"STAR" TALES.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 7922, 29 January 1904, Page 1

"STAR" TALES.

A HOUSE OF MERCY (By JENNETTE LEE.) CHAPTER I. "Aunt Mercy, what are you thinking •of?" The young man turned bis head a little on the pillow to look inquiringly to- '■ ward the door. It -was the door of Room 24 leading into** the men's ward. Aunt Mercy had been standing- there for five minutes/ gazing intently into space. The serene face framed in the white muslin cap had a rapt, waiting look. It reminded the young man of a German Madonna that he had run across last summer iv an old gallery corner, whose face had haunted him. " Aunt Mercy, what are you thinking about?" he repeated gently. She turned: slowly toward him, the placid look breaking into twinkles. " I was thinking I'd better turn Mr Ketchell's mattresst'other end to, and put a bolster under the upper end. It kind of sags." * For a moment the young man on the pillow looked a little bewildered. Then he lay back -and- laughed till the iron' bedstead rang and the men in the. ward pricked up their ears and smiled in sympathy. Aunt Mercy smiled, too, stepping leisurely toward him. '" There, there," she said, as she. adjusted the sheet and lowered his pillow a trifle. " I dunno's I'd laugh amy more 'bout that. 'Tisirt so very funny to change a mattress t'other end to." He raised a hand and wiped' the laughter from either eye. " But yo« looked as if you were thinking of angels and cherubims and things, Aunt Mercy." She nodded placidly. "I gen'ally do," she responded, "but that don't hinder knowing about mattresses and bolsters. . . I wouldn't lanigh any more for a day or two if I was you. The bandages might get loose." * She slipped a careless hand along his foreilead, gathered up a cup and plate from the stand beside him z and slid plumply from the room. His eyes followed her through the door, down the long ward as she stopped here and there for a word or a question. Once she raised her hand sternly at a bed' and sniffed. The cap strings bristled fiercely. "He's catching it," muttered the young man from the private room, "I knew ho would. Yoit can't keep a baccy pouch iv the same room with Aunt AMercJ?." He sighed a little and glanced, without turning his head, toward the window where the spring clouds sailed and filled with swelling whiteness. A breath of freshness stole dn softly. On the sill was a bowl of pansies. He lay looking at them idly. His lids fluttered and closed— and lifted again and fell shut. '; Out in the ward fhe men were laughing and talking. Sanderson, robbed of his baccy pouch, was sullen and* resentful, and tho men were chaffing him. Aunt Mercy drifted through* the swing dor at the end of the ward. She placed the cup and plate on a dumb" waiter and crossed the hall to the women's ward. A nurse met her as sjie came in at the deor. "Mrs Crosby is worse. Temperature a hundred and four," shs -said in a low voice. Aunt Mercy nodded. She went slowly down the ward. • White faces on the pillows greeted her and followed her. ! Aunt Mercy beamed' on them. She stopped beside a young girl and bent over to speak to her. The girl's face lighted. It lost its fretted look. Aunt Mercy had told her that she was to have a chop for her dinner if she was a good girl, and that there was a robin out in the apple tree. She turned her gaunt eyes toward the window. Her face listened. Aunt Mercy went on . . . . A nurse coming in handed her a slip of jPaper. She glanced at it and tucked it jinto her dress. It was a telephone message from Dr Carmen, asking to have the operating-room ready for ah appendicitis case in ten minutes. The girl with the gaunt eyes called to her. "Aunt Mercy." The yoioa was weak and impatient. Aunt Mercy turned slowly back. She stood by the bed; looking down with a smile. The girl thrust an impatient hand under her cheek, " Can I hear him in here?" she j demanded. }. ..] Aunt Mercy glanced toward the window. "The robin? Like enough, if he flies this way. I'll go out and chase ham 'round binne-by when I get time." The girl laughed— a low pleased laugh. Aunt Mercy's tone had drawn a picture for her : The robin, the flying cap-strings in swift pursuit, and all out-doors — birds and trees and sky. She nestled- her face on her hand and smiled quietly. " I'm going to be good," she said. Aunt Mercy looked at her with* a severe twinkle. " Y£s, you'll be good— till next time," she said. 1 The nurse by the door waited, 1 impatient. Aunt Mercy came across, the room. "Get 15 ready. . ...