“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.”