CHAPTER VIA Wild Journey

CHAPTER VIA Wild Journey

Itwas over at last, and Bertha was on board the train which was to take her through to Winnipeg. In a certain sense it was a huge relief when the last goodbye was said and the long train of westward-bound cars drew away from the depot, leaving Hilda standing white-faced on the platform, while Bertha, with a smile which seemed frozen on her face, stood at the rear end of the car, watching until there was nothing more to be seen.

But the parting with Hilda, bad though it was, could not be compared with the pain of saying goodbye to Anne, who had been the head of the family and the mainstay of the home for so long. If Bertha had been the ordinary sort of girl, who looks upon change and upheaval as a welcome sort of diversion, she might not have suffered so keenly at this breaking up of home. Being cast in a different mould, and hating change as much as the domestic cat, she had to endure an exquisite torture of regret and longing in those last days at Mestlebury.

She had never even anticipated change, nor even supposed that any of them would marry. There were not very many educated young men in Mestlebury, and both Anne and Hilda had a trick of looking down upon the men with whom they came in contact as rather inferior sort of creatures; so it is not wonderful that Bertha had not taken their getting married into serious consideration. But Roger Mortimer was so different from any of the men she had been in the habit of meeting, that she did not wonder Anne liked him well enough to give up her sisters for his sake.

“But I—oh, I really believe that I hate him!” said Bertha to herself, with a little vindictive snap of her jaws, as the cars bore her out of sight of Hilda standing white and rigid on the platform, and the wide, wide world yawned to take her in.

“Hush, my dear, it ain’t right to hate anyone, specially when you are so young,” said a motherly body, who sat in the seat opposite, and who reached out a comforting hand to pat Bertha’s arm, as the poor girl dropped in a limp heap now that the strain of parting was over.

“Did I speak aloud? Oh, I am sorry; and you are quite right, I ought not to hate anyone, especially a good, kind man, but it is so horrid to say goodbye,” faltered Bertha, her lips quivering piteously, for she had much ado to keep from breaking down in childish crying.

“Ah, that it is!” The voice of the woman was wholly sympathetic, for she too had known what it was to suffer in similar fashion, and during the three days and nights they were together on the cars no one could have been kinder than she was to poor Bertha.

It was after Winnipeg was past, and she had changed into the cars that were to take her out to Rownton, which was the nearest point of railway to Mr. Ellis’s place, when the real loneliness began. The cars into which she had changed were not so comfortable as those she had left, the people were not so kindly, while, chiefest discomfort of all, a blizzard had set in which threatened to snow them up before they reached Rownton.

It was prairie now—a limitless stretch of snow as far as the eye could see on every side. But when the blizzard began it was not possible to see anything beyond the white smother which shut them in, while their progress was so slow that sometimes they hardly appeared to be moving at all. They had passed the Gilbert Plains Junction, and another three hours should have found Bertha at Rownton, when the train came to a standstill. A great buzz of talk broke out then, and everyone had some story to tell of snowed-up trains and the sufferings incidental to such a condition. But the conductor came along presently to give them what comfort he could, telling them that the engine had been taken off to drive the snow-plough, and that probably three or four hours would see them on the move again. There was an old man in the cars who aroused Bertha’s compassion; he was so very frail and feeble, and he looked so unfit to be travelling alone. He had a topcoat, but no scarf, and the keen wind which would penetrate the cars, despite red-hot stoves and shut windows, seemed to wither the poor old fellow with its rigours.

“Won’t you take this scarf of mine? I do not need it in the least, and you look so cold,” she said, with gentle pity in her tone, as she held a big woollen scarf towards him.

“You are very kind, but I could not deprive you of your wraps,” he answered, with a little bow.

“But please, I do not want it,” said Bertha, pressing the gaudy woollen thing upon him. She had knitted it herself last winter for a sofa blanket, but, like most of her undertakings in the direction of fancy-work, it had turned out quite different from what she had intended it to be, and as it was much too narrow and twice too long for a sofa blanket, it had been laid aside to come in useful some day. Then, when the long cold journey west had to be undertaken, there certainly seemed a chance of its finding a use at last. But so far she had not been sufficiently cold to make her willing to wind those shades of blue, yellow, grey, and brown wools round her throat.

“Are you sure?” His voice was wistful, and she could see that he was trembling with cold.

“Quite sure.” As she spoke Bertha got up, and, taking the scarf, she wound it round and round his neck and shoulders, so getting for the first time a little satisfaction out of that sorely bungled piece of fancy-work which ought to have turned out so different in shape and size.

