VII

“She doesn’t want to, but she knows she must. Mother died of cancer, brought on by fretting. We’re not running any risks.”

So next day Clifford suggested Mrs. Bolton, Tevershall parish nurse. Apparently Mrs. Betts had thought of her. Mrs. Bolton was just retiring from her parish duties to take up private nursing jobs. Clifford had a queer dread of delivering himself into the hands of a stranger, but this Mrs. Bolton had once nursed him through scarlet fever, and he knew her.

The two sisters at once called on Mrs. Bolton, in a newish house in a row, quite select for Tevershall. They found a rather good-looking woman of forty-odd, in a nurse’s uniform, with a white collar and apron, just making herself tea, in a small, crowded sitting-room.

Mrs. Bolton was most attentive and polite, seemed quite nice, spoke with a bit of a broad slur, but in heavily correct English, and from having bossed the sick colliers for a good many years, had a very good opinion of herself, and a fair amount of assurance. In short, in her tiny way, one of the governing class in the village, very much respected.

“Yes, Lady Chatterley’s not looking at all well! Why, she used to be that bonny, didn’t she now? But she’s been failing all winter! Oh, it’s hard, it is. Poor Sir Clifford! Eh, that war, it’s a lot to answer for.”

And Mrs. Bolton would come to Wragby at once, if Dr. Shardlow would let her off. She had another fortnight’s parish nursing to do, by rights, but they might get a substitute, you know.

Hilda posted off to Dr. Shardlow, and on the following Sunday Mrs. Bolton drove up in Leiver’s cab to Wragby, with two trunks. Hilda had talks with her; Mrs. Bolton was ready at any moment to talk. And she seemed so young! the way the passion would flush in her rather pale cheek. She was forty-seven.