CHAPTER IV.

PRUE AND BERTHA.

"IT'S snowing still, father. Almost as hard as ever. Will Bertha come, do you think?"

"Shouldn't wonder."

"She told me not to mind, if anything did make her put off. She might be wanted a day or two longer, just at last. But it isn't Bertha's way to mind weather."

"She wouldn't be a child of mine, if she did."

"You don't mean to send and meet her?"

"Cabs enough in Reading, if she comes."

"Anyhow, the room is ready—Bertha's own little room. She says she always loves so to think of that room, when she's nursing her hardest cases. It seems like a sort of rest. And she knows everything there is always the same."

Mrs. Valentine lifted her face from a half-made stocking as she spoke, a sweet elderly face, pale yet fresh, pure and contented, in full enjoyment still of life. The robust elderly man opposite was just as fine a specimen of manhood as she of womanhood, perhaps handsomer, but of far rougher outlines, hale and hearty, vigorous and sunburnt, with broad toil-worn hands.

William Valentine's forefathers had owned this farm, and indeed the whole little village, during generations past; and the property had been a valuable one: but with depreciation of land had come heavy losses, and the present owner was a far poorer man than his father or grandfather. It was all he could do to hold things together, and his children's expectations had dwindled to a fine thread. Notwithstanding pecuniary embarrassments, the man was thoroughly liked, thoroughly esteemed, in the country round; not so much for his position as for himself.

He was squire of the village as well as farmer: to the cottagers a very grand personage indeed; and the friend of each one among them. His wife called him always, with great particularity, "a gentleman-farmer," while Mr. Valentine was rarely at the pains to tack on that preliminary descriptive word. He prided himself on being "a plain farmer, one of the good old yeomanry!" And while in truth a gentleman at heart: in sincerity, in kindliness, in honourable feeling and right principle, he lacked polish of manner, and was bluntly straightforward, even to a fault.

All the same, William Valentine knew, and delighted in knowing, that his sweet old lady wife came from a far more refined stock than his own; and nothing pleased him better than to trace her refinement of look and bearing in some—not all!—of his children. With aught of affectation, he had no patience: but he could recognise real refinement where it existed, though he would congratulate himself with a chuckle that his only son, and still more his youngest girl, were "chips of the old block." By which term, he did not designate his wife.

"She knows nothing in that room is ever changed," repeated Mrs. Valentine, looking with tender eyes upon her broad-shouldered husband. "Prue dusts every inch of it herself, and won't let a servant go in when Bertha is away. Bertha does love that room."

"Shouldn't wonder!"

"And when she comes back she is so happy. I hope she'll give us a few weeks at home now: before she goes out nursing again. But there is no knowing. Bertha always seems ready for work. If anything turns up, she'll want to do it."

"She wouldn't be my child, if she wanted to loll in an arm-chair all her days."

"But I hope she won't put off. Such a storm! And it is four months since we had her here last. Prue, do you think Bertha will come?"

An upright and self-controlled young woman entered, the eldest daughter, not far from thirty in age. Prudence Valentine was counted by some people rather estimable than lovable: perhaps only by those who did not know her well. Few did know her thoroughly well, however.

"Bertha will come," she said, moving towards the bay window.

This farm drawing room or chief sitting room was large, and square in shape, well-furnished too in a cumbrous and old-fashioned style. A huge round table occupied the centre; and ornaments were few. "Gimcrack rubbish! Made to be knocked down and broken. No earthly good!" was Mr. Valentine's verdict on such articles. "Give me a room fit for use, where one needn't be afraid to move:" and his womankind obeyed. He had always had the upper hand, in appearance. Secretly, his wife with her softer touch managed him entirely; and in his heart he knew it; but then she never frittered away strength in needless skirmishes.

"Bertha will come," repeated Prue.

"So I say!" echoed Mr. Valentine.

"But they might want her longer, just a day or two longer at the last."

"I don't think so. The girl was well days ago. They have only kept Bertha on, because they have grown fond of her."

"Nobody can help being fond of our Bertha."

Prue's impassive eyes gleamed a faint assent. "We will have tea ready, mother. She cannot be long now."

"Don't you be too sure. Snow hinders trains," said Mr. Valentine. "Where's Wallace?"

"Out in the snow with Nan, somewhere. He is as crazy as she."

"Nan will catch cold."

"Nan catch cold! Ha! Ha! That's good," laughed Mr. Valentine. "My dear, you'd better let your one wild colt have her way. She'll never turn into a Prue or a Bertha. Be content with two after your own mind."

