CHAPTER IXA Dreadful Blow
“Whatis it, oh, what is it?” cried Bertha, not really wideawake even now, and so bewildered by the strangeness of her waking as scarcely to know what she was about.
“Berfa, Berfa, I’m so fwightened, and I want mummy,” said the voice of Molly close beside her, and then instantly Bertha’s power of self-control returned. She had been afraid of she knew not what. But when it was only Molly in trouble who was sobbing at her side, she could be brave again, or at least she could soothe the child and keep her fears to herself.
“My poor darling, did you come out here on your bare toes?” she exclaimed, picking the child up in her arms and groping her way back into the house, where she lighted the lamp, for the night was now at its darkest.
“I waked, and it was dark, and I couldn’t find no uns,” explained Molly, with a whimper—she was addicted to becoming incoherent under stress of emotion—then she asked, in a plaintive tone, “Where is mummy, Berfa? I wants her.”
“Mummy has not come back yet, darling; but I will put you into bed, and then you will shut your eyes and go fast to sleep again,” said Bertha, soothing the frightened child with loving words and caresses, though she was not a little anxious and dismayed herself; for the clock in the kitchen pointed to half-past one, and she knew that something dreadful must have happened to the two who had gone out riding; because they would never have left her alone in this fashion if they could have helped it.
“Will mummy be home when I wakes?” demanded Molly tearfully; and Bertha made haste to be as soothing as possible, for as a rule Molly could not enjoy being miserable unless all the others were miserable too, so a shower with her stood commonly for a downpour all round, and Bertha felt that she simply could not bear having all those children crying together just now.
“Yes, I expect mummy will be here by that time,” she said cheerfully. “But she will not like it if she comes home in the dark and finds you awake, so you had better make haste and go to sleep again.”
“Me will,” replied Molly, struggling with her sobs and suppressing them with a great effort, for the stroll out-of-doors into the big dark to find Bertha had tried her small nerves considerably.
When Molly was safely asleep again, Bertha went back to the door, but this time she did not put out the light. If they were coming home now they would need the light to guide them, maybe; in any case, she was glad to have the company of it as she stood on the dark threshold straining her eyes and her ears to the night.
What was that? Surely it was a cry away in the distance!
Panting and trembling she clung to the doorpost, her head bent forward so that she might hear the quicker, but for a time she heard nothing more. The hands of the clock were pointing to past two; in another hour it would be daylight, but what, oh what would the new day bring?
Ah, there it was again! A real cry, and no mistake about it. She left off trembling then. It was no use to shake and shiver when there was something to do, and Bertha was quite sure by this time that there was need of her help, only first she must find out from which direction the cry had come.
Leaving the door wide open, so that the light of the lamp might shine out, she went away from the house, right out to the darkness of the paddock, and then stood listening again. She thought that she would hear better out here, and when that cry came again she meant to answer it, for all thought of fear was gone from her heart now, and only the desire to help remained.
“Ber-tha, Ber-tha!”
It was Tom’s voice that called, so it was Grace that was hurt, she told herself, with a quick understanding of the situation. Then she lifted up her voice in a ringing shout and began to run. Oh, how she ran! Slipping through the rails of the paddock fence, she took a bee line across the brown earth from which the green blades of wheat were already strongly springing.
It was getting lighter—what a mercy that the night was past! Even in her sharp anxiety she had time for this bit of thankfulness. Then she paused, wondering whether she were running wide or going straight, for as yet she could see nothing but the unending stretch of brown earth, with the dim shadows of the springing wheat.
“Where are you?” she called, straining her eyes and her ears anew.
“I am here; you are coming straight,” answered the voice; but it was so exhausted, and so filled with anguish, that Bertha caught her breath in a sob, realizing that the trouble might be even worse than anything which she had feared.
On and on she ran, until it seemed to her that she had been running for hours, and she thought with dismay of the five sleeping babies which she had left in the little lonely house with the door wide open. But it could not be helped, and after all they might not wake.
Ah, there was Tom! She saw him now; he was staggering along under a burden which seemed to weigh him down.
He was carrying Grace! Then where were the horses?
But Bertha had no time for speculation just then, for just as she picked him out in the pale light she saw him lurch and stumble, try to recover himself, but failing, pitch forward on to the ground. Surely she had never run so fast before! She could hear herself panting as she sped along. But before she could reach him he was on his feet again and was gathering his wife up in his arms afresh.
“She isn’t dead, Bertha, she isn’t dead, for I heard her groan, poor dear, when I fell with her. I am afraid I must have hurt her dreadfully. But it is good to know that there is a little life left in her. For the last two hours I have thought she had really gone.”
