A Dreadful Blow
“WHAT is it, oh, what is it?” cried Bertha, not really wideawake even
now, and so bewildered by the strangeness of her waking as scarcely to
know what she was about.
“Berfa, Berfa, I’m so fwightened, and I want mummy,” said the voice of
Molly close beside her, and then instantly Bertha’s power of
self-control returned. She had been afraid of she knew not what. But
when it was only Molly in trouble who was sobbing at her side, she could
be brave again, or at least she could soothe the child and keep her
fears to herself.
“My poor darling, did you come out here on your bare toes?” she
exclaimed, picking the child up in her arms and groping her way back
into the house, where she lighted the lamp, for the night was now at its
darkest.
“I waked, and it was dark, and I couldn’t find no uns,” explained Molly,
with a whimper—she was addicted to becoming incoherent under stress of
emotion—then she asked, in a plaintive tone, “Where is mummy, Berfa? I
wants her.”
“Mummy has not come back yet, darling; but I will put you into bed, and
then you will shut your eyes and go fast to sleep again,” said Bertha,
soothing the frightened child with loving words and caresses, though she
was not a little anxious and dismayed herself; for the clock in the
kitchen pointed to half-past one, and she knew that something dreadful
must have happened to the two who had gone out riding; because they
would never have left her alone in this fashion if they could have
helped it.
“Will mummy be home when I wakes?” demanded Molly tearfully; and Bertha
made haste to be as soothing as possible, for as a rule Molly could not
enjoy being miserable unless all the others were miserable too, so a
shower with her stood commonly for a downpour all round, and Bertha felt
that she simply could not bear having all those children crying together
just now.
“Yes, I expect mummy will be here by that time,” she said cheerfully.
“But she will not like it if she comes home in the dark and finds you
awake, so you had better make haste and go to sleep again.”
“Me will,” replied Molly, struggling with her sobs and suppressing them
with a great effort, for the stroll out-of-doors into the big dark to
find Bertha had tried her small nerves considerably.
When Molly was safely asleep again, Bertha went back to the door, but
this time she did not put out the light. If they were coming home now
they would need the light to guide them, maybe; in any case, she was
glad to have the company of it as she stood on the dark threshold
straining her eyes and her ears to the night.
What was that? Surely it was a cry away in the distance!
Panting and trembling she clung to the doorpost, her head bent forward
so that she might hear the quicker, but for a time she heard nothing
more. The hands of the clock were pointing to past two; in another hour
it would be daylight, but what, oh what would the new day bring?
Ah, there it was again! A real cry, and no mistake about it. She left
off trembling then. It was no use to shake and shiver when there was
something to do, and Bertha was quite sure by this time that there was
need of her help, only first she must find out from which direction the
cry had come.
Leaving the door wide open, so that the light of the lamp might shine
out, she went away from the house, right out to the darkness of the
paddock, and then stood listening again. She thought that she would hear
better out here, and when that cry came again she meant to answer it,
for all thought of fear was gone from her heart now, and only the desire
to help remained.
“Ber-tha, Ber-tha!”
It was Tom’s voice that called, so it was Grace that was hurt, she told
herself, with a quick understanding of the situation. Then she lifted up
her voice in a ringing shout and began to run. Oh, how she ran! Slipping
through the rails of the paddock fence, she took a bee line across the
brown earth from which the green blades of wheat were already strongly
springing.
It was getting lighter—what a mercy that the night was past! Even in
her sharp anxiety she had time for this bit of thankfulness. Then she
paused, wondering whether she were running wide or going straight, for
as yet she could see nothing but the unending stretch of brown earth,
with the dim shadows of the springing wheat.
“Where are you?” she called, straining her eyes and her ears anew.
“I am here; you are coming straight,” answered the voice; but it was so
exhausted, and so filled with anguish, that Bertha caught her breath in
a sob, realizing that the trouble might be even worse than anything
which she had feared.
On and on she ran, until it seemed to her that she had been running for
hours, and she thought with dismay of the five sleeping babies which she
had left in the little lonely house with the door wide open. But it
could not be helped, and after all they might not wake.
