Out of the Silence
THE new year was only a week old when there came a blizzard of such
violence that for three days it could not be said to be light at all,
and during all those hours it never ceased snowing. The little household
at Duck Flats was entirely isolated, of course, and it would have gone
hard with them in the matter of food if it had not been for the cow.
Fortunately, Bertha had some weeks before constructed a kind of tunnel
between the house and the barn by walling up the snow on either side of
the path, then laying some sticks of firewood across. On the sticks she
had piled masses of the beaten, tangled straw from the ruined
wheatfields, of which there was such a sad abundance everywhere, and
then the snow had drifted on to the straw and completed the process of
roofing in. So she was able to pass between house and barn in comfort,
looking after the cow, the fowls, and old Pucker, which, with three
lively pigs, made up the sum total of the livestock.
The great trouble in her mind was lest the kerosene barrel should run
empty, because then they would be condemned to so many hours of doing
nothing, and she wanted every moment of that mid-winter leisure for
writing. It did not matter if the food was coarse and monotonous in
kind, she and the children were hungry enough to eat almost anything
that was eatable, and there had been sufficient saved from the big
packing case of good things for Grace to have the variety of nourishment
necessary for her.
The solitude of those days might well have driven anyone mad, but,
strangely enough, Bertha minded it not at all this year, although last
winter, when it was not nearly so bad, the isolation was almost more
than she could bear. Grace was nervous and anxious on account of her
husband, wondering and wondering, as she lay in her helplessness, where
he was spending those blizzard days, and whether there was food to eat
and fire to warm him.
The three days of storm were followed by two days of fog, so dense that
the barn was not visible from the house, then came another day of heavy
snow, which seemed to clear the air; for at night the barometer went up
and the thermometer came down, until everything was crackling and
sparkling with the frost. When the next morning came, the sun showed
itself for the first time in a week, so, wrapping herself up warmly,
Bertha went out for a breath of fresh air; for after a week of
imprisonment between house and barn it was good to be outside once more.
What an awful desolation it was! As far as eye could reach on every side
there was nothing but snow to be seen—snow, snow, snow—until sight
grew dim and senses reeled before the glare of the unchanging whiteness.
She did not stay out long. It seemed better to bear the cramped
confinement of the house than to face the dazzle of snow and sun
outside. There was work to be done, too—the animals and the poultry had
to be looked after, there was bread to be made, the house to be put
tidy, and Bertha’s time went by in a whirl of business. The short winter
day began to draw in, and she was just going out to the barn to milk the
cow and feed the stock for the night, when, chancing to look from the
window, she was amazed to see a two-horse sledge approaching the house.
It was not coming very fast, and it was so piled with things, that she
supposed the horses must be tired.
A wild thought flashed into her mind that it must be Tom who was
returning so suddenly, and she thought that he must have got some of the
other members of the expedition to bring him over on their way to their
own homes, or why this mountain of luggage? But she would not raise the
hopes of Grace lest they might have to be dashed again later on; so
merely saying that someone was coming, but she could not see who it was,
she threw a shawl round her and ran out of the house.
The horses came at an easy walk right up to the door and stopped, then,
to her dismay, she saw that there was no driver. What had happened? And
where was the driver?
Bertha walked up to the horses, patted their heads, and fastened them to
the veranda post pending enquiries, and then, dragging at the outer rug
in order to cover them from the cold, she was appalled to see that there
was a man lying underneath. A dead man he looked; but of course he might
be only unconscious from the extreme cold. But what was she to do? And
how could she, singlehanded, get a full-grown man out of the sledge and
into the house in his dead or unconscious condition?
“But I must do it somehow; for he is a stranger, and we must know why he
has come,” she said to herself; then, stepping into the sledge, she took
hold of the man by his shoulders and began to haul away at him with all
her might.
His body was limp, and so she told herself that he could not be dead,
but was probably only unconscious from the cold.
It was a matter calling for quick action, however; so she pulled and
tugged with her utmost strength. It was a heavy task to get him out of
the sledge, but when once that was accomplished the rest was easy
enough, and in about five minutes she had flung open the door and
dragged him across the threshold into the kitchen, which was so warm
from the heat of the stove.
“Why, Bertha, what have you got there?” asked Grace in surprise, for she
had heard nothing of the arrival, as the snow muffled all sounds.
“It is a man, and he seems in a very bad way. He is a stranger, too. Do
you think I dare leave him while I go and put the horses in the barn?”
asked Bertha anxiously. It did not seem right to leave the man in his
unconscious condition, and yet it was downright cruel to leave the poor
horses standing out in the bitter cold.
“Horses, are there? Did he come in a sledge?” asked Grace.