He threw his newspaper aside, crossed over, and stooped to kiss her brow, reverently, as if touching a creature of some superior order. The sweet eyes smiled up at him in placid response; and he strolled off, humming a tuneless tune.

Deep under the surface of his rugged yeoman nature was a passion of love for this wife, who nearly forty years earlier had stepped down to his level for love of him, and had never since faltered in her wifely submission. Submission!—Yes, that was true. None the less, if she set her foot upon a thing, he had to do her will: while if he set his, she yielded, but not at all because she had to do so.

"You've got a fire in Bertha's room, Prue?"

"Yes, mother. Blazing."

"And tea is laid."

"Not made yet."

"I wonder if Bertha will stay at home for a few weeks. She has earned a rest."

"Bertha soon gets restless, you know."

"She always wants to be helping other people."

"That is natural to her. And she likes to be on the go. That is natural too."

"Prue! One might almost think you didn't love Bertha."

"Must love be blind? But you don't think so, mother. Bertha is right to work. We have little enough to depend on, in our future. If I could be spared, I would do something too. Perhaps, when Nan is older—"

"Nan is nearly seventeen."

"She isn't grown-up yet."

"And she says she must go out somewhere. We couldn't do without our Prue."

"No—I know—"

"You would never have cared to undergo hospital training, like Bertha."

"Perhaps not." Prue had had her longings, which she had smothered down for Bertha's sake.

She might have to crush them again, for Nan's sake. Not that she had not the first right of choice, but that she could not trust Nan to do her work at home. It was always an understood thing in the household that "Prue couldn't be spared." Other people might please themselves; but not Prue. Usually she acquiesced in this view of affairs, accepting the manner of life appointed to her. Now and then a restless wave would arise, and sometimes the top curled over,—not often in Mrs. Valentine's presence.

"Why, Prue!—I always thought—you don't want to ran away from home too!"

"If I did—" and a pause. The wave had spent itself. "People can't always do exactly what they wish. Bertha was wild for years to be a nurse. It is her vocation. I'm never wild after anything, you know; and I should not be happy away from home—unless I could be sure of your comfort. Nan is no good."

"Prue—!" called Mr. Valentine.

Prue glided away; and Mrs. Valentine sat meditating, mother fashion, over her children. Prue seemed usually so calm and content. Had she too caught the prevalent spirit of the age?

"When I was a girl I never felt like that," thought the old lady.

A cab at the door; not heard in its approach through the snow. Bertha, of course!

They crowded into the hall to welcome her; father and mother, eldest daughter and eager servants. Wallace came rushing through a back-door, just in time, a big loose-limbed youth of nineteen or twenty: and close behind was a girl, almost equally big, light-haired and uncouth. Bertha hurried into the midst of them, her dark eyes shining, her pretty cheeks brilliant, her long cloak tossed by the wind.

"No, don't shut the door. Not yet. Mother, I mustn't lose a moment. I've brought some one home to be nursed. It couldn't be helped—there was nothing else to be done. Will you forgive me? She's alone with her little girl—such a dear child—her little sister, I mean. Miss Anderson has been ill, and the long journey is too much for her. It would half kill her to go on to Bristol to-day. My room is ready, of course, and she can sleep there. Never mind about me. Any corner will do—besides, I shall sit up with her to-night. Say I was right! I did think of going on with them, and telegraphing to you from Bristol, but she isn't fit, and I knew you would all be disappointed. Was I wrong? I left word with Mr. Jasper to call. He is on his rounds now. Have I done rightly, father?"

"Shouldn't—wonder!" Mr. Valentine said slowly. "Seems to me you hadn't much choice. Eh?" and he looked in appeal to his wife, conscious that his approval without hers would not settle the matter.

"Bertha couldn't well do anything else," said Mrs. Valentine.

To herself she murmured a soft suggestive—"'Inasmuch!'"

"Thank you both!" And Bertha flew back to the cab.

Lettice was helped out first, and consigned to Nan—a worn-out child, bewildered with the sadden glare of light and the crowd of strange faces. Her quiet life hitherto had known no such transitions; and the morning strain had told upon her—all the more in appearance, because now she no longer had the pull of responsibility. Nan, obeying a whispered order, took her into the drawing room, and banged the door—which bang woke Lettice up.

"Please let me go. Sissie will want me." She did not know who Nan might be: but the rough grasp hurt her arm, and aroused a latent spirit of opposition. Lettice could be controlled with a rein of silk by those whom she loved: but side by side with her powers of endurance dwelt powers of resistance.

"Let me go, please. She will want me."

