Chapter 31.
Our circumstances might be called “easier” during this second winter. To begin with we had an addition to the house in the shape of a sitting room, with a good sized bedroom above it, so we were not so cramped for room. We also had two servants of a sort; Eddie Jackson, who was eight and spent most of his time carrying in wood for the five stoves, and Isabella, his sister, who washed the dishes and did what she was told. “Still,” as Mrs. Gilly used often to exclaim, “greatness has its trials,” and the larger house made more work. Our family too was increased by the arrival of a young English cousin, Charlie McLerchan.
The house, in spite of the five stoves, was very cold that winter, for Major Boulton had proposed building a chimney and had cut a hole in the roof for it, but the chimney was not built and the hole let in much extra cold. Mrs. Boulton was not able for much that winter and Mrs. Gilly was quite unable to face the cold, so I was forced to take hold more that winter than previously. I used to get up in the morning —oh how cold it was in spite of the fire in our room—then slipped down to the living room and made a fire there. Of course everything was in readiness. Then I went to the kitchen and often on the threshold wondered if I should find the children frozen to death. But no, there they were, Eddie rolled up head and all in a buffalo robe on the floor and Isabella fast asleep with her breath frozen on eyelids and hair. “Make Eddie light the fire,” Mrs. Gilly said again and again, but I had not the heart to, besides, would it have burned? So I generally made up the kitchen fire before waking the infants. The next thing was to get Mrs. Lilly’s tea. We had the bread, etc in the cellar—the only place which did not freeze. The air was rarely up to the freezing point in that kitchen. We washed the dishes in a large pan standing on, the stove, but the dishes froze to the table before we could dry them! Our clocks had an inconvenient way of stopping too, and I felt quite proud of setting them daily by the sunrise.
I shall never forget one of those cold nights. We women folk were alone in the house when Heather took croup. It was an anxious night. I lighted the fire, but it made little difference in the warmth. Mrs. Boulton and I sat on the bed, shivering all over with cold and nervousness, giving the little one ipecac every five minutes and doubtless each praying silently for help. How helpless we felt, 30 miles from a doctor and no man within reach. At last the ipecac did its work and she was relieved much to our joy. The children were hardly ever sick and this winter the three older ones had long heavy coats and after much dressing up used to go and play in the snow, coming in half an hour later to be undressed and everything dried.
We had a sleigh and occasionally went for drives. I remember one drive when the horses ran away and we were in danger of an upset, but Mr. Ross the clergyman rushed out and stopped them. We had quite a number of families now in the village. Besides the Ross’s we had the Browns, who had opened a store, and the Leonards, who had moved in from the country. We managed to scare up enough children to have a party on Nelly’s ninth birthday, which was January 11th—but I am going ahead too fast.
One day during the autumn, Major Boulton came in and said to me, “Could you not go down and see Joe Henderson. He is dying of consumption and so afraid to die.” That afternoon I made my first visit, Mrs. Gilly providing a good bottle of beef tea to take with me. I found Joe Henderson was a young half-breed, married and with two children. He was very friendly and glad to see me. I read to him a little, but we had no personal conversation that day. I went again and again and he opened all his heart to me. He said he was such a sinner, he could not expect forgiveness. I spoke to him constantly of God’s love and the sacrifice of Christ, but he did not seem able to grasp it. His sins, like those of Christian in the Pilgrim’s Progress, were as a heavy burden which he could not get rid of. At last, one winter day, when the snow lay deep on the ground, I paid my last visit. To my surprise he was beaming all over. “The burden has gone,” he said, “the burden has gone!” I asked him how he had lost it? He said he was sleeping when he saw a bright, glorious one whom he knew to be our Lord, Who stooped down and picked up his burden and took it away. “And now it is all gone,” he said, “my sins are all gone.” He only lived a few days longer and died rejoicing. I did not see him again, as we had a long and terrible storm just at the time, and I was unable to go out.