Ah, there was Tom! She saw him now; he was staggering along under a
burden which seemed to weigh him down.
He was carrying Grace! Then where were the horses?
But Bertha had no time for speculation just then, for just as she picked
him out in the pale light she saw him lurch and stumble, try to recover
himself, but failing, pitch forward on to the ground. Surely she had
never run so fast before! She could hear herself panting as she sped
along. But before she could reach him he was on his feet again and was
gathering his wife up in his arms afresh.
“She isn’t dead, Bertha, she isn’t dead, for I heard her groan, poor
dear, when I fell with her. I am afraid I must have hurt her dreadfully.
But it is good to know that there is a little life left in her. For the
last two hours I have thought she had really gone.”
The poor fellow was sobbing from sheer relief and thankfulness, but
Bertha thrust him aside and tried to take Grace in her own arms.
“I am sure that I can carry her for a little way, just to let you get
your breath,” she said, and at the first was more shocked by the awful
haggard look on his face than she was by the white insensibility of
Grace.
“No, you can’t, for you are smaller than she is. But you can help me,
and I am nearly spun out,” he said faintly, and again she was startled
at the look on his face.
Clasping their hands under the insensible form, they went slowly forward
in the growing light of the dawn. Neither spoke a word—they had no
breath left for speech—and Bertha was too appalled even to want to ask
a question as to how the calamity had come about.
Slowly, slowly, slowly went on that dreadful progress. Bertha felt as if
her arms were being dragged out of her body; it was a horrible,
intolerable pain. There was a tightening of the muscles at her throat
which bade fair to choke her; she felt as if she were going blind as she
stumbled forward on that interminable walk—her very senses were
reeling—and then suddenly Tom’s voice called out sharply: “Mind the
gate, Bertha!”
They had reached the paddock. Oh, the blessed relief of it! She made a
great effort, took on a fresh spurt of strength, and fairly counted the
steps across the paddock to the open door of the house where the light
was still burning. Into the kitchen they carried the poor unconscious
Grace, and then Tom lurched forward on to the floor and lay there, while
Bertha turned swiftly to the pantry for the jug of water which she had
put there last night, which already seemed so far away. Pouring some of
it into a basin, she dipped her handkerchief into it and bathed his face
and hands. She must get him better somehow, for she was afraid to touch
Grace, who lay exactly as if she were dead. For a few dreadful moments
Tom lay as apparently lifeless as his wife, then he drew a long breath
and faintly asked for water. Bertha lifted his head and held the glass
to his lips, for he seemed incapable of doing even so much for himself.
But when he had gulped down a glassful his strength came slowly back to
him, and at the end of ten minutes or so he was able to sit up again.
“There is brandy on the top shelf of the cupboard; get it down; we must
try to make her swallow some,” he said, pointing to the cupboard which
stood in the corner.
Bertha hastened to obey. The sight of the white-faced rigid figure on
the couch filled her with awe, for there appeared to be no life there at
all; but Tom seemed so sure that his wife still lived, and now he was
saying over and over again:
“She really groaned when I fell with her, Bertha; she really groaned, I
tell you.”
“Yes, yes, she will be better soon,” panted Bertha, scarcely knowing
what it was that she said, yet realizing the tremendous need there was
for keeping his courage up at this most critical time. Then she got a
teaspoon, and when Tom lifted the poor unconscious head, she gently
trickled a few drops of the spirit through the clenched teeth.
“Give her more, give her more; there is plenty in the bottle,” he said
hoarsely; a terrible fear had struck him that she was gone too far for
any restorative to bring back.
“I dare not put in more than a few drops at the time; it might choke
her,” whispered Bertha, who was listening anxiously for the sound of a
drawn breath.
There were long, awful moments of waiting, then Bertha tried again. Her
face was almost as white now as the face of Grace, but there was a sort
of desperate courage in her heart; she must do her best and wisest, she
must, for it was upon her that the poor distracted husband was leaning
for help, and she had never felt so ignorant in her life, never.
