The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 15 June 1911, Page 1083

The Storyteller

THE STRAIGHT, CLEAR ROAD, ‘ That you. Miss Meade? Just com© in. The manager’s voice over the house-telephone tinged with relief. Dr. Stagg had said: ‘lt must he Miss Meade. ‘ You’re wanted immediately, automobile accident; all dead but one; he’s Dr. Stagg’s patient.’ Very good. What’s the address?’ Ruth Meade, no matter how brief her sentences, never gave the impression of being curt. Her tone was too rich and sweet not to please. Young, efficient, good to look at, the girl’s; voice was only one of the many gifts which made her the favorite nurse at the registry. She wrote the address of Dr. Stagg’s patient upon a convenient pad, as the manager repeated ‘ Thank you. Good-bye.’ With the quick noiseless manner her training had accomplished, Ruth made some changes in the suit case she had fetched to her room ten minutes earlier. r ‘ I expected to go home over Sunday, she reflected, a trace of doubt flitting across her tranquil face, disturbing its peace into an angry pucker of the forehead, a-stiffening and thinning of the full young lips. Oh, well— drift with the current. Duty can’t be ignored. Efface yourself and your difficulties, Ruth; it’s high sanctity and common sense, both.’ She snapped the valise shut with whimsical energy, and picked up her hat and gloves. Half an hour later, Ruth stood beside an improvised operating table in a very rich man’s house. Dr. Stagg; greeting her by a fraction of a nod, still had mental leisure sufficient to think, as many times before that Ruth was a white-uniformed incarnation of quiet, unostentatious . capability and common sense, both. She worked hard and talked'* little. i ‘ Just in time, Miss Meade. Dr. Bell will take the narcosis, —It’s trepanning,’ They worked rapidly, almost in absolute silence. There is something eerie about approaching a man’s brain with material instruments, even of twentieth century manufacture. The patient was neither young or old. He was a large man, probably handsome, although the disfigured head and face, partially concealed by the ether-cone, gave Ruth _ little definite idea of feature or contour. She instinctively fancied the countenance fine looking. Then by force of habit she put all curiosity, all imagination, everything except the alert attention to her duty, out of her mind He was back in the carved and canopied bed, desperately weak and ghastly looking, presenting no indication of triumphant reaction. The surgeons were conversing in low. tones, out in the injured man’s study. ‘ I have made him as comfortable as I could, .thought Ruth, arranging bowls of solution upon a table. ‘ But I m afraid nothing will help him. His pulse and respiration are both alarming.’ She turned in a quick, overpowering sympathy and regarded the man lying on immaculate linen, his head in clean white bandages, science attendant with all its , marvellous might, but the individual evidently forever beyond the power of comfort, luxury or knowledge to permanently assist him. The calm indefatigable nurse was a bit overwrought; there had been trials and struggles in her own life, of late. Two paths stretched out before her, and her heart quailed before the moment when she must declare her choice. Mr. Brewster, a few hours before unknown to her, was getting upon Ruth’s nerves, ‘Where’s his wife?’ she peevishly inquired of herself. 1 No doubt in Rome or Paris, as most husbands and wives are when I am called to nurse their honorable consorts in wealth like this. Why isn’t she here? He’s dying. I’m positive. Poor chap ! I wonder if that’s his picture— : years ago — 5 She was meditatively studying a photograph upon a cabinet when Dr. Stagg beckoned her from the door. Ruth went in her silent fashion to join the two surgeons. ‘‘Mr. Brewster’s condition is extremely critical. He may never come out of the ether. Do you think I’d better send for a second nurse to go on at seven?’ Dr, Stagg knew what Ruth’s answer would be. ‘Oh, no! I like to see my patient through the night after an operation.’ Dr, Stagg smiled at the zealous determination in Ruth’s blue eyes. ‘Well! Mr. Brewster’s man will help you if necessary. In the morning we shall see.’ ‘What we shall see,’ gravely supplemented Dr. Bell TT ‘ Don’t bury him till he’s dead,’ snapped Dr. Stagg. He abhorred the precipitateness of youth. Dr. Bell bowed haughtily. Ruth turned to Dr. Stagg. \ ‘And Mrs. Brewster?’ said she, impulsively. Mr. Brewster is unmarried. He has no near relative whatever Perhaps no really unselfish friend on the face of the globe.’ Dr. Stagg returned to the bedside and bent once more over his patient. Ruth watched the physician’s serious sharply-cut features assume a more marked anxiety ’ ‘How is he?.’ she breathed. anxiety.

