Chapter XV: Dulcibel’s Nurse

“I WANT to speak to Mrs. Blogg, if you please.”

Marian made the request with no sort of preface, standing within the door of the Cross Arms Hotel. The flurried waiter whom she had accosted stood still for an instant.

“Mrs. Blogg! I don’t know as you can.”

“There has been an accident, and people hurt,” said Marian.

The waiter pricked up his ears, noting her pale and strained look.

“Anybody as you are interested in travelling by the train?” he demanded.

“Yes,” said Marian.

“And you want to know about them, eh? What name?”

“I must speak to Mrs. Blogg,” said Marian.

“You’ll have to wait, then,” responded the waiter, his sympathy lessening. He ran over Marian with a pair of sharp eyes, a little puzzled as to her social status. “There’s people in the parlor; but you can sit there—or here.”

“I can wait here,” Marian answered quietly.

“What name am I to give Mrs. Blogg?”

“You needn’t give any. Tell her I have just come from a distance, and she will know me.”

The waiter looked dubious, but vanished. Marian remained in the shabby, gas-lighted hall, silently awaiting the advent of the landlady. Many people came and went, some staring curiously at Marian; but none of them would do for Mrs. Blogg, even allowing for any amount of change through lapse of years.

Then with a sudden sense of shock, she saw a tall, fair-bearded man pass out of the dining-room. There was an extraordinary familiarity in look and gesture. “Mr. Rutherford!” faltered on her lips. For a moment she forgot George Rutherford’s present condition, and the years that had passed since her last sight of him. Almost instantly it dawned upon her that he was far too young; but the faint utterance had reached his ears. He turned back, and asked—

“Did you speak? Do you want anything?”

The opportunity was not to be lost. Marian stood up respectfully, and said—

“I beg your pardon, sir; I took you for Mr. Rutherford.”

“No; my name is Ackroyd, but we are counted alike. Mr. Rutherford is my uncle.”

Marian lifted a pleading face to his.

“Then perhaps, sir, you won’t mind telling me how Mr. Rutherford is, and Mrs. Rutherford, and the young ladies. I’m only just come back from foreign parts, but years ago Mr. Rutherford was good to me and mine. They told me of the accident, and I couldn’t rest till I knew more.”

“Mr. Rutherford is most seriously injured,” said Leonard Ackroyd sadly. “The doctors have very little hope that he can pull through.”

“Poor Mr. Rutherford!” murmured Marian, moved for him, yet overwhelmingly full of another dread “And the ladies, sir?”

“Mrs. Rutherford is ill with the shock. I do not know that there is actual bodily hurt, but she has been in a frightfully hysterical state. One of the young ladies has a cut on the forehead and a strained arm. The marvel is that matters are not worse—with them. Mr. Rutherford is as bad as he can be.” A deep sigh, as of unspeakable relief, had escaped Marian.

“Sir, could I be of any use? I am a good nurse,” she said.

Leonard hesitated, scanning her face.

“I cannot say we are not in need of one,” he said. “But I must know your name, and more about you.”

“Mr. Cairns of the farm is my father. I married long ago, sir, without his leave; and I’ve only just come home after years and years away. I am a widow. Mr. Rutherford would know all about Polly Cairns, if he could listen.”

“But you are not Polly Cairns now.”

“No, sir; I’m only ‘Marian.’” She lifted deprecating eyes to his face. “‘Polly Cairns’ is what Mr. Rutherford would know me by. I don’t suppose he ever heard my married name—and I’ve no wish to bring it forward. I’ve no reason to be proud of it. If people will just call me ‘Marian,’ it’s all I want. Sir, I couldn’t tell you how good he has been to me and mine—one way and another. I owe him my life, if I could give it for his. And if I might just help a little—any way—nursing or watching by him—there’s nothing would make me more glad.”

Leonard demurred still.

“I am grateful for the kind thought on your part,” he said; “still, you are a perfect stranger to me. Does anybody here know you?”

