The Errand is Done
BERTHA had no chance of going to bed that night, and very little
opportunity for lying down either. The stranger was very ill, and,
although there was little that she could do to relieve him, she could
not leave him tossing wildly to and fro; for he was only lying on a rug
by the stove, and the night was so bitterly cold, that she was afraid
that he would freeze if he became uncovered from his wrappings and the
fire went down. So she stayed in the kitchen the long night through,
sitting in the rocking chair and dozing fitfully, waking with a start
each time the sick man’s moans rose to cries of pain, and doing her best
to soothe him by such ministrations as were possible.
She was very, very tired, and the cares of the morrow rose like an armed
host to menace her peace, even when, but for disquieting thoughts, she
might have slept. When she did fall into troubled slumber she would fall
to dreaming of the hunger-stricken community at Pentland Broads, and
then would wake in a perspiration of trouble and pray that morning might
come quickly; so that she might set off to relieve the suffering by
driving the load of foodstuff to the store.
There was no fear of her oversleeping when morning came. Long before
daylight stole tardily over the white wastes, she was out in the barn
with her lantern, feeding the horses and milking the cow; then, coming
indoors, she gave the children their breakfast, made a pretence of a
meal herself, and, attending to Grace, who could manage the business of
putting the food in her mouth herself now, if it were only put quite
ready for her, and stood within reach of her hand.
The sick man had sunk into a deeper slumber, and seemed to be out of
pain. Bertha lifted his head and contrived to make him swallow half a
cupful of hot milk, but when she put his head back on the pillow he
seemed faster asleep than ever, and she could only hope that he would
remain in that condition until she returned from Pentland Broads. Then
she made up the fire, so that it would last without being touched, and
fitted a wire guard right round the stove, so that there might be no
danger of accidents. It was an awful trouble to her to go away and leave
that helpless household of invalids and infants alone with a fire in the
stove; but it would have been far worse to have left them without a fire
in such severe weather, and so she had to face the risk and not worry
about it more than she could help. Then she brought out the horses,
hitched them to the sledge, put a saddle on Pucker and tied the old
horse to the back of the sledge, slipped on a big coat, and, stepping
into the sledge, set off on her journey.
There had been no more snow in the night, and for a while she followed
the marks of the sledge which had been made when the horses brought
their load to Duck Flats on the previous night. She did not have to
break away from them until she was halfway to the end of her journey,
and could see right away on the edge of the horizon a few hummocks and
mounds in the snow, which stood for the cluster of houses at Pentland
Broads.
“It is funny that he should have turned off here,” she said to herself,
as she left the trail made by the sledge runners and took a bee-line
across the snow for the houses. “It really looks as if the theory of
Grace must be right, and these are our horses which were sold in the
summer. Oh, dear, I wish that I were not so stupid about recognizing
things, and then I should have known whether these were the horses or
not.”
It was fine going this morning: the snow was frozen so hard, that the
sledge skimmed the surface; the horses seemed very fresh, and galloped
along at such a pace that ever so many times Bertha wondered whether
they thought that they were doing a bolt; but it did not seem worth
while to check them, as she was in such hot haste to get her journey
done.
There was no chance of judging distance across that dazzling field of
snow. The houses looked so close, that it seemed to Bertha as if she
must be within shouting distance, while she was still some miles away.
Her coming had been observed, too, and she saw two men coming out to
meet her, and then it was that she took a sudden resolve: “I need not go
the whole distance; even ten minutes’ gain is important in my case,” she
muttered, and, when the two men were within speaking distance, she
tugged and tugged at the lines until she brought the horses to a
standstill.
One of the men coming towards her was Dan Semple, the storekeeper’s son,
and the other was a lad with red hair whom she did not know.
“Dan,” she called, “Dan, make haste, and help me on to my horse, will
you, for you must take the sledge to your father, and I shall get back
all the quicker.”
“Why, it’s our lot of goods out from Rownton that we expected last
night, and Miss Doyne driving it!” exclaimed Dan, in amazement. He was
not a very nimble-witted youth, and the situation was beyond him.
“The horses brought the sledge to Duck Flats last night just as it was
getting dark. The driver was lying under the robes unconscious, and he
has not come to his senses properly yet, though he managed to tell me
last night how badly you wanted the goods,” said Bertha. “So I have left
Mrs. Ellis with only the children to look after her while I drove the
sledge over. But I want to go back at top speed, for I am most
dreadfully anxious about them.”
“I should just think that you would be,” said Dan, while the red-haired
youth ran to assist Bertha in mounting on to Pucker. “It was downright
good of you to come, Miss Doyne; but what will you do about the driver?
You’ve got enough on your hands without having a sick man to look
after.”
