The Rhos Herald

[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] Without the Gates BY L. T. MEADE, Author of "The Way of a Woman," "A Princess of the Gutter," Love Triumphant," 8-le. There are all sorts and conditions of people in the world, and sometimes those who look happiest have the heaviest crosses to carry. This was the case with Dorothy St. John, who was considered quite the brightest, and was eortainly the most popu- lar, girl in the who of that very populous town in the north-v-st of England known as Portlallin. Dorothy's smile W8 like sunshine; no matter what her apparent circumstances, she had always a cheerful "Good morning" with which to accost her neighbours and a cheary word to give to rich and poor, to old and young. It was live years since she had first arrived at Portlaffin. She came late one evening, found her own lodgings, settled down, and became part and parcel of the place. She had no introductions, and although everyone loved her, there was not a person in the town who knew anything with regard to her past. What her story had been before she made Portlaffin a happier place for her coming, was hidden in mystery. People are naturally carious: people always are about those who v,o:.i't talk of their past. But there was sr-mjibiug about Dorothy, not- withstanding hvir kindness and unselfishness, which made it impossible for anyone to take » liberty with her. She had enough private means to live on, although she could not have been at all rich but she was very economical, and gave her- self no luxuries of any sort. Her whole time was given up to the service of others. She had not been a month at Portlaffin be- fore she established herself there as a nurse of the poor. She was not exactly a trained nurse, but she had such tact, particularly amongst the very poor classes and little chil- dren, that she was welcome wherever she went. She took no payment for her services, but no one thought of resenting them on that account. When we had all known Dorothy for over five years, I, Dr. Ward, called on her on a certain occasion, on my way home from a long round of professional duties. It was an autumn evening, cold, and rather damp. p Dorothy was in her little sitting-room, a bright fire in the grate, her lamp well- trimmed, and she herself in her neat, dark blue costume, with a white apron partly covering it, making so pleasant a picture that it would warm any man's heart to see her. "Well, Dorothy," I said to her-I had long ago adopted her Christian name, as,-in- deed, had most of her other friends in Port- laffin—"I have just called to know if you will j look after Tommy Earl and his sister to- morrow. His mother has to go to do a day's charing, and the district nurse is too busy fitli other cases. The children are recover- ing splendidly from measles, and are clamo- rous for you. Can you be with them at eight o'clock to-morrow morning? The fact is, I just want you to give up your day to p them-that is, if you will oblige me." '■/ I spoke with my usual frankness, fully expecting the invariable and eager response: "Of course I will go, I shall be delighted." j But on this occasion I was met by silence. That silence arrested further words on my | j*P8- I looked at Dorothy. She looked full "f,ek at. me. What was the matter with her| All the brightness had left her face; a strange look filled her^ honest, brown eyes; "er lips quivered. "I cannot go to-morrow, Dr. Ward; I would, if I could; but I can't." "Why not?" was my impulsive reply. I cannot tell you. Dr. Ward," was her answer, uttered very steadily, and with that dignity which she could use as a defensive Weapon at will "You mean you won't tell me, Dorothy, aild, of course, I have no manner of right to ask. But just say one thine; are you—is it possible that you, the brightest, and appa- rently the happiest, girl in Portlaffin — are you in personal trouble?" "I cannot even tell you that," was her reply. "I shall be at your service again in a few days, and I hope the children will not suffer because I cannot be with them to-mor- Tolv. I I She would not add any more, and I left her soon afterwards in order to find another good-natured iic-iglibour" to take her place. But that evening I thought more than once about Dorothy, and the look of distinct pain In her eyes when she had declared that she could not help me, and could give me no reason for her refusal. Very early in the morning I was aroused slumber by the intimation that little Tommy Earl had suddenly taken a turn for the WOTS-. As far as 1 could tell, there were symptoms of pneumonia, and I was obliged z? to hurry to the boy at once. As