Chapter 7

When morning came Bob tried in every conceivable way to make them understand that he wished to be taken back, but he found it a quite hopeless task. No signs or pantomime could make them comprehend his meaning, and it appeared that he was doomed to remain with them. The shock of exposure had been so great that he was still very weak and not able to walk, as he quickly realized when he tried to move about, and he was compelled to remain within in the company of the women, in spite of his desire to go out and reconnoitre.

Ma-ni-ka-wan, the maiden, took it upon herself to be his nurse. She brought him water to bathe his face, which was very sore from frostbite, and gave him the choicest morsels from the kettle, and made him as comfortable as possible.

At first he held a faint hope that when Bill missed him at the tilt, a search would be made for him and his friends would find the wigwam. But as the days slipped by he realized that he would probably never be discovered. There came a fear that the news of his disappearance would be carried to Wolf Bight and he dreaded the effect upon his mother and Emily.

But there was one consolation. Emily could go to the hospital now and be cured. Bill would find the silver fox skin and his share of that and the other furs would pay not only his own but his father's debts, he felt sure, as well as all the expense of Emily's treatment by the doctor--and a good surplus of cash--how much he could not imagine and did not try to calculate--for the doctor had said that silver foxes were worth five hundred dollars in cash. This thought gave him a degree of satisfaction that towered so far above his troubles that he almost forgot them.

In a little while he was quite strong and active again. Finally a day came when the Indians made preparations to move. The wigwam was taken down and with all their belongings packed upon toboggans, and under the cold stars of a January morning, they turned to the northward, and Bob had no other course than to go with them even farther from the loved ones and the home that his heart so longed to see.

XIII

A FOREBODING OF EVIL

Never before had Bob been away from home for more than a week at a time, and his mother and Emily were very lonely after his departure in September. They missed his rough good-natured presence with the noise and confusion that always followed him no less than his little thoughtful attentions. They forgot the pranks that the overflow of his young blood sometimes led him into, remembering only his gentler side. He had helped Emily to pass the time less wearily, often sitting for hours at a time by her couch, telling her stories or joking with her, or making plans for the future, and she felt his absence now perhaps more than even his mother. Many times during the first week or so after his going she found herself turning wistfully towards the door half expecting to see him enter, at the hours when he used to come back from the fishing, and then she would realize that he was really gone away, and would turn her face to the wall, that her mother might not see her, and cry quietly in her loneliness.

Without Bob's help, Richard Gray was very busy now. The fishing season was ended, but there was wood to be cut and much to be done in preparation for the long winter close at hand. He went early each morning to his work, and only returned to the cabin with the dusk of evening. This home-coming of the father was the one bright period of the day for Emily, and during the dreary hours that preceded it, she looked forward with pleasure and longing to the moment when he should open the door, and call out to her,

"An' how's my little maid been th'day? Has she been lonesome without her daddy?"

And she would always answer, "I's been fine, but dreadful lonesome without daddy."

Then he would kiss her, and sit down for a little while by her couch, before he ate his supper, to tell her of the trivial happenings out of doors, while he caressed her by stroking her hair gently back from her forehead. After the meal the three would chat for an hour or so while he smoked his pipe and Mrs. Gray washed the dishes. Then before they went to their rest he would laboriously read a selection from the Bible, and afterwards, on his knees by Emily's couch, thank God for His goodness to them and ask for His protection, always ending with the petition,

"An', Lard, look after th' lad an' keep he safe from th' Nascaupees an' all harm; an' heal th' maid an' make she well, for, Lard, you must be knowin' what a good little maid she is."

Emily never heard this prayer without feeling an absolute confidence that it would be answered literally, for God was very real to her, and she had the complete, unshattered faith of childhood.

Late in October the father went to his trapping trail, and after that was only home for a couple of days each fortnight. There was no pleasant evening hour now for Emily and her mother to look forward to. The men of the bay were all away at their hunting trails, and no callers ever came to break the monotony of their life, save once in a while Douglas Campbell would tramp over the ice the eight miles from Kenemish to spend an afternoon and cheer them up.

Emily missed Bob more than ever, since her father had gone, but she was usually very patient and cheerful. For hours at a time she would think of his home-coming, and thrill with the joy of it. In her fancy she would see him as he would look when he came in after his long absence, and in her imagination picture the days and days of happiness that would follow while he sat by her couch and told her of his adventures in the far off wilderness. Once, late in November, she called her mother to her and asked:

"Mother, how long will it be now an' Bob comes home?"

"'Tis many months till th' open water, but I were hopin', dear, that mayhap he'd be comin' at th' New Year."

"An' how long may it be to th' New Year, mother?"

"A bit more than a month, but 'tis not certain he'll be comin' then."

"'Tis a long while t' wait--a _terrible_ long while t' be waitin'--t' 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.

"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.