The Tidings Confirmed
ROWNTON was not reached until nearly noon on the following morning, and
Bertha’s first care was to discover if the wagon which Bill Humphries
had left for repair was finished and ready for her. She must get to
Pentland Broads before dark if possible, and when she reached that place
she would know whether the bad news had got before her. But Edgar
Bradgate, who seemed uncommonly good at getting his own way, told her to
go straight to Mrs. Smith’s and get a meal, while he went to see about
the wagon, which should be ready at the door of Mrs. Smith’s
boarding-house in half an hour if he could compass it.
“You have had no food yourself. Won’t you come to Mrs. Smith’s also?”
asked Bertha, who was rather disposed to revolt at having herself
arranged for in this summary fashion.
“A cup of coffee, which I can swallow while you are tucking yourself
into the wagon, and a piece of bread in my hand, which I can eat _en
route_, will do quite well for me, thank you,” he answered, and then
hurried away, leaving her undecided whether to be most relieved or most
vexed at being looked after so thoroughly.
However, she was thankful not to be obliged to pick her way along the
muddy sidewalks, or rather apologies for sidewalks, in search of her
wagon, and as she was desperately hungry, she made the best of her way
to Mrs. Smith’s, where she was able to pay some very needful attention
to her toilet, while a hasty but substantial meal was prepared for her.
“You are surely not thinking of driving all the way to Pentland Broads
to-day!” exclaimed Mrs. Smith, her hands uplifted in horror at the bare
idea. “You will get benighted, and then you will have to put up at the
halfway house, and that is certainly no place for a girl.”
Bertha smiled happily—she was thinking of the long journey down from
Brocken Ridge with that lot of rough and mostly intoxicated men. Not a
hint of vexation had been allowed to come near her, thanks to the quiet
intervention of Edgar Bradgate, and she knew that she could trust to him
to shield her still, if such shielding were necessary.
“I don’t think that there will be any need to put in at the halfway
house on this trip,” she replied. “You see, the horse did no work
yesterday. Mr. Bradgate is driving over with me too, so if it is nearly
dark before I get in it will not matter so much, and I am anxious to get
back as quickly as I can.”
“I am sure that you must be,” answered Mrs. Smith, with quiet sympathy
in her tone. “I was sure that it must be very uncommonly serious
business which took you on a journey to Brocken Ridge, but when I heard
about Brown’s Expedition having come to grief, of course I guessed
directly that you had gone up there to verify the rumours.”
Bertha turned pale, and a cold chill crept into her heart; but she had
the good sense to keep quiet, for she had heard that Mrs. Smith was one
of those women who simply cannot help gossiping, and it was something of
a comfort to know that for once she had got hold of an entirely wrong
impression, and could talk it out to her heart’s content without doing
anyone the least harm.
“I declare that it knocked me all of a heap when Inspector Grant came
back here from Ardley End and told me of the tragedy which had overtaken
Brown’s Expedition,” went on Mrs. Smith. “It seems to bring things so
close home to one when it is people that you know who are mixed up in a
disaster of that sort. And there is your cousin, as well as poor Miss
Long’s brother, and oh! how she will feel it, for she thought the world
of him, though somehow I never could see where his perfections lay; but
there they say that love is blind, and perhaps it is just as well, or
some folks would get no love at all.”
“Here is the wagon!” exclaimed Bertha, with secret relief. She was
finding the conversation of Mrs. Smith very wearying, and was in fear as
to the good woman’s next move from a talking point of view, for well she
knew that she was no match for her if she began to ask questions.
“And there is Inspector Grant talking to the driver. Who did you say it
was, my dear? Oh, I remember, that Mr. Bradgate who was ill so long at
the police barracks. How dreadfully shabby his clothes are! and yet, in
spite of it, he looks a gentleman, every inch of him. Ah! I have always
maintained that you can tell the real thing at a glance,” said Mrs.
Smith, who had so much to say upon every subject, that the marvel was
she ever got through between dawn and dark.
“I must speak to the Inspector,” said Bertha, jumping up in a great
hurry, and then, as she hurried out of the house, she said to her
hostess, “Will you please give Mr. Bradgate a cup of coffee and
something to eat as quickly as you can, because we want to start.”
This request had the effect of keeping Mrs. Smith indoors and busy at
the stove, so that Bertha had a moment alone with Inspector Grant when
Edgar went into the house to get his coffee.
“Is it really true about the Expedition?” she asked, with quivering
lips. “I heard the rumour just before I left Brocken Ridge, but Mrs.
Walford told me not to put too much faith in hearsay.”
“I am afraid that there is no room for doubt this time,” replied the
Inspector. “I have seen the papers which the Indian brought down, and
they were plainly genuine documents. A very hard time the poor fellows
had, and they bore it to the end like heroes.”
“But I cannot understand why they sat there and waited for death to take
them when they knew that they had no provisions,” said Bertha. “Why did
they not set out to try and reach civilization, or even an Indian
encampment, where food might be obtained?”