The poor fellow was sobbing from sheer relief and thankfulness, but Bertha thrust him aside and tried to take Grace in her own arms.
“I am sure that I can carry her for a little way, just to let you get your breath,” she said, and at the first was more shocked by the awful haggard look on his face than she was by the white insensibility of Grace.
“No, you can’t, for you are smaller than she is. But you can help me, and I am nearly spun out,” he said faintly, and again she was startled at the look on his face.
Clasping their hands under the insensible form, they went slowly forward in the growing light of the dawn. Neither spoke a word—they had no breath left for speech—and Bertha was too appalled even to want to ask a question as to how the calamity had come about.
Slowly, slowly, slowly went on that dreadful progress. Bertha felt as if her arms were being dragged out of her body; it was a horrible, intolerable pain. There was a tightening of the muscles at her throat which bade fair to choke her; she felt as if she were going blind as she stumbled forward on that interminable walk—her very senses were reeling—and then suddenly Tom’s voice called out sharply: “Mind the gate, Bertha!”
They had reached the paddock. Oh, the blessed relief of it! She made a great effort, took on a fresh spurt of strength, and fairly counted the steps across the paddock to the open door of the house where the light was still burning. Into the kitchen they carried the poor unconscious Grace, and then Tom lurched forward on to the floor and lay there, while Bertha turned swiftly to the pantry for the jug of water which she had put there last night, which already seemed so far away. Pouring some of it into a basin, she dipped her handkerchief into it and bathed his face and hands. She must get him better somehow, for she was afraid to touch Grace, who lay exactly as if she were dead. For a few dreadful moments Tom lay as apparently lifeless as his wife, then he drew a long breath and faintly asked for water. Bertha lifted his head and held the glass to his lips, for he seemed incapable of doing even so much for himself. But when he had gulped down a glassful his strength came slowly back to him, and at the end of ten minutes or so he was able to sit up again.
“There is brandy on the top shelf of the cupboard; get it down; we must try to make her swallow some,” he said, pointing to the cupboard which stood in the corner.
Bertha hastened to obey. The sight of the white-faced rigid figure on the couch filled her with awe, for there appeared to be no life there at all; but Tom seemed so sure that his wife still lived, and now he was saying over and over again:
“She really groaned when I fell with her, Bertha; she really groaned, I tell you.”
“Yes, yes, she will be better soon,” panted Bertha, scarcely knowing what it was that she said, yet realizing the tremendous need there was for keeping his courage up at this most critical time. Then she got a teaspoon, and when Tom lifted the poor unconscious head, she gently trickled a few drops of the spirit through the clenched teeth.
“Give her more, give her more; there is plenty in the bottle,” he said hoarsely; a terrible fear had struck him that she was gone too far for any restorative to bring back.
“I dare not put in more than a few drops at the time; it might choke her,” whispered Bertha, who was listening anxiously for the sound of a drawn breath.
There were long, awful moments of waiting, then Bertha tried again. Her face was almost as white now as the face of Grace, but there was a sort of desperate courage in her heart; she must do her best and wisest, she must, for it was upon her that the poor distracted husband was leaning for help, and she had never felt so ignorant in her life, never.
“Ah, she swallowed then! I am sure of it!” cried Tom, in a tone of ecstasy, as the muscles of Grace’s throat contracted in a little spasmodic jerk.
More moments of waiting, Bertha had tried again, and again there was distinct response. Grace was alive, she could swallow, and they could hear her breathe; but she did not open her eyes or in any way recover consciousness, and they were sure that she must be terribly injured.
“I must go for the doctor,” said Tom thickly; but he looked so exhausted, that Bertha took a sudden desperate resolution.
“I shall go myself,” she said sharply. “You are not fit to sit a horse after what you have gone through, and it will take longer to get the doctor here if you can’t ride fast.”
“I can’t trust you out alone on horseback; you are not enough used to riding,” objected Tom.
Bertha’s face whitened. Only too well did she know her limitations with regard to horseflesh; but it did not weaken her resolution, rather it strengthened it.
“God will take care of me,” she said simply, reaching down a wide-brimmed hat that hung on a peg just inside the door. The sun would be high before she got home, so the hat would be a necessity.
“There is only my old saddle, and you will have to ride Pucker, for I turned the other horses loose, and they may not be home until to-morrow, if then, for Grace’s horse was dead lame,” said Tom, getting on to his feet again with difficulty, for he had been kneeling by the side of his wife.
“I shall ride cross-saddle, I don’t care what I look like, and I shall be safer that way,” said Bertha. “If I catch Pucker and bring him up to the door, will you help me fix the saddle on? I am not quite sure that I know how it ought to go.”
