A Disquieting Rumour
THE weeks of fall weather went swiftly on, the nights grew longer and
colder and darker, save when there was a moon to shine with frosty
brilliance from a sky that was studded with a myriad of stars. Bertha
was very busy in those autumn days, for there was a bit of swamp two
miles on beyond Duck Flats, on the wilderness side of them, and thither
on fine afternoons she drove with the children to pick berries and
gather in the little unconsidered harvest of the wilds. Always she left
either Dick or Molly at home to look after Grace, and always her journey
back was a progress of anxiety, lest anything had happened to the
invalid in her absence.
But Grace declared herself to be only half an invalid now, because
sensation had come back to the toes of both feet, and she had actually
achieved the great feat of lifting one hand to touch her lips. The day
when this took place they held as high festival, but as the time went on
the pleasure for Grace of being able to feel her feet once more was
tempered by the torture of cramp which she suffered. Vainly did Bertha
beg to be allowed to send for Dr. Benson, but Grace declared that as
they had no money to pay the bill, no doctor would she have.
“But you have eighty dollars a month coming in, or will have, which is
the same thing. And think how dreadfully worried Tom would be to know
how you were suffering, when perhaps the doctor could tell you of some
simple remedy that would save you half the pain and perhaps quicken your
recovery,” said Bertha anxiously.
“I know what you shall do, Bertha—you shall write to him. You can tell
him that we have no money, and so he must not come, but you can ask him
if it is natural for anyone in my condition to suffer so much from
cramp; and if he says yes, well, then, I will bear it cheerfully; for,
after all, it is better to bear pain than to have no feeling at all,”
replied Grace, who had been the more willing to listen to Bertha,
because of that suggestion that she might recover the more quickly if
she had a doctor’s advice at the present stage.
“I will write the letter, and get Mr. Smith to take it with him. I would
go over to Pentland Broads myself to-day, only I can’t leave you so
long,” said Bertha, who had been rubbing the tortured muscles, and doing
everything in her power to stop the suffering.
“That will do quite well, and perhaps I shall be better as the day goes
on,” said Grace, whose face was pinched and drawn with the suffering.
Bertha sat down and wrote the letter, although her day’s work lay all
before her. She was seriously worried about Grace, and when she had
written a letter to the doctor which Grace might read, she hastily
scribbled a little private note, which she slipped inside the envelope,
begging that the doctor would come over, if he thought it the least bit
necessary, and that she herself would borrow the money from her sisters
to pay the bill, if there was no other way. Then she threw a saddle on
old Pucker and rode away across the ruined wheatfields to the quarter
section where Mr. Smith was ploughing. It was quicker than walking, and
more restful, also, and there was quite enough active exercise for her
in every day to make her anxious to save her strength where she could.
The Smiths had been terribly hard hit in the harvest disaster, for they
had taken up a mortgage on their land the year before, in order to have
more money to invest in wheat-growing, and so they found themselves with
interest on the mortgage to pay in hard cash, as well as to find means
of a livelihood until harvest came again.
Mrs. Smith had drooped under the trouble until she was quite ill, and
doubtless would have been worse if it had not been for the fact that
Grace insisted on sharing some of the nourishing things with her which
had come in that mysterious packing case.
This kindness of sharing was bringing its own reward in the neighbourly
goodness of Mr. Smith, who did many things for them which were not in
his ploughing contract. He was just starting a new furrow, but when he
saw her coming he waited for her to come up, and, getting off his
plough, stood holding his horses, which were in prime condition, and
mettlesome from the amount of corn they managed to lick off the ground
when they had scraped the battered straw away with their fore feet. They
were doing it now, being as wise in their way as humans, and turning the
brief resting-time to the best account they could.
“Good morning, Miss Bertha, nothing wrong, I hope?” he said, lifting his
hat, as she came near enough for speech.
“I don’t know whether it is wrong or right,” said Bertha, in a worried
tone, “and that is why I have ridden across to you instead of waiting
until you came past the house at noon.”
Then she told him about the pain which Grace was suffering, and asked
him if it would be possible to get her letter to Pentland Broads that
day.
“It will have to be possible,” he said quietly. “I will unyoke and go at
once. If the doctor is in, I will bring back an answer from him; but if
you don’t see anything of me, you will know that I have gone back home
because the doctor was not at home, and that I will ride over again for
you this evening.”
