For nearly four weeks indeed they were occupied very closely, and crept
into their bunks at night as tired as wholesome animals who drop to
sleep. At any time the weather might break; already there had been two
overcast days and a frowning conference of clouds in the north. When at
last storms began they knew there would be nothing for it but to keep in
the hut until the world froze up.
There was much to do to the hut. The absence of anything but stunted and
impoverished timber and the limitation of time, had forbidden a log hut,
and their home was really only a double framework, rammed tight between
inner and outer frame with a mixture of earth and boughs and twigs of
willow, pine and balsam. The floor was hammered earth carpeted with
balsam twigs and a caribou skin. Outside and within wall and roof were
faced with coarse canvas--that was Trafford's idea--and their bunks
occupied two sides of the hut. Heating was done by the sheet-iron stove
they had brought with them, and the smoke was carried out to the roof by
a thin sheet-iron pipe which had come up outside a roll of canvas. They
had made the roof with about the pitch of a Swiss chalet, and it was
covered with nailed waterproof canvas, held down by a large number of
big lumps of stone. Much of the canvassing still remained to do when the
men went down, and then the Traffords used every scrap of packing-paper
and newspaper that had come up with them and was not needed for lining
the bunks in covering any crack or join in the canvas wall.
Two decadent luxuries, a rubber bath and two rubber hot-water bottles,
hung behind the door. They were almost the only luxuries. Kettles and
pans and some provisions stood on a shelf over the stove; there was also
a sort of recess cupboard in the opposite corner, reserve clothes were
in canvas trunks under the bunks, they kept their immediate supply of
wood under the eaves just outside the door, and there was a big can of
water between stove and door. When the winter came they would have to
bring in ice from the stream.
This was their home. The tent that had sheltered Marjorie on the way up
was erected close to this hut to serve as a rude scullery and outhouse,
and they also made a long, roughly thatched roof with a canvas cover,
supported on stakes, to shelter the rest of the stores. The stuff in
tins and cases and jars they left on the ground under this; the
rest--the flour, candles, bacon, dried caribou beef, and so forth, they
hung, as they hoped, out of the reach of any prowling beast. And finally
and most important was the wood pile. This they accumulated to the
north and east of the hut, and all day long with a sort of ant-like
perseverance Trafford added to it from the thickets below. Once or
twice, however, tempted by the appearance of birds, he went shooting,
and one day he got five geese that they spent a day upon, plucking,
cleaning, boiling and putting up in all their store of empty cans,
letting the fat float and solidify on the top to preserve this addition
to their provision until the advent of the frost rendered all other
preservatives unnecessary. They also tried to catch trout down in the
river below, but though they saw many fish the catch was less than a
dozen.
It was a discovery to both of them to find how companionable these
occupations were, how much more side by side they could be amateurishly
cleaning out a goose and disputing about its cooking, than they had ever
contrived to be in Sussex Square.
"These things are so infernally interesting," said Trafford, surveying
the row of miscellaneous cans upon the stove he had packed with
disarticulated goose. "But we didn't come here to picnic. All this is
eating us up. I have a memory of some immense tragic purpose----"
"That tin's _boiling!_" screamed Marjorie sharply.
He resumed his thread after an active interlude.
"We'll keep the wolf from the door," he said.
"Don't talk of wolves!" said Marjorie.
"It is only when men have driven away the wolf from the door--oh!
altogether away, that they find despair in the sky? I wonder----"
"What?" asked Marjorie in his pause.
"I wonder if there is nothing really in life but this, the food hunt and
the love hunt. Is life just all hunger and need, and are we left with
nothing--nothing at all--when these things are done?... We're
infernally uncomfortable here."
"Oh, nonsense!" cried Marjorie.
"Think of your carpets at home! Think of the great, warm, beautiful
house that wasn't big enough!--And yet here, we're happy."
"We _are_ happy," said Marjorie, struck by the thought. "Only----"
"Yes."
"I'm afraid. And I long for the children. And the wind _nips_."
"It may be those are good things for us. No! This is just a lark as yet,
Marjorie. It's still fresh and full of distractions. The discomforts are
amusing. Presently we'll get used to it. Then we'll talk out--what we
have to talk out.... I say, wouldn't it keep and improve this goose of
ours if we put in a little brandy?"