Chapter XIV: In the Rush

“OH, if the days were a little longer, what a comfort it would be!” sighed Bertha, as she hurried to and fro setting out a supper for the harvest helpers on the veranda.

“So far as you are concerned, I think that it is a pity that they are quite so long,” said Grace, who could do no more to help in the rush of work than to tell Bertha when a saucepan was going to boil over. Yet even that was a help, and Bertha toiled through the hard days all the more easily for knowing how genuinely sorry for her Grace was.

The wheat was almost all cut. For a week past the binder had been driven round and round the waving squares of wheat, until now it stood in stooks ripening in the sun. But to-night a threshing machine had puffed and panted its way across the uneven trails from Pentland Broads, drawing behind the engine the various parts of machinery necessary for sacking the grain and disposing of the straw. While it was at Duck Flats the men who came with it would have to be boarded, and hence the extra work which made Bertha long for the days to be more stretchable in the matter of time.

From morning to night no one thought or talked of anything but wheat, how it was coming down, how it was ripening in the stooks, and how it would thresh out. Bertha went even a little further than this, and dreamed of wheatfields night after night; but they were always covered with snow in her dreams, just as they had been when she first came to Manitoba. She had keyed herself up for the extra work of the harvest time, while Grace from her couch, like a good general, planned the campaign. Both of them knew that, when the threshing was over, and the grain had been drawn to the depot at Rownton, the days would be long and silent, and to a certain extent full of leisure; but if only a few hours of that future leisure could have been mortgaged for the needs of the present, how glad they would both have been.

Then one morning Bertha got up with one of the worst headaches that she had ever known, and was wondering however she would manage to get through the long, hard day of baking, boiling, and stewing for the hungry men who were working so hard afield. The numbers were to be reinforced to-day by a party of neighbours from Pentland Broads and another engine; so there would be double the number to provide for, and meals would have to be duplicated, as the men would feed in relays.

“But I must get through, I must,” she said to herself, as she leaned over a basin of the coldest water she could get, and tried what bathing her head would do towards lessening the pain.

But the headache was due to overstrain, and it was not a matter of cold water that was going to cure it. She was still slopping the cold water on to her face, when she heard a wagon drive past the window and stop before the door.

“The Pentland Broads lot, I expect,” she said to herself in a languid tone, and, wiping her face with a towel, she went out to receive them; for she was not quite sure where Tom was just then, and the second engine was to work over on the farther section of the Duck Flats land. Then she saw that there was a little woman seated among the men, and she gave a glad cry as she recognized Eunice Long.

“Oh, I wonder if you can even faintly guess how glad I am to see you!” she cried, and suddenly the long, hard day looked as if it might be not only bearable, but to a certain sense enjoyable.

“That is good hearing. I like to be sure of my welcome when I go anywhere,” said Eunice, with a laugh, as she submitted to the vigorous hugging which Bertha bestowed upon her. “But you look about tired out before the day begins, child! What have you been doing to yourself?”

“I don’t know,” said Bertha, radiant content in her tone. “My head was aching pretty badly awhile ago, but it is going to get better now that you have come.”

“I suppose that you were a bit daunted by having so many to feed; but it is wonderful how easy it is to provide for hungry men. They are certain to appreciate everything that is set before them, and they are not very particular, as a rule, provided there is no shortage. What is to do first? Have you enough bread?” asked Eunice, who was tying on a businesslike apron.

“I did a big baking of cakes and pies yesterday, as well as bread,” replied Bertha, opening the pantry door and proudly displaying the stores within. “In fact, I was making and baking the whole day long; but there are all the vegetables to get ready, and they will want a great lot, because it is so hot that they will not be able to eat so much meat.”

“Then I will set to work on the vegetables straight away,” said Eunice. “And look here, Bertha, don’t you think that it would be a good thing if I cooked some of them now, so that there are dishes of cold vegetables as well as hot? The poor fellows do love cold things when they are working in the heat and the dust at threshing times.”

“That would be a good idea,” said Bertha, sighing with relief to think how it would lessen the rush of work later on to have some of the things cooked now. “I will come and help you, and we can soon have a lot of them on to boil.”

