The Grays were very lonely and the little cabin at Wolf Bight seemed
desolate and deserted indeed during the first days following the
departure of the trappers for the interior. Mrs. Gray and Emily cried
a little, and often Emily would say:
"I wonders where Bob is now, Mother, an' what he's doin'?"
"He's workin' up th' river, lass, an' th' dirty weather's makin' th'
trackin' an' portagin' wonderful hard for un," she would answer, when
it stormed; or, when the sun shone, "They's havin' a fine day for
travellin' now."
But presently the preparations for Emily's departure for school
occupied their attention to the exclusion of all else, and they forgot
for a time their loneliness.
Her going was to be an event of vast importance. It was an innovation,
not only in their household but in the community, for never before had
any of the young people of the Bay attended school; and never before,
save on the occasion when Emily had been taken to the St. Johns
hospital the previous year, to undergo an operation, had any of the
girls--or women, either, for that matter--been farther from home than
Fort Pelican.
When Bob came into his little fortune through the salvage of the
trading schooner, "Maid of the North," Mrs. Gray had urged that
Richard rest from the trail for one season, and at the same time give
the animals an opportunity to increase. This he had done, and during
the previous winter, when Bob also was at home, he and Bob had
occupied their time in the woods with the axe and pit saw, cutting a
quantity of timber and planking.
There was no immediate need of this timber, and when Bob was gone
Richard determined to utilise it in the construction of a small
schooner, in anticipation of the trading operations to begin the
following year. Such a vessel would be a necessity in transporting
supplies from Fort Pelican to the store at Wolf Bight.
Therefore, he began at once the work of laying the keel. There were
nearly three months at his disposal before he would go out upon his
trapping trail, and in this time, hoping to accomplish much, he
remained at his task from early morning until dusk drove him from it.
Thus occupied, Mrs. Gray and Emily seldom saw him, save at meal hours
and after candle-light in the evening, and this made them doubly
lonesome.
One day late in August, Douglas Campbell sailed his boat over to Wolf
Bight to spend the day with his friends and to announce that a week
later he would come for Emily to take her to Fort Pelican, where they
were to connect with the mail boat for St. Johns.
This recalled the near approach of Emily's departure, and the days
that followed passed with amazing rapidity. Emily's new woollen
frock--the first woollen frock she had ever possessed--needed still
some finishing touches. It was to be her Sunday dress--to be worn at
church, where there would be many fine people to see her--and as
pretty as the mother's skill and care could make it.
Then there were the print frocks for everyday wear, to be freshly
laundered and packed with other clothing into a new wooden chest which
her father had made for her; and the innumerable last things to be
done, which kept Emily and her mother in a continuous state of flurry
and excitement.
Quite too soon Emily's last day at home dawned, and, true to his
appointment, Douglas Campbell arrived during the afternoon. He looked
very grand and dignified and altogether unlike himself in his suit of
grey tweed. He wore this suit only on those rare occasions--usually at
intervals of three or four years--when business called him to St.
Johns, and Emily had but once before seen him so strangely attired.
He looked so strange and unnatural--so unlike the good old Douglas
that she loved, in moleskin trousers and pea-jacket or adicky--that
she felt he was somehow different, and that the world was going all
topsy-turvy.
And then for the first time there came to her a full realisation of
the great change that was to take place in her life--that she was
going far from home and into a strange land--that for many, many
months she was to see neither her father nor her mother--that she was
to live among strangers who cared nothing for her--that she would be
separated from those who loved her and all that she held dear in the
world. A great ache came into her heart--the first heart-hunger of the
homesick--and she slipped away behind the curtain to throw herself
upon her little white bed and seek relief in stifled sobs.
Presently as she lay there, weeping quietly to herself, loud
exclamations of hearty welcome from her father and mother as some one
entered the door caused her to sit up and listen. Then she recognised
Tom Black's voice, and heard Bessie asking:
"Where's Emily?"
This was splendid! Bessie had come to spend the night! And, quickly
drying her tears and forgetting her heartache, Emily rushed out to
greet her friend and to find that the whole Black family were
there--Tom, the motherly Mrs. Black, and Bessie.
"Oh, Emily, I just had t' come t' see you off!" exclaimed Bessie, as
the two girls rushed together and hugged each other in delight. "I
coaxes, an' coaxes, an' coaxes Father t' bring me over, an' he just
teases me an' says he's busy, an' Mr. McDonald can't spare he, till
this mornin' he says we're comin'. An' all th' time he an' Mother's
plannin' t' come!"
"'Twon't do t' tell a maid everything you plans t' do," Tom chuckled.
Bessie pursed up her red lips, and tossing her head at him laughed
gaily, showing her dimples.
"Oh, but you just had t' come anyway, for I'd never give you a bit o'
peace if you hadn't."
Her cheeks flushed with excitement and her eyes sparkling with
pleasure, Tom looked at her proudly, and could not refrain from the
remark:
"She ain't a very humbly lass, now be she, Richard?"
"Now, Father, stop teasin' Bessie," cautioned Mrs. Black. "He's always
teasin' th' lass."
"I'm just dyin' t' see your things, Emily!" exclaimed Bessie, as Emily
took her friend's bonnet and wraps. "An, I couldn't let you go without
seein' you. An' I'm goin' t' stay awhile, too, with your mother.
She'll be so lonesome without somebody t' talk to when you goes."
