To Fill the Breach
THE leaves had all fallen, and been hidden inches deep under the first
snow of the season; but Nell was still at Lorimer’s Clearing, working at
all sorts of tasks, and striving with all her might to lighten the heavy
burdens resting on the household.
Patsey was well again, and getting into mischief as often as possible.
But as he went to school every day, his opportunities for mischief at
home were rather limited.
Mrs. Lorimer was also well—at least she said so, but there was a
broken, crushed look about her, as if life had lost its zest and charm.
Very hard to please Nell found her, a grudging nature which would accept
service, but give no love in return; so silent, too, that whole days
would pass in which she spoke—only to complain.
The coming of the first snow found Abe Lorimer only able to leave his
bed and creep out to sit in the big chair by the stove, while Gertrude
was not even able to do that.
The doctor did not come very often. Mrs. Lorimer told him not to,
declaring that it was as much as they could do to buy food for such a
big household, without piling up a long doctor’s bill as well.
“But I should come all the same, if I thought there was any chance of
their pulling up any the quicker,” Dr. Shaw said confidentially to Nell.
“There are some cures that only Nature can work, and she is a very slow
physician. However, time does wonders, and Gertrude will be sound enough
again some day, but I have my doubts about the father.”
So Nell stayed on doing the work of the house while Mrs. Lorimer looked
after the invalids. Patsey slept with George Miller in the loft, so that
Nell could share the children’s room, but Gertrude still lay in the
smart best parlour.
Washing, baking, sweeping, scrubbing, the days passed like a dream to
Nell, and she was happier than she had been in all the years since her
father died. At last she had love enough to satisfy her, for the
children were devoted to her, and the big fat baby, who was so slow in
learning to walk, always preferring other people’s feet to his own, had
struck up a violent friendship with Nell, and thought there was no
pleasure in life equal to riding round on her back, while she swept,
dusted, and did many other similar household tasks with the child
clinging to her shoulders.
She would have been happy enough to stay on indefinitely, working for
her board, her only wages being love. But she was quick to see that Mrs.
Lorimer would be glad to get her out of the house, and as soon as
Gertrude could get up there would no longer be any excuse for her
remaining at Lorimer’s Clearing.
The thought of the future worried her a great deal in the quiet nights,
when the children were all sleeping round her, and she had nothing to do
save lie still puzzling out the problem which loomed every day so much
nearer to her.
It was dead of winter; the sickness which had been so prevalent in the
neighbourhood had entirely disappeared, with the exception of the two
cases at Lorimer’s Clearing. Nell had ventured to ask Dr. Shaw one day
if he knew of work which she could go to next, but he only shook his
head, and told her to be content where she was, for no one needed her so
badly as the Lorimers.
But she was very sensitive, and very proud too, and the thought of being
where she was not wanted made a misery for her which tormented all day
long.
At last Gertrude was able to leave her room, and to creep feebly about
the house. Then Mrs. Lorimer spoke plainly to Nell, not with the
thankful gratitude which she ought to have shown, but with the brutal
directness of one who has no consideration for anything outside her own
narrow circle of interest.
Nell had been out-of-doors, hanging the week’s wash up to dry, in a
cutting wind which rushed down from snow-covered mountain tops and
howled through the valleys. Coming in, numbed and trembling from
exposure to the bitter cold, she said, with a brave attempt at
cheerfulness—
“There! the hanging-out is done for this week, and I hope by the time
next Monday comes the weather will be warmer.”
“Perhaps you won’t be here then, so it won’t matter to you whether it is
cold or not,” Mrs. Lorimer said, going on with her sewing, and never
glancing at Nell, who turned very pale, and winced as if some one had
struck her a blow.
She was only pale for a moment, though; then her colour came back with a
rush, and she asked, in a tone which she vainly tried to keep steady—
“How soon do you wish me to go?”
Mrs. Lorimer looked up then, scanning the girl’s face with a cold gaze.
“You can suit yourself about that; I don’t mind whether it is this week
or next. I’m not denying that you’ve worked hard, and done your best for
us all round. But we have had heavy expenses since harvest, so even an
extra mouth to feed is a consideration, and I’m bound to cut down
expenses where I can.”
Nell drew a long breath and set her teeth hard, then turned away without
a word. But there was hot revolt in her heart all the same, and a wild
protest against the bitter injustice of Mrs. Lorimer’s treatment.
“Why won’t people be kind to me?” she moaned under her breath, as she
scrubbed out the children’s bedroom with the hot soapsuds left over from
washing, and a few salt tears blinded her eyes, then dropped on to the
wet floor.
Her grandfather had gone away, leaving her to face the world as best she
might. Mrs. Munson had been glad to get rid of her because of the
expense of her board, and now Mrs. Lorimer, for whom she had toiled so
hard, was simply telling her to go.
Nell caught her breath in a sudden sob, and then a pair of arms came
stealing round her neck, gripping her in such a loving hug that she was
nearly choked.