I was going I down Danvers-street I suddenly came face to face with Dorothy St. John. She was wear- a nurse's bonnet and a nurse's cloak, and *nere was a dark veil over her face. Now Dorothy, not being a trained nurse, had no to wear these garments, and I came immediately to the conclusion that sne ad put them on as a sort of disguise. She ■lurried past me without speaking, and I new by £ ]ie tiireet:01j jn which she was j going that it was her intention to catch an j train to London or the North. In °r four days she was back again.. The mdren were better: Tommy's pneumonia Us^S 1aver':ec^ and Dorothy entered with her < hit alertness and apparent cheerfulness i ovvn duties which she regarded as her tor P*ve me much work as you can, doc ie u n,ever think of sparing me: work to me 18 .health and salvation." "Tnt, yet by your face, Dorothy," I could 1? answering, "you look the happiest H°man ln the rl&» „ J rp am; when I have work to do/' she Tb restlessiy- 6 w*n*er which followed was a very ant* there was a great deal of ill- Valn lfi ^or^affin, and Dorothy was more in- fore a l to me than she had ever been be- »nd never thought of sparing herself, ^"ork868?16^ have the capacity of doing the ,|^en ordinary women. But then slie wo a SU('^en' when most needed, Hot hpin„ refuse work, giving no reason for donKt • to undertake it, and, beyond One ee*vi.n8 Portlaffin for a short time. inc just when spring was dawn- Pearanoe f d, I was startled by the ap- ^onsuHJ^ a neighbour, who ran into mv "Oh fi ro«m' saying ^°rothv Ward, do come at onee to gee *'raid ■ John; she is very bad, I tun "TV* you mean that .-if ittt" 1 cried. "She has been in her room for the last few days," was the reply. "She won't allow any one to buy her food. It is my impression," said the neighbour, "that she is very poor or —or—in debt—or something of that sort. I lnp"tycl at once. Dorothy was lying in bed. Just for a minute, the shadow of her old senile crossed her face as I en- tcred her re. but then it faded, and the real woman, too » o Towful to be gay any more, VVV-J to me.. "This ó, t I said. "You are ill. Dorof'-v. a never sent for me; you, who .)u.,r life for others, do you. suppose fc one will help you when you need astvi.- aar. Her co with tears. "1 ak," she said, "and—and—a wee oil d." "And" t tell me anything?" I ques- tioned. "I\ot yc. si-e replied. I sat do A, i her, felt her pulse, which was weak anu irried, took her temperature, which was cm -lerably over a hundred, and inmvd]V:< laimed hers to. be a sharp cane of I vf o vc an starving yourself," I said stern fy. uc," sh- answered; "I have no wisa for Îood. j yu, wish for it or not, you must cat i 1 "and I am going to send Ni1- it ook after you to-night." I ■ iier own bright way. ioctor," she said. "I did feel rather ftst night; it is the fever, of course, to generally very bright and- and-happy, !.nk you, doctor." Nurse -as summoned and spent the night with the patient. Her case was one which I Celt "ertain would soon vield to ".11 t. t, nevertheless, as the days wc it by, Do? uLhy grew no better. The fcN(-,r still hung about her. Her cheeks grew thir. and her dark brown eyes seemed to sink inio her head. I u >i.s becoming rather anxious; but one afternoon, when 1 made my daily call, I found sitting up by the fire. We, i" I exclaimed: "you must be feel- ing better to have ventured up." "Oh, yes," she answered, speaking, ao I afterwarus remembered, with a sort of forced cheerfulness; "1 have shaken the horrid thing off at last. The fact is, I am the sort of woman, doctor, who has never time for convalescence; i am ill one minute, and w ell the next. To-night, I am quite well. I hope you will sometimes visit me as a friend, but you must not come any more as a doctor." "And Nurse Flora?" 1 asked. "I hope you won't be angry," she "but I have sent Nurse Flora away." "Really, Dorothy," I replied, "you don't respect your doctor much." I 1 tried to speak jokingly, although I felt rather angry. I "Ought 1 not to be the one to decide I whether you want my services and Nurse Flora's services or not?" "No," she answered steadily; "even you I cannot quite understand, and I am well again I -quite well." I She stood up, and I saw that her wish was that I should go away at once; nevertheless, I there was something about her face which made me uneasy, and I insisted on taking her temperature. it registered a little over a hundred. "Now, Dorothy," I said, "how wrong you are! You have left your bed and dismissed your nurse when you ought to be still lying between the sheets, with Nurse Flora look- i ing after you. If you don't value your own life, other people do. I shall send for her im- I mediately and please go back to your bed. i i shall not leave this house until I know that you are in it. She stood just for a minute considering; then without a word, she turned into her bed- room. Soon after, I hurried off to find Nurse Flora. "Miss St.