CHAPTER XI.
Back to Stephanie.
That long winter spent among the Indians was a bitterly hard one toDick, and taught him patience and humility in no very gentle fashion.He was anxious to put his good resolves to the test of action; but itwould be some time before his strength became sufficient for the longjourney back to the Settlements. And accustomed as he was to thepossession of perfect health, he fretted under the knowledge, andchafed against the sense of helplessness which was so new to him. "Butwhat's the use of fidgeting over it?" he told himself over and overagain. "What's the use of thinking of it even, when I 'm fit fornothing but to sit at the entrance of the tepee when the sun's warm, orto lie on the pile of skins when the weather 's bad, and eat betweentimes? Oh, but that old woman can cook things!" And indeed the oldsquaw, who was a person of position and influence, took care that hehad plenty of food and warmth, and saw to it that no one molested him,regarding even Peter with suspicion. But the rest of the tribe lookedupon him merely as an appanage of Peter Many-Names, and not aparticularly creditable one at that.
Peter was enjoying himself thoroughly. The lean and haughty youngbraves, who looked down upon the white boy, were glad of his silentcompany; and the elders considered him a promising youth. While poorDick lay weak and restive in the old squaw's wigwam, Peter was rufflingabout the camp with a dozen arrogant young rascals at his tail. He waspre-eminently skilful as a hunter, and he added many ponies to thewealth of his host--ponies which were certainly never taken in tradefor other articles, excepting probably an occasional bullet, or no lessdeadly arrows. In the genial warmth of admiration Peter expandedvisibly in more respects than one. While poor Dick chafed under theknowledge that he was neither needed nor respected.
But in time a better frame of mind came to him. "How can I winrespect, even the respect of untaught Indians," he thought, "when Idon't deserve it? Even by their standards, I 'm not of much account.Why, I don't even respect myself." For a time he was downcast anddiscouraged, but as strength of body increased under the old squaw'scare, strength of soul increased also. And he resolved that in futurehe would think less of his pleasure and more of his duty, in whateverway of life his lot should be cast.
Some of this passive resignation passed off with his weakness; and heforesaw more clearly that his whole life might be passed in strugglingagainst just such temptations as this one to which he had yielded. Butby then the keen, clean prairie had begun to do its work, and he facedhis future resolutely. With surprising wisdom he did not make manyfar-reaching and likely-to-be-broken resolves. "I will go back toStephanie as soon as I can," he thought; "and after that I will settledown to any work I find, as near to her as possible. At present, thisis enough to think of."
So, with unusual patience, he set himself to wait for the return ofstrength and spring; while the old squaw grunted in undisguisedadmiration of his appetite, which bordered on the voracious.
The weary weeks of cold passed slowly. At the end of March the changecame, and the prairies suddenly leapt into life. The skies weresofter, and full of great white clouds which sailed grandly before thewind. The long, low earthen billows were covered with grass and allthe radiant flowers of spring. Every depression of the soil was aslough full of green water, covered with battalions of mallards andother wild-fowl. The poplars put forth shiny leaves which glitteredrestlessly in the sunshine, and the meadow-larks filled the whole worldwith music.
Then Dick spoke to Peter Many-Names. "To-morrow," he said, "we willbegin to get ready, and next week we will start south again. I havehad enough of your plains."
But Peter Many-Names was quite comfortable, and found many andplausible objections to the idea.
"Very well," said Dick quietly, "you stay here, and I will go alone.Only you must get back my gun for me."
Peter stared. There was a change in his comrade--a change which hecould not fathom. But the day on which Dick was to start found Peterready to start with him. "You my brother," he grunted in explanation,"an' I go with you. You not quite strong yet, an' so you go alone, youget lost or starve or drown or somethin'," which was likely, thoughPeter might have expressed it in a less uncomplimentary fashion.
"I can go by myself," said Dick, a little indignant, though muchrelieved that the Indian had elected to go with him. But Peter onlygrunted again.
"I goin'," he repeated, "come back here in spring--next spring. Youcome along quick."
Many and ceremonious were the farewells between Peter and his statelysavage host. But the old squaw was the only one who grieved for theloss of Dick; she gave him three pairs of delicately embroideredmoccasins, and then stood and watched him out of sight with dulltearless sorrow. She had seen so many lads ride away in the distance;and few had ever returned. Dick waved his hand to her several times,but she did not respond; only stood and looked after him with sad, dimold eyes.
