Читать книгу Outrageous Fortune - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 5

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“Miss Leigh?” said the day sister.

“Oh yes,” said Caroline Leigh in that warm, dark voice of hers.

Someone once said that Caroline’s voice was like damask roses. He was an infatuated young man who wrote poetry. Caroline laughed at him kindly but firmly, and all her friends chaffed her about her crimson voice. All the same there was something in it.

“We’re up to our eyes,” said the day sister. But she did not say it as firmly as she might have done if Caroline had not been gazing at her with the sort of melting intensity which very few people had been known to resist.

“I know,” said Caroline. “And I’m too sorry to bother you, but I’ve come about the message that was broadcast last night, because I think the man who was picked up may be my cousin, Jim Randal. And oh, please may I see him?”

The day sister took the time to look at Miss Caroline Leigh. They were busy in the ward, but perhaps not quite so busy as she had said. The six charabanc cases were none of them desperately serious, and they had all been got to bed and had their injuries dealt with. She could spare a moment to look at Miss Leigh, who was a very easy person to look at—shining eyes and pretty hair, and a way with her. She was sorry to have to disappoint the eager creature. She didn’t look as if she was used to disappointment; she was more like a child that puts out its hands and expects to have them filled with flowers or sweets. “Life isn’t like that—well, she’ll soon find out,” said the day sister to herself.

“I’m sorry,” she said aloud, “but I’m afraid it wasn’t your cousin who was here.”

“Was?” Caroline was the picture of dismay. “Has he gone?”

“The name was Riddell,” said the sister. “And his wife came and took him away.”

“Oh, his wife?”

“We let him go because she seemed so keen on it, and there was a charabanc smash we had to take in. Mrs Riddell’s one of those people who will have it their own way—at least that’s how she struck me. I’m sorry it wasn’t your cousin.”

“Oh,” said Caroline—“so am I.”

“He was on the Alice Arden?”

“I don’t know. Oh, I hope he wasn’t!”

“If you don’t know, I should go on hoping,” said the day sister.

Caroline looked at her with shining eyes.

“Yes, I can—can’t I? You see, I haven’t seen him for a long time—oh, not since I was about fifteen—and he’s been all over the world—he’s an engineer—and he came home in July, and I was in Scotland. Then he wrote from London, and I wrote back and said why not come and join us. And he said he would. And he was going to come by coastal steamer because he liked the sea.”

“Then you don’t know that he was on the Alice Arden?”

“No. But I’m afraid—because he hasn’t written—and when I didn’t hear, I came home—and then last night there was that S.O.S., and I thought—” She stopped and fixed pleading eyes on the sister. “You’re sure it wasn’t Jim?”

The sister nodded.

“I’m afraid so. Riddell was the name, though we couldn’t be sure about it at first—Jimmy Riddell—and his wife has taken him away.”

“Oh—” said Caroline. “And he hadn’t any papers or anything of that sort?”

“Not a thing—nothing at all, except the torn-off end of a letter.”

“Oh, that’s something!” Caroline’s voice thrilled. “A bit of a letter? Oh please what was on it?”

“Nothing but the signature,” said the day sister.

“What? Your affectionate Uncle Alfred, or Aunt Maria, or Cousin Jemima?”

The day sister felt a little disturbed; she did not know why.

“No—it was only the name.”

“What name?”

“Just Caroline.”

Caroline put both hands to her head as if she were afraid that her hat would blow off in some violent, intangible wind. She felt giddy with the rush of it. It slapped her face and sang in her ears. She held on to her bright brown curls and opened her eyes as far as they would go.

“Caroline?” she said in her very deepest voice.

“That’s all.”

“It’s quite enough. My dear thing, it’s more than enough—because I am Caroline.”

“Oh!” said the sister. Then she said, “Caroline—” in an experimental sort of way. Then she stopped dead.

“Caroline Leigh,” said Caroline with a warm rush of words. “I told the girl who let me in, but I expect she forgot—or perhaps she just didn’t like the name—lots of people don’t. But I am Caroline Leigh, and I wrote to him and signed it just like that—just Caroline. And what do you think of that?”

The sister did not seem able to think at all. She took refuge behind Nesta Riddell.

“Mrs Riddell said he was her husband.”

“Is her name Caroline?”

“I don’t know. I did ask her if she knew anyone by that name?”

“And what did she say?”

“She said she might.”

Caroline stopped holding her curls. The wind had blown past her and away. Her right hand took her left hand and pinched it hard.

“She said he was her husband?”

“Yes.”

“She ought to know. What was he like? I ought to have asked that straight away—oughtn’t I? What was he like?”

The day sister looked vague. Her mind didn’t work as quickly as that; it did not in fact work quickly at all, except on the accustomed lines of routine.

Caroline’s eyes sparkled and implored. They were bright, as deep spring water is bright—bright, and brown, and eager.

“Oh, what was he like? Aren’t you going to tell me?”

“Well—” said the sister slowly, “it’s not so very easy to say, you know.”

“His age, height, weight, colour, hair, eyes?” Caroline flung the words at her like a handful of pebbles.

The day sister caught at the easiest question,

“Well, his hair was what you’d call betwixt and between—nothing very special, you know.”

“And his eyes?”

“I never noticed them—he’d mostly got them shut.”

Caroline picked up the rest of the pebbles and threw them one by one. She wanted to shake the sister, but she restrained herself.

“Age?”

“Oh, he wasn’t old.”

“About thirty?”

“He might have been.”

“Height?”

“Oh, just ordinary.”

“Colouring?”

“Well, he was sunburnt—we all noticed that.”

“Where has she taken him?”

“Marley,” said the sister. “It’s only eight miles from here, and if it will set your mind at rest—”

“Yes—I must see him. I’ll go there. Thank you very much—I’ll go.” She turned, and turned back again. “You haven’t got that bit of my letter, I suppose?”

This was going too far for the day sister.

“I don’t see how it could be your letter,” she protested. “No—we left it in his pocket just where it was.”

Caroline turned again. The signature would have told her everything at once. Now she’d got to wait and wait and wait. Eight miles, or eight hundred, were all the same when you wanted to know something at once—at once.

“Miss Leigh—”

Of course she hadn’t said good-bye. How frightfully, unforgivably rude. She flung round with an impulsive hand out.

“Oh, please forgive me—you’ve been so kind!”

But the sister was taking something out of her apron pocket.

“That’s nothing. But if you’re seeing Mrs Riddell, perhaps you’ll give her this.” She held out a flimsy folded paper. “The nurse who let her in thinks she must have dropped it when she opened her bag. She’s just given it to me, and though I don’t suppose it’s important, still if you are seeing her—”

“Yes, of course. What’s the address?”

“She didn’t say—but Marley’s quite a small place.”

“Good-bye, and thank you,” said Caroline.