*.. Find the new nurse. . . Send her to the ' operatingroom. . . Send Henry to the ambulance door. . . Tell Miss Staunton to have things hot and put out the new ether cones. It wants fresh carbolic and plenty of sponges." The nurse sped swiftly away. Aunt Mercy looked -peacefully around. She gave one or two instructions to the ward nurse, talked a moment with one oi* the patients, smiled a kind of general benediction on the 'beds and faces and sunlit room, and went quietly out. . . At the door of the operating-r-sfom- she paused a moment, and gave a slow, comfortable glance about. She changed the position of a stand and rearranged the ether cones. The next minute she was standing at the side door greeting Dr Carmen. The ambulance was at the door. " It's a bad case," he said. " Waited too long." "Woman, I suppose," said! Aunt Mercy. She was watching the men as they put the trestles ih place. " He looked at Iher. "How did you know?" "They're 'most always the ones to wait. They stand the pain better'n men.'' She stepped one side with a quiet glance at the litter as the men bore it past. "She'll come through," she said as they followed it up the low stairway. "I wish I felt as sure," responded Dr Canmen. Aunt M-ercy glanced back. A man was standing at the door, his eyes following tbem. She looked inquiringly toward the Doctor. "Her husband," he said. "He's going to wait." Aunt Mercy spoke a word to a nurse who was coming down the stairs; witih a motion of her hand toward the man -waiting below-. ■'.'*.•■ The Kttle procession, entered thei operat-ing-room, and the door was shut. CHAPTER 11. ' The man in the r<eoepfcion-rooiai was waiting. AHe was thick-set, with dairk hair aaid eyes and an obstinate chin. He looked up -with a doubtful flash as Aunt Mercyv came ■ in. '**. *■ i *■'.. . '■'■*, : * "-- ' " How is she ?t he demanded. He !had sprung to -his ieety Aunt* Mary descended into a creaking chair and folded her hands quiqtly. "Sit down* Mr Dalton," she said, "I'm going *, to tell jou all about it," >

The words peerhed to promise limitless details. He sat- down, chafing a little, and looking at her -eagerly. She smiled on him. "Hard work waiting, ain't it ?" she eaid. His face broke a little. '-vv " Did she get through all i*.i-»iht ?" Aunt Mercy nodded. "Yes, she got through." She rocked a. little in the big chair. "She's standin' it pretty woll, considering," she added after a pause. "Will she get well?" The question burst at her. ■She looked up at him slowly — at the dark eyes and obstinate chin. " I don't know," she said. She waited a -minute. " I suppose you'd rather know the truth," she asked, > "Yes — yes." " I thought so." The muslin strings nodded. " When my husband died they didn't let us know how sick he was. I've always thought we might 'a' saved' him — between vs — if we'd 'a' known. They wanted to spare my feelings." She looked at him inquiringly. "Yes." He waited, a little }essT impatiently. The world was a big place. Everybody died.. . Would Edith- die? . . . He looked at- her -imploringly. She returned the look with one full of gentleness. "I don't see how she's going to live," she said slowly. The faoe under its white cap took on a tranoe-like look. The eyes were fixed on something unseen. She drew* a quick breath. . . But I guess she will," she said with a tremulous laugh. The man's lips parted. She looked at nim again. "If I was you, Mr' Dalton, I'd go ihome and feel pretty big and strong and well, and I'd hope pretty hard.' He looked at her, bewildered. She was on her feet. She ran her eye over his face aod person. I'd wear the cleanest, freshest clothes I could get, and I'd look so 'twould do her good just to set eyes on me." He flushed under the two-days' growth of beard, a-nd ran has hand awkwardly across his chin. "But they won't let me ccc her?" he -said. "Weli, I don't know," responded* Aunt Mercy. " It'll do her good — whether she sees you or not," she added energetically. Ho rose with, a sJmdle, -holding out his hand. "I believe you're right,", ihe said. "It gives' me something to do, a-nyway, and that's worth a good deal." " Yes, it's something to do," she responded; " and I don't suppose any of us knows just what cures folks." "Could I see her to-morrow, perhaps?" he asked, watching her face. She shook her head emphatically. " Not till 'l think hest,," -?he replied with decision. His face