The two travellers were accompanied by a crony of Peter's, who was togo with them to the end of the prairie-lands, and then return to thetribe with the three ponies they rode. They proceeded swiftly, and forthe most part in silence; for the two Indians were sparing of words,according to their wont. They rode together ahead of Dick; butsometimes Peter fell back and opened a brief conversation. "To-morrowwe begin to see woods again," he said once, "prairie soon break up,end. Then come trees, rivers, lakes. Now we see whole sky; then onlylittle bits above leaves. Now we see who comes, miles an' miles away,then we see only grass, leaves, shadows, an' know less." But Dickwelcomed the thought that the prairies would soon end.
His dreams had led him astray. He fully realised that now. But it wasnot in him to think of the long woodland journey that lay before themwith anything but keen and somewhat wistful pleasure. The prairieswere not attractive to him. They were too vast, too monotonous, tooremote from the little hopes and cares of human life. But the forestswere different, and he was full of longing to behold them once more inall the beauty of the early year. Yet other longings were nowstronger; and every night he counted that he was so much nearer toStephanie. At last the prairies were behind them, and he and Peterwere alone and on foot once more. It had been autumn when they passedthrough this country on their northward way, and now, looking back,Dick could scarcely believe that in a few months such changes couldhave taken place in all his hopes and aims and feelings.
There were changes also in his appearance. Severe illness andlong-continued hardship had made him taller and thinner and older. Hebore himself with less light-hearted confidence, and seemed to expectless consideration. Instead of being a careless boy to be guided andexcused, he now gave greater promise of becoming a good man to berelied upon and trusted. The trials of that winter had been excellentmoral medicine for his selfishness, and the nearness of danger anddeath had led him to realise something, however dimly, of hisunavoidable duty to his friends, his sister, and above all, to his God.
Through all the splendour of the northern spring they went steadilysouthward. Not this time was Dick lost in a lazy dream of delight,though he loved the great woods more intensely than ever. The freeskies were as fair to him, the winds still sang their littlegipsy-songs to his heart, the green solitudes were as welcome to him asever, but he held to his purpose firmly. And the days passed fromclear dawns to tender twilight, and every day left him so much nearerto Stephanie.
Steadily they journeyed southward, into lands of warmer sun and fullerblossom. Flower gave place to promise of fruit on all the wild bushes;the birds lost their spring songs with which the woods had rung, andflitted about busily and silently. Never had fairer season visitedthose forests, and Dick was alive to every subtle shade and gradationin all the beauty about him. He noted every point that made forloveliness in the glades and ravines and waterways, he felt akin to thevery bees and butterflies in their enjoyment of sun and summer. Yetnever did he turn from his purpose, even in thought.
And neither did he rely so utterly upon the Indian; who, feeling thathis influence had somehow
lessened, watched closely and wondered more.Dick was no longer as pliable as of yore, but his moral fibre seemed tobe tougher and less yielding.
As the weeks passed and they proceeded farther and farther south, Dickgrew restless and anxious. All sorts of vague fears began to tormenthim, and he imagined that some disaster might have befallen Stephanie.She might be ill. She might be needing him in a hundred ways, andprobably had been, throughout all those long months. The thought ofher in illness or trouble became as a spur to goad him on, and Petermarvelled at the pace. Dick was still Dick, and his penitence wasalways deep in proportion to its tardiness.
So the year went on. The wild asters showed their buds, and presentlyopened into golden-hearted stars, filling the forest glades with a mistof delicate purple. Farther and farther south they went, while thewild sunflowers bloomed and faded, and the fair green growth becamelifeless and sere with the sinking of the sap. And every day's journeybrought Dick so many miles nearer to Stephanie.
Until at last, almost at the end of the autumn, they camped for thenight only a few miles away from the Collinson homestead. That samenight, as they sat beside their little fire, Peter Many-Names glancedat Dick curiously. "You go on alone to-morrow," he said, as onestating a long-decided fact.
Dick looked up, almost startled that the Indian should show so perfecta knowledge of his feelings. "Yes, I go on alone," he answeredquietly, "I go on alone--to see my sister."
The Indian leant forward, his eyes shining greenly in the flicker ofthe firelight. "Yes, you go on alone, my brother," he replied in hisown speech, "you go on alone, to the life of the white man. In darkhouses shall you live, in hard labour shall you grow old. The whitestars, the great stars of the north, the clear winds that are thebreath of the Great Spirit, the noise of the buffalo-herd, the shrillcry of the eagle, the note of the twanging bowstring--all these shallbe to you as a forgotten tongue. In the plains and the forests mansees the foot-marks of the Great Spirit, hears His speech in the heart,and beholds His presence in all things. And you shall know them nomore."