-John is not nearly as well as I could wish," I said. "She did very wrong to get up to-day, and you must watch her cure- lully to-night, Nurse, for I am dreadfully afraid she may have given herself a chill. Be sure you summon me if there is any rise of temperature." Nurse Flora promised, and when I had watched her ascending the stairs to Dorothy St. John's room, I breathed a sigh of relief and tried to cast my patient from' my mind. All in vain, I could not get her out of my thoughts; she worried me; I felt like a man who has run up against a hard wall and can- not under any circumstances get beyond it. That hard wall was Dorothy's will, Very early in the morning, my night bell was rung, and on putting my ear to the tube I was informed that Nurse Flora was below. "Is Dorothy worse?" I called back. "She is gone, sir," was the astonishing answer. I dressed immediately, and went down- stairs. Nurse Flora entered my surgery and I switched on the electric light. 4 "Dorothy gone?" I exclaimed. "You don't mean that she is dead?" "I cannot tell you whether she is alive or dead, sir, but she is no longer in her room. When I went to her last night, she was I sitting up in bed, so bright and gay in her- self that I thought you must be mistaken about her temperature. I asked her if she felt excited, and she said, 'No,' but that she had something on her mind. I asked her what it was, and she said that she was anxi- I ous about the little bills which must be run- ning up during her illness, and ^she said fur- ther that it would make her happy if I would let her have her purse in order that she might ascertain Exactly what money she pos- j sessed. She told me where to find it, and I S brought it to her. She emptied the contents upon the bed and laughed, and asked me to look at all the gold. There were six or seven sovereigns in the purse and also some silver, She said, Ob, -I have plenty of money for the present.' Then I asked her to put it back in the purse and said that I would re- place it in the top drawer of her wardrobe; but she replied, No that' silie would like best to keep it under her pillow. I let her have her way, for there seemed no sort of sense in opposing her. I gave her some food, And presently she lay down, but not before she had made mie promise that I would lie down also by her side. Well, doctor, she seemed so hearty and like herself that I really thought I was doing no harm. So I lay down. You know what a light sleeper I am. Well, presently I began to doze; but before I had quite dropped to sleep I started up, for she was feeling my mouth with her hand. "What is the matter, I said? Oh,' she said, I want you to taste one of these I found them in the pocket of my purse. They I are so delicious, please have one, nurse, I am sucking one myself. To please her, I put a little, flat chocolate lozenge-at least, so I thought it was—into my mouth. Then she said, Good-night, dear nurse/ and I made sare she had dropped to sleep. I made sare she had dropped to sleep. I dropped off myself almost immediately- and ttever Sniil about balf-an-hour ■■ Mfc.'iw -f I don't remember ever hnvine such a long sleep when I was looking after a patient. I felt quite cold and terribly frightened, and I sat up in bed and called her name. 0 doctor the by my side was cmpi-y. Oh, my heart iu my rushed to the wardrobe, and a cloak a-t-I bonnet which I had n 1 •• fore were gone, and Mi In short, Dr. Ward. ? ,l rx{ have stolen away hi' i iozenge which she" pI i: *•: n;ou.. have been dritt-, "I a" J. with you," I answer • ■ ir:: <■ watched her bL-I,ter- i hsve swallowed it. "I a I can say," answer' t it all happened innooer:; <•, s f » -on-erned. H-r brightn 1, ?!