“You will not need to go the second time, thank you,” said Bertha,
“because I have asked the doctor to come over. I think that it is
necessary that he should see Mrs. Ellis, only she does not know that I
have asked him to come.”
“I see; very well, you will know that your errand has been done, even if
you don’t see the doctor or me either before to-morrow.”
Mr. Smith was unhitching as he talked, and then he proceeded to tether
one horse to the plough, while he rode away on the other. The tethered
horse being fastened to the broadside of the plough, there was no danger
of it running away, or even dragging its hobble far from the furrow.
Bertha rode back to the house, satisfied that her errand would be done
with dispatch. But she contrived that her work should not take her near
enough to Grace for any sustained talk that morning, because Grace had
such a way of getting out of her what was in her mind, and she wanted to
keep to herself the fact that she had sent for a doctor until he really
arrived.
The day wore on, as all their days did; it was the same unvarying
monotony, which was so much more monotonous to them all, now that there
was no cheery head of the house to come out and in. The children did
their small tasks, and then gathered about their mother for the simple
instruction in all kinds of things, which was all the education they had
as yet.
It was late afternoon, and Bertha was in the barn milking the cow, when
she heard the sound of a horse coming at a canter, and, going to the
door, saw the doctor riding up the paddock. Knowing that he would be
sure to bring his horse to the barn instead of stopping at the house
door, she turned back to the cow, and by dint of working quickly managed
to finish milking by the time he arrived. Then she fed his horse and
took the doctor back to the house, where the children had already
announced his arrival.
He had not seen Grace since the disaster of the harvest, and he
announced himself amazed at the change in her. He even congratulated her
on the pain she had to bear, and told her that it would probably get
worse, but that it was a sign that Nature was working a more clever cure
than any mere doctor might hope to accomplish. He showed Bertha how to
relieve the distressing cramp, and then he went back to the barn to get
his horse, and Bertha went with him. It was then that the pleasant
professional manner dropped from him, and he turned sharply upon Bertha,
whose heart quailed with a sudden fear; for there was that in his face
which betokened tidings of evil.
“Is Mrs. Ellis worse?” she gasped, quite forgetting in that moment of
dread how the doctor had told Grace she was going to get well.
“No, no; she is amazingly better. It will be months yet before she will
even be able to sit up, for Nature is slow; but she will go on
improving, and there is no need to worry about her, although for my own
satisfaction I shall see her now about once a fortnight. There may come
a time when Nature will need a little help, and although there was no
sense in worrying her with visits when matters were at a standstill, it
is altogether different now,” said the doctor, whom Bertha shrewdly
suspected to be talking for talking’s sake.
“Then what is it?” she asked bluntly, and she clenched her hands
tightly, so that she might bear without flinching whatever had to be
borne.
“There is a rumour current at Rownton that Brown’s Expedition is in
difficulties. I can’t trace its source, but the general opinion is that
it was not adequately provisioned, that there was not enough capital
behind the venture, and that the high wages to be paid to the men were
existent only on the contracts.”
Bertha drew a long breath of relief. Of course it was bad enough, but it
might so easily have been worse, and to her at that moment the possible
bankruptcy of the expedition was a mere trifle compared with what might
have been.
“Is that all? Oh, I thought that it was something bad that you had to
tell me,” she said, then added, with a laugh, “Some of the wages are a
solid reality, for a quarter of the amount due to Tom is paid every
month to Grace through a Winnipeg Bank, and I believe that Eunice Long
has something in the same way too.”
“Well, I am thankful to hear it, for she needs it, poor thing; she is
almost too ill to keep about now, and every day I am afraid that she
will break down. I suppose you know that they will not get a penny of
their insurance money, and now, to make matters worse, the postal orders
and stamps that were destroyed have got to be made good,” replied Dr.
Benson, as he led his horse out of the stable.
“Poor Eunice, how I wish that I could help her!” exclaimed Bertha, and
then she added, with a sigh, “But it seems to take all my time to help
myself just now.”
“I should think so; at any rate, you can’t be dull for want of
employment,” returned the doctor, with a laugh. “Don’t say anything
about this rumour to Mrs. Ellis; she is not strong enough to bear worry
very comfortably yet awhile. Of course, if the men hear that there is
not enough money to carry the venture through, they will most likely
throw up the job and return before the snow blocks them in.”
