RESULTS.
MRS. KINGSCOTE'S STORY—(continued).
IT was only under the first shock of the accident that Bertram was so
entirely overcome as to show fully what he felt. I hardly knew what to
do with the boy; he was so overpowered with remorse, for having
unwittingly guided the poor Murchisons into danger. Yet nobody could
justly blame him. The little talk with Mrs. Murchison, from which
I had hoped so much, seemed rather to add to his distress. Her look
of patient sorrow impressed him, I suppose, as it had impressed me.
When I reached home, after leaving her with her husband at Mrs.
Coles', Ellie told me that she had seen nothing of Bertram meanwhile.
He had gone straight to his room, she said, and had not since come
out. "And I thought he mightn't like me to go to him," she added.
No; he would not like that, if he were overcome, I knew well. In a
general way he could not endure that even I, his mother, should see
him shed a tear. He had always such a spirit of his own. So I told
Ellie she was right; and I went upstairs, not without hesitation.
But the door was not locked; and when I tapped, he at once said,
"Come in." I found him on the bed, pale and restless, tossing to and
fro, the picture of misery.
"I'm only seedy. It's nothing, mother," he said, with a husky attempt
at a laugh. "Just a little—like what I was in the train."
"Poor Bertie!" I said.
"Oh, it's nothing—only stupidity," he declared again. "I shall be all
right by-and-by,"—and then he could hardly get out the question—"How
are they?"
"Louey is better," I said. "Murchison much the same. Not conscious
yet. I fear he may not be—perhaps for some days. And Mrs. Murchison—"
I suppose my voice expressed the pity I was feeling; for Bertram
turned his face away, and buried it in the pillow. I could see him
shaking with the sobs that he would smother down; but I knew I must
not make him give way. He would not like afterward to remember that he
had done so: and presently he looked at me again, outwardly composed,
only much flushed.
"Mother, why do such things happen?" he burst out.
My sunny-tempered boy had never asked this question before. He had
always had a happy spirit, and a happy home; and I do not think bodily
suffering on his own part would ever have drawn it from him; though he
had known, off and on, much ill-health. But so far he had seen little
of sorrow; he had not been brought face to face with the great
realities of life and death—the great underlying mysteries of our
present existence. I knew what it meant, when he broke into that
passionate question, "Why do such things happen?" and I answered him
slowly—
"I don't know, altogether, Bertie. Some reasons are beyond our reach.
But it is partly because men are selfish and thoughtless. If proper
warning had been given, nobody need have been hurt."
"If we had known," he said.
"But others did know; and they are responsible."
"I wouldn't be they!" he muttered. "It's bad enough as it is."
I tried to make him see that, while he could not but feel distressed,
no real responsibility attached itself to him. As a complete stranger
to the place, he could not possibly have known or guessed the danger.
Even my husband, after one walk under the cliffs, had not thought
of forbidding the children to go there. He had only noticed as curious
the remarkable overhanging of the rock. I suppose, if Philip had been
a scientific man, he would have read more clearly the state of things;
but then he never was scientific. Whatever there is in Bertram of a
scientific tendency, he inherits from my family, not from his
father's. But I am wandering from the point.
I did my best to make poor Bertie see this,—how completely he was
himself free from blame in the matter; how entirely blame belonged
to those who did know of the danger, and who omitted to warn
others off.
"You mean that poor little Bessie was killed, because they didn't
care?" he said.
"Yes, I mean that," I said, "for one side of the question. Only one
side. There is another!"
He asked listlessly, "What side? I don't see it."
"Perhaps our Lord wanted little Bessie in Paradise," I said softly.
"And perhaps it was better for her not to be left longer on earth."
"I don't see why," he murmured.
"No need that we should see why. We have not the settling of it,"
I said. "We know so little about the real reasons of things; or about
the future of those we love. It is enough to trust the love and wisdom
of our God. Even though some are to be blamed for her death, it may
still be the very best and happiest thing for her to have been called
Home so early."
"Wouldn't it be best for everybody, if you look at it in that way,
mother?"
"No," I said; "certainly not. Not even though it is 'far better' to be
'with Christ,' and though Paradise is far better than earth. God has
work for most of us here, and it is not good for us to go until that
work is done. For some it may be that He has work there, and not
here."
All this comes back to me with the help of a few written notes jotted
down at the time. It has been a habit of mine to keep memoranda
of certain conversations,—generally with my children only. If I had
not done so, this talk, like many others, might have faded quite out
of my memory.