“I will saddle for you if you can bring the old horse up,” he said, and Bertha hurried off to catch Pucker, which was fairly easy, as the old horse was rather of a nuisance than otherwise, for it was in the habit of hanging about the house to get little scraps of food and dainties of sorts not usually appreciated by horses.
In about five minutes Bertha was back again, leading Pucker by the forelock, while Tom had fetched his old saddle from the barn and was tying it up with string.
“Will you be able to milk at six o’clock?” asked Bertha. “I can do it before I go, if you like, only it will hinder, and we ought to get the doctor here as soon as possible.”
“I can do it, and give the children their breakfast too. What are they to have?” he asked, as he slipped the saddle on to the quiet old horse and fastened the girths.
“Oh, give them as much milk as they like, and there is some bread in the pan; they will not hurt until I come home. But, Tom, can you tell me how it happened?” she asked, in a hesitating tone, with a nod of her head in the direction of the silent figure which was lying on the couch in the kitchen. “I hate to worry you; only, the doctor will want to know.”
“Of course he will; but I thought I had told you,” he said, as he helped her on to the back of Pucker. “Her horse put its foot into a hole and fell, shooting her over its head. When I picked her up I thought she had a broken neck, and that is what I am afraid of still.”
“Oh, but that could not be!” she exclaimed, with a quick instinct to comfort. “For remember, she is alive.”
“Only just; but while there is life there is hope. God bless you, Bertha, for all the help and comfort you have been to me to-night,” he said brokenly, and then, as she rode away, he called out: “Tell the doctor that it happened between eight and nine o’clock last night, and I was all that time getting her home.”
Bertha gasped. No wonder that he had seemed so fearfully exhausted, if he had been toiling along with such a burden for so many hours!
Pucker had done no work for three days beyond carrying Dicky and Molly round and round the paddock whenever it pleased them to take a ride, so the old horse was able and willing to go. It was not the thirty miles to Rownton that Bertha had to ride. There was, fortunately for her, a doctor living at Pentland Broads, fifteen miles away, where they went to church on Sundays, and where was the nearest store and post office.
A thought came into her mind that she might ride across to Blow End, where their nearest neighbour lived, and ask her to go over to Duck Flats and stay with poor Tom until she got back again. But second thoughts decided her against it. Mrs. Smith was a dreadfully nervous woman; moreover, she had a young baby, and would naturally find it very difficult to leave home in the morning. Besides, it would mean half an hour’s delay in getting to Pentland Broads, and that would be serious.
Pucker was not the easiest of horses to ride, for the creature gambolled along with a difficult sideway motion which always made Bertha feel as if she were pitching off. But the cross-saddle fashion in which she was riding made her feel safer; she had so much better chance of sticking on than when she sat upon a side-saddle.
She had no whip, but when the first mile or so had been got over at a horrible shaking trot, she managed to cuff her steed into a lumbering gallop, and then she got forward at a great pace. She had no chance of guiding the horse, every faculty being absorbed in the effort to hold on. But Pucker was more used to going to Pentland Broads than anywhere else, and having once had his nose set in that direction, there was not much danger of his going any other road.
“Oh dear, oh dear! I do really believe that I shall be shaken to bits if this sort of thing keeps on much longer!” she muttered to herself, as the sun grew hotter and hotter, and the shaking, racking experience of Pucker’s very best foot foremost made her ache in every limb. Then a long way ahead she saw the houses at Pentland Broads standing out clear against the sunshine, and knew that the long, dreadful ride was nearly at an end.
She could not think what would happen if the doctor should chance to be out. But it was so early in the day, that such a thing would not be very likely, unless indeed he had been away all night.
Cloppety, cloppety, clop! Cloppety, cloppety, clop! Poor old Pucker was entering into the spirit of things with praiseworthy energy; but the worst of it was that the poor old creature had its limitations, and could not understand that its rider would want to go anywhere but to the post office. So it tore past the doctor’s house just as if it were doing the most colt-like bolt imaginable, then it came to a sudden stop before the post office, and stood there as if it were planted, while Bertha sat still on its back, and dared not try to turn the creature round through fear lest it should start off again, like John Gilpin’s horse of immortal fame, and take her straight home again with her errand unaccomplished.
She knew that she could not get off unassisted either, unless indeed she rolled off; but in that case she might sustain some sort of damage, and that risk must not be run, in view of the urgent need there was for her most active assistance now in that stricken household at Duck Flats.
Presently a woman poked her head out from the door of the post office to see why the old horse with the girl on its back had halted so long just outside.