The man was so old and frail, that it became a sort of duty to look after him. Moreover, he reminded her a little of poor old Jan Saunders, whom she liked as much as she disliked Mrs. Saunders. The reminder was only that of association, for whereas Jan was a rough, uneducated man, this individual whom she was befriending spoke like a person of culture and refinement.

“Are you going far in this direction?” the old man asked presently, when he had thanked her for her goodness to him.

“Only to Rownton by rail, but I have a cross-country journey of about thirty miles after that,” she answered, giving a glance at the whirling snow atoms outside, and wondering however that journey would be accomplished in this sort of weather.

“And I have come wrong, and shall have to take the next cars back to Gilbert Plains Junction, for I took a west fork cars instead of going for an east fork train. These trunk lines are very bewildering to a stranger,” he remarked, with a little petulance in his tone.

“Yes; indeed I think that I should have gone wrong several times if I had not had my directions written out so very plainly for me,” answered Bertha, with a laugh.

“You are fortunate to have someone to do it for you. But there, it is only the old who are alone; the young can always find friends,” he said bitterly.

“Are you alone? I am so very sorry!”

There was so much sympathy in Bertha’s tone, that the old fellow looked at her in surprise.

“Why should you be so kind to an old man? Have you a father of your own?” he asked gruffly.

“No; my father is dead, and my mother too. But you said that you were alone, and because I also am alone I felt sorry for you,” replied Bertha simply.

He nodded, but did not say anything more for a long time, and she thought he was asleep, as most of the other passengers were. The slow hours dragged on, the blizzard raged outside, and presently darkness settled down; but the engine had not come back, and people began to wake up, telling each other in low tones of anxiety that it could not get back. Then the conductor came back, and they at once fell upon him with their questioning, but he could not tell them more than they knew already—the engine had gone ahead with the snow-plough to clear the track. It had not yet come back, probably could not get back, in which case they were stuck fast until such time as something came along to help them out of their fix.

Most of the passengers took the ill fortune quietly, since after all it was of no use to rail at what could not be helped. But there were a few, and Bertha’s old man was among them, who abused the railway company in no measured terms for not taking more care to keep their roads clear.

“I shall lose money heavily from the delay, and I can ill afford to add loss to loss in this fashion,” he said querulously, when he came back to sit with Bertha, after he had spent himself in his utterly useless complaints.

“Perhaps it will not be so bad as you fear. We may not be delayed very long after all,” she said, trying to speak courageously, although she was dreadfully depressed by the existing state of things, which was so much worse than anything that she had expected to encounter in her journey.

“It could not very well be much worse. The fact that I got on the wrong cars at all means a delay that will stand me in to lose two thousand dollars, while a few weeks ago I was robbed to the tune of about two hundred thousand dollars,” he said angrily, taking off his gloves and beating his poor wrinkled old hands together to warm them a little.

A great pity came into the heart of Bertha. Not for one moment did she believe this story of the old man’s losses, but it was plain that he believed it himself. The poor shabby clothes which he was wearing would not lead anyone to suppose that he had ever had any money to lose; but one must be kind to the old and the frail, especially when there is poverty behind. So Bertha soothed and quieted him; she even bought him hot coffee and other comforts of the kind all the time there was anything on the cars left for anyone to buy, and he received her little attentions with so much gratitude, that her pity for him grew stronger every hour—she even forgot her own discomforts in trying to mitigate the hardship for him.

The long night wore to an end, as the longest must do; but when the tardy daylight came again, the cars were completely buried, snowed right over, and frozen in until it was like being entombed in an ice cave. The men formed themselves into a party of volunteers, and, armed with coal shovels, iron bars, or anything else which came handy, set to work to dig themselves out. The exercise warmed them, certainly, but it did not accomplish much else; for where was the use of digging the cars out and letting the cold in when they had no engine to drag them forward or put them back to Gilbert Plains Junction? They tried to get on to the telegraph wires to let their plight be known; but the wires were broken with the weight of the snow, so that attempt failed also.

Then some of the more adventurous spirits were for starting across the snow to find some settler’s house where food and firing might be purchased. There was such grave danger about such an undertaking, however, as the party had no snow-shoes, that the brakeman and conductor refused, in the name of the railway company, to allow anyone to take the risk.

“But we can’t sit here and die!” exclaimed a fat man with a very red face, who seemed the very embodiment of restless energy, and could not keep still for five minutes at the stretch.

“You don’t seem in any immediate danger of passing away from starvation,” said the conductor, with so much ironic emphasis that the others burst out laughing, and the fat man subsided into the background, quashed for the time being.

