“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?