• i; have deceived any on I wlu i wondering what was i: mv footsteps took rile st- il, t police station. I saw a ■ « „ of the con- stables, a S very few words the littl: 1 st. John's story. He list a r ni manner which detectives :1\1d finally said tnat he worj't ;• ,¡,c1 would let me know as -r. v the slightest clue to the poor <:< -k T After thai; :h,Vc went by, and I think all 'o^tlaffin were very miserable, • got into our nearts, and :ii do without her. But •. thoueh ther noi » left unturned, w, as went by. Then, one «ay,_ v.I. -• turn-, d home late, Ser- geant Miki ::J? waiting" for me. i "There is < i.ng ought to know, doctor, he said "T i traced a young woman of th? name of Dorothy St. John to the town of Mirtlepool. ir. f.ancashire. There is a large convict prison UL 'the neighbour- hood. Put two <vcl two together and I believe that we shall find the solution of Dorothy's story in the neighbourhood of that prison." "What do you propose to do?" I said. for the man looked terribly grave. "If you can possibly" spare the time, sir, and will come with me, it will be the best thing to do, seeing as the poor young lady is verv popular in this place." o "Why do you say 'Poor young lady?'" I asked. He made no response. By the very next train Mikeljohn and I left Portlaffin for Mirtlepool. It was a troublesome, cross- country journey, and took the ereater part of the night. The morning broke dull and dreary, when at Inst we found ourselves in the ugly town. Mikeljohntook me at once into the suburbs, and at last we stopped at a small house where a light was burning in an upper window. When we got there Mikel- john turned and looked at me. "When I left,') he said, "she was not aend, and maybe she is alive still, and if any- one can help her, you can. I won't go up- she will know you perhaps; but you will find another there as well. She is not alone." I ran quickly up the narrow stairs and opened a door which faced the landing. A young woman was lying on a bed, and a man, big, dark, and burly, was sitting by her side. He was holding one of her wasted Lands between both his own. I noticed how toil worn his hands were, and I also observed that his hair was short-shorter than that usually worn by men. When I entered, he looked at me with sullen eyes, then turned and glanced at his companion. "This is Dorothy St. John," he said. "She is my wife; what do you want with her? "My name is Dr. Ward," I answered. "I am her medical adviser, and her friend." A change came over the man's face when I mentioned my name. "She has told me about you," he said at once, "but you never knew her secret. Well, it is a short story. She is sleeping, I take it, for the present, and, if I talk low, it won't wake her. I have been serving my time in the prison yonder for the last five Years- penal servitude—case of forgery; but that don't belong to her story. She wouldn't desert me, though I had fallen so low, and she went to Portlaffin to keep herself cheer- ful and as young as she could for my sake, and whenever I had leave to see a friend, she came to me. She never once missed a day. Look you here, I did not take my imprison- ment kind. The whole thing—my fall and punishment, and all the rest of it, turned me into a sort of devil. But for Dorothy, I would have gone right under. But she saved money for me, and lived for me, and kept hope alive in me. On the few occasions when I could see her, I always said: "It, Dorothy, you are not waiting for me at the prison gates when I have my discharge, I will never look for you, I will believe that you have given me up, and I will go straight away to my master, the devil.' She always answered in the same words: If I am alive, Jim, I will be waiting for you at the gates.' So, when I was let out a week ago on a cruel bitter morning, she was there—or rather, a sort of spirit of my Dorothy was there; for when I put my arms round her, and people turned and looked, there she was, lying against my breast like a dead weight. Well, she had a little bit of money on her person, and I had earned a trifle in prison, and I I brought her to tliese lodgings. She will die. I meet likely, but if you can save her, you will save me too—that's about all. If you can't save her, why, I'll go under too; that's about all." The man glared at me as he spoke. Go out and take a walk," I said, and let me attend to your wife. Come back in an hour's time." His eyes softened, and I think, strong as he was, that he tottered as he walked to- wards the door. When he was gone, I turned to my patient. Could that emaciated face really belong to Dorothy St. John? I had medicines with me, and I gave her some at once. I straightened her bed and smoothed her pillow, and for the day and nights that followed, I fought with grim death for her life. It was a desperate struggle, but on the fifth day she was conscious again. She knew me, and murmured her husband's name, and fell into the sleep of a little child. In the morning she was better, and after a long time she recovered. Dorothy St. John no longer helps the sor- rowful world of Portlaffin, but she and her Jim are working shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, heart to heart in a broader and bigger land than ours. All that is good they cultivate, and all that is bad they deplore.