"Oh, Bessie! How wonderful glad I am o' that! I were just thinkin' how
lonesome Mother were goin' t' be with me an' Bob both gone--an'--an'
'twere makin' me feel bad;" and Emily brushed away a tear.
"We'll not be lettin' your mother, nor father, either, get lonesome,"
said Douglas, patting her shoulder gently and looking down in his
kindly way into her face. "Bessie'll be 'bidin' here till I comes back
in October, an' then she'll be comin' again after th' New Year for a
long stop. An' I'll be comin' once every week, whatever."
"Oh, I'm hopin' so!" Mrs. Gray exclaimed. "I'm not darin' t' think
about how 'twill be when Emily's gone."
"Now I knows, an' Tom knows; an' we was talkin' t' Douglas about un
when he were over t' th' post, an' we were sayin', 'Now Bessie'll have
t' go over an' 'bide awhile with Mary when Emily's gone,'" said Mrs.
Black.
"An' you never tells me, an' just lets me tease t' come!" pouted
Bessie.
"We were wantin' t' surprise you, lass. An'," Mrs. Black continued,
addressing Mrs. Gray, "I knows what 'tis t' be alone, now, an' th' men
folks is all in th' bush. I used t' be alone before Tom takes th'
place t' th' post; but now we has plenty o' company."
"'Tis wonderful good an' thoughtful of you!" Mrs. Gray exclaimed
heartily. "Now set in an' have a cup o' tea an' a bite. You must need
un after th' cruise over."
The evening was spent in chatting and visiting and looking over
Emily's new clothes. Neither Emily nor Bessie--both overcome with
excitement--slept much, however, that night, for they had a world to
talk about as they lay in bed--but most of all the great and wonderful
experiences Emily was to have.
Emily and her mother clung to each other, and Bessie to both of them,
and cried and cried, when the time for parting came the following
morning, until finally Douglas and Richard were compelled to draw
Emily gently into the boat. Then motherly Mrs. Black, surreptitiously
brushing tears from her own eyes, put her arm around Mrs. Gray and
soothingly urged:
"Don't be cryin', Mary. Th' maid's goin' t' be all right, an' they's
nothin' to cry for. 'Twon't be so long till you has she back."
Richard had the hull of the little schooner well under way when the
mid-October cold forced him to abandon the work until the following
summer, and he was preparing to set out upon his trail when Douglas
appeared one evening, fresh from St. Johns, to report Emily
comfortably settled in the home of a hospitable family near the school
she was attending, and that she was immensely interested in her
studies and fairly well contented, though a little lonesome at times
for home.
Douglas evidently had something on his mind that troubled him. Once
Mrs. Gray asked if he were ailing, but he denied anything but the best
of health. Finally, however, as a disagreeable duty that he must
perform, the kind-hearted old trapper said:
"I'm not knowin' just how t' tell you--'twill be a wonderful hard blow
t' th' lad--th' bank where Bob were puttin' his money has broke, an'
I'm fearin' th' money's all lost."
"Lost! Lost!" exclaimed Richard and Mrs. Gray together.
"Aye," said Douglas, "lost."
Then he explained fully the failure of the bank, in which he also had
a small amount on deposit, and the improbability of any of the
depositors recovering more than a nominal percentage of their
deposits, and even that doubtful.
"Well," said Mrs. Gray, "'twill be wonderful hard on th' lad, an' he
countin' so on th' tradin' business."
"Aye," repeated Richard, "wonderful hard on he. Wonderful hard an'
disappointin', After all his plannin' an' hopin' an' thinkin' about
un."
"An' Emily's schoolin' charge! How now be we goin' t' pay un?" asked
Mrs. Gray.
"Don't worry about that, now," said Douglas. "I were wantin' she t'
go, an' I were th' first t' say for she t' go, an' I'll see, now,
about un this year, whatever. Don't worry about th' schoolin', now."
"But we can't be havin' you pay un," remonstrated Richard.
"Well, now, don't worry about un," insisted Douglas. "We'll see. We'll
see."
They lapsed into silence for a little, when Bessie remarked:
"'Tisn't so bad, now. 'Tis bad t' lose th' money, an' 'twill be hard
an' disappointin' t' Bob, but he's a wonderful able lad--they's no
other lad in th' Bay so able as Bob. He's a fine lot o' traps on his
new trails, an' he'll not be doin' so bad, now."
"Yes," agreed Douglas, "he be, now, a wonderful able lad."
"And," Richard spoke up, beginning to see the brighter side of the
situation, "Bob owns un, an' he's havin' no debt, an' he's payin' up
all our debts. They's no other folk o' th' Bay as well off as we be."
"I weren't thinkin' of un that way. I were just thinkin' of how hard
'twill be for Bob-givin' up th' tradin'," Mrs. Gray explained. "But we
has a lot t' be thankful for, an', as Bessie says, Bob's young an'
wonderful able."
But nevertheless it was a hard blow--a disheartening blow--to all of
them. Bob had planned so much for the future, he was still planning
and dreaming of his career as a trader, and building air castles--away
up there in the desolate white wilderness.
This meant, instead of the realisation of those dreams, a tedious,
interminable tramping, year after year, of the fur trails, an always
uncertain, a never-ending, struggle for the bare necessities of life.
A single bad year would throw them again into debt; two bad years in
succession would plunge them so hopelessly into debt that the most
earnest effort for the remainder of his life would not relieve Bob of
its burden.