“Mr. Rutherford!” repeated Marian; and a sudden fear shot through her—not for George Rutherford.
“Yes, it is,” Hannah answered, “and they’re worst hurt of any. Mr. Rutherford’s said to be dying.”
Every trace of color left Marian’s face. Jervis looked at her in perplexity, as she said in changed, hoarse tones—“Mr. Rutherford’s daughters!”
“I don’t know everything,” said Hannah shortly. “They’re hurt, I believe. They were all in the first carriage, and that’s pretty well smashed up.”
Marian rose slowly, a dazed look in her eyes. “What are you after? What’s the matter, Polly?” asked Jervis.
“They’ll want me, perhaps. I mean I’m going to see if I can be of any use,” she said slowly. “I’m a good nurse, and some of the poor things might be needing help.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” said Hannah. “There’s any number of people to do all that’s wanted.”
“You can’t tell. I dare say I could be useful.”
“I dare say you couldn’t. Sit down and be quiet,” said Hannah curtly. But the order was not obeyed.
“It’s too late, Polly, my dear,” said. Jervis in his kindest tone. “You shall do as you like in the morning—only not to-night. It’s getting late, and the station is a long step off; and, as Hannah says, there’ll be people enough to do all that’s needed. A stranger going among them couldn’t be much good.”