“That also I must keep from Mrs. Ellis,” said Bertha, whose heart had
given a sudden throb of hope at hearing there was even a remote
possibility of Tom returning before the winter.
“Of course; for if the poor thing even guessed that her husband might
return, she would know no peace or rest, and her recovery would be put
back in consequence,” the doctor went on, his voice dropping into a
graver key. “The trouble is that in matters like this the men most
concerned are usually the last to know that there is anything wrong, and
they may get too far to return before autumn, in which case they will
have to wait until the snow will let them out.”
Bertha nodded, and the hope that had sprung up that Tom would return
died out again, for well she knew that he was not the sort of man to
turn his back on a forlorn hope, nor would he be likely to leave his
employers in the lurch, even though he knew that he would not get his
money, and perhaps be half-starved into the bargain.
She watched the doctor ride away and then went into the house, her mind
in a turmoil of mixed feelings—joy for Grace, anxiety for Tom, and for
herself a determination to make the very best of the hard bit in front
of her.
“Bertha, why did you send for the doctor?” Grace asked reproachfully,
and then she went on, “My dear, it is no use for you to try to put me
off, because you are so very transparent, that I always feel as if I can
see right through you. I expect that you wrote a little private note
when I was not looking, and asked him to come because you were anxious.”
Bertha sat down and laughed. “It is really of no use to try any
underhand performances with you; but that is just what I did, and I am
so very glad, because now he will watch your case carefully, and be
ready to help you when you need it.”
“Yes, that is all very well, or would be, if we had any prospect of
being able to pay the bill within a reasonable time,” said Grace. “But
oh, the worry of it is so hard to bear!”
“It need not be,” replied Bertha calmly. “I told the doctor that I would
pay it if you could not.”
“And pray, where are you going to get the money from, seeing that you
will take no money in salary this year?” asked Grace.
“Oh, I shall borrow it of Anne and her husband. They have not had me to
keep, as they would have done if you had not spent so much energy in
making me useful,” said Bertha coolly.
“Perhaps it will not come to that, at least I hope not,” Grace sighed,
for she had always been very proud, and the thought of dependence on
relatives for the paying of her doctor’s bill was fearfully repugnant to
her.
“Most likely it will not, but I always like to have another way out in
the back of my mind; it helps one to have confidence in oneself. But I
fancy that when the snow comes I ought to have time for a little
writing, if the children keep well; and if I should chance to sell a
story, why, that can go to help in paying the bill.” Bertha spoke
diffidently now, for she could never get away from the feeling that she
was going to be laughed at when she spoke of her literary aspirations,
although nothing could possibly be further away from the thoughts of
Grace than any idea of throwing cold water on her desire to be a writer.
“I should not be surprised if you were to write some very good stories
this winter, because you have had to live through so much since last
year, and you have grown so much wiser. One must live through terror,
suspense, and pain, you know, before one can really know quite how it
all feels,” said Grace.
“I suppose you are right; and perhaps if I could have had the easy,
leisured life I have always longed for, I might never have been able to
write of realities,” said Bertha.
Grace laughed softly, and then replied: “But you are forgetting. You
might have had the leisured life a few months ago, if only you had done
as Anne wished and gone out to Australia.”
“That may be, but I am very much afraid that I should not have done much
good with it. Anyhow, I am very glad that I did not go,” said Bertha,
who was bustling round now preparing supper. The children were running
in and out, each one endeavouring to be useful according to his or her
ideas of usefulness, and although she could have done many of the things
much quicker herself, Bertha accepted all the assistance she could get,
and was thankful for it.
But the small people were mostly so sleepy by supper-time, that it was
no uncommon thing for Noll or one of the twins to fall asleep before the
meal was done, which was rather worrying, as it meant that there would
be wailing instead of smiling during the necessary washing of dirty
little bodies, which always had to finish each working day. But to-night
they managed to keep awake, supper was dispatched, Molly and Dicky
cleared away and washed the dishes, while Bertha bathed the three young
ones. Then, when they were all in bed, there came an hour of delicious
rest, when Bertha sat in the rocking-chair by the stove doing absolutely
nothing at all, while Grace talked about the stories which were to be
written when the snow came, and there should be time for all the things
that had to be done.
“Summer is always such a fearful rush; it seems as if Nature hurries us
all up after her own fashion,” said Grace.
“Yes, and it is just that same rush which makes winter so welcome,”
answered Bertha, in a sleepy tone.