“There ain’t no letters from yesterday’s mail for you, Miss Doyne, and to-day’s mail isn’t in yet,” she said.
“I have not come for letters; I have ridden in for the doctor, but my horse brought me past his house, and I dare not turn the creature round for fear that it will carry me back home without stopping at the doctor’s house. I am not used to riding, you see, and I am not very good at managing horses either. Could you help me get down? Then I will hitch my horse up here and go back for the doctor,” said Bertha, hoping that the woman would not laugh at her for being so helpless.
But nothing was further than laughter from the thoughts of Eunice Long at the mention of riding for the doctor. It takes a person dwelling in those remote places of the earth rightly to understand what sickness means in such widely scattered communities.
“Oh dear, oh dear! Come for the doctor, have you? Who is bad—one of the children? I am downright sorry for you,” said the little woman, with such kindly sympathy that it nearly broke down Bertha’s self-control.
“Mrs. Ellis has had an accident out riding; I am afraid that she is very badly hurt indeed,” said Bertha, and then she rolled off into the arms of Eunice Long. But as she was more heavy, or perhaps more awkward, than the little woman expected, the result was that they both rolled over in the dust together, and it was a man who was passing that picked them up and set them on their feet again.
Staying for only a brief word of apology, Bertha set off running along the road to the doctor’s house. She was horribly stiff and cramped with her long ride, and her progress was neither swift nor graceful; but the urgency of the case drove her along, and soon she was knocking at the green-painted door which carried Dr. Benson’s modest brass plate.
But, to her intense dismay, the woman who opened the door to her said that the doctor was not at home, that he had been away all night, and might not be home until the next day.
GRACE MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT
GRACE MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT
CHAPTER XThe Worst
“Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?” cried Bertha; and now, under pressure of this new calamity, her overstrained nerves gave way, and, sitting down on the doorstep, she burst into a passion of weeping.
“Good gracious! Is it anything very bad the matter?” asked the doctor’s housekeeper in great concern.
“Yes, yes, there has been a bad accident. Mrs. Ellis has been hurt, and she may die if we can’t get a doctor to her quickly,” sobbed Bertha, wondering however she would dare to go back and face poor distracted Tom if she did not take the doctor with her.
“Well, well, whatever is to be done!” cried the woman, holding up her hands in consternation, but not able to suggest any way out of the trouble. It was the quiet voice of Eunice Long, who had followed Bertha along the road to the doctor’s house, that settled the question of what would have to be done.
“Where has the doctor gone, Hester?” she asked, reaching out her hand to give Bertha a comforting pat on the shoulder.
“He is away to Pottle’s Bent. A man there has broke a leg, and doctor said as there was nothing pressing he’d stay over there to give him a bit of attention, because he is such a big man that his wife can’t move him, and it is so wearing to the horses to do that journey very often,” replied the woman.
“Someone must ride out to Pottle’s Bent and fetch him back at once. Twenty miles, isn’t it? Now, I wonder who has got the best horse?”
Eunice Long had taken command of the situation, and poor harassed Bertha sat on the doorstep and listened, thankful to have the dreadful responsibility lifted from her shoulders.
“Why, Silas Ford has got the best cattle in Pentland Broads; trust him for that. But whether he will be willing to ride so far for the doctor is quite another question. Myself, I should be inclined to doubt it,” said the doctor’s housekeeper in a dogmatic tone.
But Eunice Long smiled, as she said softly: “He will go, I feel sure of it. That would be a hard-hearted person who would not help a neighbour in such distress. Besides, Tom Ellis has done us good turns all round, so we are bound to do our best for him to-day. Just step over to Mr. Ford, will you, and ask him to set off at once. Tell him that Mrs. Ellis may die if the doctor is not fetched as quickly as possible.”
“Hadn’t you better go yourself? You are a deal cleverer than I am at making folks do things they don’t want to do,” said the woman.
“I can’t. I am going to take this child back to the post office and give her some breakfast, and then I am going to get Bill Humphries to drive us both out to Duck Flats in his wagon. I could not ride out there if I tried, and I guess that Miss Doyne has had enough of it for one day,” replied Eunice, in her quiet, determined fashion.
“Oh, how kind you are; you think of everything!” exclaimed Bertha, as she limped back to the post office, there to snatch a hasty breakfast, while Bill Humphries, who kept the forge, hitched a pair of particularly mettlesome horses to his wagon, in obedience to the softly uttered command of Miss Long.
“We are bound to do our best for each other,” said Eunice. “It is you that need it to-day, but it may be me to-morrow, don’t you see, and if we don’t do a good part for each other, who is going to put themselves out for us?”