fell. " And not then," she said, " unless you're feeling pretty well and strong and happy." He gave a little abrupt laugh. " Oh, you've fixed 1 that all right. I sha'n't -sigh ■p-not onee — ih a dark room — with the lights out."'; Aunt Mercy smiled serenely. "That's good." At the door she paused a. moment. " I wouldn't reckon too much on seeing her," she said. " I sha'n't let anyone see her till she asks. She won't pay much attention for three-four days yet." • A peculiar look crossed the man's* dark face. "That's all right," he said. "lean wait." < "Outside the door he lifted his face a littles to the fresh breeze. His eyes stared absently atthe drifting sky. "Now, how did -she know Edith wouldn't want to see me?" he said softly, "how did she find that out?" CHAPTER 111. Everything connected with the hospital was under the absolute control of Aunt Mercy. Each member of the white-cap-ped corps of nurses looked to her for direction, and the cook and the man who ran the furnace refused to take orders froni anyone elsa. It was no unusual sight for the serene, white-frahoed face, with its crisp strings, to appear among the pipes and 'elbows of the furnace-room, and- leavo behind it a whiff of common sense amd a series of hints on* the running of the hotwater boiler. Even Dr Carmen himselt never brought a patient to the House of Mercy without a-sking humble and solicitous permission of Aunt Mercy. There was a current belief that the Berkeley House of Mercy belonged to Aunt Mercy herself ; and I am not* at all sure that Aunt Mercy did not think so — at times. The hospital had been- endowed twelve years before by a rich woman in gratitude for her recovery from a painful disease. She had wished to- reward the surgeon who -had cured her. And when Dr Carmen had refused any paymentbeyond the usual fee, she had established* the Berkeley House of Mercy, over which he was to have absolute control. He, in turn, had installed Aunt Mercy as matron of the hospital — not with the understanding that she was to haive absolute control, but as being, on the whole, the most sensible and reliable woman of his acquaintance. The result of the arrangement was as has been stated. It was not known that Aunt Mercy had ever refused him, pointblank, permission to bring a paibient to the hospital. But she sometimes protested, with a shrewd twinkle in her eye, " Oh, 1 can't have that- Miss En-derby here. She's always. wanting to have her own way about things !" Then Dr Canmen w;ould laugh andl bring the patient. Perhaps he gave her a hint 'beforehand. Perhaps the fame of Aunt Mercy's might had reached her. Perhaps it was the cool, firm fingers. . . . Whatever might be the reason, it is safe to say that Miss Enderby did not onoe have her own way from the day that she was carried into the wide doors of the House., of Mercy, a sick and querulous woman, to the day when she left it with firm,, quick step, amd turning back at the door to fall with- a sob on Aunt Mercy's neck, was met with a gentle little push and a quick flash from the white-capped face. "There, thero, Miss Enderby, yn run right - along. There's nothin' upset i folks like sayin' good-bye. You come back some day and* say it when you're feelin' pretty well." CHAPTER IV. Aunt Mercy was thinking, to-day^ as -she went back along the wide corridor to Room 15, that the new patient was not unlike Miss Enderby. There was the same inflexible tightening of the lips and the same contracted look of fhe high, level brows. The lips had not opened except for low moans, and the eyes were closed. As Aunt Mercy stood looking down at them, they fluttered • softly. They opened for a moment and closed again with a dull look. Aunt Mercy bent her head and listened to the heavy breathing. Then she spoke softly to the nurse in charge, who listened obediently and went aiway. It wW not an unusual thing for Aunt Mercy to assume control- of a case at any moment. Perhaps she was most likely to do this about three or four o'clock in the morning, when all the hospital was asleep and a chill had crept into the air. The nurse in charge of a criticail case would look- up to find Aunt Mercy standing beside her, fresh from a cold bath, with a smile on her big, restful face andi a whispered command on ,-her lips that sent the tired nurse to bed with a clear, conscience. The' patients that Aunt Mercy assumed in this peremptory fashion always recovered. Perhaps they would have recovered ih any case. This is, one of the things

