CHAPTER XVI
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.
