“No, you can’t, for you are smaller than she is. But you can help me, and I am nearly spun out,” he said faintly, and again she was startled at the look on his face.
Clasping their hands under the insensible form, they went slowly forward in the growing light of the dawn. Neither spoke a word—they had no breath left for speech—and Bertha was too appalled even to want to ask a question as to how the calamity had come about.
Slowly, slowly, slowly went on that dreadful progress. Bertha felt as if her arms were being dragged out of her body; it was a horrible, intolerable pain. There was a tightening of the muscles at her throat which bade fair to choke her; she felt as if she were going blind as she stumbled forward on that interminable walk—her very senses were reeling—and then suddenly Tom’s voice called out sharply: “Mind the gate, Bertha!”
They had reached the paddock. Oh, the blessed relief of it! She made a great effort, took on a fresh spurt of strength, and fairly counted the steps across the paddock to the open door of the house where the light was still burning. Into the kitchen they carried the poor unconscious Grace, and then Tom lurched forward on to the floor and lay there, while Bertha turned swiftly to the pantry for the jug of water which she had put there last night, which already seemed so far away. Pouring some of it into a basin, she dipped her handkerchief into it and bathed his face and hands. She must get him better somehow, for she was afraid to touch Grace, who lay exactly as if she were dead. For a few dreadful moments Tom lay as apparently lifeless as his wife, then he drew a long breath and faintly asked for water. Bertha lifted his head and held the glass to his lips, for he seemed incapable of doing even so much for himself. But when he had gulped down a glassful his strength came slowly back to him, and at the end of ten minutes or so he was able to sit up again.
“There is brandy on the top shelf of the cupboard; get it down; we must try to make her swallow some,” he said, pointing to the cupboard which stood in the corner.
Bertha hastened to obey. The sight of the white-faced rigid figure on the couch filled her with awe, for there appeared to be no life there at all; but Tom seemed so sure that his wife still lived, and now he was saying over and over again:
“She really groaned when I fell with her, Bertha; she really groaned, I tell you.”
“Yes, yes, she will be better soon,” panted Bertha, scarcely knowing what it was that she said, yet realizing the tremendous need there was for keeping his courage up at this most critical time. Then she got a teaspoon, and when Tom lifted the poor unconscious head, she gently trickled a few drops of the spirit through the clenched teeth.
“Give her more, give her more; there is plenty in the bottle,” he said hoarsely; a terrible fear had struck him that she was gone too far for any restorative to bring back.
“I dare not put in more than a few drops at the time; it might choke her,” whispered Bertha, who was listening anxiously for the sound of a drawn breath.