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Cumberledge," she began, as if nothing odd had occurred before, "I WAS so glad to meet you and have a chance of talking to you, because I DO so want to get a nurse's place at St. Nathaniel's." "A nurse's place!" I exclaimed, a little surprised, surveying her dress of palest and softest Indian muslin; for she looked to me far too much of a butterfly for such serious work.
It was no longer "Dear Dr. Cumberledge" now, but "Hubert." That was something gained, at any rate. I read on with a beating heart. What had Hilda to say to me? "DEAR HUBERT, By the time this reaches you, I shall be far away, irrevocably far, from London.
Sebastian muttered to me, looking after her as she glided noiselessly with her gentle tread down the long white corridor. "We shall have to suppress her, Cumberledge.... But I'll wager my life she's right, for all that. I wonder, now, how the dickens she guessed it!" "Intuition," I answered. He pouted his under lip above the upper one, with a dubious acquiescence.
"We shall save poor Isabel Number Fourteen, I mean; our way is clear, Dr. Cumberledge." I followed her blindly to the bedside, little guessing what she could mean. She knelt down at the head of the cot. The girl's eyes were closed. I touched her cheek; she was in a high fever. "Temperature?" I asked. "A hundred and three." I shook my head. Every symptom of fatal relapse.
"It IS such a pleasure to meet dear Hugo's old friends! AND Miss Wade, too; how delightful! You look so well, Miss Wade! Oh, you're both at St. Nathaniel's now, aren't you? So you can come together. What a privilege for you, Dr. Cumberledge, to have such a clever assistant or, rather, fellow-worker. It must be a great life, yours, Miss Wade; such a sphere of usefulness!
Cumberledge, that you are a mere man a man of science, perhaps, but NOT a psychologist. It also suggests that you are a confirmed bachelor. A married man accepts intuitions, without expecting them to be based on reasoning.... Well, just this once, I will stretch a point to enlighten you. If I recollect right, your mother died about three years ago?" "You are quite correct.
'On the 27th of October, at Brynmor, Bournemouth, Emily Olwen Josephine, widow of the late Thomas Cumberledge, sometime colonel of the 7th Bengal Regiment of Foot, and daughter of Iolo Gwyn Ford, Esq., J.P., of Hendre Coed, near Bangor. Am I correct?" She lifted her dark eyelashes once more and flooded me. "You are quite correct," I answered, surprised.
How could I preserve my precision and accuracy of hand if I were always bothered by sentimental considerations of the patient's safety?" Hilda Wade looked up at me with a sympathetic glance. "We will pull her through yet," she murmured, in her soft voice, "if care and skill can do it, MY care and YOUR skill. This is now OUR patient, Dr. Cumberledge." It needed care and skill.
"For science! Yes, for science! There you strike the right chord! What have I not dared and done for science? But, in case I die, Cumberledge, be sure you collect the notes I took as I was sickening they are most important for the history and etiology of the disease. I made them hourly. And don't forget the main points to be observed as I am dying. You know what they are.
Now, the next thing is this: I want two berths at once by this very steamer one for myself name of Cumberledge; one for a lady name of Wade; and look sharp about it." The sandy-haired man did look sharp; and within three minutes we were driving off with our tickets to Prince's Dock landing-stage.
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