Chapter V

RESULTS. MRS. KINGSCOTE'S STORY—(continued).

IT was only under the first shock of the accident that Bertram was so entirely overcome as to show fully what he felt. I hardly knew what to do with the boy; he was so overpowered with remorse, for having unwittingly guided the poor Murchisons into danger. Yet nobody could justly blame him. The little talk with Mrs. Murchison, from which I had hoped so much, seemed rather to add to his distress. Her look of patient sorrow impressed him, I suppose, as it had impressed me.

When I reached home, after leaving her with her husband at Mrs. Coles', Ellie told me that she had seen nothing of Bertram meanwhile. He had gone straight to his room, she said, and had not since come out. "And I thought he mightn't like me to go to him," she added.

No; he would not like that, if he were overcome, I knew well. In a general way he could not endure that even I, his mother, should see him shed a tear. He had always such a spirit of his own. So I told Ellie she was right; and I went upstairs, not without hesitation.

But the door was not locked; and when I tapped, he at once said, "Come in." I found him on the bed, pale and restless, tossing to and fro, the picture of misery.

"I'm only seedy. It's nothing, mother," he said, with a husky attempt at a laugh. "Just a little—like what I was in the train."

"Poor Bertie!" I said.

"Oh, it's nothing—only stupidity," he declared again. "I shall be all right by-and-by,"—and then he could hardly get out the question—"How are they?"

"Louey is better," I said. "Murchison much the same. Not conscious yet. I fear he may not be—perhaps for some days. And Mrs. Murchison—"

I suppose my voice expressed the pity I was feeling; for Bertram turned his face away, and buried it in the pillow. I could see him shaking with the sobs that he would smother down; but I knew I must not make him give way. He would not like afterward to remember that he had done so: and presently he looked at me again, outwardly composed, only much flushed.

"Mother, why do such things happen?" he burst out.

My sunny-tempered boy had never asked this question before. He had always had a happy spirit, and a happy home; and I do not think bodily suffering on his own part would ever have drawn it from him; though he had known, off and on, much ill-health. But so far he had seen little of sorrow; he had not been brought face to face with the great realities of life and death—the great underlying mysteries of our present existence. I knew what it meant, when he broke into that passionate question, "Why do such things happen?" and I answered him slowly—

"I don't know, altogether, Bertie. Some reasons are beyond our reach. But it is partly because men are selfish and thoughtless. If proper warning had been given, nobody need have been hurt."

"If we had known," he said.

"But others did know; and they are responsible."

"I wouldn't be they!" he muttered. "It's bad enough as it is."

I tried to make him see that, while he could not but feel distressed, no real responsibility attached itself to him. As a complete stranger to the place, he could not possibly have known or guessed the danger. Even my husband, after one walk under the cliffs, had not thought of forbidding the children to go there. He had only noticed as curious the remarkable overhanging of the rock. I suppose, if Philip had been a scientific man, he would have read more clearly the state of things; but then he never was scientific. Whatever there is in Bertram of a scientific tendency, he inherits from my family, not from his father's. But I am wandering from the point.

I did my best to make poor Bertie see this,—how completely he was himself free from blame in the matter; how entirely blame belonged to those who did know of the danger, and who omitted to warn others off.

"You mean that poor little Bessie was killed, because they didn't care?" he said.

"Yes, I mean that," I said, "for one side of the question. Only one side. There is another!"

He asked listlessly, "What side? I don't see it."

"Perhaps our Lord wanted little Bessie in Paradise," I said softly. "And perhaps it was better for her not to be left longer on earth."

"I don't see why," he murmured.

"No need that we should see why. We have not the settling of it," I said. "We know so little about the real reasons of things; or about the future of those we love. It is enough to trust the love and wisdom of our God. Even though some are to be blamed for her death, it may still be the very best and happiest thing for her to have been called Home so early."

"Wouldn't it be best for everybody, if you look at it in that way, mother?"

"No," I said; "certainly not. Not even though it is 'far better' to be 'with Christ,' and though Paradise is far better than earth. God has work for most of us here, and it is not good for us to go until that work is done. For some it may be that He has work there, and not here."

All this comes back to me with the help of a few written notes jotted down at the time. It has been a habit of mine to keep memoranda of certain conversations,—generally with my children only. If I had not done so, this talk, like many others, might have faded quite out of my memory.