Dick nodded. "I shall know them no more," he answered, a little sadly,"but I think the Great Spirit can be heard and known as well in my lifeas in yours, Peter."
The next day Dick went on alone. He had no very distinct plan in hismind, but he was too much ashamed of himself to go directly to thehomestead, and face the grave, displeased looks which he felt surewould be his portion, and deservedly so. Instead, he skirted round theedges of the familiar fields, and struck upwards through that littlerocky ravine which cut through the fertile acres.
As he walked cautiously amongst the dead fern and bracken, stoopingbeneath the swinging, leafless branches, sinking knee-deep in thedrifted, dead leaves, he wondered what chance he would get of speakingto Stephanie. Every familiar tree and fence, every detail of theground, everything which he had known before and now saw again, gavehim a feeling of half-painful pleasure which astonished him, for he hadnot realised that anything about the farm had grown dear to him. Andthe dearest thing of all--what of Stephanie? He almost ran along thebottom of the narrowing ravine, brushing through the bushes, leapingthe fallen and rotting trees, yet his instinct of caution kept hisprogress quiet.
The ravine ended in a steep bank, and Dick climbed up it swiftly in thedeep, dead leaves, breathless, and looked, and looked again. Beyondthe stump fence, on the gradually rising ground, stood Stephanie. Hereyes and mouth had a wistful look, but she did not seem unhappy. Shewas standing a little turned away from the ravine, watching the distantforests beyond the farm-buildings--watching them dreamily, and a littlesadly. She had neither heard nor seen Dick. And he knelt in the deepleaves, and looked at her, and looked. All his shame and repentancesurged upon him overwhelmingly, and kept him dumb and helpless, unableto move.
Everything was very quiet--quiet as only the woods can be in the latefall. Once, while Dick knelt there, two big, brown woodpeckers flewheavily across the fields; once some little shrill-voiced bird calledsuddenly from the bushes, with a distant flutter of wings, and he couldhear Roger's deep tones from the far, far distance, shouting directionsto the farm-hands. Still Stephanie did not move.
At last he made some involuntary sound, and she turned swiftly and sawhim. He saw the light of wonder and joy flash into her clear, paleface, and sprang to his feet, calling her eagerly by name. Somehow, hecould never tell in what manner he cleared the barrier of the stumpfence, and was beside her in an instant.
"Dick! Dick! Dick!" And then for the first time in her lifeStephanie fainted.
CHAPTER XII.
To a Goodly Heritage.
Three years have passed, shifting from bud to blossom, from sun tosnow, from promise to fulfilment, bringing with them all their store oflight, and shadows only deep enough to make the brightness clearer.Three times the snow has cleared from the good brown soil, three timesthe tender green of wheat has gladdened the eye, three times thefruitful fields have grown golden to the harvest, since Dick came home.And how have these changing seasons affected Dick and Stephanie, andall the people at the Collinson homestead?
On the third of these golden autumns there were great festivities atthe homestead, the occasion being no less than a barn-raising. It tookplace on a clear, cool, golden October day, when the woods wereyellowed with softly-falling leaves, and late sunflowers and goldenrodcarried on the scheme of colour, with the brave purple asters to add alast royal touch to the loveliness of nature looking forward to herwinter rest. The wide fields and the forest-bordered clearing had rungall day with shouts and merriment, and the cheerful noise of willinglabour, for all the O'Brien family had lent their aid, and there werenine of them. And now, when the early evening had darkened down inclear grey twilight, they were all gathered in the great, low-ceilingedliving-room of the homestead, brightened only by the warm flicker offlames from the logs upon the hearth.
Four juvenile O'Briens were seated before this hearth, roasting apples,and also their own rosy faces. There was also Mr. Collinson, a littlemore grey in his hair, and, if possible, a little more genial ruddinessin his broad face than when we saw him last. Mrs. Collinson sat nearhim, plump and smiling as ever, and Mrs. O'Brien talked to herexhaustively.
In the pauses of the general murmur of talk that filled the room, herwords sounded clearly, with the full power of an incisive soprano."And so I took the sleeves out, and turned the skirt, and now it's asgood as ever for ordinary wear. And sure, my nasturtium-colouredtabinet is only for the best occasions, and so I told O'Brien. Butthere! What sense has a man in these matters, my dear?"