“Help will reach us before night,” the officials said confidently, as they went through the cars comforting the women and children and saying encouraging things to the men. They were heroes in their way, and all through that long dreary time of waiting no one heard an impatient word from them or a murmur of any sort.

The fuel had run so low that the stoves had all to be let out save one in the middle car, and into this car all the passengers were gathered, a fearful crowd, of course, but it was better to be crowded than to freeze in solitude. The engine having gone, they were entirely dependent on the stoves for warmth, and if help did not come by the time the ordinary fuel was exhausted, it would be necessary to break up some of the fixings of the cars for firewood; but that had been done before, and could be done again if need be. What a long, long day it was! And before it came to an end Bertha realized that the poor old man who had talked so much about his losses was very ill.

“Is he a friend of yours, miss?” asked the conductor.

“No; I had never seen him until I boarded the train at Gilbert Plains Junction,” replied Bertha.

“There isn’t a doctor on the cars nor a nurse either, and what we are to do I’m sure I don’t know,” said the official, permitting himself to look really worried now, for the situation was getting serious.

Then suddenly the shout was raised that men were approaching on snow-shoes, drawing sledges behind them. Half the passengers turned out to meet them, and the conductor was left alone at the end of the car with Bertha and the poor old man, who was plainly so very ill.

“Can you stay with him, miss, while I go to see if a doctor can be got here somehow? or shall I call one of those ladies yonder?” asked the man.

Bertha looked across at the group of women cowering round the stove. Most of them had small children with them. The exceptions were a fat old lady with a peevish voice, who seemed to have a great difficulty in moving about; two girls of about her own age who were travelling with their father; and a young woman with a pleasant, sensible face, but a bandaged arm, which showed her plainly unfit for anything beyond taking care of herself.

“I will do my best for him,” she said quietly. “But come back as soon as you can, for he seems very ill.”

“Yes, and I’m afraid by the looks of him that he is going to be worse before the night is out,” said the conductor, as he hurried away.

He was back inside of ten minutes with the cheering news that the snow-ploughs were within six miles, and that they hoped to get the line clear by midnight.

“So we may hope to draw into the depot at Three Crowns by nine o’clock to-morrow morning at the latest,” he said.

“And shall we have to manage until then without help?” asked Bertha, in dismay.

“I am afraid so, miss, but we can clear them all out of this car and make the poor old fellow a little more comfortable,” replied the conductor.

“Is anything wrong? Can I help?” asked the girl with the bandaged arm, coming up to Bertha.

“An old man is ill—he seems so very ill—and we cannot get to Three Crowns until nine o’clock to-morrow morning. I am wondering whatever we can do for all the night,” said Bertha, with more dismay in her tone than she knew.

“And you have got him to look after? Oh, I am sorry for you! Shall I come and help? Not that I can do much because of my arm; but, anyhow, I can be a little company, and most of the other women here have got children to look after, poor things,” said the young woman, who was not so very young after all.

“Oh, I shall be glad!” cried Bertha. “He is such a poor old man, and he seems so frail. I have thought all day how ill he looks, but for the last hour he has been so very much worse, and now he does not seem to know where he is.”

“Ah, he is light-headed—old people get like that very quickly; but he may be very much better in the morning. Draw those curtains at the back of him; yes, like that. Now we will make him up a bed on that long seat, and when the conductor comes back he will lift the old man on to it for us; no, you must not try to do it yourself, you are not strong enough.”

The girl was so brisk and alert in her ways, that her presence was an infinite consolation to Bertha, on whom was dumped the responsibility of being nurse-in-chief. But it was a night long to be remembered; neither Bertha nor the girl with the bandaged arm had time to even doze, for the poor old man tossed and raved, talking of all sorts of wild and impossible things, or he would break into grievous lamenting about some boy whom he had wronged. He was moaning now for someone whom he called Tom, and a minute later he would burst into bitter invective against some other person, name unknown, who had robbed him of property of great value.

Just about midnight there was a jar and a bang when the engine reached them and was fastened on once more; then they went slowly forward on the journey that had suffered so much delay. At Three Crowns depot, a wooden shed planted by the side of the track in company with half a dozen houses and a tin-roofed store, the old man was carried from the cars, and Bertha had to go with him, because he had hold of her hand, and was crying pitifully that he could not be taken among strangers, who would be sure to rob him. So the cars had to be kept waiting while the short journey to the house of the doctor was accomplished.

“Tell me your name—please tell me,” pleaded the poor old fellow, when he had been taken into the house of the doctor, and Bertha had told him that she must go.