“Yes, sir, the landlady. At least, she knew me as a girl. I’ve asked to speak to Mrs. Blogg, and it’s that I was waiting for when you came by.” Marian looked wistfully again into Mr. Ackroyd’s face. “Sir, you may trust me.”

“I am sure I may. Still I must have a word with Mrs. Blogg. Wait here for me.”

Another five minutes, and Leonard reappeared with Mrs. Blogg. The comely little woman of Marian’s recollection had developed into redness and rotundity, but the kindliness of tone and manner were unchanged. Mrs. Blogg advanced, beaming.

“What, Polly Cairns—Polly Cairns! you don’t tell me! It is Polly Cairns, too! Yes, yes, no mistake about that! Dear, dear me, what a time you’ve been away—near a quarter of a century, I do believe! Ah, my dear, it was sad work, going as you did! But you’ve repented since, I don’t doubt. That is the way things come about—marrying in haste and repenting at leisure. And you’re changed from the lass I used to know. Life hasn’t gone too smooth with you; I can see it in your face. And to come back now, of all days! Dear, dear me! Such a good friend as Mr. Rutherford was to you all; and now he to be dying under my roof, and you turned up all of a sudden! And you want to help in the nursing? Well, sir, if I was you, I’d just take Polly at her word, for she comes of a capable stock, and she’ll do her best. But I don’t ought to call you Polly Cairns, my dear—a married woman and a widow—and I don’t know as I ever was told your surname.”

Marian heard all this as in a dream, awaiting Leonard Ackroyd’s decision.

“My surname! Call me ‘Marian,’ please,” she said, with a slight start. “The rest doesn’t matter. I’d sooner be ‘Marian’ or ‘Polly’ than anything else.”

“Well, if you’d rather,” said Mrs. Blogg, not quite satisfied. “As you say, it doesn’t matter.”

“Thanks; then I think we may make use of you,” were the next words which reached Marian’s understanding; and she found herself following Mr. Ackroyd upstairs.

“Am I to attend to Mr. Rutherford, sir?” she asked, with a composure which seemed strange to herself.

“Not to-night. He is in good hands. The difficulty has been about the ladies.”

Marian’s heart gave one hard throb. Was he going to place Joan in her charge?

“Mrs. Rutherford is sleeping now, from the effects of an opiate, and you must watch her carefully. If she should seem in any way worse, call me at once. I shall be in this room, close at hand. Miss Rutherford will be able now to go to her sister.”

“Miss Rutherford!” Did that mean Joan, or was Joan the “sister”?

“Sir, are both the young ladies hurt?” asked Marian in a low voice.

“No; only Miss Brooke.”

She knew the truth at last, but no more could be said. No especial interest might be displayed in Joan; and Mr. Ackroyd was turning the handle of Mrs. Rutherford’s door. A slim, pallid girl came softly to meet them.

“Mother is quite sound still, and not so restless,” she whispered.

“That is right, Nessie. I have found some one to watch by her. You must go and lie down in Joan’s room.”

“Oh, I would rather stay here! Mother needs me most.”

“No, I think not. Joan is feverish, and ought not to be alone; and you want rest.”

Nessie yielded at once. She murmured a few directions to Marian, telling her what the doctor had said and ordered; then moved away with her cousin. Marian held the door open behind them for two seconds, and watched them cross the passage to a door on the other side, within which Nessie disappeared. Joan must be there!

Calm as Marian had seemed, she was by no means calm at heart. For Joan was so close—her only child—so close after all these years of separation, and Marian could not go to her—might not venture to say—“Joan is my own!” Rashly she had given away that right, and mother and child were apart still, though so near, parted by the mother’s own deed.

Dulcibel slept heavily hour after hour, sometimes muttering a little in the early part of the night, but gradually becoming more reposeful. Marian watched beside her dutifully, but all the while her thoughts were on the other side of the passage.