“No, you won’t,” said Eunice, with decision. “You will just drop everything and lie down on your bed for an hour and half. I can do without you for so long, and it will make all the difference to the comfort with which you can get through the day. Don’t worry about the time to get up; I will call you, I promise, so you can go to sleep with a clear conscience.”

“Oh, but it seems too bad to do that when you are here! I want to be with you all the time,” said Bertha; but her objections to resting were only half-hearted, and five minutes after she had put her head on the pillow of her unmade bed she was fast asleep, and did not wake until she roused to see Eunice standing beside her holding a steaming cup of coffee just ready for drinking.

“Have I slept too long?” asked Bertha, in alarm, for it seemed to her that she had been lying there for a very long time.

“No, dear, the time I gave you is barely up yet; but Mrs. Ellis wanted you to go into her room when you did wake, so I thought that you would be easier in your mind to be wakened in good time,” said Eunice, who looked very warm from her active exertions at the stove.

“Isn’t she so well?” asked Bertha, in alarm. Grace stayed in her room this morning, because that would leave the kitchen a little freer for all the bustle of feeding that had to be got ready there.

“I think that she is all right; but she had a letter that she wanted you to see, and you need not hurry her if she wants to talk it out with you, for I can manage very well for a little longer,” said Eunice, in the unflurried tone which always made her seem such a restful person.

Bertha jerked her head in token that she understood, but she was scalding herself too badly with the coffee for speech just then.

Grace had a twinkle of fun in her eyes, for even the tragedy of her condition could not wholly dim the brightness of her spirit. There was an open letter fixed in one of her helpless hands, and she was looking at it when Bertha came in at the door.

“Are you better, poor thing?” asked Grace, who found it so much more natural to be sorry for other people than for herself.

“Yes, thank you; I feel much more fit now that I have been to sleep. What have you there? Something that you wish me to read to you?” asked Bertha, pointing to the letter.

“I think that you had better read it to yourself and tell me what you make of it,” said Grace, with a low laugh. “It is from your old man, Tom’s beautiful Uncle Joe.”

Bertha took the letter, but at first was troubled to understand the queer, crabbed handwriting, which was plainly characteristic of the writer, then finally this is what she made it out to be—

“DEAR NEPHEW TOM,

“I am sorry that I could not wait to see you on the day a
little while ago when I called at your house. I should doubtless
have made time to come if your wife had held out to me any
reasonable hope that you would be able to lend me money. I will
admit that she offered for me to share your home if my funds
would not keep me in food and shelter. But happily I am not
quite penniless yet, though there is no saying how soon I may
be, unless my luck soon turns. My greatest trouble has been that
I have been openly robbed of some extremely valuable property
that, in view of some recent losses, I had determined to raise
money upon. For months I was unable to track the thief, but, to
my amazement, I came face to face with him a few days ago, and
although he promptly disappeared, I have every hope of running
him down before very long. If I succeed in recovering my
property, I may come to see you some time during the winter or
the spring, for I rather like your wife, although she must be a
very heavy burden to you in your struggle to get on.

—Your affec. uncle,
J. ELLIS.”

“What a horrid letter!” cried Bertha, a wrathful light coming into her eyes, when she thought how it must have cut Grace.

“Do you think so?” said the invalid, and again there was a twinkle in her eyes. “Now, I have been lying here pluming myself on the conquest that I have made; for, just reflect, the poor old fellow says that he rather likes me, and think what an admission that is, seeing that I am plainly not a good investment from a money point of view.”

“Is he poor?” asked Bertha, whose lip curled at the thought of the pity and the care she had lavished on the frail old man who had seemed so lonely and so friendless. But if he were lonely he had only himself to thank for it, and a man who would have friends must himself show a friendly spirit.

“Tom thinks not, although of course he cannot be sure. He says that perhaps this great loss which seems to be preying on the old man’s mind may be nothing after all, while, on the other hand, he may have flung away almost everything that he has got in foolish speculation,” replied Grace.

“What is he, or what was he? I mean, what was his trade when he was in business?” asked Bertha.

“Nothing very dignified, I am sorry to say,” answered Grace, smiling broadly. “He bought old clothes, old furniture, or anything else that seemed to offer a fair chance of being turned into money again very quickly. One of his grievances against Tom was that my poor dear refused to wear secondhand garments just as soon as he could earn the money to buy something brand new. Have you not noticed how fond Tom is of things that are quite new?”