“My name is Bertha Doyne, and I am going to the house of Mr. Ellis at Duck Flats,” said Bertha, and then the doctor laid a firm but kindly hand on the wrist of the poor old fellow to set Bertha free—for the train could not wait indefinitely—and she was hurried away.

CHAPTER VIIWorse than Her Fears

A timberhouse, a barn, two sheds, and a fenced enclosure, that was all, and they stood black specks on the vast snowfield, visible for miles before they were reached.

“There you are, that is home!” exclaimed Tom Ellis, pointing away to the dots on the horizon, and at the same moment the pair of horses quickened their pace, as if they too had seen and understood that yonder was the end of the journey.

Bertha thrust her head a little forward and peered and peered; but she was so nearly blinded with the glare of the snow, that dots on the horizon were quite invisible to her.

“It is home, sweet home,” chanted Tom Ellis, in a musical baritone. He was a cheerful soul, with strong faith but little imagination, and those black dots on the distant horizon encompassed his world. “Cousin Bertha, I hope you are going to be very happy with us at Duck Flats.”

“Thank you,” replied Bertha, in a strictly non-committal tone. But all her heart was crying out against the monotonous ugliness of a landscape that had no hidden things, no mystery—which, after all, is the charm of nature—and nothing that appealed to the imagination in the slightest degree.

“It is a great land,” said Tom, with a sweep of his arm that included the whole horizon from sky to sky.

“It is certainly very big,” said Bertha, wondering if that were the right thing to say, and then she ventured a question: “What do you grow? I mean, what is there under the snow—grass?”

“Wheat is what I grow,” replied Tom, with a thrill of pride in his tone; for to him the man who grew wheat was a public benefactor. It was not his own profit that was secured merely, but the good of the world at large, since everyone needed wheat in some form or other.

“And is it all one big field?” she asked, “or are there fences under the snow?”

“Except for the fence round the house, there is not a fence for ten miles. The land is not all mine, of course; but we all grow wheat in this district, and a ridge thrown up with the plough is boundary enough,” he answered serenely.

“I should have thought that mixed farming would have paid better. I don’t think that I should like to put all my eggs in one basket,” said Bertha, with a little shrug of her shoulders under her wraps. “Suppose the wheat should fail for one year?”

“Then I should fail too, and pretty quickly, I can tell you. But don’t talk about it; the bare idea of such a thing gets on my nerves sometimes, and then I can’t sleep in the nights,” he answered.

“But if you feel like that, why do you take such a risk?” persisted Bertha, who could not understand this sort of vicarious tribulation.

“Because the profits are greater, and there is less outlay in proportion,” he replied. “I grow wheat, and I grow nothing else. Very well, then, I only need the implements for wheat-growing, and most of them I can hire at reasonable rates, which pays me, don’t you see. Then, when my wheat is harvested and thrashed, my cares for the year are over, and I have nothing to do but to plough for next year’s crop. Of course, the thing can’t go on for always, for it stands to reason that you can’t grow the same crop year after year without the ground becoming impoverished. When that time comes, however, I shall sell the land and move on into a new district, where I can start afresh. That is the way that money is made, little cousin. There is risk in it, I grant you, but that is half the fun; it takes from the dead-level monotony of the affair.”

“And does Grace like that sort of thing—the risk, I mean, and being dragged up by the roots, and dumped down in a fresh place when the impoverished land makes a move necessary?” asked Bertha, with some curiosity. She was thinking that if it were herself she should just hate it all.

Tom Ellis shook his head with a merry laugh. “I am afraid that my wife got some very stodgy, old-fashioned notions from living so long in Nova Scotia. Why, she was even saying the other day that she meant to have a flower garden next summer, an awful waste of ground, really, but you can’t get women to be practical. And she insists on my keeping a cow!”

“But why shouldn’t you keep a cow?” asked Bertha, in a puzzled tone, quite unable to see where the enormity of such a course came in.

He laughed again, and told her that she would understand the situation better when she had lived eight or nine years on the prairies.

“Which I never, never will, if by any means in my power I can get away!” said Bertha; but she said it to herself, being too sensitive regarding the feelings of other people to let one word of her deep discontent show itself as yet.

The door was flung open as the horses drew up with a flourish before the house, and Mrs. Ellis appeared on the threshold, her arms stretched out in eager welcome.

“Oh, Bertha, little Bertha, can it really be you! My dear, my dear, it is almost too good to be true!” she cried, and there was so much of downright breakdown in the voice of Grace, that Bertha caught her breath sharply, and at the same moment looked anxiously round, hoping that Tom Ellis did not hear.

