th' New Year."
"Not so long, Emily. Th' time'll be slippin' by before we knows. But
don't be countin' on his comin' th' New Year, for 'tis a rare long
cruise t' th' Big Hill trail an' he may be waitin' till th' break-up.
But I'm thinkin' my lad'll be wantin' t' see how th' little maid
is,--an' see his mother--an' mayhap be takin' th' cruise."
"An Bob knew how lonesome we were--how _wonderful_ lonesome we
were--he'd be comin' at th' New Year sure. An' he'll be gettin'
lonesome hisself. He must be gettin' _dreadful_ lonesome away off in
th' bush this long time! He'll _sure_ be comin' at th' New Year!"
After this Emily began to keep account of the days as they passed. She
had her mother reckon for her the actual number until New Year's Eve,
and each morning she would say, "only so many days now an' Bob'll be
comin' home." Her mother warned her that it was not at all certain he
would come then--only a hope. But it grew to be a settled fact for
Emily, and a part of her daily life, to expect and plan for the happy
time when she should see him.
Mrs. Gray had not been able to throw off entirely the foreboding of
calamity that she had voiced at the time Bob left home. Every morning
she awoke with a heavy heart, like one bearing a great weight of
sorrow. Before going about her daily duties she would pray for the
preservation of her son and the healing of her daughter, and it would
relieve her burden somewhat, but never wholly. The strange Presence
was always with her.
One day when Douglas Campbell came over he found her very despondent,
and he asked:
"Now what's troublin' you, Mary? There's some trouble on yer mind.
Don't be worryin' about th' lad. He's as safe as you be. He'll be
comin' home as fine an' hearty as ever you see him, an' with a fine
hunt."
"I knows the's no call for th' worry," she answered, "but someways I
has a forebodin' o' somethin' evil t' happen an' I can't shake un off.
I can't tell what an be. Mayhap 'tis th' maid. She's no better, an'
th' Lard's not answerin' my prayer yet t' give back strength t' she
an' make she walk."
"'Twill be all right wi' th' maid, now. Th' doctor said they'd be
makin' she well at th' hospital."
"But the's no money t' send she t' th' hospital--an' if she don't
go--th' doctor said she'd never be gettin' well."
"Now don't be lettin' _that_ worry ye, Mary. Th' Lard'll be findin' a
way t' send she t' St. Johns when th' mail boat comes back in th'
spring, if that be His way o' curin she--I _knows_ He will. Th' Lard
always does things right an' He'll be fixin' it right for th' maid.
He'd not be lettin' a pretty maid like Emily go all her life wi'out
walkin'--He _never_ would do that. I'm thinkin' He'd a' found a way
afore _now_ if th' mail boat had been makin' another trip before th'
freeze up."
"I'm lackin' in faith, I'm fearin'. I'm always forgettin' that th'
Lard does what's best for us an' don't always do un th' way we wants
He to. He's bidin' His own time I'm thinkin', an' answerin' my prayers
th' way as is best."
This talk with Douglas made her feel better, but still there was that
burden on her heart--a burden that would not be shaken off.
All the Bay was frozen now, and white, like the rest of the world,
with drifted snow. The great box stove in the cabin was kept well
filled with wood night and day to keep out the searching cold. An
inch-thick coat of frost covered the inner side of the glass panes of
the two windows and shut out the morning sunbeams that used to steal
across the floor to brighten the little room. December was fast
drawing to a close.
Richard Gray's luck had changed. Fur was plentiful--more plentiful
than it had been for years--and he was hopeful that by spring he would
have enough to pay all his back debt at the company store and be on
his feet again. Two days before Christmas he reached home in high good
humour, with the pelts he had caught, and displayed them with
satisfaction to Mrs. Gray and Emily--beautiful black otters, martens,
minks and beavers with a few lynx and a couple of red foxes.
"I'll be stayin' home for a fortnight t' get some more wood cut," he
announced. "How'll that suit th' maid?"