"It's all right. They will see to her."

"Sissie doesn't like strangers."

Nan, in answer, set her back against the door, and shook her unkempt hair in a manner somewhat exasperating. The prominent light eyes stared out of the robust face, with wondering interest, into the little pale visage opposite.

"I must go. Nurse Valentine—"

"Pooh! Bertha, you mean."

A cry from without sounded in Cecilia's voice—not loud, but distinctly an utterance of Lettice's name; and it startled Lettice into wild action. She pleaded no more, but flung herself on Nan, and for the moment she prevailed. Before Nan could guess what was coming, Lettice had dragged her aside, and was in the passage. Then Nan was there also, and had Lettice in a grip, against which the younger girl struggled in vain. Cecilia was by this time out of sight, round the first bend in the stairs, being carried by the strong farmer and his son, the others following. She did not call again, but the one appeal had been enough for Lettice.

"It's no good, you know. I'm best at that," said Nan coolly, as the whole weight and force of her young companion were launched into a desperate effort to escape. "I was told to keep you down here: and I'll do it. Why, the poor thing doesn't half know what she's doing. She's off her head with—I say! It's no good. You're best out-of-the-way. Bertha's there, and that's enough. Hallo!"

An abrupt relaxation of Lettice's efforts caused Nan to overbalance herself. The two came down in a heap together,—Lettice underneath. Nan alone sprang up.

"I say! What next?" She tugged at the arm of Lettice. "I say—get up. What's the matter?"

"What are you after now?" demanded another voice, as the half-stunned Lettice made a movement to obey. "Nan; you clumsy thing! Look here! You wretch. See those poor little wrists. What were you doing? Keeping her here! That's a pretty way to keep a guest. As if Bertha meant you to behave so. Get some water."

"O no; I'm all right," said Lettice, managing to find her feet. "Please don't hinder me. I must go to Sissie."

"You can't just now. Prue and Bertha are there, and too many nurses would be in the way. Don't you see? Nan has squeezed your poor little wrists, clumsy thing that she is!" He took one of them in his broad hand, and looked pityingly at the soft skin, reddened and swollen.

"Nan!" repeated Lettice vaguely. "Oh, it doesn't matter. I only want to go to Sissie—my sister, I mean. She called me."

"I wouldn't: just yet. Better not. Bertha is there."

"But Nurse Valentine—"

"That's Bertha. Didn't you know. Nurse Valentine is our sister. She told your sister you were all right. And the doctor's coming directly: and you couldn't do anything. You're awfully tired, are you not?—You poor little thing!"

"It doesn't matter. If only I could go to Sissie!" pleaded Lettice in distress, as he led her back to the drawing room.

"Now, you listen. I'll promise. If Bertha comes, and says your sister wants you, I won't keep you back. You just lie down on the sofa in this corner, and get half-an-hour's rest. And if you go to sleep, I'll wake you up—I mean, when Bertha says you're wanted. See!—Won't that do? You look as if you hadn't slept for a month past."

Lettice laughed faintly.

"Oh, only three or four nights. I couldn't—much."

"Well, you'll sleep now. Just pull off your hat: and here's a shawl to put over you. You're to have a cup of hot tea—it's waiting now—and then a sleep: and then you'll be fit for anything. And Nan shan't come near you."

"Wallace! As if I meant to hurt her!" gulped a reproachful voice.

"You keep off," growled Wallace: but Lettice held out her hand.

"Don't, please. Nan didn't mean anything. She won't hurt me, I know."

"Well, then, bring a cup of tea, Nan: and after that, be off!" commanded Wallace.

Nan obeyed humbly: nearly turned the tea over Lettice in her agitation: and stooped to kiss the wrists she had squeezed. After which she fled.

Wallace watched till the cup was empty, took it away, and said—

"Now go to sleep."

"I must see if Sissie wants me."

"Well, shut your eyes for five minutes. That'll do."

Lettice obeyed so far: and as Wallace expected, she did not open them again.

Two hours later Bertha asked,—

"Where is that child, mother?"

"Asleep on the drawing room sofa. Wallace will not leave her for a moment."

"Wallace?"

"He found her struggling with Nan, to get to her sister. Some one seems to have told Nan to keep her away: and I suppose Nan was rough."

"Just like Nan."

"Wallace can't take his eyes off her. She does look so sweet, lying there, I hardly wonder at him."

"And Wallace is always gentle to anything weak. That's the best of him. I wish Nan were the same."

"She has been crying for an hour, because he was angry with her."

"Mother," after a pause, "it is a question whether the poor thing upstairs will get through the night."