“Nell, dear Nell, I heard all that mother said just now, and it has made
me feel so bad that I don’t know what to do. But don’t judge her too
hardly, for the deaths of Percy and Arthur seem to have changed her
entirely. I have to keep telling myself that all the time, for very
often I am tempted to wonder if she has left off loving me,” said
Gertrude, whose face was pale and drawn, her eyes red with weeping.
Nell choked back another sob. “I wouldn’t mind so much if I had anywhere
else to go. But, being winter, it is hard to find work. There isn’t much
out-of-doors just now that a girl can do, and there are women enough
about here for all the indoor work, now that the sickness has all gone,”
she said, in a worried tone.
“You must not go—you must stay here with us,” answered Gertrude,
impulsively.
“I can’t—not a day longer than I can help, that is—for your mother
says my keep is a consideration; and oh, Gertrude, it is just awful to
be beholden to charity for your food!” Nell said vehemently; and then
she scrubbed a section of the floor with tremendous vigour.
Gertrude laughed in a weak, mirthless fashion. “Charity, did you say?
Why, Nell, has it never occurred to you how tremendously indebted we are
to you? Apart from the loving-kindness you have shown to us all, and
which no money could ever pay for, the actual work you have done should
have earned you a considerable salary anywhere else. Why, at Bratley,
where I am telegraph clerk, a woman would charge half a dollar a day,
and then not do half the work that you do. Oh, I know; and I will tell
mother just what I think about it all. I should have gone to her then,
and said just everything that was in my mind, only father came in,
looking so worn and sad that I had no heart nor courage left to make a
scene.”
“Gertrude, don’t say anything to her at all about it,” implored Nell,
whose misery had been effectually routed by this sweet sympathy and
championship. “I don’t mind half so much now I know that you feel sorry
I’ve got to go. Only, just at first, it seemed as if nobody cared what
became of me, and I felt so dreadfully lonely and outside of
everything.”
“Poor Nell! and yet you are not outside at all, if only you knew it,”
murmured Gertrude. Then, after a moment of hesitation, she went on, “I’m
going to tell you something now that seems too sacred to put into
speech, only perhaps you will feel better if you know. Always, when I
was lying in bed in the parlour, I could hear what any one was saying in
father’s room, and every night when he was keeping his bed too, I could
hear him saying his prayers. You know what a quiet, slow-of-speech man
he is—but when he is praying it is so different—and it became a
positive comfort to me to hear him. He used to pray for us all by name,
and every night he thanked God for having sent you to help us, and he
used to pray so earnestly for you that you might be repaid for your
goodness, and that your future might be taken care of, that I am quite
sure you won’t be left unprovided for; and if you do go away, it will be
to take higher and better work.”
A glow of happiness came into Nell’s face, the trouble of Mrs. Lorimer’s
unkindness faded into an unimportant detail, and she said cheerfully—
“Well, I shan’t trouble anymore about it to-day, and by to-morrow,
perhaps, things will look different, or I shall see better about what
I’ve got to do next.”
But, as it happened, before to-morrow came, she found what it was she
could do next, and it came about in this wise. When Patsey came home
from school that afternoon he brought with him a letter for Gertrude,
which filled her with consternation.
It was from her deputy at the Bratley depot, who wrote that she could
hold the post for only two weeks longer, as she had been offered a
clerkship in Nelson, a permanent post with a good salary.
“Oh, mother, do you think I could get strong enough in a fortnight to go
back to work?” cried Gertrude, dismayed at the thought of losing her
position at Bratley.
“I don’t think anything about it, for I know you can’t,” Mrs. Lorimer
replied gloomily.
“Oh dear, what shall I do? Every one says the Bratley clerks are sure of
promotion, and I had such a clean record, too; now I shall have to
resign, and all my previous work and waiting will go for nothing.”
Nell, who was busy at the stove with preparations for supper, turned
quickly with an eager question—
“Could I fill the place for you, do you think?”
“But you don’t know anything about telegraphy,” interposed Mrs. Lorimer.
“I do, a little. For four months before father died, after he was too
ill to preach, we boarded with Mrs. Chapman, at Poll’s End. Their
daughter Sally was the depot operator, and she taught me a lot; I could
send and receive messages for her, and I often used to be in her office
for hours alone, while she went walking with her friends,” Nell said, a
little breathlessly, while she looked from Mrs. Lorimer to Gertrude, and
then back again.
“Oh, mother, if only it could be done, how happy I should be!” exclaimed
Gertrude, with clasped hands, and an eager look in her eyes.
“I should think it might; there is a fortnight yet, you see, and you
could spend that time in coaching Nell up. If she is as quick at
telegraphy as she is at other things, she is bound to do.” And as she
spoke, Mrs. Lorimer turned to Nell with a strangely softened glance.
“Then I’ll write to-day to say that I will send another deputy in two
weeks’ time, and Nell can stay at Bratley until the doctor says that I
may go back to my work again,” Gertrude said gleefully.
That night, when Nell was in the dairy doing the last of her work for
the evening, Mrs. Lorimer came softly in and stood beside her as she
wiped down the shelves, and cleared away the empty pans.
“Nell, will you forgive me for telling you to go this morning?” she said
slowly, her voice quivering in spite of her efforts to keep it steady.