“How can you leave the post office?” asked Bertha, for she knew that David Long, the brother of Eunice, was away, and Government servants cannot do as other people.
“Oh, Kitty Humphries will watch the instruments, and her mother will stand sponsor for her, and will keep the key of the safe,” answered Eunice. “I would not like to promise that Kitty won’t read all the post cards; but that is not a serious matter, because people should not put private business on post cards, and what is already public does not matter.”
At this moment Bill Humphries drove his skittish pair up to the door, and the two made haste to clamber into the wagon, while Bill’s eldest boy hung on to the heads of the horses to keep them from bolting.
“Oh, what shall I do with Pucker? Shall he be tied on behind?” asked Bertha, suddenly remembering her horse, which still stood as if it were planted in front of the post office.
“Better not; the poor old creature can’t travel as fast as my colts. I’ll send my Jim out with him this evening; he can bring over the doctor’s stuff,” said Bill Humphries; then he shouted an order to Jim to look after Pucker, and to give the old horse a good feed, to which Jim responded with a yell, as he sprang clear of the horses, which immediately started off at a tearing gallop.
“Has the other man gone for the doctor yet?” asked Bertha in a low tone, as Eunice tucked a cushion at her back to rest her a little and save her some of the jolting of the wagon.
“Silas Ford? Yes, he started before we did,” said Eunice, and Bill Humphries rumbled out a low laugh of amusement, which even the solemnity of the occasion could not prevent.
“He was mad about it, though, and he said downright flat that he wouldn’t budge, for he is behind with his seeding, and looked to about finish it to-day; but the doctor’s housekeeper told him as how Miss Long had said that he had got to go, and then he gave in as mild as a calf—ha, ha, ha!”
Bertha wondered where the joke came in, and then was amazed to find that the face of Eunice Long was scarlet with hot, distressful blushes. She turned her head quickly then, for it did not seem right to spy into matters which did not concern her, and she could not bear for Eunice to know that she had seen. How those horses did go! And with what skill Bill guided them along the rough trail through those endless stretches of ploughed land, where the green wheat was springing in straight furrows which seemed to have no end. But Bertha hardly saw the wheat. She was wondering what was happening at that lonely little house at Duck Flats. Had Grace shown any sign of consciousness yet? And how was Tom bearing the weary waiting for the help which was so long in coming?
Bill had lapsed into a sort of shamed silence after his burst of laughter about the way in which Silas Ford had been made to do his duty, while Eunice spoke no word at all, only once or twice reached out a comforting hand to pat Bertha on the arm, as if to show a sympathy that was too deep for words. Presently the house with its barns and sheds came in sight.
“She is still alive,” announced Bill suddenly, with so much relief in his tone that Bertha instantly forgave him that unseemly burst of laughter.
“How do you know?” she asked.
He pointed with his whip to two small figures scuttling to and fro before the house, which were plainly Dicky and Molly feeding the chickens and doing small chores to the best of their ability.
“See the children running out and in. Do you think Tom Ellis would let them do that if the poor mother had gone? Don’t you fret, Miss Doyne, I guess if the poor thing has lived so long she is going to get better,” he said, with the cheery optimism that was a part of his nature.
“Yes, please God, she is going to get better,” breathed Eunice; and Bertha was comforted in spite of her fears, for faith is somehow infectious, and one could not utterly despair in such company.
Tom was at the door to meet them when the wagon drew up at the house; such an unkempt, dishevelled figure he looked. “Where is the doctor?” he demanded, with fierce impatience, as his eye swept the little group in the wagon.
“On his way here by this time, if I know anything about Silas Ford and the ways of his cattle,” said Bill Humphries, as he leaped off the front of the wagon and held out his arms to lift Eunice down first. He reckoned that she was of the most use at this juncture, having had more experience in sickness than Bertha, so he put her in readiness for action first.
Tom groaned. It was dreadful to think of having to wait longer, after having waited so long already; but it was something to see Eunice Long on the scene, for it was well known that she was more clever and capable than most in sickness and trouble of all kinds.
“How is she?” asked Eunice, putting Tom aside with one hand, and stepping across the threshold, followed by Bertha.
“She is alive, and that is all I can say about it,” answered Tom, following them into the kitchen, where Grace still lay on the couch just as he had lain her down with the help of Bertha in the dawning.
Eunice stooped over her, deftly touching her here and there, while the other two looked on, and then she said, with a look at Bertha: “I think we ought to get her to bed. Is it ready for her?”