“Ah, she swallowed then! I am sure of it!” cried Tom, in a tone of
ecstasy, as the muscles of Grace’s throat contracted in a little
spasmodic jerk.
More moments of waiting, Bertha had tried again, and again there was
distinct response. Grace was alive, she could swallow, and they could
hear her breathe; but she did not open her eyes or in any way recover
consciousness, and they were sure that she must be terribly injured.
“I must go for the doctor,” said Tom thickly; but he looked so
exhausted, that Bertha took a sudden desperate resolution.
“I shall go myself,” she said sharply. “You are not fit to sit a horse
after what you have gone through, and it will take longer to get the
doctor here if you can’t ride fast.”
“I can’t trust you out alone on horseback; you are not enough used to
riding,” objected Tom.
Bertha’s face whitened. Only too well did she know her limitations with
regard to horseflesh; but it did not weaken her resolution, rather it
strengthened it.
“God will take care of me,” she said simply, reaching down a
wide-brimmed hat that hung on a peg just inside the door. The sun would
be high before she got home, so the hat would be a necessity.
“There is only my old saddle, and you will have to ride Pucker, for I
turned the other horses loose, and they may not be home until to-morrow,
if then, for Grace’s horse was dead lame,” said Tom, getting on to his
feet again with difficulty, for he had been kneeling by the side of his
wife.
“I shall ride cross-saddle, I don’t care what I look like, and I shall
be safer that way,” said Bertha. “If I catch Pucker and bring him up to
the door, will you help me fix the saddle on? I am not quite sure that I
know how it ought to go.”
“I will saddle for you if you can bring the old horse up,” he said, and
Bertha hurried off to catch Pucker, which was fairly easy, as the old
horse was rather of a nuisance than otherwise, for it was in the habit
of hanging about the house to get little scraps of food and dainties of
sorts not usually appreciated by horses.
In about five minutes Bertha was back again, leading Pucker by the
forelock, while Tom had fetched his old saddle from the barn and was
tying it up with string.
“Will you be able to milk at six o’clock?” asked Bertha. “I can do it
before I go, if you like, only it will hinder, and we ought to get the
doctor here as soon as possible.”
“I can do it, and give the children their breakfast too. What are they
to have?” he asked, as he slipped the saddle on to the quiet old horse
and fastened the girths.
“Oh, give them as much milk as they like, and there is some bread in the
pan; they will not hurt until I come home. But, Tom, can you tell me how
it happened?” she asked, in a hesitating tone, with a nod of her head in
the direction of the silent figure which was lying on the couch in the
kitchen. “I hate to worry you; only, the doctor will want to know.”
“Of course he will; but I thought I had told you,” he said, as he helped
her on to the back of Pucker. “Her horse put its foot into a hole and
fell, shooting her over its head. When I picked her up I thought she had
a broken neck, and that is what I am afraid of still.”
“Oh, but that could not be!” she exclaimed, with a quick instinct to
comfort. “For remember, she is alive.”
“Only just; but while there is life there is hope. God bless you,
Bertha, for all the help and comfort you have been to me to-night,” he
said brokenly, and then, as she rode away, he called out: “Tell the
doctor that it happened between eight and nine o’clock last night, and I
was all that time getting her home.”
Bertha gasped. No wonder that he had seemed so fearfully exhausted, if
he had been toiling along with such a burden for so many hours!
Pucker had done no work for three days beyond carrying Dicky and Molly
round and round the paddock whenever it pleased them to take a ride, so
the old horse was able and willing to go. It was not the thirty miles to
Rownton that Bertha had to ride. There was, fortunately for her, a
doctor living at Pentland Broads, fifteen miles away, where they went to
church on Sundays, and where was the nearest store and post office.
A thought came into her mind that she might ride across to Blow End,
where their nearest neighbour lived, and ask her to go over to Duck
Flats and stay with poor Tom until she got back again. But second
thoughts decided her against it. Mrs. Smith was a dreadfully nervous
woman; moreover, she had a young baby, and would naturally find it very
difficult to leave home in the morning. Besides, it would mean half an
hour’s delay in getting to Pentland Broads, and that would be serious.
