A Series of Shocks
A FIT of shivering seized Bertha. Of course she was weak and unstrung
still, or the incident would not have struck her as being of such
magnitude. As it was, she felt as if she were up against the greatest
trouble of her life. Was the man a thief? Had he stolen the diamonds,
and so when he lost them was afraid to make enquiries about them through
fear of being found out? But that seemed hardly probable, because, of
course, he might have come to enquire for his coat. The question which
troubled her most was whether he would think that she was a thief.
Indeed, her fertile imagination immediately sketched a pretty but wholly
improbable piece of fiction, as to how the man had missed his diamonds,
but would not enquire for them, being willing to sit down under the loss
because she had saved his life.
“Oh dear, oh dear, what shocking nonsense, and I don’t even know that
they are diamonds!” she exclaimed, putting the book back into the
bookcase, and turning her attention resolutely from the affair because
it worried her so.
To-morrow she would go as far as the little house where Jan Saunders
lived, and ask for the address of the man she had helped. Then she would
send him a letter, telling him what she had found, and ask him to fetch
his property or tell her how to send it to him, and so she would be quit
of this tiresome responsibility.
That evening was full of petty worries. Anne came home from school very
late, because she had been out to a farm which lay far back in the
woods, to take home the little girl who had burned herself in the dinner
hour. And when she did get home she was most dreadfully depressed, for
the mother of the child, instead of being decently grateful for the care
and kindness bestowed upon the little girl, chose to consider herself
aggrieved, because the children were left to themselves in the noon
spell.
“She said that I was paid to look after them, and I ought never to leave
them. Just fancy what a hateful time I should have of it if I had to
stay in that pokey, horrible schoolhouse for the dinner hour!” said
Anne, with more heat than she usually displayed; for she was blessed
with an evenly balanced temperament, and was not easily ruffled.
“But no one would expect you to stay, would they?” asked Bertha, opening
her eyes very wide. “No reasonable person, I mean.”
“School committee-men are not always the most reasonable of creatures,
and as Mrs. Scott declares that she will lodge a formal complaint and
ask that the teacher be requested to stay at the school for the noon
spell, it is quite probable that I may find myself with a little extra
duty tacked on to what I already have,” replied Anne, with a short laugh
that had very little mirth in it.
“If it comes to that, I will take the noon-spell duty for you. The
committee won’t be particular who it is, provided there is some
responsible person there,” said Bertha, with intent to console.
“My dear, you could not manage that rabble,” said Anne impatiently.
“They would be quite equal to turning you out of the school and locking
the door upon you if you chanced to offend them, or they might take the
other course of locking you in. It takes every bit of will power that I
possess to master them, I can tell you, and I was born to rule, which
you never were.”
“No, I’m afraid I wasn’t,” admitted Bertha meekly, but she felt keenly
mortified notwithstanding, because Anne had not seemed more grateful for
her offer of help.
Even her request to help in the preparation of the needlework for the
class next day met with a refusal, for Anne was irritated with her
reception from Mrs. Scott, and she was not sufficiently alert to see how
much Bertha wanted to be of service.
So the evening, which might have been so restful and pleasant, was
spoiled for both of them, and they were thankful when bedtime came.
“I shall go back to my own room to-morrow, and then you can have your
bed to yourself again,” said Bertha, as the two prepared for slumber.
“Yes, that will be better, now that you are quite well again,” Anne
answered, in an absent-minded fashion. And she was so silent and
absorbed that Bertha chafed in miserable discomfort, wishing she had put
her own room straight and aired the bed to-day, then Anne could have had
her own room free from disturbance. With this sort of mood upon her, it
was not wonderful that Bertha said nothing of what she had found in the
pocket of that wonderfully roomy overcoat. Anne might be angry because
the coat had been forgotten so long, or she might feel hurt because of
the appearance of neglect on her part, in not having hunted round
Bertha’s little bedroom to find the wet garments which had lain unheeded
so long.
Next morning the sun shone, and although the wind was keen with the
breath of coming winter, the air was so pleasant that everything looked
easier. Even the prospect of having to stay in school for the noon spell
was not so dreadful as it had seemed last night, and Anne set off for
her day of work in quite good spirits, just her own serene self, with
all the petulance of the previous night quite gone.
Then Bertha brought the coat to the fire, and, drying it carefully,
folded it into a neat parcel ready for sending away. When this was done
she put on her hat and coat, and, taking a stick, because she felt so
waggly on her feet, she set out for the little cottage where Jan
Saunders lived. But she did not take the coat with her, for she knew
very well that, being a useful garment, it would probably get no
farther, as Mrs. Saunders had very stretchable ideas on the rights of
property.