"Oh! Tis fine!" cried the child, clapping her hands with delight. "An'
Bob'll be home for the New Year an' we'll all be havin' a fine time
together before you an' Bob goes away again."
"In th' mornin' I'll have t' be goin' t' th' Post wi' th' dogs an'
komatik t' get some things. Is there anything yer wantin', Mary?" he
asked his wife.
"We has plenty o' flour an' molasses an' tea; but," she suggested,
"th' next day's Christmas, Richard."
"Aye, I'm thinkin' o' un an' I may be seein' Santa Claus t' tell un
what a rare fine maid Emily's been an' ask un not t' be forgettin'
she. He's been wonderful forgetful not t' be comin' round last
Christmas an' th' Christmas before I'll have t' be remindin' he."
Emily looked up wistfully.
"An' you are thinkin' he'll have _time_ t' come here wi' all th'
places t' go to? Oh, I'm wishin' he would!"
"I'll just make un--I'll just _make_ un," said her father. "I'll not
let un pass my maid _every_ time."
Emily was awake early the next morning--before daybreak. Her father
was about to start for the Post, and the dogs were straining and
jumping in the traces. She knew this because she could hear their
expectant howls,--and the dogs never howled just like that under any
other circumstances. Then she heard "hoo-ett--hoo-ett" as he gave them
the word to be off and, in the distance, as he turned them down the
brook to the right his shouts of "ouk! ouk! ouk!--ouk! ouk! ouk!"
It was a day of delightful expectancy. Tomorrow would be Christmas and
perhaps--perhaps--Santa Claus would come! She chattered all day to her
mother about it, wondering if he would really come and what he would
bring her.
Finally, just at nightfall she heard her father shouting at the dogs
outside and presently he came in carrying his komatik box, his beard
weighted with ice and his clothing white with hoar frost.
"Well," announced he, as he put down the box and pulled his adikey
over his head, "I were seein' Santa Claus th' day an' givin' he a rare
scoldin' for passin' my maid by these two year--a _rare_ scoldin'--an'
I'm thinkin' he'll not be passin' un by _this_ Christmas. He'll not be
wantin' _another_ such scoldin'."
"Oh!" said Emily, "'twere too bad t' scold un. He must be havin' a
wonderful lot o' places t' go to an' he's not deservin' t' be scolded
now. He's sure doin' th' best he can--I _knows_ he's doin' th' best he
can."
"He were deservin' of un, an' more. He were passin' my maid _two_ year
runnin' an' I can't be havin' that," insisted the father as he hung up
his adikey and stooped to open the komatik box, from which he
extracted a small package which he handed to Emily saying, "Somethin'
Bessie were sendin'."
"Look! Look, mother!" Emily cried excitedly as she undid the package
and discovered a bit of red ribbon; "a hair ribbon an'--an' a paper
with some writin'!"
Mrs. Gray duly examined and admired the gift while Emily spelled out
the message.
[Illustration (handwriting): to dear emily Wishin mery Crismus from
Bessie]
"Oh, an' Bessie's fine t' be rememberin' me!" said she, adding
regretfully, "I'm wishin' I'd been sendin' she somethin' but I hasn't
a thing t' send."
"Aye, Bessie's a fine lass," said her father. "She sees me comin' an'
runs down t' meet me, an' asks how un be, an' if we're hearin' e'er a
word from Bob. An' I tells she Emily's fine an' we're not hearin' from
Bob, but are thinkin' un may be comin' home for th' New Year. An' then
Bessie says as she's wantin' t' come over at th' New Year t' visit
Emily."
"An' why weren't you askin' she t' come back with un th' day?" asked
Mrs. Gray.
"Oh, I wish she had!" exclaimed Emily.
"I were askin' she," he explained, "but she were thinkin' she'd wait
till th' New Year. Her mother's rare busy th' week wi' th' men all in
from th' bush, an' needin' Bessie's help."