“Indeed I have, and I was wondering whether someone from here would
drive a sledge over presently and bring him back. I would keep him if I
could, for he looks shockingly ill; but what could I do with a sick man
at Duck Flats, now that Mr. Ellis is away?” Bertha paused in her
mounting and looked wistfully at Dan, as if mutely pleading to be spared
this extra burden.
And she did not ask in vain. “We’ll be over for him in a few hours, Miss
Doyne, and we’ll bring him back with us, even if he pegs out on the
journey,” said Dan cheerfully.
With a nod of thanks, Bertha gave Pucker a slap on the side, just to
show the old horse that she was in a hurry and that he had better be in
a hurry too, and then away they went at a pelting gallop across the
snow, and were very soon a vanishing speck in the distance.
She was in a wild heat of worry—a scorching anxiety on account of Grace
was upon her—and she was questioning whether she had done right in
leaving home to drive the sledge to Pentland Broads, even though the
people there were in actual want of food. Home duties should come first,
and she had a feeling that she would never be able to forgive herself if
anything bad had happened in her absence.
She had reached the place almost where the trail from Rownton joined the
one from Pentland Broads, when she saw a sledge with two men in it
coming rapidly from the direction of Rownton, and as one of them waved
his arm to her to stop, she drew rein, and waited in fuming impatience
until they should overhaul her. Then she saw that they were police, and
suddenly her heart gave a great throb of fear, and her thoughts flew to
Tom. Something bad had happened, she told herself, and the police were
coming to break the news to her. So she sat rigid, like a figure carved
in stone, with all the fuming impatience dropped away from her, whilst
the horses with the police sledge came nearer and nearer.
“Have you seen a man with a sledge piled high with packages that look
like provisions, the sledge drawn by two powerful brown horses?” asked
the man who was driving, while the man at his side lifted his helmet in
respectful salutation to Bertha. “The sledge must have passed somewhere
in this direction either last night or this morning, we think.”
“A sledge came to our house at Duck Flats last evening. It was drawn by
two powerful brown horses, but the driver was lying unconscious in the
sledge,” answered Bertha, telling the same story which she had told to
Dan Semple a short time before, and explaining to the police how she
herself had left her helpless household to drive the sledge to Pentland
Broads because of the food famine there.
“And the man, where is he?” asked the policeman, whom, from his
appearance, she judged to be an inspector.
“I left him at Duck Flats asleep. He has been very ill all night, and I
am very anxious to get back,” she said, and, in spite of herself, there
was a quiver of breakdown in her voice, although she was hugely relieved
to find that the business of the police was with the sick driver and not
with herself.
“Will you ride on, then, and we will follow, if the man is at your
place? We must go there first, although it would seem as if there is
some mistake, and this cannot be the sledge that we are looking for,”
said the inspector.
Bertha set forward, then, at the very best pace that she could get out
of old Pucker. The fact of having two other horses pounding along behind
him seemed to exhilarate the old horse to an astonishing extent, and he
raced across the snow at such a rate that the police sledge was some
distance in the rear when the solitary little house at Duck Flats showed
on the horizon.
A sob of relief came into Bertha’s throat as she drew nearer and saw
that it looked all right. It was fire that she had been afraid of all
through that journey out and home again, so well she knew how easily an
accident might happen with only little children, a delirious sick man,
and poor helpless Grace at home, and the fire going in the stove. She
had been strung up to bear all sorts of things, and when she found the
outside looking quite peaceful and all right, a sudden weakness assailed
her, and for a few moments it was all she could do to keep her hold of
the saddle to which she was blindly clinging, while old Pucker raced
along as merrily as if the journey had only just begun.
That ridge in the snow was the paddock fence. She would be home in a few
moments now, and already the horrible feeling of faintness was passing.
She sat straight up on her saddle, and wondered what had made her so
silly, when a sound reached her ears which filled her with terror. The
children were screaming; she could hear them as she approached the
house.
Riding right up to the door, she slid off and burst in at the door,
coming upon a scene of indescribable confusion. The table, which stood
in the middle of the room, and upon which she had left the children’s
breakfast spread, was lying on its side, while the crockeryware and food
lay more or less in ruins on the floor, where also lay the sick
stranger, squirming feebly, as if he had been trying to pull himself up
by the table, and found the effort too much for him.
But the children in their fear had flung themselves upon their mother,
shrieking and screaming with terror, while Grace herself was trying to
pierce the din with her voice in order to reassure them, but was in a
fair way of being suffocated; for the twins had cast themselves upon
her, while Noll was clinging with both chubby hands to her head, his
deep boo-oo-ooing in sharp contrast to the shrill squeals of Molly.
With one bound Bertha had crossed the room, and, scattering the children
to right and left, slipped her arm under the head of Grace, which she
lifted up into the air. For one terrible moment she thought that the
helpless woman was going to faint, and instinct told her that if Grace
fainted it would be the end. But the long minute passed, and then Grace
managed to say feebly: “It needs a really strong sense of humour to
appreciate a scene such as we have had.”