ri Very low indeed,' Dr. Stagg answered frankly.: .'lt was a nasty collision, two machines head-on at a turn. Mr. &Brewster was thrown twenty-five feet.' A few final directions jotted down, grave bows to Ruth, and she sat alone near the bed, listening to the struggling breaths, of the strong man whose life was flickering out. A premature twilight pervaded the room, darkening blackly in the corners. Ruth knew a window was open back of heavy shrouding curtains, but the 1 fumes of ether lingered through all the house. .' L . ■."":■ !"; ' It's a horrid day,' Ruth thought, reaching for a limp periodical and fanning away, the approach of unusual, unprofessional faintness. \p A door was gently pushed open. Ruth stopped fanning and,slightly started at the apparition presented An old snowy-headed darky in white waist-coated evening clothes, holding by a cumbersome nail-studded collar a huge Great Dane. ■ ; : : -

f'i 'How's Mass' G'oge, missy?' he queried in the softest tones of his race. 'Pluto, yo' ole fool, keep still!' He cuffed the dog mildly with the fat hand that was free. Every tooth in his head showed in a polite smile at the young lady, but his cheeks were frankly wet with abun* dant tears.

He’s quite sick,’ Ruth whispered. ‘Are you Mr. Brewster’s man? Oh! don’t hold the dog so. He’ll choke 1’ in alarm at the immense brute’s efforts to break away from the detaining grip. ‘ I’s his man, Romney, yes, missy. Don’ yo’ tech him, missy cose he .ain’ neboer like no one ’cep me and Mass’ G’ogo,’ as with one final wrench and snarl, Pluto freed himself and darting across the room crawled under Mr. Brewster’s bed. From that point of vantage he ominously growled as Pompey went belhgerantly after him. v ‘ Let him alone,’ Ruth urged. ‘ I’ve seen dogs act that way before.’ Pompey, who had gone down upon all fours to peer under the bed, rose with panting difficulty. ‘ Yo’ don’ gwine to say Massa G’oge gwine die?’ Pompey sniffed piteously, abandoning all attempt at dignity. 4 ‘I hope not,’ was all Ruth could say. ‘He, done look pow’ful bad,’ said Pompey miserably. ‘Ain’t dat jes’ awful, de way he breave ?’ ‘ That’s mostly from the ether,’ Ruth consoled. She laid her finger on Mr. Brewster’s wrist. Pluto growled forbiddingly as her skirts touched the bed. Pompey watched her wonderingly as she gave his master a hypodermic. A weird silence, disturbed only by Mr. Brewster’s agitated respiration, settled upon the room. Slowly the minutes dragged by into hours. For an instant Ruth wondered which meal the butler brought her, when he entered with her dinner. Pompey waited upon her attentively. She swallowed what she could. The old servant, and the dog under the bed would touch neither food nor drink. Both grew so silent and motionless as the night wore on that Ruth believed they were asleep. They were not. The devoted human being and the dumb, faith ful brute alike waited in tensely alert mitsry for what would happen to their best friend. Hr. Stagg lingered long at the next visit. But Ruth knew that he loitered more because he thought the end was very near than because he anticipated any result from his new dilections. - ‘ There may still be some change in the morning,’ the doctor forced himself to murmur at the door. Ruth dutifully nodded, biting her lips meanwhile. She wished irritably that physicians would bo strictly sincere with their nurses at least. Why the farce of holding out hope hen none existed ? It was shortly before the cal-m, .beautiful dawn that Mr. Brewster unexpectedly stirred and opened his eyes. Ruth smiled hopefully into the wide, bright eyes gazing wildly at her. ‘You feel better?’ she said softly. ‘ I don’t know,’ gasped the man distractedly. .‘ I can’t move. What was it? Where am I?’ Pompey loaned forward eager, happy, agonised in one second. Pluto,at the sound of Mr. Brewster’s voice crawled out from the cramped quarters and pressed his huge head desperately against his master’s limp, bloodless hand lying at the edge of the bed. - Don’t worry,’ said Ruth, soothingly. ‘You must rest very quietly.’ ‘But what happened to me?’ Mr. Brewster persisted in a pitifully weak tone. ‘I wasn’t sick. I know!’ ho cried suddenly, and he struggled so to sit that Ruth laid her arm firmly across his chest. ‘ Don’t, Mr. Brewster ! You were in an automobile collision and Dr .Stagg operated upon you. Everything will be all right.’ She mixed something hastily in a tumbler. ‘ I am glad you have come out of the ether so well. Drink this!’ Instantly Pompey was at her assistance, taking the tube and glass from her when she would have set them down. . ‘ Ah, you, Pompey,’ breathed Mr. Brewster, but his strength had exhausted itself, and directly he drowsed. ‘ He ain’ gwine die?’ begged Pompey, faintly, tearfully. ‘ I hope not.” Pluto licked the cold white hand. Ruth watched and counted the quick, noisy respiration. As the morning sunshine stole in between the drawn curtains, Mr. Brewster again, returned to full consciousness, but then his breath-