"So bad as that?"

"The attack must have been coming on before she started. She might rally again; but it will be only for a time. She can never be well."

"Does she know?"

"I can't tell. I thought so, from some of her answers to the doctor's questions. But she hides her feelings so carefully—except when she begins to wander. It's a mercy I stopped their going on; she might never have reached Dr. Bryant's alive. And the poor child with her—"

"Yes, indeed. Is Prue upstairs, now?"

"Prue will be in charge till half-past ten; and then I shall take her for the night. If Prue wants me, she will ring."

Bertha went softly into the drawing room; and found Lettice there, heavily asleep, lying flat in a position of profound weariness. The child-like sweetness of her face impressed Bertha as it had impressed Mrs. Valentine. One hand was thrown out unconsciously; and Wallace drew Bertha's attention to the discoloured wrist.

"Nan's doing," he muttered.

"Nan doesn't know the strength of her own muscles. Poor little thing!"

"She's dead beat—hasn't slept for nights."

"Keep her quiet for the present. By-and-by she must go to bed. Our coming in and out doesn't wake her."

"A thunder-clap wouldn't, I believe. But I promised one thing. If Miss Anderson wants her—that's to say, if you tell me Miss Anderson wants her—I must rouse her up."

Bertha was silent; and Wallace did not look up, or ask questions. He had worded his promise carefully, and he now repeated it carefully, relieving his conscience, and shifting responsibility from himself to Bertha. She stood silent, conjecturing how far she might be bound by Wallace's promise. Cecilia did want Lettice, and asked for her incessantly: yet it was better for the two to be apart, at least for a while, and to awaken Lettice now would be absolute cruelty. Bertha could not do it, looking on the wan little face.

"Wallace had no authority to promise for me: and if I do not speak, he need not act," she decided, and moved away.

An hour later, finding Lettice still asleep, her resolution remained the same. She had the child carried upstairs and put to bed in Prue's room: and Lettice never opened her eyes. "It will not do. I must risk delay," Bertha said.

Six o'clock in the morning. The long night was over at last: a night long both to the invalid and to her nurse. Bertha would have no help. She knew what to do, and Prue was forbidden to come before a certain hour, unless summoned.

If Cecilia Anderson lived through the night, hope would revive; hope, at least, of a temporary rally. Again and again this "if" seemed to hang on the merest spider-line. Again and again Bertha actually held in her hand the bell-rope, one pull of which would summon Wallace, to be sent to Prue, with word that Lettice must come. He did not know how the sick woman cried out for Lettice, in her half-wandering state. He had heard an occasional call, as he passed near the room, but no words were to be distinguished. Bertha was resolved that Miss Anderson should not pass away without a sight of the child; but also she was resolved not to call Lettice sooner than might be essential.

"Would you like to see a clergyman?" she had asked on the previous evening: and an abrupt negative was returned. Bertha could not force the matter. All she could do through the long night-hours, was to watch for opportunities to whisper sometimes a short prayer, to murmur occasionally a few words from the Bible, or the verse of a hymn. Bertha was a good and earnest girl. It might be quite true, as Prue had said, that she was naturally eager and restless, naturally fond of work and fond of change; but also she was a girl of right principle and of deep religious feeling, a "servant of Jesus Christ" in heart.

Her efforts met with small response, however. If Cecilia heard, she did not seem to heed, with one exception. Bertha, standing by her side, said slowly—

"'Let the unrighteous man forsake his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him: and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon.'"

"What?" cried Cecilia, with a startling suddenness.

"'He will abundantly pardon!'" reverently repeated Bertha.

"Will He?"

"If we turn to Him, and forsake our unrighteous thoughts."

Cecilia sighed, and said no more.

At six o'clock, according to arrangement, Prue came, and Bertha left the room. Miss Anderson greeted Prue with a look of welcome; strange to say, warmer than any she had accorded to Bertha. Something in the quiet and self-contained bearing of the elder sister attracted her, while Bertha's eager pretty manner seemed to have a reverse effect. The last hour there had been some slight improvement; yet Prue noted a strangeness of the sick woman's eyes.

"Come here. I want to speak to you," Cecilia said impatiently. "Is that other girl gone? She means well, but she worries me. She will not let me alone, and I can't get to Lettice. I want my little Lettice back again. That girl will not let her come. Everything that I love is going from me. Call Lettice, if you please."

Prue knelt down on a stool by her side, wearing a face less impassive than often, because it was full of pity. "I am going to stay with you for a little while," she said. "Lettice shall come by-and-by."