Oh, it was good to be out again, even though her feet were not all they
should be in the matter of steadiness, and Bertha walked slowly along
Mestlebury Main Street, noting all the differences which had come over
the face of the gardens and orchards during the time in which she had
been shut up in the house.
Mrs. Saunders was out on the cliff as usual, and as usual she was doing
nothing but gaze out to sea, while old Jan smoked a pipe in calm content
at her side. They both fell upon Bertha with a greeting that was fairly
rapturous, and the old woman, with a tear in her bleared old eye, said
fervently, “My dear, my dear, you look that delicate that a puff of wind
might blow you away!”
“It would have to be a very strong puff—something that was first cousin
to a whirlwind or a tornado, I fancy,” replied Bertha, with a laugh, and
then she turned to Jan, who might be trusted to tell the truth if he
knew it.
“Can you tell me where the man lives whose boat got stuck on the Shark’s
Teeth?” she asked.
“Furrin parts somewhere, ain’t it, Mother?” asked the old man, taking
his pipe from his mouth and looking across at his wife.
Mrs. Saunders pursed up her mouth in a disapproving pucker and slowly
shook her head. “He said something about Peru, but it might have been
Australia, or somewhere round that way. Anyhow, he was in a mighty hurry
to be off again that night, when we had pulled him out of the water and
dried him up so beautiful. Downright ungrateful I called it, for I had
arranged for him to sleep with Herr Schmudcht, and I had lent a pair of
nearly clean sheets to put on the bed, and then the gentleman would not
stay, and Herr Schmudcht has slept in those sheets ever since, so now I
expect they will want washing before ever I can lend them to anyone
else; it is really downright vexing, so it is,” and Mrs. Saunders heaved
a windy sigh over her misplaced kindness, which was meeting such a poor
return, but Bertha burst out laughing.
“I should insist on Herr Schmudcht washing the sheets himself; I am sure
that he is stronger than you are,” she said, and then becoming suddenly
grave, she asked again, and this time with a ring of real anxiety in her
tone, “But where did the man go to on that night when he left here, and
what was his name?”
“My dear, he wasn’t a man, he was a gentleman,” said Mrs. Saunders, with
quite crushing emphasis, and then she went on, “It wasn’t for us to be
asking him all sorts of personal questions. I never was one for poking
into business what did not concern me, I am thankful to say.”
“But you surely must know something about him; and I want to write to
him,” said Bertha impatiently, and then she was surprised to see a
flicker of fear in the old woman’s blear eyes.
“Well, I guess that the writing will have to wait a bit. Perhaps he will
happen along this way again some day, and then you can say what you want
to—a much better fashion than putting things in black and white, so
that they can be sweared to in a court of justice,” said Mrs. Saunders,
with a toss of her head, and not another bit of information could Bertha
get out of her.
“I shall have to ask the girls what I had better do,” she said to
herself, as she went slowly back to her home to start on her belated
morning’s work.
Even that short walk had tired her so much, that it needed the entire
stock of her lately acquired resolution to keep from sitting down and
letting things go anyhow. But by a great effort she stuck to her task,
and was all ready for Anne, who came rushing home about a quarter past
twelve, snatched a hasty meal, and rushed back again, uneasy all the
time lest her turbulent charges should get up to serious mischief in her
absence.
Then Bertha was left with the long afternoon before her, for Hilda could
not be home much before six o’clock. However, there was the house to put
tidy, and the work she could not accomplish in the morning was cleared
out of the way in the afternoon, and she found herself with an hour of
rest before the girls came home.
She was tremendously proud of the tidy rooms, and she kept walking
backwards and forwards admiring her handiwork, until some undarned
stockings poking from an over-full drawer in Hilda’s room suggested a
fresh outlet for her new-found energy, and taking them out to the
kitchen, she sat down by the stove and began to darn them. It was the
work that she hated most of all, so the voluntary doing of it was the
most real self-sacrifice that she could have shown. However, Hilda had
been forced to do all sorts of things for her when she was ill, and so
it was up to her to make what amends were in her power. Anne was in, and
supper was ready, when Hilda came back from Paston, rushing into the
house like a whirlwind, and shouting in great excitement—
“Girls! girls! I have got some of the most wonderful news for you. What
do you think is going to happen?”