“Why, yes, of course,” said Nell, quickly, adding, with a nervous laugh,
“I had been so happy here, with such a lot of folks to love, that it was
hard work even to think of tearing myself away, though I would have gone
sooner if I could have found anywhere to go, or if I had known that I
was not needed here.”
Mrs. Lorimer put a shaking hand on her arm. “I’ve had a black, bitter
mood on me for a long while past, and I’ve said and done things that a
happier person might well be ashamed of. But it took your generous offer
to fill Gertrude’s place at Bratley to make me see how really mean I
was.”
“Don’t talk about it any more, please; it hurts me,” whispered Nell,
turning rather pale, for there was a look in Mrs. Lorimer’s face which
frightened her.
“It had better be said out now and done with, then there will be no need
to put it into words again. I haven’t been fair to you in my mind ever
since you came, and yet at every turn you have given me good for evil.
That is what has made me come to you now to say straight out that I’ve
been wrong, and to ask forgiveness.”
Nell dropped her dish-cloth, and, with a sudden impulse, put her arms
round the cold, unresponsive woman in an affectionate hug.
“You are not to say another word, do you hear? Or, if you do,
I’ll—I’ll—let me see, what will I do? Oh, I’ll go to bed before my
work is done, and I won’t learn to be a telegraph operator, so there!”
The effect of these threats was rather diminished by the merry laugh
that accompanied them.
There was an unwonted moisture in Mrs. Lorimer’s eyes as she turned
away. She was not a woman given to tears, or to laughter, or to any
other sort of emotion, but there were strange depths in her character
that few people even guessed at, and Nell’s forbearance and generosity
had moved her mightily.
They were busy days which followed. Nell rose early, and worked at
household tasks until Gertrude was able to leave her room. Then the two
spent a couple of hours busy with rule books and a dummy sounder. It
might have been as puzzling as Greek to Nell but for her remembrance of
the instruction given her by Sally Chapman. Young as she was, she had
been quite a skilful operator then, and it took only a little effort to
bring it all back.
One day, before the fortnight was up, Abe Lorimer took her over to Nine
Springs in the morning, and left her there until the evening, in the
telegraph office at the depot, where the operator, a merry-faced girl of
twenty, let her send and receive the messages as they came in, telling
her that, with practice, she would make a very good operator indeed.
It was raining fast when Abe Lorimer drove to Nine Springs to fetch her
home that night, while the melting snow gave a raw coldness to the
atmosphere that was dismal and depressing.
But Nell was too happy for the weather to have any effect upon her, and
it seemed to her, as the horses splashed along through the mud and the
slush, that she had nothing in the world left to wish for, unless,
indeed, it was, that she might be able to restore to Mr. Bronson the
thirty dollars which lay such a heavy burden upon her heart.
Her own two dollars, which Mrs. Munson had given her, had gone to buy
her a pair of boots. But Abe Lorimer had given her five dollars that
morning, so she had money of her own again.
There had been additions to her wardrobe, too, which filled her with
profound satisfaction. A long brown coat of Gertrude’s had been bestowed
upon her, and Mrs. Lorimer, who was clever with her needle, had made a
little brown cloth cap to match it; while Patsey had shot a pheasant in
the top pasture, bringing home the wings as a special adornment for the
brown hat.
The black silk cape had been made into a blouse for best occasions, the
blue merino had been altered into a more youthful shape, and Nell
surveyed her improved appearance in the looking-glass with an amazement
which was comical in the extreme.
“Oh, what a difference clothes do make!” she exclaimed. “It isn’t only
the outside look of them, it is the inside feel. I’m not Nell any more
when I’ve these things on; I’m Eleanor Hamblyn, or perhaps Miss Hamblyn,
which is grander still.”
“What nonsense! You will always be Nell to us, even if you are dressed
up in silk velvet and diamonds, with lace frills,” laughed Gertrude, who
had been assisting at the transformation scene. Then she asked gently,
“Haven’t you ever had pretty, or even suitable, clothes before?”
“I don’t know; I suppose not, or at least, I never looked pretty in
them. You see, my mother died when I was so very small, and my father
did not know much about clothes, though everyone said he preached
beautiful sermons.”
“But afterwards—for you say your father died ever so long ago—wasn’t
there anyone to see that you had a nice frock once in a while?” Gertrude
persisted, with natural girlish curiosity about Nell’s past.
“It was worse and worse afterwards; for granfer not merely didn’t know
about what sort of clothes a girl ought to wear, he didn’t care,” she
answered bitterly. Then she abruptly changed the conversation, for,
mindful of her grandfather’s caution, she never talked of her life at
the Lone House, and was extremely reticent upon the subject of her
immediate past.
She often thought of Joe Gunnage’s errand to fetch the Canadian police
to inspect the find at the Lone House. But she had not dared to ask any
questions, or set on foot inquiries concerning it, through fear lest it
should in any way harm her grandfather.
So she hid the past as carefully as she could, comforting herself that
now she was on Canadian soil she was safe from any reminders of that old
bad time. But it was only hidden, not forgotten, after all.