But he was hauling the baggage out of the sledge, and was much too busy to notice how near to breakdown his wife had come.

“Oh, what a lot of children! I mean, what a lot they look altogether,” said Bertha, as she was half-led, half-dragged into a room which seemed to be full of babies.

“Yes, are they not darlings? This is Dicky, my eldest, a very bad boy mostly, at other times very good indeed; then comes Molly, who always reminds me of you when you were a baby. After her there are Jimmy, Sue, and Baby Noll, who will be a year old on Christmas Day. Now, children, just give Auntie Bertha the very nicest welcome that you can manage.”

But the small people were much too shy to make any demonstration of welcome. Dicky and Molly stared at her from solemn eyes, which to Bertha seemed to have a disapproving stare; while the twins, Jimmy and Sue, who were two years old, burst into howls of protest when she wanted to kiss them, and the fat baby swelled the chorus.

Bertha’s heart grew heavy with secret dismay. She had so little first-hand knowledge of children, and she wondered how it would be possible to endure the long months of winter shut into a small house with so many crying babies. Perhaps if she had not been so very tired with her long journey, and the wearing strain of the time when they were snowed-up on the western fork, things would not have seemed quite so dreary or so hopelessly hard to bear.

“Oh, my dear, my dear, you cannot think what joy it is to have you here!” cried Grace again. “I had no idea how much I loved you all until I came away, and you cannot think how much I have longed for a sight of some of the dear home faces. But you have altered so much that I should not have known you, and you look so quiet, though you were such a restless, fidgety child, never content to sit still for more than two minutes at the stretch. Your father used to call you ‘Little Quicksilver’, and that is what you were.”

“I am afraid that I must have outgrown the character, then, with my flapper frocks, for I am not a bit quick at anything now, and the girls would tell you the same,” replied Bertha ruefully.

“Oh, what nonsense! You cannot really expect me to believe that a Doyne could be slow at anything, except in the matter of thinking evil of one’s neighbour,” said Grace, with a laugh. “And you are only a flapper still, for the matter of that. How old are you—seventeen?”

“Almost eighteen, but I feel quite thirty,” Bertha answered, with a serious air.

“Wait until you are thirty, then the chances are that you will feel only about thirteen. Oh, I know what girls are like, especially girls with brains, and you were due to be the genius of the family!” said Mrs. Ellis, as she swept the crying twins up from the floor with one arm, and picked up the baby with the other, upon which ensued a great calm, for even a stranger was tolerable when viewed from the safe vantage-ground of mother’s arms. Little Dick and Molly had retired into private life behind her chair, and so the whole family watched Bertha take off her wraps, very much enjoying the spectacle.

“It is Hilda who is the clever one,” said Bertha modestly, “and Anne is very nice-looking, but I have neither beauty nor brains.”

Mrs. Ellis leaned back with her armful of babies and surveyed her young cousin critically. Then she said, with her head held a little on one side: “You are certainly not plain, or, in other words, ugly; and I should say that in a year or two you will probably be rather nice-looking in a quiet, distinguished sort of way. Anne, of course, is downright handsome, but she was always good-looking, even as a child. Hilda is smart and clever, but she is not a genius, though she will make her way in the world, because she is careful and painstaking. She has also a great deal of tact, which, after all, goes further than genius.”

“How well you know them both!” cried Bertha, and half against her will, for at this stage she did not even want to be happy. A feeling of home peace stole into her heart, and she felt that however much she might detest the flat monotony of the prairie, or feel the irksomeness of that little house packed with noisy, crying babies, she could not be wholly unhappy where Grace was.

“Of course, I know them well. Think how your home was my home, and your people were my people,” said Mrs. Ellis. “It was a very dear home, too. But here am I talking and talking, while I have never showed you your room. I am so very sorry, dear, that we could not give you a room to yourself, and I have made Tom promise that he will build a room on at one end next summer, between seeding and harvest, so that you may have a little spot quite to yourself; but until then I am afraid that you will have to put up with Dicky and Molly as room mates.”

Bertha’s heart went right down into her boots as she followed Grace into the smaller of the two bedrooms, which was all that the house contained. She had expected, at the very least, to have a room to herself, and to know that never for one hour in the twenty-four could she be sure of uninvaded privacy was a blow indeed. But it had to be borne, and for the sake of the kind eyes that were on her she bravely hid the trouble, so that Grace, shrewd though she was, did not guess it.