"And did you put the frills on again," inquired Mrs. Collinson, withsmiling interest. And then the hum of talk arose, drowning even thatpenetrating soprano for a while. But soon it rose again above theother voices. "And a fine lass she is," it said, "and it's happy yourRoger ought to be, me dear. But Dick's a fine fellow, too, by allaccounts. Though, as for me, William Charles was always the one for mymoney. He 's a head on his shoulders, has that boy." Whereupon ageneral laugh ensued.
The "boy" in question, now a tall young man, was joking solemnly withthe three O'Brien boys. And there was Stephanie, tall, and grave, andquiet, with Roger beaming at her from the other side of the room, allunconscious that his face was an open book to whoever chose to read it.There was Nonie O'Brien, with her pink cheeks and her bright eyes, andher sweet, soft Irish speech. And there also was Dick.
He was sitting in the shadow, grave and somewhat silent, except whenNonie teased him, which she did frequently. Her treatment of him was astanding joke with the two families, as was also his meekness andpatience in putting up with it. He was almost less changed in thethree years than were any of the other young people; still one mighthave seen in him a certain dreaminess and tendency to choose the easierpath, which were as much characteristic of him as his deeply sunburnedface and short, fair hair were characteristic of his outwardappearance. Yet there were many changes in him, after all.
Since his ret
urn from the wilds, Dick had never swerved from hispurpose. His shame and boyish pride yielded to Stephanie's entreaties,and he accepted the work on the homestead which good Mr. Collinsonfreely offered. Here he had been ever since, facing cheerfully thehumdrum round of toil, turning a deaf ear and unseeing eye to thebeauties and delights of the wilds, and bent upon "making it up toSteenie." It had been a hard struggle at times, harder than anyone hadguessed, but he had come through it well. And now he was thinking oftaking up land for himself when a good opportunity should come. Butthe reward he had hoped for was not to be his. Throughout the firstyear of labour he had held firmly to his purpose of somehow, at somenot too distant date, making a home for Stephanie. After that, he hadno longer been able to shut his eyes to the little romance that she andRoger were unconsciously acting. And, with an ache at his heart, hehad put aside his own hopes of happiness, and merged them into hers.So Mrs. Collinson was to have a real daughter after all. But as shetold every one, "I 've always regarded Steenie as a daughter, eversince she's been here with us. So it won't make any difference in thatway."
And, perhaps, on this particularly merry evening, it is not to bewondered at that Dick should feel a little sad; though Nonie O'Briendid her best to keep him in good spirits, acting on the principle thatwhoever is annoyed and irritated has no time to be melancholy as well.But he was gradually learning the most difficult lesson of cheerfulself-effacement, and did not allow his own thoughts and feelings tospoil the cheeriness of the others. He wove wonderful Indian romancesfor the benefit of the children; he helped Mrs. Collinson in a score ofways; he sang old English songs; he played games. Yet he could nothelp being a little sad that so soon his life and Stephanie's would bedivided. They were as dear to each other as ever--dearer, perhaps, inview of the coming change. But now their hopes, and fears, and joyswere to be no longer in unison. Dick's character had deepened andstrengthened much in those three years; and his affections, and theslight sorrows which came through them, had deepened and strengthenedproportionately.
But there was one source of help and comfort ever open to hisheart--his love of nature, which should grow with his growth andstrengthen with his strength as long as his life endured, and hisgrowing faith and trust in nature's God. Whenever he was in trouble orperplexity, he managed to steal a quiet hour in the forests, and alwaysreturned to his work with fresh energy and fresh confidence. So now,when the fun and noise were at their highest, he slipped from the room,and out into the quiet night. Stephanie's dark eyes followed him verytenderly and proudly as he went, for still she seemed the elder of thetwo. "Dear Dick," she thought, "I know how he feels. It will be hardon him."
The wilderness surrounding the farm was no longer a source oftemptation to Dick; it was a refuge where he might find comfort andpeace. He had mastered his roving inclinations, and Peter Many-Names'free faring no longer filled him with envy. But his struggles forvictory had almost imperceptibly saddened his irresponsible, sunnynature. He was still the old Dick, but with a difference--a differencethat made for trustworthiness, patience, and power. The night, as hestepped from the door into the dusk quiet of the garden, was hushed anddark. Very soft misty clouds were drifting across the sky, with asuggestion of ghostly trailing draperies in their movement; here andthere they opened to let a star look through, but the general aspect ofthe slumbering world was of an infinite variety of shadow, rather thanof darkness relieved by any light. In an instant, the tumult andmerriment of that fire-lit room had become remote, and the greatsilence of the night had enclosed him as with a palpable substance.