“Well, it seems there was food somewhere near them, only they did not
know where to find it. There had been some ghastly blundering somewhere,
only just at present we cannot put our finger on the spot. However, we
have sent two of our best men to investigate the story of the Indian and
to bury the bodies, and when they return we shall know more about it,”
said the Inspector.
“How long will that be?” asked Bertha, who was sick at heart at the
thought of the waiting which must ensue for Grace, who would know no
rest or peace until the details of the tragedy were to hand.
“Say it takes them three weeks to reach the place, they must be there at
least a week, perhaps ten days, and then the journey back—well, it must
be seven weeks or two months before anything can be known for a
certainty. It is a case for long patience, Miss Doyne, and it will need
every ounce of fortitude that you possess to weather through this hard
time and to help Mrs. Ellis to bear up in the face of her heavy
bereavement.”
Bertha nodded; she had no words with which to reply to the kindly
inspector, and then, as Edgar came out of the house at this moment with
a great wedge of oatcake in his hand, she clambered into the wagon and
waited for him to take the driving lines in his own hands.
“I think that you will have to do the driving this trip,” he said, with
a smile. “I am merely escort to the expedition, not the expedition
itself.”
“I shall hate to drive while you sit and look on. I shall feel as if you
are criticizing my way of doing it, and I do not want to be made
nervous,” she said, hesitating still, as if she thought that he would
immediately take the lines if he saw that she did not want to do it.
“Oh, I will do my criticizing aloud, and so it will have all the effect
of a lesson in driving,” he answered easily; and she had to take the
lines, which he handed to her, and then, as he climbed into the wagon
after her, he asked a question of the Inspector, who was waiting to see
them start. “Do you think that we should be wise in driving straight to
Duck Flats, instead of turning off to Pentland Broads? Miss Doyne is
very anxious to reach home before this bad news about the Brown
Expedition, especially as Miss Long is there looking after Mrs. Ellis.”
“That is a very good idea, and by taking the cross-trail through
Benson’s wheat you will save at least three miles; at the worst, Bill
Humphries will only think that the repairs to his wagon took a little
longer than he bargained for, unless, indeed, he thinks that Miss Doyne
has run away with his wagon,” said the Inspector; and then the black
horse, refusing to be held in any longer, dashed away down the street
and out along the muddy trail, ploughing through soft places and
pounding along at such a wild rate, that Bertha was thankful, indeed, to
have someone with her to whom she could turn if the task of driving
became more than she could manage.
Her companion munched his oatcake in silence until it was gone, and even
then he did not speak, leaving it to her to talk if she wished, or to
sit in silence if that was what she preferred. Meanwhile, he had letters
to read which had come to the police barracks for him, and had been
given to him by Inspector Grant. Presently he jerked up his head and
spoke with so much brisk energy in his tone, that Bertha, who had been
very much absorbed, gave a little jump of astonishment.
“Do you care to hear some good news? At least, it is news that is very
good for me.”
“Yes, indeed, I care, and good news will be a treat, seeing how rare it
has been of late,” she replied wearily.
He gave her a keen glance, but made no comment on her words, only asked
a question. “How much do you know of the disasters which have driven me
into doing navvy work, or anything else which gave promise of an honest
dollar?”
Bertha flushed, but looked steadily at him. “I do not know anything
except what Mrs. Fricker said in her letter to her son, that you had
been manager or agent to a company which failed, and the shareholders
believed you to be guilty of deceiving them, and treated you
accordingly.”
“Then Mrs. Fricker let me down very gently, which is like her, for she
is a kind and very noble woman,” he said, smiling, although his eyes
were sad. “However, it seems that I am to be cleared at last, after
having lain under a cloud for more than two years. I have a letter here
from Mr. Mallom, my stepfather, who tells me that one of the directors
has just died, and, at the end, confessed to having thrown the entire
blame on me for making certain investments, when all the time I was only
working under orders, and very stringent orders at that. I came very
near having to stand my trial for embezzlement also. Indeed, seeing the
charges against me, I never quite understood how it was that I was not
arrested; but this confession, of course, explains that the real
culprits feared to go quite so far, lest a criminal enquiry might reveal
that I was only the scapegoat. So they stopped at taking away my
character, making me a byword among honest men, so that I have found it
impossible to get work of a responsible sort. It has been a bitter
experience, and I have been an Ishmael among my kind, until I have
almost forgotten what it feels like to be able to hold up my head in
public, or to walk abroad without having the finger of scorn pointed at
me.”
“But some people have always believed in you,” she reminded him gently.
“Thank God, yes; and first among these has always been my stepfather,
who offered to spend every dollar he possessed in the attempt to clear
me. But I would not have it, for I knew that the people who were
shielding themselves behind me had longer purses than we had, and so it
would be victory to those who could hold out longest, and my good
stepfather would have been left penniless in his old age. Moreover, I
have always believed in the ultimate triumph of right, and this result
proves my belief to be justified.”
“What will you do now?” asked Bertha, expecting to hear him say that as
soon as he had seen her safe at Duck Flats he should go east as fast as
steam could get him there.
But he only gave a low, quiet laugh of intense satisfaction as he
replied, “Why, just at first I shall do nothing at all, save enjoy the
fact that no one any longer will call me thief, swindler, and the like.
Then I shall look round for the most responsible post that I can find,
and boldly ask for it. I find that really to appreciate the fact of
having a good name, one needs to live under a cloud for a while.”
Bertha was silent for a little time, and then she said, “I suppose that
you will not go back to work on the railway again?”
“No; but that settled itself yesterday when the contractor’s man told me
that if I was not at my work this morning I need not trouble to come
again. Kind man, he has saved me the trouble of sending him a civil
resignation!”
“Oh, and it was on my account that you lost your work. I was afraid that
you would have to suffer for doing so much for me,” said Bertha, in
distress.
Edgar laughed again. It was impossible not to feel light-hearted when
such a cloud had been lifted from him.
“You did me a real kindness in coming up to Brocken Ridge to fetch me
away, for otherwise I might have had to wait at least another week for
this news, and think what that means to a man in my position,” he said
earnestly.
But Bertha was not disposed to sit passive under an imputation of such a
kind, and so she said spiritedly: “You are quite wrong in thinking that
I came so far to fetch you away. Nothing was further from my thoughts
than that you would take the trouble to come back with me. Indeed, I
would not have permitted it in any case, had it not been for Mrs.
Walford’s trouble about me. She had got it into her head that she would
have to come back as far as Rownton with me herself, and the mere
prospect of another railway journey, after her experience on the bridge,
was more than she could stand, poor thing.”
“All the same, it was manifestly my duty to do what I could for you,
seeing how carefully you had guarded what you deemed to be my property,
and it was a pleasure also,” he answered, with such a sudden softening
in his tone, that Bertha coloured hotly in spite of herself, and then
was intensely ashamed because of her silliness.
The horse had its own notions of what was required of it in the matter
of pace, and went ahead in a fashion that was so satisfactory as to
leave Bertha but little to do in the way of driving. The halfway house
was passed, and they just stopped to leave a message which might be
given to anyone from Pentland Broads, to the effect that the wagon
belonging to Bill Humphries was returning by way of Duck Flats instead
of by the direct trail, and then the horse went on again with unabated
vigour, until the place was reached where the cross-trail forked through
Benson’s wheat.
Then, indeed, the horse did object, and was disposed to fight for its
own ideas in the matter of route. But Bertha had not been compelled to
bear with old Pucker’s obstinacy so long without learning a good deal
about the whims and fancies to which horseflesh is liable, so she
humoured and coaxed the big creature, even getting down from the wagon,
and with her arms round its neck talked to it as if it had been a
troublesome child, until it was soothed and convinced that one way would
do as well as another; then she clambered back into the wagon again, and
the animal went forward at its old eager pace, while the number of miles
to be travelled grew speedily less and less.
Edgar had watched the little tussle without offering to interfere. It
was easy to see that the girl was not in difficulties, or he would have
come to her assistance at once. As it was, the incident was interesting,
revealing as it did the force of character which could influence by
persuasion, when no amount of scolding or whip could possibly have been
so effectual. But he was very silent afterwards, and Bertha, supposing
him to be absorbed in thoughts about his own affairs, was very careful
not to disturb him by any attempt at conversation, and so she was
considerably surprised when he asked an abrupt question about a matter
which concerned herself.
“How will Mrs. Ellis and her children be supported, now that her husband
is dead?”
“We shall manage somehow,” said Bertha rather vaguely, for she could not
tell this man, who was almost a stranger, that she deemed it her duty to
be breadwinner for the family as far as she could.
“That means, I suppose, that you intend to work yourself to a skeleton
in order to provide for them,” he said, with that curious directness
which characterized him.
Bertha coloured, and replied with a nervous laugh: “And if I do, it will
be no more than paying back an old debt which my sisters and I owe to
Mrs. Ellis, who gave up a good position to come and take care of us when
our mother died, and one good turn deserves another, you know.”
“I thought that was what you would say,” he remarked, with an air of
great satisfaction, and then he relapsed into a silence which lasted
almost until they reached the ugly little framehouse, which stood
solitary in the wide brown wilderness.
“Why, there is someone here; look at that wagon drawn up by the veranda
post!” said Bertha, in surprise, pointing to a wagon standing before the
house. The horses were still hitched to it, but covered with red
blankets to keep them from being chilled by the cold wind drawing across
the prairie, for night was coming down, and winter had as yet been
pushed but a very little way into the background.
“A visitor, most likely,” answered Edgar, and then he looked grave,
guessing what the visitor’s errand most likely amounted to, for ill news
flies fast, and people are uncommonly keen in spreading the tidings of
disaster.
“Why could they not have waited until I got home? It will be enough to
kill poor Grace to have such tidings blurted out to her!” cried Bertha.
“Run in and do your best to stave off the telling until you can do it in
your own way—you may be in time. I will see to the horse,” he said,
taking the lines from her hands as she sprang down without waiting for
the creature to stop.
“Thanks!” she murmured, and then she ran up the steps and opened the
house door, to be confronted by an amazing sight.