"An' how's th' folk findin' th' fur?" asked Mrs. Gray as she poured
the tea.
"Wonderful fine. Wonderful fine with all un as be in."
"An' I'm glad t' hear un. 'Twill be givin' th' folk a chance t' pay
th' debts. Th' two bad seasons must ha' put most of un in a bad way
for debt."
"Aye, 'twill that. An' now we're like t' have two fine seasons. 'Tis
th' way un always runs."
"'Tis th' Lard's way," said Mrs. Gray reverently.
"The's a band o' Injuns come th' day," added Richard Gray, "an' they
reports fur rare plenty inside, as 'tis about here. An' I'm thinkin'
Bob'll be doin' fine his first year in th' bush."
"Oh, I'm hopin'--I'm hopin' so--for th' lad's sake an' Emily's. 'Tis
how th' Lard's makin' a way for th' brave lad t' send Emily t' th'
doctor--an' he comes back safe."
"I were askin' th' Mountaineers had they seen Nascaupee footin', an'
they seen none. They're sayin' th' Nascaupees has been keepin' t' th'
nuth'ard th' winter, an' we're not t' fear for th' lad."
"Thank th' Lard!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray. "Thank th' Lard! An' now that's
relievin' my mind wonderful--relievin'--it--wonderful."
There was an added earnestness to Richard Gray's expressions of
thanksgiving when he knelt with his wife by their child's couch for
family worship that Christmas eve, and there was an unwonted happiness
in their hearts when they went to their night's rest.
XIV
THE SHADOW OF DEATH
The kettle was singing merrily on the stove, and Mrs. Gray was setting
the breakfast table, when Emily awoke on Christmas morning. Her father
was just coming in from out-of-doors bringing a breath of the fresh
winter air with him.
"A Merry Christmas," he called to her. "A Merry Christmas t' my maid!"
"And did Santa Claus come?" she asked, looking around expectantly.
"Santa Claus? There now!" he exclaimed, "an' has th' old rascal been
forgettin' t' come again? Has you seen any signs o' Santa Claus bein'
here?" he asked of Mrs. Gray, as though thinking of it for the first
time. Then, turning towards the wall back of the stove, he exclaimed,
"Ah! Ah! an' what's _this_?"
Emily looked, and there, sitting upon the shelf, was a doll!
"Oh! Oh, th' dear little thing!" she cried. "Oh, let me have un!"
Mrs. Gray took it down and handed it to her, and she hugged it to her
in an ecstasy of delight. Then she held it off and looked at it, and
hugged again, and for very joy she wept. It was only a poor little rag
doll with face and hair grotesquely painted upon the cloth, and
dressed in printed calico--but it was a doll--a _real_ one--the first
that Emily had ever owned. It had been the dream of her life that some
day she might have one, and now the dream was a blessed reality. Her
happiness was quite beyond expression as she lay there on her bed that
Christmas morning pressing the doll to her breast and crying. Poverty
has its seasons of recompense that more than counterbalance all the
pleasures that wealth can buy, and this was one of those seasons for
the family of Richard Gray.
Presently Emily stopped crying, and through the tears came laughter,
and she held the toy out for her father and mother to take and examine
and admire.
A little later Mrs. Gray came from the closet holding a mysterious
package in her hand.
"Now what be _this_? 'Twere in th' closet an' looks like somethin'
more Santa Claus were leavin'."
"Well now!" exclaimed Richard, "what may _that_ be? Open un an' we'll
see."
An investigation of its contents revealed a couple of pounds of sugar,
some currants, raisins and a small can of butter.
"Santa Claus were wantin' us t' have a plum puddin' _I'm_ thinkin',"
said Mrs. Gray, as she examined each article and showed it to Emily.
"An' we're t' have sugar for th' tea and butter for th' bread. But th'
puddin's not t' get _all_ th' raisins. Emily's t' have some t' eat
after we has breakfast."