“The bed is, but the children have not been dressed yet. I will get them out of the room,” said Bertha, turning towards the bedroom, where Noll and the twins, still in a state of undress, were having a great time at a pillow fight.
She swept up an armful of little garments, seized Noll in the other arm, and, calling to the twins to follow, took them out on to the veranda, and there set Molly and Dicky to the task of clothing the three small children, active assistance being rendered by Bill Humphries, who, having a large family of his own, had learned many things by experience, although he confessed that the buttons and tapes were to the last degree bewildering to a mere man.
Inside the house Eunice and Bertha, with some help from Tom, carried Grace and laid her on her bed, then, sending him away, Eunice removed the garments one by one and anxiously searched for possible injuries. But there was not one to be seen. Grace did not even seem to have been bruised by the terrible fall, although she lay so still and motionless.
“What is it? What are you afraid of?” asked Bertha sharply, seeing the gravity had become deeper on the face of Eunice.
“It is her brain or her spine which has been injured, I fear, perhaps both,” said Eunice softly, although she might have shouted and Grace would still not have heard or understood.
“Will she get better?” asked Bertha, her parched tongue rattling against the roof of her mouth.
“If the Lord wills,” replied Eunice, in a solemn tone; but there was no ring of hopefulness in her tone now, and Bertha turned away wondering, yet did not dare to ask another question.
It was noon before the doctor came. Bill Humphries had put his horses in the barn and was doing such things about the house as Tom would have done in happier circumstances; but Tom himself was lying on the bed in the little room where Bertha slept, in such a state of collapse, that it looked as if they were going to have two invalids to care for instead of one.
A long half-hour the doctor was shut in with Grace, with only Eunice for a helper, and when he came out his face was as grave as that of Eunice had been when the injured woman was undressed. Tom was asleep, too worn out and exhausted to keep awake for the news which was like life or death to him, so there was only Bertha to hear the verdict of the doctor.
“There is some concussion of the brain, but that will probably pass off in a few hours, and Mrs. Ellis will become conscious again,” said the doctor.
Bertha’s face lightened with a flash of radiant hope. “Then do you think that she will soon be better?” she asked, with such bounding relief at her heart that she longed to shout or sing.
“That I cannot say yet,” replied the doctor, and his manner was so very grave that the riotous hope in Bertha’s heart died suddenly.
“What is it that you are afraid of? Tell me quick; I can bear it,” she said sharply; but she turned so very white that the doctor had his doubts about her ability to stand up under any more trouble just then, so he said that he would be glad of a meal if she could get him something to eat, then he would go out and lie on the straw in the barn for a couple of hours, after which he would see Mrs. Ellis again before he went away.
“But why the barn?” asked Bertha; then remembering that Tom was lying asleep in the other room, she said quickly, “I will rouse my cousin; he would not like you to be turned into the barn, I am sure.”
“I should be very angry if you did rouse him,” said the doctor, looking so fierce that Bertha quailed before him. “We have got quite enough trouble to face in this house just now without having Tom Ellis for a patient as well as his wife. It is this sleep that may save him from collapse, but he will need to sleep for hours and hours if it is going to do him any good. I have had to rest in a good many places not half so comfortable as that barn yonder, so you need not worry about me. Only, if I am not back in the house again by three o’clock, I shall be glad if you will come and call me.”
“I will do it, certainly,” she answered; then, plucking up courage, she said timidly, “but will you please tell me what is the matter with Mrs. Ellis? I have got to know sometime, and there is nothing so wearing as suspense.”
The doctor went suddenly silent, stirred his coffee with an air of impatience, as if angry at being bothered, although in reality he hated to give pain, then he said gruffly: “There is injury to the spine, and I am afraid, I am very much afraid, that she will be a helpless invalid for the remainder of her days.”
CHAPTER XIA Wild Revolt
Berthastared at the doctor in speechless horror, but he was stirring his coffee again and frowning at the tablecloth as if it had offended him. Then she turned and walked out-of-doors, feeling her way with her hands because she could not see.
It was awful, too awful for words! Busy, active Grace, with her tribe of little children, a hopeless, helpless invalid! Why, surely sudden death would have been kinder! What would they do? Who would nurse Grace and mother the children, wash, cook, and mend for the household? Who would do all these things?
“I shall have to do them myself,” she groaned, then realizing all that it would mean to her cherished prospects and the tremendous giving up that it would involve, she muttered between her set teeth as she clutched at the post of the veranda to keep herself from falling, “I can’t do it, and I won’t! Oh, I won’t!”