Bertha had not expected Grace to be so kind. It was almost disappointing, in fact, for she had strung herself up to the pitch of heroic self-sacrifice, and lo! there was nothing in the way of sacrifice demanded of her, except perhaps in the matter of not having a bedroom to herself. Even that was rather an advantage than otherwise, if she had but known it, for she was thus unconsciously put upon her honour in the matter of keeping the little chamber tidy, and since habit stands for so much, she was effectually cured of the shocking untidiness which had been such a bone of contention in the old days between herself and her sisters.

But she suffered in those long weeks of winter as she had never suffered in her life before. The bare ugliness of the house and barn was a positive pain to her eyes, which simply ached to look on things of beauty. Then there was nothing in the dead level of the prairie to rest the eyes. From the time she arrived at Duck Flats, in early November, until late in April, it was white from one horizon to the other, and she was forced into the continual wearing of tinted glasses to save herself from going blind with the glare. She grew to hate the snow as she had never hated it before, and one day she broke down in childish crying over a little branch of an evergreen shrub which Tom Ellis had brought from Rownton.

“Oh, please forgive me; I did not mean to be so silly!” she exclaimed, when Grace chanced to find her in tears.

“My dear, I have cried over the bare ugliness of it all too often not to be able to sympathize with anyone else. But it is strange how that passes off, and one grows to find a beauty even in the flat monotony, at least I have found it so,” said Mrs. Ellis, with a rapt look, which poor Bertha could not understand or in any way appreciate.

“That is because you are content with your home and your children; they are your world, and you do not want anything else!” she cried. “But with me it is different, and I feel as if I would give almost everything that I possess for the sight of a tree, or a hill, or a bit of rock-bound shore. I have loved beautiful things all my life, and especially have I loved beautiful scenery, and this is worse—far worse—than I ever dreamed it would be.”

“Poor little girl!” murmured Grace, patting her in a soothing fashion; then she said hopefully, “Do you know, Bertha, I should not be at all surprised if this yearning of yours for beautiful things wakes up the sleeping soul that is in you.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Bertha, in wide-eyed astonishment. She had always imagined that her soul was extremely wideawake; indeed, it had always seemed too much awake for her to do the practical things which everyday life demanded of her.

“I mean that no one has seen the best of you yet, and that you do not even know yourself what is in you. I believe that you are going to surprise us all some day, and the very thing to bring out the best that is in you is this same horrid monotony, as you call it.”

“In what way do you expect me to surprise you?” asked Bertha, pausing in the sewing she was doing but indifferently well and looking at Grace, while a thrill of hope quivered in her heart, for when people expected anything of her, she mostly found that she could rise to it.

“Would it be a surprise if we knew?” demanded Grace, with a laugh. “I expect that it will be a surprise to you when it comes.”

CHAPTER VIIIGreat Expectations

Springwas coming. The feel of it was in the air, and though howling winds and driving rains swept over the plain, while the earth was like a quag on Duck Flats, everyone remarked how fine the weather was, which meant what a welcome change it was after months on months of snow, of frost, and of winds so keen that they seemed to scorch and sear the skin. Bertha sang about her work in the mornings now; it was sheer gladness of heart, because the white covering had gone from the ground and the brown earth was showing once again. The day that the first plough was put into the ground was like a festival, and then followed weeks of such strenuous labour, that there was scarcely time to get through the allotted toil between sunrise and sunset, and they all went to bed to fall at once into dreamless sleep until morning came again.

She had a salary now, just the money that Grace would have paid to a hired help, and the feeling of independence which it gave her ministered not a little to her happiness and content. But the real fount and spring of her happiness lay in the fact that she had begun to write, and that already, young though she was, the sweet of a tiny success had come to her.

By the advice of Grace she had let poetry severely alone. There was no demand for it, and however fond of writing poetry people might be, they rarely cared to read much of it; there was not absorbing interest enough in it. So Bertha had tried her prentice hand upon a short story, and then had gone almost delirious with joy when it was accepted and paid for. But not a word did she say in her letters to Hilda or to Anne of the good thing which had come into her life. It would be time enough for that when she had done something bigger, and all her hopes were centred now on having a book published. If only she could manage that, it would serve as something to show for her labour. So she thought of it by day and dreamed of it at night, while little by little, like the building of a house, the story took on form and shape in her brain.

It was so strange to her to have someone to whom she could talk of her hopes and aspirations. She would never have dreamed of talking to her own sisters as she talked to Grace. They would have laughed at her, and would have said to each other in pitying tones, “If only Bertha were more practical and did not dream so much, what a good thing it would be!”