Dinner was a great success. There were roast ptarmigans stuffed with
fine-chopped pork and bread, and the unwonted luxuries of butter and
sugar--and then the plum pudding served with molasses for sauce. That
was fine, and Emily had to have two helpings of it. If Bob had been
with them their cup of happiness would have been filled quite to the
brim, and more than once Emily exclaimed:
"Now if _Bob_ was only here!" And several times during the day she
said, "I'm just _wishin'_ t' show Bob my pretty doll--an' won't he be
glad t' see un!"
The report from the Mountaineer Indians that no Nascaupees had been
seen had set at rest their fears for the lad's safety. The
apprehension that he might get into the hands of the Nascaupees had
been the chief cause of worry, for they felt full confidence in Bob's
ability to cope with the wilderness itself.
The day was so full of surprises and new sensations that when bedtime
came Emily was quite tired out with the excitement of it all, and was
hardly able to keep awake until the family worship was closed. Then
she went to sleep with the doll in her arms.
The week from Christmas till New Year passed quickly. Richard Gray was
at home, and this was a great treat for Mrs. Gray and Emily, and with
several of their neighbours who lived within ten to twenty miles of
Wolf Bight driving over with dogs to spend a few hours--for most of
the men were home from their traps for the holidays--the time was
pretty well filled up. Emily's doll was a never failing source of
amusement to her, and she always slept with it in her arms.
Over at the Post it was a busy week for Mr. MacDonald and his people,
for all the Bay hunters and Indians had trading to do, and most of
them remained at least one night to gossip and discuss their various
prospects and enjoy the hospitality of the kitchen; and then there was
a dance nearly every night, for this was their season of amusement and
relaxation in the midst of the months of bitter hardships on the
trail.
Bessie and her mother had not a moment to themselves, with all the
extra cooking and cleaning to be done, for it fell upon them to
provide for every one; and it became quite evident to Bessie that she
could not get away for her proposed visit to Wolf Bight until the last
of the hunters was gone. This would not be until the day after New
Year's, so she postponed her request to her father, to take her over,
until New Year's day. Then she watched for a favourable opportunity
when she was alone with him and her mother. Finally it came late in
the afternoon, when he stepped into the house for something, and she
asked him timidly:
"Father, I'm wantin' t' go on a cruise t' Wolf Bight--t' see
Emily--can't you take me over with th dogs an' komatik?"
"When you wantin' t' go, lass?" he asked.
"I'm wishin' t' be goin' to-morrow."
"I'm t' be wonderful busy for a few days. Can't un wait a week or
two?"
"I'm wantin' t' go now, father, if I goes. I'm not wantin' t' wait."
"Bob's t' be home," suggested Mrs. Blake.
"Oh, ho! I see!" he exclaimed. "'Tisn't Bob instead o' Emily you're
wantin' so wonderful bad t' see now, is un?"
"'Tis--Emily--I'm wantin'--t'--see," faltered Bessie, blushing
prettily and fingering the hem of her apron in which she was suddenly
very much interested.
"Bob's a fine lad--a fine lad--an' I'm not wonderin'," said her father
teasingly.
"Now, Tom," interceded Mrs. Black, "don't be tormentin' Bessie. O'
course 'tis just Emily she's wantin' t' see. She's not thinkin' o' th'
lads yet."
"Oh, aye," said he, looking slyly out of the corner of his eye at
Bessie, who was blushing now to the very roots of her hair, "I'm not
blamin' she for likin' Bob. I likes he myself."
"Well, Tom, be tellin' th' lass you'll take she over. She's been kept
wonderful close th' winter, an' the cruise'll be doin' she good,"
urged Mrs. Black.
"I wants t' go _so_ much," Bessie pleaded.
"Well, I'll ask Mr. MacDonald can he spare me th' day. I'm thinkin'
'twill be all right," he finally assented.
