A Wild Journey
IT was 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.