But Grace seemed always to understand that dreams were the great factor in Bertha’s happiness, and that she could not be happy without them. It was that power to understand which gave Grace the influence on her young cousin’s life. Bertha had not been at Duck Flats for a week before it had seemed quite possible to her to tell Grace everything that was in her heart. She had even confided in Mrs. Ellis the story of that one brave deed of hers which had brought so much discomfort to the three girls, and incidentally had left so much mortification behind it.

Bertha had never been able to tell Anne of what the German had told her, about how the stranger had left money with old Mrs. Saunders to be given to her for saving his life, but which the old woman had kept for her own private use.

“And I have always felt quite certain that the old woman could have told me of his whereabouts if she had liked, only she was afraid that he would find out about her keeping the money,” said Bertha. “But what I never could understand was why he never came to see what had become of his coat and his diamonds.”

“Diamonds?” echoed Grace, in amazement. “My dear Bertha, what are you talking about?”

“They may not be diamonds at all, nothing, in fact, but pebbles from the Micmac shoals,” laughed Bertha. “But you shall see them, and then you will be able to tell me, perhaps.”

She went off to her room and unearthed the coat and the little case from among her belongings, and then told Grace how the man had thrown the coat round her because she shivered so; she had run home in it, and then it had lain in a corner of her room until she was well.

“They are diamonds, I am sure of it,” said Mrs. Ellis, in a tone of conviction. “Tom had an uncle, an old Welshman, who had some choice uncut diamonds in his possession, and Tom has often told me that they looked just like dirty pebbles, only they were so very, very hard, that they could not possibly be mistaken by anyone who had any knowledge of such things. Do you mind if I tell Tom about these, and ask him to look at them?”

“Of course not. But it does make me so fearfully uncomfortable to have the things in my possession like this. I feel as if I had stolen them,” said Bertha, who was very much relieved because at last the story was off her mind, and the knowledge shared by someone else.

Grace laughed. “Oh, you poor little Bertha, you are the sort of child that it takes a mother to understand. I expect that Anne and Hilda would about cry themselves blind if they thought they had in any way failed in their duty to you, and yet, poor girls, they could never get at the heart of you, while you have opened out to me like the rosebuds to the sun.”

Bertha shuffled uneasily. “It was my fault, of course,” she said stiffly. “But I had a downright morbid dislike of being laughed at or criticised, so I mostly kept things to myself.”

“Well, I shall laugh at you and criticise you, and when you shut yourself up like an oyster I shall worm things out of you somehow, so be prepared,” said Grace, and she had been true to her word.

Mr. Ellis had looked at the diamonds which were in the case, and he had declared them to be very valuable indeed. “There is no mistaking them, and they are worth many thousands of dollars. I wish you had not got them, Bertha; it is horrid to think of your being bothered with valuable stuff like that.”

“Put them into the bank,” suggested Grace.

But Bertha shook her head. “I don’t think I will,” she said slowly. “It would only cause comment and speculation, perhaps; for how could a girl as poor as I am become possessed of diamonds like these in an ordinary way? Besides, I may some day encounter the man to whom they belong, and then I can restore them without any fuss, don’t you see? If no one knows that I have them, there is no danger of their being stolen.”

“The house might burn down,” suggested Grace.

“That would not matter at all so far as the diamonds are concerned, for I keep them in my tin trunk, and there is little danger of a diamond robbery right out in the heart of the prairie,” said Bertha; and then she carried the little morocco case back to her room and put it, with the coat, in the bottom of the tin trunk, after which they sat and talked of Tom’s old uncle, the Welshman, who had brought him up, then quarrelled with him, and cast him off in his young manhood just when most he needed a friend to help him.

“But I have got on in spite of being left to my own devices,” said Tom, with pardonable pride in his own achievements, and then he went on more soberly. “But it upsets me to think that the old man would persist in believing that I wanted his money. I was a great deal more keen on having someone to care for. Perhaps I ought to have been more patient with him. But when he was always flinging it at me that I was hanging round for the chance of what I could get out of him, it riled me so badly that I just cleared out and came west.”

“How hard it must have been for you!” murmured Bertha, who already knew Tom Ellis well enough to understand that his loneliness must have been frightful.

“It was about as rough as I cared for,” he answered. “When I got off the cars at Winnipeg I had only half a dollar left, so I had to go to work sharp, and not stand too fine as to what sort of job I got. I did anything I could get for two years, and then, as I had saved a little money, I pre-empted on a quarter section of land out here, lived on it for six months in each year to fulfil requirements, and the other six months I went east and earned enough to keep me going.”