Bertram seemed to be a little comforted; and then I told him of a plan for Miles,—that he should be, for a time at least, our under-gardener.

"How good of you and father! That's capital!" he said. "Miles is a jolly boy!"

"You and we owe him much," I said.

"Yes, it was so plucky of him. I wonder we didn't both get killed,— it was such a thundering big rock, you know," declared Bertram, oddly trying to seem indifferent the moment he was able to master himself. And then there was a sigh. "Doesn't it seem horrid that he should have saved me from being hurt, and that I should have brought all this upon them!"

So then we had to go through it all again, and I had to comfort him afresh.

However, I think the idea of Miles working under old Nichols did him most good, by diverting his thoughts into a new channel. He was able soon to wonder what old Nichols would say, and to laugh at the thought of our aged retainer's probable grumpiness.

Not that Nichols was really so old. I suppose he was under fifty-five at that time, though anybody would have taken him for sixty-five at least. He was stooping and slow, grey and wrinkled. He had been a member of our household for twelve years, and of my father's household for fifteen years before that; so Nichols was entirely one of us, and he never hesitated to show what he thought.

The possibility of his "grumpiness" had occurred to me already. Nichols knew that we intended to get help for him; and he was not at all gratified, even while perfectly well aware that he could not do all the work alone. Our Ermespoint garden was more than twice as large as our former garden, and Nichols was becoming each year less capable of hard work. Still, having done alone for us during so many years, it was perhaps not surprising that he disliked the notion of any interloper.

My husband was so busy next day that I undertook to explain to Nichols about the new arrangement. He listened solemnly, his under lip protruding, and his shaggy eyebrows drawn together.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, when I stopped, and he said no more.

"I am sure you will find it a great comfort in a little while," I said. "Miles will be here distinctly to help you, and to do whatever you tell him. I think you will find him quick and willing."

"Can't abear boys," growled Nichols. "More trouble than they're worth."

"Still, the work has to be done," I said, "and you cannot do it alone. I doubt if you would care to have a man to help you, even if we could undertake the expense."

No, indeed; Nichols would have objected to a man far more than to a boy, and I knew this well. He mumbled something about "bother of teaching."

Of course it would be a little bother; but then Nichols was not lazy, and I told him so. No doubt, a boy already trained in gardening and in the care of a pony, would be less trouble than a boy who knew almost nothing of either. But there was the question of the Murchisons' need— the pressing necessity that Miles should find something to do. Even if he should, later on, go into his father's trade, which I then thought probable, he had to do what he could for the moment to bring in something; and he would be none the worse in the end for a short training under Nichols. I explained all this, adding, "Besides, think of the boy's courage in saving Master Bertram. That ought to make you willing to take a little extra trouble."

Not even Nichols' love for our Bertram would make the old fellow acknowledge himself in the wrong. What he had once said, that he would stick to, with the obstinacy of an unreasoning mind. However, he understood that, whether he were willing or no, the thing had to be. I wondered privately how the two would get on together. Some patience would be needed on the part of Miles, for Nichols could be surly.

During the first two or three days, matters were not as I wished. Nichols insisted on doing everything himself; and Miles could be seen standing about, unoccupied and rather unhappy. If he offered to do this or that, he was sharply desired to "mind his own business." Once I said to the boy, "Patience, Miles. It will all come right." Further than this I would not at once interfere. Things are sometimes best left to settle themselves.

Bertram was indoors for nearly a week after the accident, thoroughly unwell, but no sooner was he able to go out again, than affairs took a new aspect. If Miles were for a moment unemployed, Bertie was sure to rush up, exclaiming, "You don't want Miles just now, I see, so he can come and do something for me."

"I suppose he isn't here, sir, for nought but play," Nichols would retort, immediately setting Miles to work; and very soon Miles had as much to do as he could manage. He proved himself so apt and obliging, that Nichols speedily learnt his value, and the two became firm friends.

Still, I think that even then the real strength of Miles' affection went out towards Bertram. Everybody loved Bertie, and Miles was no exception. If Bertie wanted him, and Nichols was in a mood to make no objection, the boy's face would gleam with delight. Bertie liked Miles greatly; and the two boys drew together, much after the same fashion that Mrs. Murchison and I drew together; belonging indeed to different positions in life, yet none the less each loving and trusting the other.

