of her. In comes th' husband, cops the toff mashin' 'is missus, and lays 'im out Al.' I'll 'aye ter slope, Lonely Woman, or the boss '11 be getting on ter me," said the Little Bloke, "s'long, see yer ter-morror," and he was off. *****

The Lonely Woman had a relapse, and again grim death hovered close to her. Again the cheery whistle sounded in the street. It was louder, clearer, and had a petulant inquiring tone in it. Sometimes a little flap came against the window, and tht-n the sound of a soft fall on the verandah. One morning the French window had blown ajar, a soft body whizzed through the door and fell upon the outstretched palm of the Lonely Woman * * * her hand closed upon it * * * It was a bunch of purple violets nestling in a border of rough, green leaves, and wet with the morning dew. The Lonely Woman held the flowers to her face, and drank in the rich perfume. * ft * "My Little Bloke has sent them to me/ said she, " and a bright drop fell upon the violets and mingled with the dew." "Violets in the room, I am sure," said Nurse Charlotte, bustling in a few hours later. " I forgot to tell you. We have had a great joke Binceyou have been ill. Nearly every morning we have found a great bunch of violets on the verandah. Such a race we used to have to see who would get them first. Some of Nurse Alice's beaux, I think," said Nurse Charlotte, ■" she always blushes when we fceaso her about it." The Lonely Woman fondled the flowers beneath the quilt, and smiled a little. No more whistling in the street, no more hasty footsteps, no more violets on the verandah. The Lonely Woman was a little sadder because of it. One Sunday she raised herself on her elbow. The grape vines were uncurling their pale-green silken leaves, and a crimson rosebush was flowering in the garden. "Spring is coming," said the Lonely Woman, " Spring is coming," cheeped the dusty little town birds, making believe they were in the country. > The church bells began ringing joyously, the sound of girl's voices came to the ears of tho invalid — in a moment they would pass the window. She sat up again. Two sisters in dainty dresses and new spring hats, decked with saucy nodding bunches of field flowers, poppies, buttercups, and cornflowers, passed. The heart of the Lonely Woman, leaped within her. Life was still worth living, there were still spring hats ! ' The Lonely Woman was nearly well now. It might have been the spring hats, or the careful nursing, or the rich food — whatever it was she was improving in appearance. She was quite pretty now — her face was plump, her eyes were bright, she had a '< delicate colour. The Lonely Woman had never ldoked better in her life. " I shall be losing you as a patient soon," said the doctor, "three moro visits only, You aro quite convalescent now — no pain ! Appetite good still ? JFin !" said the doctor, "good morning," and he strode from the room.

* « * # # The doctor had come to pay his last visit. He leaped from his buggy. " Say, Boss," said a breathless voice at the doctor's elbow, "Ws th' lidy in there gettin' on ?" "What lady, my boy?" said the doctor, smiling-. "The one with th' brown 'air an' th' big eyes, I mean — that's 'er room there in th' front." " Friend of yours, eh, my lad ?" said the doctor, laughing a little at the small ragged figure by his side. "Yus, she is, Smaity," said the boy, defiantly poking out his chin. " I want ter know 'ow she is. Yer might tell a cove. Look 'ere, she give me a quid because she was that lonely, an' she 'card me whistlin' goin' past 'er window — one day I was havin' a pitch to 'er, but she never come out on th' verandah no more, an' I was put on another paper round, so I 'ad ter chuck comin'this way" " Look 'ere, now, Doc," said the child coaxingly, "will you give her this dawg?" He took a tiny fox-terrier from his pocket. " Will yer tell 'er ter let it lay quiet fer a bit — 'cause I only bit its tail off ter-day. Tell th' lidy it'll keep her from feeiin' lonely — they call her the Lonely Woman, an* tell 'cr — she'll know 'oo yer means — it's from her Little Bloke, with his best respecs." " I'm a lonely beggar myself," said the Doctor, " here, my lad," and a bright sovereign lay in the hand of the Little Bloke. ' " ] "Yer a real bloomin' toff, an' that's strite,',' said the boy slowly, " bio wed if you ; am't — thanks, governor." The Doctor smiled as the boy ran rapidly away. "A lesson in kindness," mused the Doctor, as he ran up the verandah-steps • that's a decent little chap — the Lonely ' Woman' they call her, eh? Well," said' the doctor, for such is the force of example, = "my services to the Lonely Woman shall : be gratuitous." j " Good morning, I have brought you a present," said the Doctor. • " Yes ?" said the .Lonely Woman, smil- • ing. • I " From your Little Bloke," said the Doctor, and he laid the sprawling puppy upon her knee. "He says it is to keop you from feeling lonely." Now one sparkling little tear came into the eye of the Lonely Woman- and another, and another, till they rolled down her face. "Don't cry ! " urgad the Doctor, sympathetically. J . " Don't pity me," sobbed the Lonely Woman smiling through her tears,, as she fondled the puppy, "I am crying only because lam h-happy, and 1-ilife fe fch living." "What has made you happy?" asked the Doctor, curiously. VVY asKea « Two spring hits, a brnch of violets, and I a puppy without a tail," said the Lonely

So°worid Withth6haPpiest laugh in