And it was all right. When the last hunter had disappeared the next
morning, the komatik was got ready. A box made for the purpose was
lashed on the back end of it, and warm reindeer skins spread upon the
bottom for Bessie to sit upon. Then the nine big dogs were called by
shouting "Ho! Ho! Ho!" to them, and were caught and harnessed, after
which Tom cracked a long walrus-hide whip over their heads, and made
them lie quiet until Bessie was tucked snugly in the box, and wrapped
well in deerskin robes.
When at last all was ready the father stepped aside with his whip, and
immediately the dogs were up jumping and straining in their harness
and giving short impatient howls, over eager to be away. Tom grasped
the front end of the komatik runners, pulled them sharply to one side
to break them loose from the snow to which they were frozen, and
instantly the dogs were off at a gallop running like mad over the ice
with the trailing komatik in imminent danger of turning over when it
struck the ice hummocks that the tide had scattered for some distance
out from the shore.
Presently they calmed down, however, to a jog trot, and Tom got off
the komatik and ran by its side, guiding the team by calling out "ouk"
when he wanted to turn to the right and "rudder" to turn to the left,
repeating the words many times in rapid succession as though trying to
see how fast he could say them. The head dog, or leader, always turned
quickly at the word of command, and the others followed.
It was a very cold day--fifty degrees below zero Mr. MacDonald had
said before they started--and Bessie's father looked frequently to see
that her nose and cheeks were not freezing, for a traveller in the
northern country when not exercising violently will often have these
parts of the face frozen without knowing it or even feeling cold, and
if the wind is blowing in the face is pretty sure to have them frosted
anyway.
Most of the snow had drifted off the ice, and the dogs had a good hard
surface to travel upon, and were able to keep up a steady trot. They
made such good time that in two hours they turned into Wolf Bight, and
as they approached the Grays' cabin broke into a gallop, for dogs
always like to begin a journey and end it with a flourish of speed
just to show how fast they _can_ go, no matter how slowly they may jog
along between places.
The dogs at Wolf Bight were out to howl defiance at them as they
approached and to indulge in a free fight with the newcomers when they
arrived, until the opposing ones were beaten apart with clubs and
whips. It is a part of a husky dog's religion to fight whenever an
excuse offers, and often when there is no excuse.
Richard and Mrs. Gray came running out to meet Tom and Bessie, and
Bessie was hurried into the cabin where Emily was waiting in excited
expectancy to greet her. Mrs. Gray bustled about at once and brewed
some hot tea for the visitors and set out a luncheon of bread for
them.
"Now set in an' have a hot drink t' warm un up," said she when it was
ready. "You must be most froze, Bessie, this frosty day."
"I were warm wrapped in th' deerskins, an' not so cold," Bessie
answered.
"We were lookin' for Bob these three days," remarked Mrs. Gray as she
poured the tea. "We were thinkin' he'd sure be gettin' lonesome by
now, an' be makin' a cruise out."
"'Tis a long cruise from th' Big Hill trail unless he were needing
somethin'," suggested Tom, taking his seat at the table.
"Aye," assented Richard, "an' I'm thinkin' th' lad'll not be wantin'
t' lose th' time 'twill take t' come out. He'll be biding inside t'
make th' most o' th' huntin', an' th' fur be plenty."
"That un will," agreed Tom, "an' 'twould not be wise for un t' be
losin' a good three weeks o' huntin'. Bob's a workin' lad, an' I'm not
thinkin' you'll see he till open water comes."
"Oh," broke in Emily, "an' don't un _really_ think Bob's t' come? I
been wishin' _so_ for un, an' 'twould be grand t' have he come while
Bessie's here."
"Bessie's thinkin' 'twould too," said Tom, who could not let pass an
opportunity to tease his daughter.
They all looked at Bessie, who blushed furiously, but said nothing,
realizing that silence was the best means of diverting her father's
attention from the subject, and preventing his further remarks.
"Well I'll have t' be goin'," said Tom presently, pushing back from
the table.
"Oh, sit down, man, an' bide a bit. There's nothin' t' take un back so
soon. Bide here th' night, can't un?" urged Richard.