How long she stood there she had no idea. She knew that the doctor went past her on his way to the barn; she heard Eunice come to the door and call softly to Bill Humphries and then go back again. But mercifully no one took the slightest notice of her, so she clung fast to her post, while the whirling revolt in her heart grew blacker and wilder, until she felt as if she would go off her head.
It was the cry of a child which brought her to her senses again. Baby Noll had come to grief again, and was yelling in the whole-hearted fashion in which he always voiced his woes. Tom must not hear him, and the crying of the child would be sure to rouse him. Bertha remembered how Grace had often said that Tom always heard the children cry at night long before they roused her.
Moving slowly, because she felt so weak and spent, Bertha went to pick up the crying child, and comforted him, as she had often done before, until he was soon laughing again; for happily his griefs did not last long. Then she went back to the house. It was all very well to make up her mind that she would accept no responsibility with regard to this distressful family in the immediate future, but to save her own self-respect, and because her heart was kinder than she believed it to be, she had got to do her duty by them at the present. She was clearing up the kitchen, moving in a dull, mechanical fashion because of her dreadful weariness, when Eunice came out of the bedroom and laid forcible hands upon her.
“You must have some rest or you will break down, and you have been such a dear, brave child,” said the little woman kindly.
“I can’t rest yet; I have to call the doctor at three o’clock, and this muddle must be cleared up,” said Bertha, stoutly resisting any attempt to make her rest, but secretly wincing at the words of praise from Eunice, because she knew herself unworthy of them.
“I can call the doctor, or I can rouse you to go and do it at the proper time. Come in with me and lie on the children’s bed for a little rest, then you will feel so much better, more fit to help everyone who needs you,” said the little woman in her gentle, persuasive fashion.
Bertha yielded then because she had no more strength to hold out, only when she went into the room where Grace lay unconscious she glanced fearfully at the still white face, as if fearing that the mute lips would upbraid her for the wild revolt which was tearing at her heart. Then she dropped on to the little bed where the twins slept at night, and for a brief spell her troubles were forgotten in the slumber which comes so easily when one is young.
It was Eunice who called the doctor, for Bertha was so very fast asleep. Then he came stealing into the room, looked at Grace, gave a curt order or two under his breath, and then rode away. He would come again to-morrow. Meanwhile, there was nothing to be done but to watch and wait.
It was six o’clock when Bertha woke, and she was dreadfully ashamed of herself for having slept so long. She went out to get supper then and to bring in the tired children, who had played out-of-doors the whole day long. Bill Humphries wanted her to say that he might take Dicky and Molly back with him for a while, so that they should be off her hands, but Bertha, remembering how useful those two had been in looking after the three babies that day, said that she could not spare them. It was a little puzzling to know where to put them to bed that night, but finally the three youngest were put into their mother’s room as usual, and if their father did not rouse later on, Dicky and Molly would have to sleep on the sofa which stood in the kitchen. But she and Eunice would watch in the sickroom; for who could say what the turn of the night might bring to the white-faced woman on the bed?
Young Humphries rode Pucker home in the evening. He brought medicine from the doctor with him, and he had also discovered the two horses feeding by the side of the trail through the wheatfields, had managed to catch them, and had brought them along also. He told Eunice that her brother had come home, so that the post office need not trouble her, and that someone would come out next morning to relieve her as nurse for a few hours. Then he helped his father hitch the frisky horses to the wagon, and the two drove away in the twilight, and darkness dropped softly over the wide stretches of wheat and over the little house with its burden of pain.
Tom Ellis was still asleep, and the two elder children, to their great delight, were put to bed on the couch, where they lay in rapturous enjoyment of the novelty of the situation, giggling ecstatically until they went to sleep.
It was at the turn of the night, that weird hour between one day and another, when so many sufferers slip their fetters, that the eyes of Grace came open, and in a tone of surprise she asked: “Where am I?”
“At home in bed,” replied Bertha, making her voice sound as natural as she could, though she was trembling in every limb.
“Was it a bad dream that I have been having, then?” Grace asked. “I thought that I was hurt, or was it Tom? Oh, Bertha, where is Tom?”
“He is asleep on the bed in the other room,” said Bertha soothingly, while Eunice sank farther back in the shadows, fearing to excite Grace with her presence just then.
“Bertha, there was an accident then, and he was hurt! Is he still alive, oh, tell me, quick, quick?” she panted, her eyes moving with an expression of the keenest distress; but she did not lift a finger or attempt to move herself in any way.
Bertha stooped over her and gently stroked her face. “He is not hurt at all, dear, only he is very, very tired, for he brought you home in his arms. It took hours; he was fearfully exhausted, and the doctor said that we were not to wake him on any account.”