Now and then she crept to the door, opened it softly, and listened with beating heart. Three times this was done fruitlessly. The fourth a broken murmur of sobs reached her ears.

Was it Joan’s voice? Marian clasped her hands together, and moved slowly towards that other shut door, drawn as by invisible cords. For the moment she forgot Dulcibel, forgot her own responsibility as a nurse, forgot everything except the wild longing to comfort Joan.

“What is the matter?” spoken low and somewhat sternly by her side, took sharp effect. Marian stood suddenly upright from her bending attitude of attention.

“Sir, I thought something was wrong in the young ladies’ room. I thought perhaps—”

“Mrs. Rutherford is in your charge, not the young ladies; and she must not be left. Can I depend upon you, Marian? If Mrs. Rutherford woke and found herself alone, the consequences might be injurious, after such a shock.”

She sighed quietly, and said—

“I was wrong, sir. I will not leave the room again.”

“Miss Rutherford will come to me if anything is needed. But the less said to Miss Brooke to-night about her father’s state, the better for her,” Leonard breathed.

“Sir, how is he?” asked Marian.

“Mercifully unconscious still. The suffering from the scalds would be terrible, otherwise.”

“If Mrs. Rutherford wakes, sir—?”

“I do not suppose she will at present. When she does, try to evade giving particulars. The doctor will come again early. He did not leave Mr. Rutherford until past two.”

And Marian went back to her vigil, not to break it again until the slow hours of night were over.

About six o’clock Dulcibel first opened her eyes. She dozed off again without a word; and two or three more partial awakings followed, before any distinct consciousness of her whereabouts was shown. But at length the light blue eyes examined Marian in rather mystified fashion, and Dulcibel asked—

“What is the matter?”

“Would you like a cup of tea?” asked Marian.

“Tea? Yes, if you please.” Dulcibel shut her eyes, sighed, and seemed dozing off again, Marian stood like a statute, fearing to rouse her, but she soon looked up again, with an impatient—“Why don’t you make haste, and bring me my tea?”

“The water won’t be long boiling,” said Marian, lifting the kettle. “It’s hot now.”

“I don’t know you. What is your name?” asked Dulcibel suspiciously.

“Marian, if you please, ma’am.”

“Marian what?”

“My father is Mr. Cairns of Cairns farm?”

“Cairns! Yes, I know. Where is my husband?”

“Lying down in another room,” Marian said, cautiously.

“Lying down! What do you mean?” asked Dulcibel, with considerable sharpness. “What nonsense! Gone to bed, I suppose.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Marian.

“Why is he in another room?”

Marian was sorely puzzled how to answer. “You had hysterics, ma’am,” she said at length.

“Hysterics. Yes, I remember.” Recollection seemed to flash back in a moment, and Dulcibel started to a sitting posture. “Oh, I know; I am forgetting! That fearful train—I know it all now. And they would not bring George to me, or let me go to him. But I must go now, and see if he is hurt. Quick—my slippers and dressing-gown!”

She threw herself impulsively out of bed, shaking off Marian’s hand.

“Let me alone. What have you to do with it? I must go to my husband directly. And the girls too! Is Nessie hurt?”

“No, ma’am.”

No particular inquiry as to Joan followed, and the mother’s heart gave a vexed throb at the omission.

“The slippers—make haste! I can’t wait a moment, or I shall not be able to go. I feel so giddy and strange. Make haste. Is my husband in the next room?”

“No, ma’am; I believe he is downstairs somewhere. I do not know where, but Mr. Ackroyd knows. Indeed you are not fit to go,” urged Marian. “I am sure the doctor would not allow it, or Mr. Ackroyd.”

“Mr. Ackroyd? Oh, I remember! I saw him yesterday evening. But he has nothing to do with the matter.” Dulcibel paused, and sank down on the bed. “I don’t think I can go after all,” she murmured. “I do feel so ill. Tell my husband to come to me, if you please.”