“And that is where Grace came in, I suppose?” There was keen interest in Bertha’s tone. She was remembering that Anne and Hilda had always maintained that Grace had married beneath her, but surely a man who could carve his way through difficulties like these was well worth caring for. It was far more to his credit that he had carved his own way, than if he had still hung on with his uncle, bearing all sorts of abuse meekly for the sake of the gain which might come to him later.

The coming of the spring made a vast difference to the comfort of the little house on the prairie. There seemed so much more room to move now, for the children were out from morning to night, not even coming indoors to eat if they could only get their food given to them out-of-doors. The work of the house could much of it be done outside also. Tom Ellis had fitted up a bench and a table on the veranda, and here the washing of dishes and the washing of clothes, with many other similar activities, could be carried on—which lessened the work in no small degree.

Another horse had been bought to help with the spring ploughing and seeding, and when the corn was all in, Tom bought a side-saddle from a man who had no further use for it, and insisted on Grace going out for rides with him. He would have taken Bertha also, but she was not good at that sort of locomotion, and greatly preferred being left at home to look after the house and the children in the long quiet evenings, while Tom and Grace went for long expeditions among their own crops or those of their widely scattered neighbours. Then, with the cares of the day all done, and the children asleep or at play, Bertha enjoyed herself in her own way, working at the book which was to make her famous, as she fondly hoped, or merely dreaming dreams.

She was sitting so one evening, when the twins and Noll were safe in bed, while Dicky and Molly worked hard at making a flower garden in one corner of the paddock, which they had dug up and were planting with wild columbine, common blue violets, early milk vetch, and silver weed, which she had helped them to dig up and bring home earlier in the evening. It was getting late, but Bertha had not noticed it; indeed, she was oblivious to most things just then, except the very pleasant dreams in which she was indulging, of being able to earn enough money by literature to keep her from the necessity of doing anything else. Her arms ached with breadmaking, washing, and ironing, and all the other activities of the prairie day, where, if one does not do the work with one’s own hands, it has to go undone. Then up sauntered Dicky, his spade over his shoulder, while Molly trailed limply along behind.

“We’re about done, Bertha, put us to bed,” said the small boy, dropping in a heap on the floor, because he was quite too tired to stand up any longer.

“Very well, I will bath Molly while you eat some supper, and then you can bath yourself, because you are a man, or soon will be,” said Bertha, coming out of her dreams with an effort, and thinking how delightful it would be for her when these minor worries such as bathing children and that sort of thing were lifted from her.

“Oh, I had rather go to bed as I am to-night, and I can’t be very dirty, for I had a dreadful big wash yesterday,” sighed Dicky, who had rolled over on to his back, and was surveying the rising moon with a very sleepy gaze.

Bertha laughed. “I wonder what the sheets would be like to-morrow if you went to bed as you are,” she said, as she picked up Molly—that being the quickest way of getting the little girl into the house. “Suppose you get your buttons all undone while you are waiting, and then it won’t take you so long.”

By the time Molly’s bedtime toilet was complete, the little evening prayer said, and the child had trotted off to bed, Dicky was fast asleep on the veranda floor, and Bertha had to undress him and put him into the water before he roused at all; even then he was almost asleep again before she could get him into bed.

“Oh dear, why could he not have kept awake a little longer!” she exclaimed, going back to her dreaming, only to find the spell broken, and that a strange restlessness had taken possession of her which would not let her even sit still.

“I wonder when Grace and Tom are coming home?” she said to herself, as the twilight, grey and mysterious, crept over the prairie. A flock of birds flew shrilling overhead, and then there was silence unbroken and profound.

Unable to bear the oppression of the quiet, Bertha went into the house, looked at the sleeping children, lighted a lamp, but remembering that the petroleum was getting low, she put it out again and went out-of-doors, because, after all, the silence and the waiting were more bearable out there than inside the close little house. Then a great sigh close at hand startled her almost into a fit, until the sound of a subdued munching reached her ears, and she realized that it was only the third horse which was feeding with the cow in the paddock that had frightened her so badly.

“Oh dear, how silly it is to be afraid!” she cried, pressing her hand over her fluttering heart. “I don’t suppose there is a creature within three miles of the place, unless, indeed, Tom and Grace are nearly home. But we shall be fearfully tired to-morrow if we are so late going to bed to-night.”

Her panic passed off presently. It was really very pleasant sitting out there in the cool darkness, and, almost without knowing it, she began to get drowsy. But she must not go to sleep, oh, that would never do! Shaking herself vigorously, she sat erect for about five minutes, and then—

But it must have been hours later, and the night was growing very cold, when she awoke with a start to hear a long sobbing breath close beside her.

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