Pucker was not the easiest of horses to ride, for the creature gambolled
along with a difficult sideway motion which always made Bertha feel as
if she were pitching off. But the cross-saddle fashion in which she was
riding made her feel safer; she had so much better chance of sticking on
than when she sat upon a side-saddle.
She had no whip, but when the first mile or so had been got over at a
horrible shaking trot, she managed to cuff her steed into a lumbering
gallop, and then she got forward at a great pace. She had no chance of
guiding the horse, every faculty being absorbed in the effort to hold
on. But Pucker was more used to going to Pentland Broads than anywhere
else, and having once had his nose set in that direction, there was not
much danger of his going any other road.
“Oh dear, oh dear! I do really believe that I shall be shaken to bits if
this sort of thing keeps on much longer!” she muttered to herself, as
the sun grew hotter and hotter, and the shaking, racking experience of
Pucker’s very best foot foremost made her ache in every limb. Then a
long way ahead she saw the houses at Pentland Broads standing out clear
against the sunshine, and knew that the long, dreadful ride was nearly
at an end.
She could not think what would happen if the doctor should chance to be
out. But it was so early in the day, that such a thing would not be very
likely, unless indeed he had been away all night.
Cloppety, cloppety, clop! Cloppety, cloppety, clop! Poor old Pucker was
entering into the spirit of things with praiseworthy energy; but the
worst of it was that the poor old creature had its limitations, and
could not understand that its rider would want to go anywhere but to the
post office. So it tore past the doctor’s house just as if it were doing
the most colt-like bolt imaginable, then it came to a sudden stop before
the post office, and stood there as if it were planted, while Bertha sat
still on its back, and dared not try to turn the creature round through
fear lest it should start off again, like John Gilpin’s horse of
immortal fame, and take her straight home again with her errand
unaccomplished.
She knew that she could not get off unassisted either, unless indeed she
rolled off; but in that case she might sustain some sort of damage, and
that risk must not be run, in view of the urgent need there was for her
most active assistance now in that stricken household at Duck Flats.
Presently a woman poked her head out from the door of the post office to
see why the old horse with the girl on its back had halted so long just
outside.
“There ain’t no letters from yesterday’s mail for you, Miss Doyne, and
to-day’s mail isn’t in yet,” she said.
“I have not come for letters; I have ridden in for the doctor, but my
horse brought me past his house, and I dare not turn the creature round
for fear that it will carry me back home without stopping at the
doctor’s house. I am not used to riding, you see, and I am not very good
at managing horses either. Could you help me get down? Then I will hitch
my horse up here and go back for the doctor,” said Bertha, hoping that
the woman would not laugh at her for being so helpless.
But nothing was further than laughter from the thoughts of Eunice Long
at the mention of riding for the doctor. It takes a person dwelling in
those remote places of the earth rightly to understand what sickness
means in such widely scattered communities.
“Oh dear, oh dear! Come for the doctor, have you? Who is bad—one of the
children? I am downright sorry for you,” said the little woman, with
such kindly sympathy that it nearly broke down Bertha’s self-control.
“Mrs. Ellis has had an accident out riding; I am afraid that she is very
badly hurt indeed,” said Bertha, and then she rolled off into the arms
of Eunice Long. But as she was more heavy, or perhaps more awkward, than
the little woman expected, the result was that they both rolled over in
the dust together, and it was a man who was passing that picked them up
and set them on their feet again.
Staying for only a brief word of apology, Bertha set off running along
the road to the doctor’s house. She was horribly stiff and cramped with
her long ride, and her progress was neither swift nor graceful; but the
urgency of the case drove her along, and soon she was knocking at the
green-painted door which carried Dr. Benson’s modest brass plate.
But, to her intense dismay, the woman who opened the door to her said
that the doctor was not at home, that he had been away all night, and
might not be home until the next day.
[Illustration: GRACE MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT]