THE DOCTOR FINDS A WAY
"And now as to ways and means," said the doctor, when Jane felt better.
"You must leave by the night mail from Euston, the day after to-morrow.
Can you be ready?"
"I am ready," said Jane.
"You must go as Nurse Rosemary Gray."
"I don't like that," Jane interposed. "I should prefer a fictitious
name. Suppose the real Rosemary Gray turned up, or some one who knows
her."
"My, dear girl, she is half-way to Australia by now, and you will see
no one up there but the household and the doctor. Any one who turned up
would be more likely to know you. We must take these risks. Besides, in
case of complications arising, I will give you a note, which you can
produce at once, explaining the situation, and stating that in agreeing
to fill the breach you consented at my request to take the name in
order to prevent any necessity for explanations to the patient, which
at this particular juncture would be most prejudicial. I can honestly
say this, it being even more true than appears. So you must dress the
part, Jane, and endeavour to look the part, so far as your five foot
eleven will permit; for please remember that I have described you to
Dr. Mackenzie as 'a pretty, dainty little thing, refined and elegant,
and considerably more capable than she looks.'"
"Dicky! He will instantly realise that I am not the person mentioned in
your letter."
"Not so, dear. Remember we have to do with a Scotchman, and a Scotchman
never realises anything 'instantly.' The Gaelic mind works slowly,
though it works exceeding sure. He will be exceeding sure, when he has
contemplated you for a while, that I am a 'verra poor judge o' women,'
and that Nurse Gray is a far finer woman than I described. But he will
have already created for Dalmain, from my letter, a mental picture of
his nurse; which is all that really matters. We must trust to
Providence that old Robbie does not proceed to amend it by the
original. Try to forestall any such conversation. If the good doctor
seems to mistrust you, take him on one side, show him my letter, and
tell him the simple truth. But I do not suppose this will be necessary.
With the patient, you must remember the extreme sensitiveness of a
blind man's hearing. Tread lightly. Do not give him any opportunity to
judge of your height. Try to remember that you are not supposed to be
able to reach the top shelf of an eight-foot bookcase without the aid
of steps or a chair. And when the patient begins to stand and walk, try
to keep him from finding out that his nurse is slightly taller than
himself. This should not be difficult; one of his fixed ideas being
that in his blindness he will not be touched by a woman. His valet will
lead him about. And, Jane, I cannot imagine any one who has ever had
your hand in his, failing to recognise it. So I advise you, from the
first, to avoid shaking hands. But all these precautions do not obviate
the greatest difficulty of all,--your voice. Do you suppose, for a
moment, he will not recognise that?"
"I shall take the bull by the horns in that case," said Jane, "and you
must help me. Explain the fact to me now, as you might do if I were
really Nurse Rosemary Gray, and had a voice so like my own."
The doctor smiled. "My dear Nurse Rosemary," he said, "you must not be
surprised if our patient detects a remarkable similarity between your
voice and that of a mutual friend of his and mine. I have constantly
noticed it myself."
"Indeed, sir," said Jane. "And may I know whose voice mine so closely
resembles?"
"The Honourable Jane Champion's," said the doctor, with the delightful
smile with which he always spoke to his nurses. "Do you know her?"
"Slightly," said Jane, "and I hope to know her better and better as the
years go by."
Then they both laughed. "Thank you, Dicky. Now I shall know what to say
to the patient.--Ah, but the misery of it! Think of it being possible
thus to deceive Garth,--Garth of the bright, keen all--perceiving
vision! Shall I ever have the courage to carry it through?"
"If you value your own eventual happiness and his you will, dear. And
now I must order the brougham and speed you to Portland Place, or you
will be late--for dinner, a thing the duchess cannot overlook 'as you
very well know,' even in a traveller returned from round the world. And
if you take my advice, you will tell your kind, sensible old aunt the
whole story, omitting of course all moonlight details, and consult her
about this plan. Her shrewd counsel will be invaluable, and you may be
glad of her assistance later on."
They rose and faced each other on the hearth-rug.
"Boy," said Jane with emotion, "you have been so good to me, and so
faithful. Whatever happens, I shall be grateful always."
"Hush," said the doctor. "No need for gratitude when long-standing
debts are paid.--To-morrow I shall not have a free moment, and I
foresee the next day as very full also. But we might dine together at
Euston at seven, and I will see you off. Your train leaves at eight
o'clock, getting you to Aberdeen soon after seven the next morning, and
out to Gleneesh in time for breakfast. You will enjoy arriving in the
early morning light; and the air of the moors braces you
wonderfully.--Thank you, Stoddart. Miss Champion is ready. Hullo,
Flower! Look up, Jane. Flower, and Dicky, and Blossom, are hanging over
the topmost banisters, dropping you showers of kisses. Yes, the river
you mentioned does produce a veritable 'garden of the Lord.' God send
you the same, dear. And now, sit well back, and lower your veil. Ah, I
remember, you don't wear them. Wise girl! If all women followed your
example it would impoverish the opticians. Why? Oh, constant focussing
on spots, for one thing. But lean back, for you must not be seen if you
are supposed to be still in Cairo, waiting to go up the Nile. And, look
here"--the doctor put his head in at the carriage window--"very plain
luggage, mind. The sort of thing nurses speak of as 'my box'; with a
very obvious R. G. on it!"
"Thank you, Boy," whispered Jane. "You think of everything."
"I think of YOU," said the doctor. And in all the hard days to come,
Jane often found comfort in remembering those last quiet words.