That storm was one not easily forgotten. In the morning Mr. Leonard brought up his wife and babies to spend the day, as he and the Major were going for a trip somewhere, on railway business I judge, as that was the burning question: would the railway cross the Assiniboine at Shellmouth? Of course if it did, Shellmouth was sure to be a large town and the Major’s fortune was made, but there were many strings being pulled by many people. We women spent a quiet and busy day with all the babes. The wind blew stronger and the snow became heavier as night came on. We felt sure the travelers could not get home, so we prepared to keep our visitors for the night. Mrs. Boulton had Heather and little George in bed with her, but she contrived to stow away Mrs. Leonard and the tiny baby and I volunteered to have little George Leonard in bed with me. My bed was very narrow and stood in a corner of the room, and all night the snow drifted in, falling on our faces in sharp, hard crystals. In desperation I covered the baby’s face, then came a horrible fear he would be smothered and I uncovered him again. That was my first experience of a baby bed fellow. The storm continued all next day, but abated by night and Mr. Leonard came and carried off his family.
It was about this time I think that we saw a most remarkable appearance in the heavens: the sun at noon had two more suns, one on each side, and two bodies which looked like white suns on the other two sides, surrounded by rainbows. During those days of cold and snow the thermometer ran down somewhere in the neighborhood of 50° below zero. We used to do most of our lessons sitting round the fire, as it was too cold for the children to write at the table.
We had various visitors. Mr. Venables came and slept on our dining room floor, though his wife refused to allow the Major to sleep in his own bed in his own house (he moved the bed into the tent store). One day he came with his gun, and presently we heard a shot and he came triumphantly in with a mink. “See,” he said, “I have shot a mink in your well.” How angry Mrs. Gilly was, as we had known the mink was there and encouraged it to remain. However, he carried it off.
After the great storm we decided to paper our upstairs with large sheets of brown paper, and an indigent man turning up, we employed him to do it. Little George was greatly interested and spent most of the day watching him. The next morning when I appeared with the tray of morning tea, he exclaimed in a loud voice, “Tea and toast, by Jove”. One of our visitors was quite a character, the brother of the vicar in Coburg. He had taken up a career of hunting and trapping. A little lean, wizened man, who loved the outdoors more than the indoors, we sometimes thought he aspired to make a better appearance. When we were in Shellmouth, he often came and our cat having presented us with three kittens, named according to color Mustard, Pepper and Salt, we gave him Mustard, at his urgent request. Alas, Mustard’s days were few in the land. Leaving her master’s tent to walk by her wild lone in the prairie, she was soon the prey of a fox. Long after we thought the children had forgotten the incident, we heard this conversion: said Heather, “Tatty (Lawrence), do you think Mustard is in heaven?” “No,” with great scorn. “Why, Tatty, is she really in hell?” “No,” with still greater scorn, “she is inside the fox.” Besides these visitors we had many railway men, and railway was the talk on everyone’s lips. It meant so much. Seventy-five miles to a railway was a weary drive. But talking did not bring it; it never went near to Shellmouth, though it runs through Russel now.
Christmas passed and the New Year, 1884, came in, and with it a great change in my life. I received a letter from Toronto saying that I really must go home. My mother was tired out and my sister sick. Dora was teaching Mrs. Frank Cayley’s children this winter, but she had repeated attacks of bronchitis; I cannot quite understand why, as neither before nor afterwards was she subject to it. Mother was still living in her large house on John Street and had taken a Mr. and Mrs. Gosling to board for the winter, most difficult and trying people—at least he was. To add to her difficulties, she had had a run of incapable and dishonest servants, so in desperation she wrote for me. I was very sorry to have to leave just at that juncture, as Mrs. Boulton was expecting to be ill in February, but my first duty seemed to be to my mother, and also I was so tired out I hardly felt able to finish out the winter, so I agreed to leave on February 1St. I did all I could to leave them comfortable, and was very thankful when Major Boulton wrote that he had succeeded in getting someone to fill the gap.
My packing was done under difficulties. All the children and especially baby George wished to assist, but it was done at last. I left my saddle and my snowshoes behind and took as little hand luggage as possible, and on a clear, sunny Monday morning I started off. Two weeks after my departure a little son arrived. They called him Russell. He was a very fine boy but alas, his life was cut short in the war. He left a little son, Charlie.