“You poor, poor darling, how awful it must have been for you!” cried
Bertha, with actual tears of pity coming into her eyes as she gently
fanned Grace, taking no notice at all of the sick man, who still lay,
feebly struggling to rise from among the ruins he had caused by his
ill-advised efforts to pull himself up by the aid of the table.
“Dear Noll was the worst,” said Grace, and now there was a weak gurgle
of laughter in her throat. “He thought that there was safety with me if
he only hugged me tightly enough, poor little man; and I could not make
Dicky understand that I must have air. But you came just in time,
Bertha.”
Just in time! Something came up in Bertha’s throat and half-choked her,
and at that moment the inspector came into the room, but paused just
across the threshold as if he were fairly staggered at the scene upon
which he had stumbled.
“You see, there was a need for me to ride so hard,” said Bertha to him,
as she swung out her hand to call attention to the ruin of the breakfast
table.
“Steady, there! What is the matter?” asked the inspector, turning his
attention to the man, who was again making feeble attempts to rise, and,
stooping, he lifted the poor fellow in his strong arms, then sat him
gently in the rocking chair, after which he shut the door; for more cold
was coming in than was good for anyone.
“I must get on. Don’t you see that I have work to do?” said the sick man
urgently. “And if I don’t give satisfaction on this trip I shall get
turned off, and then it will be starvation.”
“Steady, there, steady, your job is going on all right!” said the
inspector soothingly, but keeping his hand on the man in order to
prevent him from falling out of the chair. Then he said to Bertha, in a
low tone: “We must have been at cross purposes, I think, for this is not
the man we are after. There is not much of the rogue about him, I fancy.
But would you mind just stepping to the door and asking my mate to come
in, then we will help you to clear up a bit, while we make up our minds
what is the best thing to do for you and this poor chap.”
Bertha went to the door and called the other man in, and then was amazed
at the manner in which the two set to work and tidied up the disordered
room, while she made coffee and broiled bacon to make them a breakfast,
for they had had nothing since the previous night.
The children, their terror all gone, were making friends with the
police, and Dicky was telling the inspector how useful he was at helping
Bertha in the barn, now that his father was away, and then Molly chimed
in with the story of her achievements; but Noll and the twins had gone
to their usual cover under their mother’s couch, and were surveying the
scene from that safe vantage-ground.
Bertha prepared a small cup of bread and milk and approached the
stranger, asking him if he could feed himself, or whether he would like
her to do it for him.
“I can manage, thank you,” he said, looking up at her with his languid
eyes, and then he asked, “Will you please tell me where it is that I
have seen you before?”
Bertha looked at him in surprise, and then remembering how ill he had
seemed all night, she said gently, “I do not think that you have ever
seen me until last night, only you were so bad then, that I expect that
it seems as if it were a week or two ago.”
He shook his head a little doubtfully, then replied, “I am sure that I
have seen you once or twice before, only to-day I am so stupid that I
cannot remember where it was. Now, will you please ask those men if they
will help me hitch my horses to, and then I will be pushing on; for I
must get to Pentland Broads as soon as possible.”
“But I have driven the sledge over for you; I went at dawn, and I have
only just got back,” she said gently, wondering if he were still a
little off his head.
“You are very kind, but then you have always been kind, if I remember
rightly,” he answered, and then he frowned as if he were trying to
recall that other time of which he had twice spoken.
“I think, Miss Doyne, that our best way will be to take the man with
us,” said the inspector, drawing Bertha out of earshot of the stranger.
“If he is ill, we can take better care of him at our place than you can
here, and I fear that it must have been very distressing to poor Mrs.
Ellis to have had the worry of him here last night.”
“It is very kind of you,” said Bertha, looking up gratefully into the
kindly face of the middle-aged inspector, and then she dropped her gaze
suddenly, because her eyes had filled with tears of which she was
ashamed.
“Oh, that is all in the way of duty, you know,” he rejoined lightly, and
then, going over to the stranger, he began to explain to him the
advisability of getting on to Pentland Broads as soon as possible.
“You are the police, aren’t you?” said the poor fellow, making as if he
would rise to his feet, but falling back through sheer weakness. “Is it
a warrant you have out for my arrest, or are you running me in on
suspicion?”
“Neither; we are only trying to help you on your way, Mr.— Mr.—, by
the way, you have not told us your name,” said the inspector, in a tone
of kindly forbearance.
“My name is Edgar Bradgate,” replied the stranger, and again he tried to
rise, but would have fallen if it had not been for the arm the inspector
slipped round him.
“I think that we had better turn straight back to Rownton with Mr.
Bradgate, and let the other business wait awhile,” said the inspector to
his subordinate, and then the two packed the sick man into the sledge
and started off again, to the huge relief of Bertha.