Yet, as he walked down the straggling garden, with its vegetables onone side and its late flowers on the other, he was aware that the nightwas not as quiet as he had thought at first. From far, quiet heightsof air incessant soft calls and uneasy, melancholy pipings came down tohim; and he knew that the dark above him was alive with great flocks ofmigrating birds, calling ceaselessly to one another, travellingceaselessly on their way. Peter Many-Names could have told him whatbirds they were, from the soft, sad echoes of their notes which floateddown to earth. But Peter was away in unknown wildernesses, exploringon his own account; and the people at the homestead were rather gladthat it should be so.
Dick sighed a little as he leant over the gate at the foot of thegarden, watching the dim belt of grey forest before him. The memory ofhis time of wandering was over with him, and he had spent many suchnights as this encamped with Peter Many-Names as his only comrade. Hissense of loneliness increased as he watched a far-off pallid lineadvancing slowly across the sky, a line which marked the edge of thefield of ghostly cloud which was passing over. Beyond this edge thesky was clear and dark, lighted by a few large stars.
When the clouds had faded to a low, pale bank of receding vapour behindthe forest, the aspect of the night changed. It grew more distinctlydark, less unreal and shadowy, while the stars seemed to shine morebrilliantly in consequence. But the faint bird-calls, the elfinpipings, still floated down from the hushed heights of air.
The quiet, the calm, the slow stately ascension of the stars werealready soothing Dick.
A meteor fell with a curious, leisurely slide, from the midst of theheavens to the outermost darkness upon the horizon. He remembered how,when he and Stephanie had been children, they used to watch for thefalling stars, so that they might wish their dearest wish upon seeingthem. "After all," he said to himself with a sudden rush oftenderness, "my greatest wish is to see her as happy as she deserves tobe. Roger's a good fellow, and I should be a selfish brute if I let mymoping ways sadden her, God bless her!" Even this little thoughtshowed how great a change had taken place in Dick's character.
His thoughts turned to the limitless prairies of richest soil, to theuntouched forests, to the wide beauty of lake and river, to all thosefair pictures of the wilderness graven upon his heart. He thought ofthe clear skies, of the stinging cold, of the splendour of summer, ofthe fulfilment of the fall. He thought, with new insight, of themeaning hidden beneath the round of farmer's toil which now held him,of the results of that labour which he had at first given sogrudgingly, of the great purpose, the divine symbolism, which may makeagriculture the highest of all occupations, the most far-reaching ofall labours.
And then as he leant over the little gate, with eyes as dreamy as ofold, some vision of a possible future did come to him. Dimly, asdreams must go, he saw towns arising beside those rivers, and chimneyssending the smoke of peaceful hearts across those radiant skies. Notmuch he saw; but it was enough to make him say in his soul with the manof ancient days: "The lot is fallen unto me in a fairground; yea, Ihave a goodly heritage." A goodly heritage indeed, O Dick, as we oflater generation know. Though you knew it not, the unloved toil youfaced so well went to the building of a nation. In a fair ground thelot had fallen unto you, and, standing there in the darkness, yourealised the possibilities of that lot for the first time. Yourealised that the beauty of the wilderness must give way, andrightfully, before the wants of man; that the splendour of freedom isless than the splendour of toil; and that it lay in your hands to doyour part towards the building of a future for that fair country, whichhitherto you had loved ignorantly.
Yet, standing there beneath the still, bright stars, Dick did no morethan say to himself, "It 's a fine land! A fine land! And I 'm glad I'm in a new country, and not in an old one."
Behind him, the door of the homestead banged open. "Dick! Dick!"called Mrs. Collinson, "where are you?"
"'DICK! DICK! WHERE ARE YOU?'"]
"Dick!" echoed Stephanie, lovingly and a little anxiously.
"Coming, dear lady," he answered, "coming, Steenie." Yet he lingered alittle, while they waited for him. But it was Nonie O'Brien of thesoft speech and the shining eyes who ran down the long path and caughthim laughingly by the hand, and drew him away from his dreams into thelight and cheer again.
LORIMER AND CHALMERS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
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