“A two-horse sledge, piled high with baggage of some description. I
expect that I shall have a great difficulty to get the barn door open,
so if I am rather long, don’t be more worried than you can help. But if
the man comes round before I get in, send Dicky to shout for me, will
you, please?” said Bertha.
“Don’t try to get the sledge into the barn; it won’t snow again
to-night, and if it does it will not matter. And can’t you take the
horses one at a time along your covered passage and into the barn by the
little door?” Grace mostly saw the way out of a difficulty in a flash,
and Bertha had often to be thankful for her quick grasp of a situation.
“Oh, I can do that, and it won’t take me long, either. I was going to
make a great effort to get the big doors open, and then I should have
taken horses and sledge in that way. I won’t be long, dear, and oh, I do
hope the unknown will not bother you,” said Bertha, departing in a great
hurry to unhitch the two horses, which were getting restive with
standing in the bitter cold. She had a horror of strange horses, and
would never venture near them if she could help it. But to-night the
situation was fairly desperate, and so she had to unharness the poor
beasts, or leave them there to die.
They were very gentle and quiet, very eager for food and water, but
never once showing the least symptom of a desire to kick or bite, and
when they reached the barn they ranged up beside the manger as if they
had been used to the place all their lives. She took care to tie them
securely, so that there was no danger of their falling foul of old
Pucker, which worthy animal had a rather disagreeable temper where
strange horses were concerned.
Then Bertha hurried indoors again to see how it fared with the
unconscious man who had been thrown so strangely on their care that
night. “It will be horrid to have a stranger here to-night, and a man; a
woman might have been bearable. Oh, dear, how awkward things can be!”
she exclaimed, with a touch of impatience; for if she had to delay very
long over trying to bring the senseless man round, she would have to do
the milking by lantern light.
She found him lying on the floor near the stove just as she had left
him, while Dicky industriously rubbed one hand, and Molly worked away at
the other.
“Is his face frost-bitten?” asked Grace, as Bertha came to kneel down by
the stranger.
“No, nor yet his hands; but he appears quite unconscious still. What
shall I do? Do you think that I dare leave him lying here while I go and
milk? I would not be long, and then I shall not have to leave you alone
with him again,” said Bertha.
“Yes, go and milk; he is quite harmless and inoffensive lying like that,
but I shall want to have you here when he comes round again. Were the
horses much trouble to you, dear?” asked Grace, as Bertha rapidly wound
herself into her milking pinafore.
“None at all; they behaved like lambs, and walked to their places as if
they were quite at home,” Bertha replied.
“Did they? What colour are they?” asked Grace, with sudden interest.
“Oh, about the ordinary. They reminded me very much in build of the
horses Tom sold in the summer, after we were hailed out, only they are
not skittish, as our horses were, and they are so encrusted with frost
that it is not easy to say what they are like.” Bertha was moving off as
she spoke, for she was in desperate haste to get her work done and reach
the house again before the helpless man came to his senses.
The milking was put through at a rapid rate that night, and then, with a
last look round to see that all the live creatures were comfortable for
the night, she took up her pail of milk and went back to the house.
“Oh, Bertha, I am thankful that you have come!” exclaimed Grace, with a
hysterical note in her voice. “That poor fellow gets on my nerves lying
there, with no one but those children to look after him. I am so afraid
that he will slip through our fingers.”
“No fear of that,” said Bertha cheerily, as she set the pail of milk
aside and proceeded to give her very best attention to the stranger. “He
is better than he was, there is more life and colour in his face; but
oh, Grace, what an awful nuisance he will be, and what a pity it is that
we cannot put him out in the barn to sleep with his horses!”
“I know, dear, but we must try to feel towards him as we should like
anyone to feel towards Tom under like circumstances,” said Grace softly,
and then she went on, with a catch in her breath, “Do you know, when you
came in at the door dragging that poor fellow with you, I really thought
that it was Tom, and my heart came right up into my mouth; indeed, it
was all that I could do to keep from screaming.”
“I thought that it was Tom, too, when I saw the sledge come up to the
door; but when I got outside I could see no driver at all, and then I
was dreadfully frightened, for I thought that he must have fallen off.
Then I pulled at the rug to cover the horses, and found that the man had
fallen down in the sledge, and the rug had hid him from my sight.”
Bertha was busy with the stranger while she talked. He was drawing deep,
sobbing breaths, as if he were coming round, and the two children had
got up, moving a little away, because they were rather shy and
frightened, while the twins and Noll had fled to cover under their
mother’s couch, their three small heads peeping out from underneath like
chickens looking out from under their mother’s wing.
“Gee-up, and get along, can’t you; gee-up, I say!” The man on the floor
was plainly coming round, and his first thought was about his horses.
