Ungava Bob Part 29

He and Douglas made a coffin into which the remains were tenderly placed, and it was put upon a high platform near the house, out of reach of animals, there to rest until the spring, when the snow would be gone and it could be buried.

For a whole week after this sad duty was performed the father sat by the cabin stove and brooded, a broken-hearted, dispirited counterpart of what he had been at the Christmas time. It was the man's nature to be silent in seasons of misfortune. During the previous year, when luck had been so against him, this characteristic of silent brooding had shown itself markedly, but then he did not remain in the house and neglect his work as he did now. He seemed to have lost all heart and all ambition. He scarcely troubled to feed the dogs, and the few tasks that he did perform were evidently irksome and unpleasant to him, as things that interfered with his reveries.

From morning until night Richard Gray nursed the grief in his bosom, but never referred to the tragedy unless it was first mentioned by another; and at such times he said as little as possible about it, answering questions briefly, offering nothing himself, and plainly showing that he did not wish to converse upon the subject.

Over and over again he reviewed to himself every phase of Bob's life, from the time when, a wee lad, Bob climbed on his knee of an evening to beg for stories of bear hunts, and great gray wolves that harried the hunters, and how the animals were captured on the trail; and through the years into which the little lad grew into youth and approached manhood, down to the day that he left home, looking so n.o.ble and stalwart, to brave, for the sake of those he loved, the unknown dangers that lurked in the rude, wild wastes beyond the line of blue mysterious hills to the northward. And now the poor remains enclosed in the rough box that rested upon the scaffold outside were all that remained of him. And that was the end of all the plans that he and the mother had made for their son's future, of all their hopes and fine pictures.

Mrs. Gray had never seen her husband in so downcast and despondent a mood, and as the days pa.s.sed she began to worry about him and finally became alarmed. He had lost all interest in everything, and had a strange, unnatural look in his eyes that she did not like.

One evening she sat down by his aide, and, taking his hand, said:

"Be a brave man, Richard, and bear up. Th' Lard's never let Bob die so. That were _not_ Bob as th' wolves got. I'm knowin' our lad's somewheres alive. I were dreamin' last night o' seem' he--an'--I feels it--I feels it--an' I can't go agin my feelin'."

"No, Mary, 'twere Bob," he answered.

"I feels 'tweren't, but if 'twere 'tis th' Lard's will, an' 'tis our duty t' be brave an' bear up. Tis hard--rare hard--but bear up, Richard--an' bear un like a man. Remember, Richard, we has th' maid spared to us."

And so, heart-broken though she was herself, she comforted and encouraged him, as is the way of women, for in times of great misfortune they are often the braver of the s.e.xes. Her husband did not know the hours of wakeful uncertainty and helplessness and despair that Mrs. Gray spent, as she lay long into the nights thinking and thinking, until sometimes it seemed that she would go mad.

Bessie, gentle and sympathetic, was the pillar upon which they all leaned during those first days after the dreadful tidings came. It was her presence that made life possible. Like a good angel she moved about the house, un.o.btrusively ministering to them, and Mrs. Gray more than once said,

"I'm not knowin' what we'd do, Bessie, if 'twere not for you."

After a week of silent despondency the father roused himself to some extent from the lethargy into which he had fallen, and returned to his trail. The work brought back life and energy, and when, a fortnight later, he came back, he had resumed somewhat his old bearing and manner, though not all of the buoyancy. He entered the cabin with the old greeting--"An' how's my maid been wi'out her daddy?" It made the others feel better and happier; and he was almost his natural self again when he left them for another period.

The report of Bob's death did not appear to affect Emily as greatly as her mother feared it would. She was silent, and took less interest in her doll, and seemed to be constantly expecting something to occur.

One day after her father had left them she called her mother to her, and, taking her hand to draw her to a seat on the couch, asked:

"Mother, do angels ever come by day, or be it always by night?"

"I'm--I'm--not knowin', dear. They comes both times, I'm thinkin'--but mostly by night--I'm--not knowin'," faltered the mother.

"Does un think Bob's angel ha' been comin' by night while we sleeps, mother? I been watchin', an' he've never come while I wakes--an' I'm wonderin' an' wonderin'."

"No--not while we sleeps--no--I'm not knowin'," and then she buried her face in Emily's pillow and wept.

"Bob's knowin', mother, how we longs t' see he," continued Emily, as she stroked her mother's hair, "an' he'd sure be comin' if he were killed. He'd sure be doin' that so we could see un. But he's not been comin', an' I'm thinkin' he's livin', just as you were sayin'. Bob'll be home wi' th' break-up, mother, I'm thinkin'--wi' th' break-up, mother, for his angel ha' never come, as un sure would if he were dead."