But I must speak now of poor Murchison, lying helplessly on his bed. A few days brought him back to clear consciousness; and though his head was weak still, from the blow it had received, improvement in that direction was pretty steady, and the broken bones were slowly mending. In other directions matters were less satisfactory. There was a marked powerlessness of the lower limbs,—whether likely to be permanent no one could or would say. Dr. Wray seemed reluctant to give a decided opinion; yet I thought from the first that he was not very hopeful.

Murchison had two devoted nurses—Mrs. Coles and his wife. My husband took care that Coles should be no loser; and indeed for many weeks we undertook nearly all the expense of rent for the lodgings. This could not, of course, go on indefinitely. Our purse had many and heavy calls upon it, and we were paying Miles beyond his real due, so far as his powers of work were concerned.

Happily, the little home at Littleburgh had found a tenant, otherwise I do not know how the Murchisons would have managed to get on, despite our help and Miles' earnings.

For a while it seemed to me that Mrs. Murchison hardly realised how the days were slipping by, and how slight was the improvement in her husband's state, until one particular afternoon when the whole appeared to come upon her sharply, like a fresh blow. I had seen her in the morning, anxious, yet placid, able to smile and be pleased when I told her how we all liked Miles. Later in the day I went again, to find her alone, seemingly overwhelmed. I cannot forget the hollow look of misery in her eyes, as she stood gazing at me.

"He will never get well, ma'am," she said quietly, with the quiet of despair, "never! Jervis asked the doctor himself, and I was there. The doctor didn't say just that, you know, but he meant it. He said it would be long—long—and he bid my husband not look forward."

"No," I said, "I don't think either of you ought to look forward too much just now. 'Day by day' must be your motto."

"But if it's to be always?" she said.

"You cannot tell that it is to be always," I answered. "Don't be sure that you know what the doctor meant, beyond what he said."

"I couldn't help knowing, ma'am, and Jervis knows too," she said. "Dr. Wray is a kind man. He's young, but he's uncommon kind. He said he made no doubt my husband would get better; only he couldn't promise he'd ever be up to hard work again. He said he wouldn't be the man he had been. And Jervis says to him, 'Shall I be able to walk?' and the doctor said he couldn't promise; time might do a deal, but he couldn't promise. And when the doctor was gone, Jervis says, 'I know what that means, Annie. I'm a cripple for life,' says he. And then he groaned, like as if he'd break his heart, and he says, 'I'd better have died; a deal better,' says he. And I came away, for I couldn't stand it, ma'am. If the trouble's got to be, it's got to be borne; but, oh, it's hard! He's been a good husband to me; God bless him!"

I don't know how much more she said, but she came to a stop suddenly, and hid her face, rocking to and fro. I heard her whisper, "My husband's all alone."

"I will go to him," I said; and before I went I said just a few words of sympathy,—something about how God loved them both, and would care for them still, and how she must try to rest her troubles on Him. Then I passed on to the room behind.

He looked up at me, poor fellow, in his helplessness: a kind of sad protesting look, yet braver than hers, not so crushed.

"My poor little woman is terrible upset, ma'am," he said. "The doctor's let it out at last. Not but what I've been pretty sure."

I sat down by him, and said—

"I could wish you had not asked yet."

"Think so, ma'am? I don't know as it's any good not knowing." Then he said, in almost his wife's words, "If a thing's got to be—"

"If God wills it for you, then you will be willing too," I said.

"Ay, that's a better way of putting it," he said. "But I won't deny it's hard to bear. It is hard!" and his face showed what he felt. "Me, that's always been so strong, and maybe I've thought too much of my strength; me to come down to this, and be a burden on them I'd ought to work for! It is hard."

"But you do not really know that it will be so always," I said. "The doctor did not say that."

"He said he couldn't promise I'd ever be up and about again."

"No," I said, "he cannot promise that. Still, he did not say positively that you never could or would. He only spoke doubtfully. You must try to leave the matter as he left it. There is room for prayer and for hope."

"And hope's a wonderful help," Murchison said, almost cheerfully. "Yes, thank you, ma'am, I'll try to hope." Then he added, "But my poor little woman!"

So he thought most of her in this trouble, and she thought most of him. I could but wish that all husbands and wives were like-spirited.