“Lie still for a little while, and then you will soon be better,” said
Bertha soothingly. She was relieved to find that the unknown spoke with
the intonation of a man of education, and it was an unspeakable comfort
to find that his voice was gentle and refined.
“I can’t lie still. I’m to be paid according to the time it takes to get
there, you know, and I have touched my last dollar; besides, the people
at Pentland Broads are in sight of actual starvation—there was hardly
any flour left in the place three days ago—and it was because no one
else would face the journey that I got the job.” As he spoke, the
stranger tried to sit up, but he was so weak that he fell back on his
pillows, which Bertha had piled under his head, and looked into her face
with such a desperate eagerness, that she felt she must help him if she
could.
“You can’t get to Pentland Broads to-night, that is certain,” she said
briskly, “but you can start off at daybreak if you are well enough. I
have put your horses in the barn and fed them, so though they are very
worn out to-night, they will be quite rested by the morning.”
“They must be hitched up again to-night, I tell you,” said the stranger,
with an imperative wave of his hand. “You have no idea how serious the
need is over there. It is one of the places that were hailed out last
harvest, and the poor things have been living from hand to mouth all the
winter. Now their cupboards are bare—there is neither food nor fire nor
light there by this time. I tell you I know, for there was a plucky
chap—a doctor he was—got through to Hartley on snow-shoes to beg for
supplies three days ago; but he was so near done that it is doubtful if
he will recover. And I must go on; I tell you I must!”
The poor fellow’s voice rose to a wavering shout, as he again made a
frantic but ineffectual effort to rise. Dicky and Molly fled to cover in
their mother’s bedroom, and the three juniors under the couch burst into
a united howl of terror.
“What is that noise?” asked the stranger, with a bewildered look coming
into his eyes.
“There are little children here, and you have frightened them rather
badly because you shouted so. I don’t think that you are quite yourself
yet,” said Bertha. She was trembling so badly that she could hardly keep
her voice steady, but for the sake of the others she must appear as
brave and courageous as possible.
“Did I frighten the children? Oh, I am sorry, for I am downright fond of
kiddies; but something has gone wrong in my head, I think; and, please,
would you mind telling me whether there is one of you or whether
sometimes you are two?”
Bertha gave a little jump of dismay. She really could not help it, for
plainly the poor man was delirious, and whatever would she do if he
became violent? She had heard that delirious people had very often the
most tremendous strength, and whatever would happen if this man insisted
on starting off for Pentland Broads in his present condition? But she
need not have been afraid of any outburst of violence, for when her hand
was off him and he attempted to rise, he dropped back again with a
groan, and lay still, looking as if he were going to die.
“Give him some more milk, Bertha, quick, or he will faint!” said Grace
urgently,
Bertha lifted up his head and managed to make him swallow some of the
hot milk, and then he seemed to drop into a sleep of exhaustion.
“Is it not dreadful? Whatever shall we do?” asked Bertha, looking
towards Grace, and feeling as if the situation were quite beyond her.
“We cannot do anything until morning, and then we shall have to be
guided by circumstances,” said Grace, who was thinking busily. “I am
very much afraid that the poor fellow will not be fit to sit in the
sledge and drive, so, unless it is blowing a blizzard, you will have to
track out to Pentland Broads with the sledge; for it is too dreadful to
think of the poor things being without food in this bitter weather.”
“But that would mean that I should have to leave you alone,” said
Bertha, “and worse than alone, if I have to leave the man here also.”
“It cannot be helped, and it will be daylight, although I would bear it
all night, if necessary, rather than that those poor wretches should be
without food. It is too awful to think of, and, of course, they do not
know where it has gone astray,” said Grace.
“You don’t mean that you want me to go to-night, do you?” asked Bertha,
with some alarm in her tone, for very much she doubted her ability to
find her way across the waste of untrodden snow with only the stars for
a guide.
“No, certainly you must not go to-night, but be ready to set off with
the first gleam of daylight, and do not worry about me or the children
while you are away. Divine Providence always takes care of those who
cannot help themselves, and I am not afraid,” replied Grace.
“He seems to have fallen asleep now,” said Bertha. “Oh, Grace, whatever
shall we do if the poor fellow is going to be ill on our hands?” and she
bent over the figure on the floor with a keen anxiety in her heart.
“Don’t worry about it yet, dear. After all, the worst troubles are often
those that never come, you know. Get the children off to bed early
to-night, so that you can have some sleep yourself, and then you will be
more fit for whatever to-morrow may bring in the shape of care and
toil.”
Bertha sighed impatiently. She lacked the cheerful courage of Grace just
then, and the condition of the man on the floor worried her dreadfully.
[Illustration: “THERE WAS A MAN LYING UNDERNEATH”]