On two or three other occasions after this--once in the night--Emily called Mrs. Gray to her to reiterate this belief. She would not accept even the possibility of Bob's death without first seeing his angel, which she was so positive would come to visit them if he were really dead; and it was this that kept back the grief that she would have felt had she believed that she was never to see him again.

Bessie remained with them until the last of February, when her father drove the dogs over to take her home, as many of the trappers were expected in from their trails about the first of March to spend a few days at the Post, and her mother needed her help with the additional work that this entailed. Emily was loath to part from her, but her father promised that she should return again for a visit as soon as the break-up came and before the fishing commenced.

Douglas Campbell was very good to the Grays, and at least once each week, and sometimes oftener, walked over to spend the day and cheer them up. Often he brought some little delicacy for Emily, and she looked forward to his visits with much pleasure.

One day towards the last of May he asked Emily:

"How'd un like t' go t' St. Johns an' have th' doctors make a fine, strong maid of un again? I'm thinkin' th' mother's needin' her maid t'

help her now."

"Oh, I'd like un fine, sir!" exclaimed Emily.

"I'm thinkin' we'll have t' send un. 'Twill be a long while away from home. You won't be gettin' lonesome now?"

"I'm fearin' I'll be gettin' lonesome for mother, but I'll stand un t'

get well an' walk again."

"Now does un hear that," said Douglas to Mrs. Gray, who at that moment came in from out of doors. "Your little maid's goin' t' St. Johns t'

have th' doctors make she walk again, so she can be helpin' wi' th'

housekeepin'."

"The's no money t' send she," said Mrs. Gray sadly. "'Tis troublin' me wonderful, an' I'm not knowin' what t' do--'tis troublin' me so."

"I'm thinkin' th' money'll be found t' send she--I'm _knowin'_ 'twill," Douglas prophesied convincingly. "Ed were sayin' Bob had a rare lot o' fur that he'd caught before th'--before th' New Year--a fine lot o' martens an' th' silver foxes. Them'll pay Bob's debt an'

pay for th' maid's goin' too. That's what Bob were wantin'."

"Did Ed say now as Bob were gettin' all that fur?" she asked. "I were feelin' so sore bad over Bob's goin' I were never hearin' un--I were not thinkin' about th' lad's fur--I were thinkin' o' he."

"Aye, Ed were sayin' that. Emily must be ready t' go on th' cruise t'

meet th' first trip o' th' mail boat. Th' maid must be leavin' here by th' last o' June," planned Douglas.

"But we'll not be havin' th' money then--not till th' men comes out, an' then we has t' sell th' fur first t' get th' money," Mrs. Gray explained. "Then--then I hopes th' maid may go. 'Tis what Bob were goin' t' th' bush for--an' takin' all th' risks for--my poor lad--he were countin' on un so----"

"We'll not be waitin'. We'll not be waitin'. _I_ has th' money now an'

th' maid must be goin' th' _first_ trip o' th' mail boat," said Douglas, in an authoritative manner.

"Oh, Douglas, you be wonderful good--so wonderful good." And Mrs. Gray began to cry.

"Now! Now!" exclaimed the soft-hearted old trapper, "'Tis nothin' t'

be cryin' about. What un cryin' for, now?"

"I'm--not--knowin'--only you be so good--an' I were wantin' so bad t'

have Emily go--I were wantin' so wonderful bad--an' 'twill save she--'twill save she!"

"'Tis no kindness. 'Tis no kindness. 'Tis Bob's fur pays for un--no kindness o' mine," he insisted.

Emily took Douglas' hand and drew him to her until she could reach his face. Then with a palm on each cheek she kissed his lips, and with her arms about his neck buried her face for a moment in his white beard.

"There! There!" he exclaimed when she had released him. "Now what un makin' love t' me for?"

Richard returned that evening from his last trip over his trail for the season, and he was much pleased with the arrangement as to Emily.

"Your daddy'll be lonesome wi'out un," said he, "but 'twill be fine t'

think o' my maid comin' back walkin' again--rare fine."

"An' 'twill be rare hard t' be goin'," she said. "I'm 'most wishin' I weren't havin' t' go."

"But when you comes back, maid, you'll be well, an' think, now, how happy that'll make un," Mrs. Gray encouraged. "Th' Lard's good t' be providin' th' way. 'Twill be hard for un an' for us all, but th' Lard always pays us for th' hard times an' th' sorrow He brings us, wi'

good times an' a rare lot o' happiness after, if we only waits wi'

patience an' faith for un."