ing had become very, very slow, like long-drawn out heartbroken sighs. He began to talk phrases quickly uttered, but broken because of the choking presently coming upon ‘ You’re my nurse? I remember all. It was a straight, clear road— branches of the elms—meeting over-head. For a ivhile it seemed to me — I was twenty instead of ■ fifty-five. I. was travelling along a straight, clear roadon a day exactly as beautiful. 1 saw heaven through the clear blue sky at the end —that straight Clear road.’ Ruth involuntarily started, and, impelled by peculiar curiosity, her gaze left for a second the livid features of her patient. In the lightning-swift glance she sent around the apartment she caught sight of a dim ivory crucifix low upon the wall, beneath a copy of the Sistine Madonna. It bore a new andunexpected significance. Mr. Brewster’s eyes had closed. Ruth hesitated. Should she rouse him, should she question? A wave of uncertainty, of miserable confusion somehow involved in her own. fate, swept over the girl. The beauty of that day— ’ he spoke more faintly after the pause, and Ruth bent her head to catch the gasped-out : words. ‘lt’s unselfish aspirations— its peace returned to me—after thirty-five years— paganism. My God, lam dyingl left the straight, clear road. But it came backfor an instant. I was crazedwith the wonder of it. ■We sped through the golden way. Every trembling leafwhispered of —high things to me. Faster, faster. At the horizon the gloryof Paradise. The speed wasblinding but—the , way was safe. Then darkness—forgetfulness— now this agony.’ He sank more heavily into the pillow while Ruth wrote frantically upon her card. In a moment he made a supreme effort and raised himself to sit upright without support. ‘ My God,’ cried he in a tone piercingly distinct, ‘ only once more ! Give —Thy unworthy servant the straight, clear road.’ Blinded by tears, Ruth pushed Pompey with the hurriedly-written message upon her card out of the room. But she knew as she slipped on her knees beside the shrinking Pluto, that the priest, like herself, could only pray for the departed soul. Before she took the rest of which she had great need, Ruth despatched her letter to her suitor waiting in the country lor her decision. The straight, clear road was vividly plain to her now, the alluring mirage of the side-paths having been dispersed by the brightness of a truer vision. The chagrined lover read, in calm, irrevocable terms, that not even to marry the man she loved, would Ruth Meade barter her Messenger of the Sacred Heart.