Bertram seemed to be a little comforted; and then I told him of a plan
for Miles,—that he should be, for a time at least, our under-gardener.
"How good of you and father! That's capital!" he said. "Miles is a
jolly boy!"
"You and we owe him much," I said.
"Yes, it was so plucky of him. I wonder we didn't both get killed,—
it was such a thundering big rock, you know," declared Bertram, oddly
trying to seem indifferent the moment he was able to master himself.
And then there was a sigh. "Doesn't it seem horrid that he should have
saved me from being hurt, and that I should have brought all this
upon them!"
So then we had to go through it all again, and I had to comfort him
afresh.
However, I think the idea of Miles working under old Nichols did him
most good, by diverting his thoughts into a new channel. He was able
soon to wonder what old Nichols would say, and to laugh at the thought
of our aged retainer's probable grumpiness.
Not that Nichols was really so old. I suppose he was under fifty-five
at that time, though anybody would have taken him for sixty-five
at least. He was stooping and slow, grey and wrinkled. He had been
a member of our household for twelve years, and of my father's
household for fifteen years before that; so Nichols was entirely
one of us, and he never hesitated to show what he thought.
The possibility of his "grumpiness" had occurred to me already.
Nichols knew that we intended to get help for him; and he was not
at all gratified, even while perfectly well aware that he could not
do all the work alone. Our Ermespoint garden was more than twice
as large as our former garden, and Nichols was becoming each year
less capable of hard work. Still, having done alone for us during
so many years, it was perhaps not surprising that he disliked the
notion of any interloper.
My husband was so busy next day that I undertook to explain to Nichols
about the new arrangement. He listened solemnly, his under lip
protruding, and his shaggy eyebrows drawn together.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, when I stopped, and he said no more.
"I am sure you will find it a great comfort in a little while,"
I said. "Miles will be here distinctly to help you, and to do whatever
you tell him. I think you will find him quick and willing."
"Can't abear boys," growled Nichols. "More trouble than they're
worth."
"Still, the work has to be done," I said, "and you cannot do it alone.
I doubt if you would care to have a man to help you, even if we could
undertake the expense."
No, indeed; Nichols would have objected to a man far more than to a
boy, and I knew this well. He mumbled something about "bother of
teaching."
Of course it would be a little bother; but then Nichols was not lazy,
and I told him so. No doubt, a boy already trained in gardening and in
the care of a pony, would be less trouble than a boy who knew almost
nothing of either. But there was the question of the Murchisons' need—
the pressing necessity that Miles should find something to do. Even if
he should, later on, go into his father's trade, which I then thought
probable, he had to do what he could for the moment to bring in
something; and he would be none the worse in the end for a short
training under Nichols. I explained all this, adding, "Besides, think
of the boy's courage in saving Master Bertram. That ought to make you
willing to take a little extra trouble."
Not even Nichols' love for our Bertram would make the old fellow
acknowledge himself in the wrong. What he had once said, that he would
stick to, with the obstinacy of an unreasoning mind. However, he
understood that, whether he were willing or no, the thing had to be.
I wondered privately how the two would get on together. Some patience
would be needed on the part of Miles, for Nichols could be surly.
During the first two or three days, matters were not as I wished.
Nichols insisted on doing everything himself; and Miles could be seen
standing about, unoccupied and rather unhappy. If he offered to do
this or that, he was sharply desired to "mind his own business." Once
I said to the boy, "Patience, Miles. It will all come right." Further
than this I would not at once interfere. Things are sometimes best
left to settle themselves.
Bertram was indoors for nearly a week after the accident, thoroughly
unwell, but no sooner was he able to go out again, than affairs took
a new aspect. If Miles were for a moment unemployed, Bertie was sure
to rush up, exclaiming, "You don't want Miles just now, I see, so he
can come and do something for me."
"I suppose he isn't here, sir, for nought but play," Nichols would
retort, immediately setting Miles to work; and very soon Miles had as
much to do as he could manage. He proved himself so apt and obliging,
that Nichols speedily learnt his value, and the two became firm
friends.
Still, I think that even then the real strength of Miles' affection
went out towards Bertram. Everybody loved Bertie, and Miles was no
exception. If Bertie wanted him, and Nichols was in a mood to make
no objection, the boy's face would gleam with delight. Bertie liked
Miles greatly; and the two boys drew together, much after the same
fashion that Mrs. Murchison and I drew together; belonging indeed
to different positions in life, yet none the less each loving and
trusting the other.