ever, in passing, the patients the'-hselves as they came into the new day, holding fast to Aunt Mercy's hand, cherished a belie! that had it not* been for that firm, plump •hand, the new day would not have dawned for tliem. . . *. They had: no strength and no will of their own. But through the cold and the darkness something held thera ; and when the. spirit came creeping back with* the morning, the first thing that their eyes rested on was Aunt Mercy's face. CHAPTER V. The woman's eyes ' opened suddenly. They looked" f or a . lnpment, dull andl unseeing, into Aunt Mercy's. Then they fell shut. Aunt Mercy's fingers noted the pulse and passed once or twice across the high, -fret-ted brow. Slowly a look of sleep paissed over the ifaoe and the strained lines relaxed. Aunt Mercy, watching it, gave a nod pi satisfaction. Out in the orchard the robin sang his twilight song, slow and cool and! liquid,, with long pauses between, and the -dusk crept into the white room, touching "it. A . Aunt Mercy sat passiye, waiting, the eyes under her white cap* gl-o'.viu.g vritii' a. still, deep look. All the threads of life and death in the hospital gathered up and centred in the quiet figure sitting there. Nob a pulse in the great building be^t, or .flickered and went, out, that Aunt Mercy did not know it. But she !>at waiting while the twilight deepened; a look . of restfulnes* in her big , face. Now and then sh< crooned to herself, half humming the lines of Ecane hymn and falling silent- again, Watching the sleeper's breath. The night nurse paused outside the docrf, and ai little rush of gaslight flickered- in. Aunt Mercy rose and closed the door and shifted a, screen noiselessly to the foot of the bed. The lo*ng night had settled down for its sleep. And Edith Dalton's soul was keeping watch with death. Slowly it sank back into the grim hold -. . . only a spark left, with Aunt Mercy keeping guard over it. . . . So' the night passed and the daj", and another night and another, day . ... and the third day dawned. Edith Dalton would have said, as the spark glowed higher and blazed a, littl© and lighted her soul, and her eyes rested on Aunt Mercy's face, that the figure sitting there had not' left her side for the three days-. Down through the deepest waters, where death lulled her and heaven, waited, -she had felt a touch on her soul, holding her, drawing her steadily /back to- life; and now she opened her eyes and they rested on Aunt Mercy's face and smiled a little. Then the lids -fluttered together again and sleep came to the face, natural and sweet- ' Aunt Mercys- eyes grew dark beneath the white cap. She touched a bell and gave the case over to the day nurse that came. " She will be all right now," she said. She spoke in the low, even voice that was not a whisper and not a tone. " Give her plenty of water. She has been very thirsty. But there is mo fever- Don't call me unless there is a change. A . . Then send at once." She departed on her rounds. No one would have guessi&d, as the fresh, stout figure moved in. and out among the wards, that she had not slept for two nights. There was a tradition that Aunt Mercy never -slept and that she* was never, tired. Dr Carmen laughed at the tradition and said that Aunt Mercy slept as much as anyone, more ' than most people,' in fact, only she did it with 'her eyes open— that ifc was only a superstition that made people think they must shut their eyes to sleep. The Hindus had a trick worth two of that. Aunt Mercy knew the trick,, and she might tell other folks if she would, and save the world a lot of trouble. But Aunt Mercy only shook her head; and smiled, and went her way. And when the fight with death came, she went with, each one down into that other world, the world of sleep and faith and unconscious power, on the borderland of death, where the spul* is reborn, and waited there for life. ''She had no theories, about it, and ho pride; and if she had now and then a gentle, imperious scorn of theorists and bunglers, it was only the touch of human nature that made the world love her- *' * ...*•"•''.. CHAPTER VI. : It was the sixth day, and Edith Daltpn, was doing well— that is, the wound was doing well. As for the woman, she lay with; indifferent eyes looking at the white wall of her room and waiting recovery. The only time that the look in the eyes changed was when*' Aunt Mercy < appeared in the doorway for a. moment, or eat by her beck. Then it would deepen to a question and flicker toward hope. , "Doing well?" Aunt Mercy would say. "They give you good things to eat, dont theyV y ■ „ The woman, smiled ' faintly. y . ' , " That's right. Eat and sleep. And hope don't hurt— a little of it." , .-Aunt Mercy?" The voice bad a sharp note. Ib was the tenth morning, andl the invalid was resting against the pillows that had- been raised on the bed. X { "Yes?" ' Aiint Mercy turned baclc. "Hasn't he been to see me^once-my husband?" There . waß a shamed, fiaii-im-perious note in. the words. , , Aunt. Mercy eat down comfortably. »7 Me

