CHAPTER VIII
A DOUBTFUL LOSS
When I tried to look out of my window in the morning, I was quiteastonished at the state of things. To look out fairly was impossible;for not only was all the lower part of the frame hillocked up like asandglass, and the sides filled in with dusky plaits, but even in themiddle, where some outlook was, it led to very little. All the airseemed choked with snow, and the ground coming up in piles to meet it;all sounds were deadened in the thick gray hush, and nothing had its ownproportion. Never having seen such a thing before, I was frightened, andlonged to know more of it.
Mr. Gundry had a good laugh at me, in which even Suan Isco joined, whenI proposed to sweep a path to the mill, and keep it open through thewinter.
"It can be done--I am sure it can," I exclaimed, with vigorousignorance. "May I do it if I can? It only requires perseverance. If youkeep on sweeping as fast as it falls, you must overcome it. Don't yousee, Uncle Sam?"
"To be sure I do, Miss Rema, as plain as any pikestaff. Suan, fetch adouble bundle of new brooms from top loft, and don't forget while yoube up there to give special orders--no snow is to fall at night or whenmissy is at dinner."
"You may laugh as much as you please, Uncle Sam, but I intend to try it.I must try to keep my path to--somewhere."
"What a fool I am, to be sure!" said Mr. Gundry, softly. "There, now, Ibeg your pardon, my dear, for never giving a thought to it. Firm and Iwill do it for you, as long as the Lord allows of it. Why, the snow istwo foot deep a'ready, and twenty foot in places. I wonder whether thatrogue of a Goad got home to Sylvester's ranch last night? No fault ofmine if he never did, for go he would in spite of me."
I had not been thinking of Mr. Goad, and indeed I did not know hisname until it was told in this way. My mind was dwelling on my father'sgrave, where I used to love to sit and think; and I could not bear theidea of the cold snow lying over it, with nobody coming to care for him.Kind hands had borne him down the mountains (while I lay between lifeand death) and buried him in the soft peach orchard, in the soothingsound of the mill-wheel. Here had been planted above his head a crossof white un-painted wood, bearing only his initials, and a small "Amen"below them.
With this I was quite content, believing that he would have wished nobetter, being a very independent man, and desirous of no kind of pomp.There was no "consecrated ground" within miles and miles of traveling;but I hoped that he might rest as well with simple tears to hallow it.For often and often, even now, I could not help giving way and sobbing,when I thought how sad it was that a strong, commanding, mighty man, ofgreat will and large experience, should drop in a corner of the worldand die, and finally be thought lucky--when he could think for himselfno longer--to obtain a tranquil, unknown grave, and end with hisinitials, and have a water-wheel to sing to him. Many a time it setme crying, and made me long to lie down with him, until I thought ofearth-worms.
All that could be done was done by Sampson and Firm Gundry, to let mehave my clear path, and a clear bourne at the end of it. But even with asteam snow-shovel they could not have kept the way unstopped, such solidmasses of the mountain clouds now descended over us. And never had Ibeen so humored in my foolish wishes: I was quite ashamed to see thetrouble great men took to please me.
"Well, I am sorry to hear it, Firm," said the Sawyer, coming in one day,with clouts of snow in his snowy curls. "Not that I care a cent for thefellow--and an impudenter fellow never sucked a pipe. Still, he mighthave had time to mend, if his time had been as good as the room for it.However, no blame rests on us. I told him to bed down to saw-mill. TheyEnglishmen never know when they are well off. But the horse got home,they tell me?"
"The horse got home all right, grandfather, and so did the other horseand man. But Sylvester thinks that a pile of dollars must have died outin the snow-drift. It is a queer story. We shall never know the rights."
"How many times did I tell him," the Sawyer replied, without muchdiscontent, "that it were a risky thing to try the gulches, such a nightas that? His own way he would have, however; and finer liars than hecould ever stick up to be for a score of years have gone, time upontime, to the land of truth by means of that same view of things. Theytake every body else for a liar."
"Oh, Uncle Sam, who is it?" I cried. "Is it that dreadful--that poor manwho wanted to carry me away from you?"
"Now you go in, missy; you go to the fire-hearth," Mr. Gundry answered,more roughly than usual. "Leave you all such points to the Lord. Theyare not for young ladies to talk about."
"Grandfather, don't you be too hard," said Firm, as he saw me hurryingaway. "Miss Rema has asked nothing unbecoming, but only concerning herown affairs. If we refuse to tell her, others will."
"Very well, then, so be it," the Sawyer replied; for he yielded more tohis grandson than to the rest of the world put together. "Turn the logup, Firm, and put the pan on. You boys can go on without victuals allday, but an old man must feed regular. And, bad as he was, I thank Godfor sending him on his way home with his belly full. If ever he turnethup in the snow, that much can be proved to my account."
Young as I was, and little practiced in the ways of settlers, I couldnot help perceiving that Uncle Sam was very much put out--not at thedeath of the man so sadly, as at the worry of his dying so in goingfrom a hospitable house. Mr. Gundry cared little what any body saidconcerning his honor, or courage, or such like; but the thought of awhisper against his hospitality would rouse him.
"Find him, Firm, find him," he said, in his deep sad voice, as he satdown on the antlered stump and gazed at the fire gloomily. "And whenhe is found, call a public postmortem, and prove that we gave him hisbellyful."
Ephraim, knowing the old man's ways, and the manners, perhaps, of theneighborhood, beckoned to Suan to be quick with something hot, that hemight hurry out again. Then he took his dinner standing, and without aword went forth to seek.
"Take the snow-harrow, and take Jowler," the old man shouted after him,and the youth turned round at the gate and waved his cap to show thathe heard him. The snow was again falling heavily, and the afternoon waswaning; and the last thing we saw was the brush of the mighty tail ofthe great dog Jowler.
"Oh, uncle, Firm will be lost himself!" I cried, in dismay at the greatwhite waste. "And the poor man, whoever he is, must be dead. Do call himback, or let me run."
Mr. Gundry's only answer was to lead me back to the fireside, wherehe made me sit down, and examined me, while Suan was frying thebutter-beans.
"Who was it spied you on the mountains, missy, the whole of the way fromthe redwood-tree, although you lay senseless on the ground, and he washard at work with the loppings?"
"Why, Ephraim, of course, Uncle Sam; every body says that nobody elsecould have noticed such a thing at such a distance."
"Very well, my dear; and who was it carried you all the way to thishouse, without stopping, or even letting your head droop down, althoughit was a burning hot May morn?"
"Mr. Gundry, as if you did not know a great deal better than I do! Itwas weeks before I could thank him, even. But you must have seen him doit all."
The Sawyer rubbed his chin, which was large enough for a great deal ofrubbing; and when he did that, I was always sure that an argument wentto his liking. He said nothing more for the present, but had his dinner,and enjoyed it.
"Supposing now that he did all that," he resumed, about an hourafterward, "is Firm the sort of boy you would look to to lose his ownself in a snow-drift? He has three men with him, and he is worth allthree, let alone the big dog Jowler, who has dug out forty feet of snowere now. If that rogue of an Englishman, Goad, has had the luck to cheatthe hangman, and the honor to die in a Californy snow-drift, you maytake my experience for it, missy, Firm and Jowler will find him, andclear Uncle Sam's reputation."
Erema; Or, My Father's Sin Page 8