“That is not wonderful under the circumstances,” said Bertha, with a laugh, and then she put the letter back into the fingers of Grace and hurried out to the kitchen, where Eunice was doing valiant battle with a great rush of work.

Bowls of peas and beans, great dishes of carrots, turnips, marrows stood cooling on a side table, while a second lot were steaming away on the stove, and outside on the veranda the table was already being laid for the first lot of hungry men to come in and feed.

“I feel so much better, that work is quite a pleasure now,” said Bertha, as she darted to and fro, filling jugs with lemonade and mint tea, cutting bread into chunks and piling into little baskets which were handy to pass about, and seeing that plates and knives and forks were all in readiness.

“That is good hearing, especially seeing that the work has got to be done somehow,” said Eunice, who was cutting pies into neat sections, so that the busy workers should not be delayed by any work of carving the food. Then she said quietly, “Have you noticed the change in Mrs. Ellis?”

“What change?” Bertha dropped a whole handful of knives in her alarm and agitation.

“Nothing to be frightened at, but rather something to rejoice in. She is going to get better, Bertha, I am sure of it; and if she does, it will be largely your doing. And oh, my dear, I think that you are to be envied!” said Eunice, in a moved tone.

“What do you mean? I have done nothing, not for Grace, I mean,” said Bertha, in a bewildered manner. She was thinking of massage and all the elaborate rubbings and poundings which Dr. Benson had said would be done to Grace if she were in hospital, but which the specialist had said were of no use at the present time.

“My dear, you have done everything for her, for you have given her hope. She sees you taking hold of things and running the house as well as she could do it herself, so she gets rest of mind, and nature has a chance, don’t you see,” said Eunice.

“But what makes you think that she is getting better?” asked Bertha, who had seen no improvement.

“Her hands are not quite so helpless as they were, and she can move her head a little. Oh, there is a decided improvement, and though it may take a couple of years for the paralysis to wear off, just think how the knowledge that she is getting better will help her.”

Bertha drew a long breath. “It seems too good to be true. Why, to see Grace getting better would be like—like——”

“Like seeing the prison door come open at the end of a long term of imprisonment, I think you mean,” said Eunice, with that rare sympathy which seemed to divine the thoughts without any necessity for words.

“I am afraid that it has been dreadfully wicked to feel like that,” said Bertha ruefully.

“I think it is very human. After all, we are human at the bottom, you know, and what is in us will show out under stress of circumstances,” Eunice answered, with a little laugh, and then the first batch of men came trooping in for a meal, and for the next two hours there seemed to be work enough for four people.

The men were desperately hungry, and they fed with the same zest of endeavour with which they did their work, while Eunice and Bertha flitted to and fro waiting upon them, filling jugs, dishing vegetables, and bringing fresh provisions from the pantry, until they could eat no more. Then in came another batch, the same process was repeated, and so the long day went on.

The next day brought almost as great a rush, but with no Eunice to help with the heavy end of the burden. Bertha, however, had got a tiny germ of hope in her heart now, and it proved a plant of vigorous growth too. If there was any likelihood of Grace recovering, why, immediately there was a time limit to her bondage, and she could cheer her heart with looking forward.

The third day brought Eunice over again, to the great relief of all concerned; for there was another thresher at work, which meant another set of hungry men to feed. Then Mrs. Smith, with real neighbourly kindness, drove over from Blow End and carried off the five children, a huge relief to Bertha, as with two threshing machines at work it was extraordinarily difficult to keep the children out of danger.

While Mrs. Smith was loading up the children into her little one-horse wagon, Bertha put the question which had been on her mind ever since the day when the standing corn fired and they had to work so hard to put it out.

“Who was that man you brought over to help fight the fire, Mrs. Smith?”

“Oh, that traveller from Brown & Smedley’s place? I don’t know his name, but I understood him to say that he was leaving them next day. Nice fellow, wasn’t he? I liked the way he took hold and did things; there was no nonsense about him,” replied Mrs. Smith; then, having wedged the last child in so that it could not possibly fall out, she clambered up to the driving seat and started with her load, leaving Bertha standing looking after the wagon.

“Whatever can I do?” she muttered. “How I wish that I had never seen those horrible stones!”