“How should we know?” cried Anne, standing erect and staring at Hilda in
amazement; for the second sister usually hugged her dignity too closely
for exhibitions like these.
“I am going to Europe!” cried Hilda, stopping in the middle of the
floor, and dropping the words out one by one with tremendous emphasis
and solemnity.
“You are going to Europe—when?” cried Anne, who was the first to
recover the power of speech, while Bertha caught at a chair to steady
herself, because the room would keep swinging round at such a rate.
“We start next month, just four weeks to-day. I am to take Mrs. Nelson’s
two daughters to Germany for a year. Oh, Anne, Anne, don’t say that I
can’t go! It is the chance of my life; I can never hope to get such
another opportunity,” said Hilda, casting herself upon her elder sister
and hugging her frantically, as if to squeeze a consent out of her in
that way.
“It is not for me to say that you may not take a chance when it comes,”
said Anne, turning suddenly pale, as pale as Bertha, who still clung
trembling to the chair. “Especially I could not say anything to you now,
when I have just decided to take my own chance of an easier life. Only
it does seem hard for poor Bertha that we should both be going away at
the same time.”
“I was afraid you would say that,” said Hilda; and now there was a
mutinous look on her face. “But why, oh why, should I have to lose my
chance in life because of Bertha? She can surely be boarded out
somewhere for a year; I can spare a part of my salary to help pay for
it, and we can sell this furniture. Oh, let us be willing to make any
sacrifice to meet an emergency like this. I did not venture to put one
straw of protest in your way, Anne, when you said that Mr. Mortimer
wanted to marry you, so it is hardly fair that you should begrudge me my
chance, now that it has come to me.”
“My dear, I do not grudge it to you,” said Anne, with keen distress on
her beautiful face. “I was only thinking of poor Bertha, and how hard it
would be for her.”
“What is it all about?” asked Bertha, finding her tongue for the first
time; but speaking with horrible difficulty, because her heart was
beating so fast. “Are you going to marry Mr. Mortimer, Anne? And when?”
Anne came closer, and put her arms round Bertha’s trembling figure,
holding her sister in a tight embrace.
“Bertha, darling, I would have told you before, only you have been so
ill, and I did not like to worry you until you were quite strong. Mr.
Mortimer came all the way from Australia to ask me to marry him, and I
said yes, for I was so tired of this awful driving life; but I have been
afraid ever since that I put my own happiness and comfort before your
welfare, and it has seemed so dreadfully selfish of me. This is why I
flew out at Hilda just now.”
“There is no need to worry about me,” said Bertha, in a dazed sort of
tone, “only it has all come so suddenly, that I do not seem able to take
it in.”
“Of course it looks like trouble to begin with,” burst in Hilda, and her
voice was just a wee bit patronizing, or so poor Bertha, in her new
sensitiveness, judged it to be. “But next year, when I come back from
Europe, as Mrs. Nelson says, I shall be able to charge almost what I
like for lessons, and then we can set up house together.”
“Here in Mestlebury?” asked Bertha, not because she particularly wanted
to know, but because she must say something, just to keep herself from
sobbing like a baby.
“I should sincerely hope not,” laughed Hilda. “I would have left this
out-of-the-way corner of the country ever so long ago if it had depended
upon me only. But there was Anne’s school to be considered. We could not
afford to keep this house on if I lived in lodgings, and so I have had
to put up with it, and fearfully wearing work it has been. Think of the
miles I have had to travel to earn a dollar, and all the fag, and the
wear and tear of my life. Oh, no more of Mestlebury for me, thank you,
not when once Anne is married.”
“Where will you live, when—when you are married?” demanded Bertha
sharply, as she faced round upon Anne. A sudden dread had assailed her
that Anne would have to go right away, and the thought was unbearable.
Anne’s face fell. By instinct she guessed what was in the mind of
Bertha, and it seemed such horrible cruelty to take one’s own happiness
when it brought so much pain to the others, or at least to Bertha; for
Hilda, with her own career in front of her, could not be expected to
care so much about the parting.
“Dear, Roger has a big sheep run fifty miles from Adelaide, and that is
where our home will be.”
Anne’s tone was low and soft; then, when she had finished, a deep hush
fell on the group. Bertha stood white and rigid, like a figure carved in
stone, and the other two were afraid to disturb her.
It was shock upon shock, blow upon blow, and it was small wonder that
she was left, as it were, battered and breathless, trying to realize all
that these changes would mean to her, yet, in spite of it, too dull and
numbed with the pain to take it in.