“The doctor? Then he is hurt? Oh, Bertha, Bertha, it is cruel, cruel to tell me falsehoods even in kindness!” exclaimed Grace, and there was such a pathos in her voice that Bertha shrank back affrighted, looking at Eunice for help.
The little woman stepped forward out of the shadows and gently thrust Bertha to one side.
“She is quite right, Mrs. Ellis, your husband was not hurt. It was you that were thrown, pitched on to your head, and it has made you dazed for a time. Mr. Ellis had to carry you so far that he was really knocked up, though I think it was his worry on your account that upset him as much as anything.”
“Why, it is Miss Long!” said Grace, in great surprise.
“Yes, I came over when I heard that you had had a fall. Bertha is not very much used to sickness, you see, and I knew that you would come to me if I were bad and needed you. Now, suppose you take this stuff the doctor left for you and then try to sleep, you will feel better when you wake again,” said Eunice, a kind of mesmeric soothing in her voice, as she held the medicine to the lips of Grace.
“I can’t move, and I can’t feel what is the matter with me. Shall I be better when I wake?” asked Grace, with such a look of terror in her face, that Eunice swallowed a sob and kept her voice steady with a great difficulty.
“You will be stronger when you wake. Go to sleep now, dear, go to sleep,” said the little woman gently, and then, under the influence of the medicine, which was a sleeping draught, Grace was speedily unconscious again.
“Her brain is all right, thank God!” said Eunice, in a low moved tone, as the two stood looking at the quiet figure in her deep slumber.
“But her body! Oh, Miss Long, did you hear what she said?” cried Bertha, with a sob.
“Yes; but the body is such a small matter compared with the brain, and in time who can say but what she may be quite well again. Stranger things have happened, and doctors are human and likely to make mistakes like the rest of us,” said Eunice, in a cheerful tone; then she added, with a graver note in her voice, “Meanwhile, she has you, and what a blessing you will be in the house! It will be your chance of paying back to your cousin the care she gave to you and your sisters when your mother died.”
Bertha drew a sharp breath and turned away without answering. This was a side of the question she had not looked at before. She had entirely ignored her own responsibility in the matter in that night’s wild revolt, and the recollection of it was like a fetter to bind her to the life from which she was so anxious to escape.
Tom did not wake until daylight, and then he was himself again, at least it was a comfort to know there was no fear of having him for an invalid also; and Bertha tried to rally her drooping spirits as the day wore on, telling herself that most probably things would not be so bad or so black as at first they had threatened.
It was late in the afternoon when the doctor came, and Grace was just rousing out of her deep, drug-induced sleep. Again it was Eunice and the doctor who were shut up with her, while Bertha waited in anxious dread outside the closed door, and Tom, who did not know that there was anything to dread, hovered round, so glad and thankful that his wife was still alive, that it made Bertha’s heart ache to watch him.
Why, oh why had Eunice not warned him of what might be in store? It seemed so cruel to let him hope when perhaps there was no hope.
“What a long time the doctor is in there! Was he as long yesterday?” Tom asked, coming restlessly into the kitchen and standing by the table where Bertha was busy breadmaking. To her it was like the grimmest irony of things that daily work had to be done, whatever issues were at stake. But she only nodded her head in reply, for at that moment the doctor came out of the room, and, crossing to the outer door, beckoned to Tom to follow him. Bertha heaved a great sigh of relief. At least she had been spared the heavy task of letting him know of the trouble which might be in store for him.
In about ten minutes he was back again with such a look on his face as she had never seen there before, and she caught her breath in a little gasp of amazement. It was a glorified expression that he wore, and it lifted him above the commonplace.
“Can I go in?” he asked, as Eunice at this moment appeared on the threshold of the inner room; and when the little woman nodded her head, he passed in and shut the door behind him.
If trouble could make a plain man look like that, surely it could not be unmixed disaster! That was the thought in Bertha’s mind for the remainder of the day, and though she tried to escape it she could not. All her life she had worshipped beauty wherever she could find it. Tom Ellis had seemed hitherto to be only a struggling unlettered farmer, more intent on making money than improving his intellectual standing; but the blow which might have felled a less noble soul had left him standing erect and strong, so surely the disaster had wrought him only good.
The question was, What would it do for her? Could she, too, rise above this crushing blow of fate and watch all her bright ambitions smitten to the dust, while only the satisfaction of duty done remained to her? Could she rise above it? Could she?
But meanwhile there was bread to bake, five little children to care for and feed, the housework to do, and all the thousand-and-one things that come to tax the strength and patience of the prairie housekeeper, so Bertha went straight on, leaving the question of what she could really do and bear to settle itself.