"I were sayin' t' Mr. MacDonald as I'd be back t' th' post th' day, so
promisin' I has t' go."
"Aye, an' un promised, though I were hopin' t' have un bide th'
night."
"When'll I be comin' for un, Bessie?" asked Tom.
"Oh, Bessie must be bidin' a _long_ time," plead Emily. "I've been
wishin' t' have she _so_ much. Please be leavin' she a _long_ time."
"Mother'll be needin' me I'm thinkin' in a week," said Bessie, "though
I'd like t' bide longer."
"Your mother'll not be needin' un, now th' men's gone. Bide wi' Emily
a fortnight," her father suggested.
"I'll take th' lass over when she's wantin' t' go," said Richard.
"'Tis a rare treat t' Emily t' have she here, an' th' change'll be
doin' your lass good."
So it was agreed, and Tom drove away.
It was a terrible disappointment to Emily and her mother that Bob did
not come, but Bessie's visit served to mitigate it to some extent, and
her presence brightened the cabin very much.
No one knew whether or not Bob's failure to appear was regretted by
Bessie. That was her secret. However it may have been, she had a
splendid visit with Mrs. Gray and Emily, and the days rolled by very
pleasantly, and when Richard Gray left for his trail again on the
Monday morning following her arrival the thought that Bessie was with
"th' little maid" gave him a sense of quiet satisfaction and security
that he had not felt when he was away from them earlier in the winter.
When Douglas Campbell came over one morning a week after Bessie's
arrival he found the atmosphere of gloom that he had noticed on his
earlier visits had quite disappeared. Mrs. Gray seemed contented now,
and Emily was as happy as could be.
Douglas remained to have dinner with them. They had just finished
eating and he had settled back to have a smoke before going home,
admiring a new dress that Bessie had made for Emily's doll, and
talking to the child, while Mrs. Gray and Bessie cleared away the
dishes, when the door opened and Ed Matheson appeared on the
threshold.
Ed stood in the open door speechless, his face haggard and drawn, and
his tall thin form bent slightly forward like a man carrying a heavy
burden upon his shoulders.
It was not necessary for Ed to speak. The moment Mrs. Gray saw him she
knew that he was the bearer of evil news. She tottered as though she
would fall, then recovering herself she extended her arms towards him
and cried in agony:
"Oh, my lad! My lad! What has happened to my lad!"
"Bob--Bob"--faltered Ed, "th'--wolves--got--un."
He had nerved himself for this moment, and now the spell was broken he
sat down upon a bench, and with his elbows upon his knees and his face
in his big weather-browned hands, cried like a child.
Emily lay white and wild-eyed. She could not realize it all or
understand it. It seemed for a moment as though Mrs. Gray would faint,
and Bessie, pale but self-possessed, supported her to a seat and tried
gently to soothe her.
Douglas, too, did what he could to comfort, though there was little
that he could do or say to relieve the mother's grief.
At first Mrs. Gray simply moaned, "My lad--my lad--my lad----"
upbraiding herself for ever letting him go away from home; but finally
tears--the blessed safety-valve of grief--came and washed away the
first effects of the shock.
Then she became quite calm, and insisted upon hearing every smallest
detail of Ed's story, and he related what had happened step by step,
beginning with the arrival of himself and Dick at the river tilt on
Christmas eve and the discovery that Bob's furs had been removed, and
passed on to the finding of the remains by the big boulder in the
marsh, Mrs. Gray interrupting now and again to ask a fuller
explanation here and there.
When Ed told of gathering up the fragments of torn clothing, she asked
to see them at once. Ed hesitated, and Douglas suggested that she wait
until a later time when her nerves were steadier; but she was
determined, and insisted upon seeing them without delay, and there was
nothing to do but produce them. Contrary to their expectations, she
made no scene when they were placed before her, and though her hand
trembled a little was quite collected as she took up the blood-stained
pieces of cloth and examined them critically one by one. Finally she
raised her head and announced: