The End
IT was more than a week later before Tom Ellis was well enough to be
carried to his home at Duck Flats, and by that time everyone knew all
that there was to be known of his wonderful escape from death.
When the supplies ran short, and the Expedition, unable to find their
cache, were faced with starvation, the members drew lots for two of them
to take the risk of working their way back, through the constantly
recurring blizzards and over the wide stretches of trackless country, to
the nearest point of civilization, whence help could be obtained. The
lots fell to Tom Ellis and the brother of Eunice Long, and when they
started they believed that they were going to certain death, but the lot
had fallen to them and it was their duty to go.
So many times death stared them in the face, that it was like a miracle
they did not perish on the way. The poor man Long had to be left at the
first Indian encampment upon which they chanced, for he was so badly
frost-bitten that he could not stand upon his feet. From that time Tom
Ellis had to press on alone; then he fell into a wolf trap set by an
Indian, from which he was fished out more dead than alive, and he lay
for weeks too ill to remember the errand on which he set out, and he
must have died but for the kindness and the care of the wild people, who
were hard pressed themselves for food.
As soon as he was able to walk he set out again, but the very first
point of civilization which he reached was an outlying settlement, where
the news had been first carried of the disaster which had overtaken the
Expedition, and then he knew that he had failed. The knowledge was so
bitter, that at the first he was ready to lie down and die from sheer
despair at having failed. But the thought of his helpless wife and the
little children waiting for him at home spurred him on to make the final
effort necessary to get home, and when he had rested a little he set
forth again; but it is certain that he would never have reached home
alive, had it not been for Edgar Bradgate having to fetch the doctor in
the middle of the night, when the horse found his prostrate body lying
in the middle of the trail.
Great was the rejoicing at Pentland Broads when it was found that both
Tom Ellis and the brother of Eunice Long were alive. Young Semple and
the red-haired Fricker set off for the Indian encampment to bring home
Mr. Long; but for the present Eunice stayed on at Duck Flats, and left
the nursing of Tom Ellis to the doctor’s housekeeper, for death had come
to the solitary little house in the wheatfields, and Bertha could not be
left alone at such a time.
Uncle Joe had never recovered consciousness, but had slipped out of life
immediately after the doctor’s arrival, so he never knew the joyful news
of which the doctor was the bearer on that bright spring morning.
If there was no real grief, but only gentle regret for the old man who
had hastened his own end by the violence of his passions, that was
surely more his own fault than that of anyone else, since it is open to
everyone who comes into this world to earn love and to keep it. They
were sorry for him, but there was no sense of loss—the bitter feeling
of emptiness which constitutes real grief.
He was laid to rest in the bare little burying ground at the back of the
meeting house, while Edgar Bradgate and Bertha were the chief mourners,
because there was no one else to stand in that position. Poor Tom was
too ill to be told anything about it, and Grace, of course, was not fit
for the exertion of following anyone to the grave, because she could not
as yet stand upon her feet. One thing, however, she insisted upon, and
that was that she should be carried over to Pentland Broads to see her
husband, and although the journey must have shaken her very much, the
joy of being with him again was so great that it did her more good than
harm.
It was Edgar Bradgate who drove the pair of them back over the rough
trail to their home as soon as the doctor would allow Tom to be moved,
and, as the long miles had to be covered at a pace which would not shake
the two invalids unduly, it was not wonderful that the talk which was
indulged in grew very intimate and confidential before the end of the
journey was reached.
Edgar told them that he wanted to marry Bertha, but that he dared not
ask her because he had discovered the fact of her writing, and he feared
that a girl with a literary future before her would not care to tie
herself to a poor man.
“Still it is not fair to Bertha that she should not have the chance of
doing what she pleased,” said Grace, while a flush of colour rose in her
pale cheeks.
“What do you mean?” asked Edgar, leaning down a little nearer to Grace,
who sat propped up in a funny, old easy chair behind the driving seat.
“I mean that if Bertha happens to care for you, it is rather hard on her
that she should never have a chance of choosing happiness with you, and
all because she has made the very best use of the gift that was in her,”
Grace answered, in a spirited tone.
“Do you think——?” began Edgar, with a gleam of hope lighting up his
eyes, which were apt to look a little sombre.
“I don’t think anything, and I would not tell you if I did,” Grace
replied crossly. “I only say that if you care for Bertha, as you say
that you do, it is your duty to tell her so.”
“And to get flouted for my pains, maybe,” said Edgar moodily.
“If you have such a poor opinion of Bertha as to think that she could be
guilty of such meanness, your love cannot be worth much,” retorted
Grace.
“Don’t be too hard on him, wife. I have felt very much the same myself
in days gone by,” said Tom, with a laugh, and then he began to talk of
the advisability of sowing oats and potatoes, as well as wheat, for the
next harvest, and the conversation did not come near matters purely
personal again during the remainder of that long, slow drive.
* * * * *
It was a week later still when a letter came from Hilda which contained
tidings of importance for Bertha. Hilda was intending to sail for
Australia, where, with her European training fresh upon her, she
intended setting up for herself in Adelaide. She wanted to have a home
of her own, and she was quite positive that she could soon get a
teaching connection large enough to support herself and Bertha, and with
Anne only fifty miles away, it would be almost like the old days at
Mestlebury over again. So she begged that Bertha would give up her
position as hired girl in Cousin Tom’s household and come to Australia
without delay.
“What cool impudence, to call you a hired girl!” growled Tom, who had
long ago taken quite an unreasonable prejudice against bright, capable
Hilda.
“Bertha would certainly have more time for her own work, and an easier
life altogether, in living with Hilda,” put in Grace; but to this Bertha
made no reply, as she took the pail and went out to milk the cow.
She was feeling miserably depressed, although in reality she ought to
have been very happy indeed, seeing that some, at least, of the tangles
had been smoothed out of her path.
By the very same mail which had brought Hilda’s letter, a communication
had been received from the lawyer engaged in winding up the estate of
Tom’s Uncle Joe, stating that the old man had left a brief will behind
him, in which everything he possessed was left to his dear nephew,
Thomas Ellis; so there would be no more straitened means for the
household at Duck Flats, and it was very certain that they would not
forget their past indebtedness to her for standing by them so bravely in
their troubles.
“Bah! As if money were everything!” she exclaimed, with almost spiteful
emphasis, as she rose from her stool, and then she blushed a furious red
as Edgar Bradgate entered the barn.
“Where have you sprung from? I thought that you were at Rownton,” she
said, in surprise.
“I have been even farther than that, for I have just come from Gilbert
Plains,” he answered, and then he went on, “And I have had some work
offered to me at last, really responsible work, I mean, which is one of
the good things resulting from having a character once more.”
“Are you going to take it?” she asked.
“That is what I was coming to ask you,” he replied. “Having a prospect
at last of being able to keep a wife makes me bold enough to ask for
what I want, and as I would rather marry you than be President of the
United States, or any equally exalted office, it is for you to say
whether I can take this post and be happy.”
The colour went flaming over Bertha’s face as she placed the milk-pail
on the ground and stood looking at him, as if in actual doubt of his
meaning, although his words had been plain enough. Then a light of
dancing mischief came in her eyes, and she asked demurely—
“And if I say no?”
His face fell, and he winced visibly, though his voice was very quiet as
he replied: “In that case I must be outcast again, but with this
difference, that now I shall have no hope left, and in the worst of my
troubles hope never failed me before.”
But Bertha had already repented of her teasing, and, slipping her hand
into his, murmured softly—
“And it need not fail you now.”
* * * * *
Hilda was dreadfully disappointed to find that Bertha was not coming to
keep house for her in Adelaide, while Anne wrote long letters protesting
that Bertha was too much of a baby to think of getting married yet for
years to come. But when Tom, at the instigation of Grace, wrote to them
of the tremendous changes which had taken place in Bertha, and the
capable manner in which she had borne herself through crises which might
well have tried the nerves of a much older person, the elder sisters
decided that she was at last able to take her own way, and to choose her
own lot for herself.
The case of diamonds, which had given so much trouble and anxiety to
Bertha, was sold to an American millionaire, something in shoe blacking
he was, and they realized the two hundred thousand dollars which the old
man had said that they were worth. Some of the money went to provide
Grace with the best medical skill the Dominion could supply, another
portion was set aside as a wedding gift to Bertha, and some of the
remainder went in building a more commodious house at Duck Flats; for
nothing would induce Tom Ellis to leave the prairie which he so dearly
loved.
Bertha protested at the size of the gift which was to be hers when she
married, but Grace stopped her, saying, with a laugh which bordered
closely on tears—
“But for you, dear, there had been no money at all, for Uncle Joe’s
affairs are so hopelessly involved, and he has muddled so much money
away in foolish speculation, that when it is wound up his estate will
only just about clear itself.”
“That is all the more reason why you should keep the money, and it is no
virtue of mine that I took care of the stones, seeing that I supposed
them to be another man’s, and only waited for the chance of restoring
them to him. It is not a virtue to be honest,” Bertha repeated, with
emphasis.
“I think that it must be, seeing that it is a vice to be dishonest,”
said Grace, as she leaned her head against Bertha’s shoulder. “But if it
had not been for you and your brave doing of hard and unpleasant duty, I
should not have been here at all. I could not have struggled through all
that long, hard time of helplessness if it had not been for you. It was
because of you, and what you did for me, that I kept my hold on hope,
and it was hope that saved my life.”
“And if it had not been for you I should never have had the courage to
do anything at all,” replied Bertha. “And, Grace, that Boston firm has
written to say that they will undertake my book and bring it out next
fall, and that would certainly never have been written if it had not
been for you, so the burden of indebtedness is about even.”
Then Grace quoted softly the words from Holy Writ—
“For none of us liveth to himself.”
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
_At the Villafield Press, Glasgow, Scotland_
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in punctuation have been maintained.
Some illustrations moved to facilitate page layout.
[_The Youngest Sister_, by Bessie Marchant.]