But I must speak now of poor Murchison, lying helplessly on his bed.
A few days brought him back to clear consciousness; and though his
head was weak still, from the blow it had received, improvement in
that direction was pretty steady, and the broken bones were slowly
mending. In other directions matters were less satisfactory. There was
a marked powerlessness of the lower limbs,—whether likely to be
permanent no one could or would say. Dr. Wray seemed reluctant to give
a decided opinion; yet I thought from the first that he was not very
hopeful.
Murchison had two devoted nurses—Mrs. Coles and his wife. My husband
took care that Coles should be no loser; and indeed for many weeks
we undertook nearly all the expense of rent for the lodgings. This
could not, of course, go on indefinitely. Our purse had many and heavy
calls upon it, and we were paying Miles beyond his real due, so far
as his powers of work were concerned.
Happily, the little home at Littleburgh had found a tenant, otherwise
I do not know how the Murchisons would have managed to get on, despite
our help and Miles' earnings.
For a while it seemed to me that Mrs. Murchison hardly realised how
the days were slipping by, and how slight was the improvement in her
husband's state, until one particular afternoon when the whole
appeared to come upon her sharply, like a fresh blow. I had seen her
in the morning, anxious, yet placid, able to smile and be pleased when
I told her how we all liked Miles. Later in the day I went again,
to find her alone, seemingly overwhelmed. I cannot forget the hollow
look of misery in her eyes, as she stood gazing at me.
"He will never get well, ma'am," she said quietly, with the quiet
of despair, "never! Jervis asked the doctor himself, and I was there.
The doctor didn't say just that, you know, but he meant it. He said it
would be long—long—and he bid my husband not look forward."
"No," I said, "I don't think either of you ought to look forward
too much just now. 'Day by day' must be your motto."
"But if it's to be always?" she said.
"You cannot tell that it is to be always," I answered. "Don't be sure
that you know what the doctor meant, beyond what he said."
"I couldn't help knowing, ma'am, and Jervis knows too," she said.
"Dr. Wray is a kind man. He's young, but he's uncommon kind. He said
he made no doubt my husband would get better; only he couldn't promise
he'd ever be up to hard work again. He said he wouldn't be the man
he had been. And Jervis says to him, 'Shall I be able to walk?' and
the doctor said he couldn't promise; time might do a deal, but he
couldn't promise. And when the doctor was gone, Jervis says, 'I know
what that means, Annie. I'm a cripple for life,' says he. And then he
groaned, like as if he'd break his heart, and he says, 'I'd better
have died; a deal better,' says he. And I came away, for I couldn't
stand it, ma'am. If the trouble's got to be, it's got to be borne;
but, oh, it's hard! He's been a good husband to me; God bless him!"
I don't know how much more she said, but she came to a stop suddenly,
and hid her face, rocking to and fro. I heard her whisper,
"My husband's all alone."
"I will go to him," I said; and before I went I said just a few words
of sympathy,—something about how God loved them both, and would care
for them still, and how she must try to rest her troubles on Him. Then
I passed on to the room behind.
He looked up at me, poor fellow, in his helplessness: a kind of sad
protesting look, yet braver than hers, not so crushed.
"My poor little woman is terrible upset, ma'am," he said. "The
doctor's let it out at last. Not but what I've been pretty sure."
I sat down by him, and said—
"I could wish you had not asked yet."
"Think so, ma'am? I don't know as it's any good not knowing." Then he
said, in almost his wife's words, "If a thing's got to be—"
"If God wills it for you, then you will be willing too," I said.
"Ay, that's a better way of putting it," he said. "But I won't deny
it's hard to bear. It is hard!" and his face showed what he felt.
"Me, that's always been so strong, and maybe I've thought too much
of my strength; me to come down to this, and be a burden on them
I'd ought to work for! It is hard."
"But you do not really know that it will be so always," I said.
"The doctor did not say that."
"He said he couldn't promise I'd ever be up and about again."
"No," I said, "he cannot promise that. Still, he did not say
positively that you never could or would. He only spoke doubtfully.
You must try to leave the matter as he left it. There is room
for prayer and for hope."
"And hope's a wonderful help," Murchison said, almost cheerfully.
"Yes, thank you, ma'am, I'll try to hope." Then he added, "But my poor
little woman!"
So he thought most of her in this trouble, and she thought most
of him. I could but wish that all husbands and wives were
like-spirited.