-ybed and looked &t her. Then she shook her head, ch-idingly. . . "I've never seen a sick person yet that want unreasonable," she said. The woman's face relaxed. "I know," she said, apologetically. " but when, one/is sick the days are long." "You told me— that was four -five days ago,'' said Aunt Mercy, '" that ybu didn't want to see him ov hear his name mentioned. At least, that's what I understood." The woman was not looking at her. " So when lie's been here, time and again —three times a day, some days — I've told 'eift you couldn't see anybody— not even your husband. . . I thought that was what you wanted?" " Yes," said the woman, faintly. Aunt Mercy nodded. " And now you're acting hurt and keeping yourself from getting well." The woman flushed a little. "I don't think I am." " Yes, you are," said Aunt Mercy, comfortably. " '* Of course it don't make any real difference. You'll get well some time. . . Only it eeems foolish. Well, I must ba going ou my round's. Keep up good courage." She stood up and moved toward the door. " Aunt Mercy." "Yes." "You haven't- time to stop a few minutes?" " Why, yes. I've got plenty of time, if you want me. There's two operations this morning, but everything's: ready." "Two operations?" The woman's lips grew white. " One's a man with five children. Got to lose his leg. '. . ' His wife's plucky. She's gone riglffc to work earning money. Bi*tt she's coming this morning to be with him for the operation. She said he'd stand it better. I guess she's right. They eeem pretty close together. * . . That's the onlvthing I really envy in this world," said Aunt Mercy, slowly ..." hawing a husband that loves you and cares." She sat quietly watching the locust leaves outside the window. They shimmered in the light. ' The woman raised a hand. " You don't understand," she said. " Like enough not," said Aunt Mercy. "It's. hard' work understanding other folks' feelings. I don't more'n half understand my own. . . I suppose you were kind of disappointed in him . . .. ?" " I don't know " Tlie words faltered. " They be, mostly." "Is everyone unhappily married?" the voice flashed at her. '* Well, I didn't say just that. But most of 'em find it different from* what they expected — men boing men. . . Women are women, too. I'll have to go, now. It's timo for the man, and she'll be waiting in the parlour. I told her to wait there." She rose slowly. "You don't want to see him, if he should* happen to come to-day?" "_N T o." The lips trembled a little and closed over the word. "All right," said Aunt Mercy, soothingly. "Take plenty of time to get well. He can wait. He's a good kind to wait, I can see that." She had drifted out. The woman's eyes followed her eagerly with a question, in them. She put up her hands to covtv them. When she took thepi down the eyes were filled with tears and a gentle light glowed in them. " Dear old Toku" she said, softly, "he can .wait." 1 As Aunt Mercy opened the parlour door he sprang to his feet. He was, radiant with a look of courage, and* his eyes glowed as he came toward her. . She shook her head, smiling a little. Then she turned to a young woman waiting by the door. She was strong and fresh and a look of purpose gleamed in her face. Aunt Mercy looked at her approvingly. C4o down to Room 20, Mrs Patton, on the left-hand side. I've told Dr Carmen you're to be there. It's all right." As the young woman leftf the room she turned to him again. "Won't she see me?" he asked. "Como to-morrow about ten o'clock," she said slowly, " she'll be wanting to see you then." " How do you know?" He reached out a hand. . "I don't- know, but I seem to feel it in mv bones. She's most well. : . . She's well all through." And she left him standing there, a glad .light in his eyes, while she went down the corridor- to, the man waiting in Eoom 20. «MM»»M»M»'^ MMIM " ,, " MM,,M,,, '** l ***'*|