Dick's Desertion: A Boy's Adventures in Canadian Forests

  CHAPTER V.

  A Backwoods Christmas.

  That was the last time for some months that Dick yielded to his inbornlove of wandering. He had spent a night and the best part of twoeventful days in the woods with Peter Many-Names. And on the secondday he returned to the homestead by devious ways, very much ashamed ofhimself.

  He became more than ever ashamed when no notice was taken of hisdesertion. Roger greeted him somewhat resentfully at first, owing tothe fact that he had had to do all Dick's work as well as his own,during the younger boy's absence, and Stephanie looked anxious andgrieved. But beyond this, nothing was said or done to remind him ofhis fault.

  No better course could have been taken to bring Dick to a state ofalmost excessive penitence, and remorse speedily overtook him. Hismoods were always intense while they lasted; and now he settled down tohis hard daily tasks with a fury of sorrowful determination which Mr.Collinson regarded doubtfully, considering it too good to continue.But if Dick grew weary of his resolute toil, he gave no sign.Outwardly, he was again contented with his lot, and seemed to desire noother. So well did he work, so cheerful and patient he was, that theanxious look gradually cleared from Stephanie's face. But Mr.Collinson, shrewd man that he was, still regarded the boy with acertain grave and wholly affectionate distrust.

  The days passed and November gave place to December. The wheat laywarm beneath a foot of snow, and Christmas was at hand.

  The Collinsons always kept Christmas as nearly as possible in good oldEnglish fashion. Dick and Stephanie, used to all sorts of privation,thought that the preparations for the coming feast were positivelyluxurious.

  Everyone at the homestead worked early and late. Mrs. Collinson wasintent upon bread-making; so Dick and Roger ground grain at thehand-mill, turn and turn about, until they nearly fell asleep over thehandle; and very bad and black would their flour appear to us. Thesilent William Charles, who was always called by his full name, seemedto chop wood incessantly. Mr. Collinson, who always worked so hardthat it was scarcely possible that he could work any harder, found timeto interfere jovially with everything, to the utter confusion of hiswife, who, with Stephanie, was perpetually preparing extra delicaciesfor her thriving and hungry household. Stephanie was so busy she hadno time for mournful memories; and Dick did nothing but work, andsleep, and eat enormously.

  It was rough fare they had in those far-off days. But with pork andmutton, pumpkins for "sass," and pies, maple syrup and sugar, potatoes,and plenty of barley, rice, eggs, milk and tea, Mrs. Collinson andStephanie accomplished wonders. So vast were the preparations thateven the dogs seemed infected with the stir of excitement; and everyonelooked forward to sumptuous faring. To Stephanie, real tea, with milkand sugar, represented in itself comfort and prosperity; she had beenused to making an unattractive substitute for it with young hemlockshoots.

  That Christmas dinner was a great success. Everyone was in goodspirits, and even Mrs. Collinson was astonished at the way in which theeatables disappeared. The silent William Charles especiallydistinguished himself, and was accused of demolishing a full pint ofhazel-nuts in twenty minutes.

  Afterwards, with the red blinds drawn, and the great logs blazing onthe hearth, faces were more serious, though not less cheerful, whileMrs. Collinson read aloud the story of Bethlehem. Stephanie, leaningback in her chair, could see a great star, cold and silver-pure, aroundthe edge of the curtain; and it seemed to her, as she listened to thefamiliar words, that it must be that star which the wise men saw,shining upon her with its promise of peace.

  Then followed song after song, to which Roger contributed an uncertaintenor, and Mr. Collinson a thunderous bass. In the midst of warmth andcomfort and merriment, Stephanie felt her own griefs and troublesslipping further and further away. She lost herself in happy dreamsfor the future, which had never appeared so full of hope and cheer.All her dreams were centred round Dick, and the home he would make forher when he was twenty-one.

  Songs led to stories, and Dick developed unexpected talents, thrillingthem all with legends of Lower Canada, which he had learned no one knewhow. Then Mr. Collinson began a long account of an incident in the warof 1812, and when he was fairly in the middle of it, Dick signed toStephanie, and they both slipped from the room.

  Knowing how the Collinsons delighted in the old customs and traditionsof an English Christmas, they had resolved to act the waits, and sogive a finishing touch to that tender illusion built up in the woods ofthe New World from the lore and fancy of the Old. Dick dived into hisblanket-coat, and Stephanie wrapped a big shawl about her, and thenthey both hurried out at the kitchen door, and so round to the front ofthe house again. It was intensely cold and still, so cold that themotionless air seemed to be heavy and painful to breathe, and steppingfrom the warm house was like entering icy water. The stars shone likesteady silver lamps, and the woods were hushed and dark, bound tosilence and desolation beneath the weight of frost. A faint white mistshowed in the northern sky, and presently it spread and broadened, andthe pale green ice-blink began playing and slanting and fading alongits edge.

  With their young faces held up to the solemn stars, the brother andsister began to sing the quaint old carols their mother had taught themlong before. They had good voices, and their hearts were in the words,so the old, old tunes went sweetly enough under that vast arch of sky.Roger softly set the door ajar, and the quietness within showed how thesinging was appreciated.

  "THEY BEGAN TO SING THE OLD CAROLS THEIR MOTHER HADTAUGHT THEM LONG BEFORE."]

  As they sang, Stephanie felt that it was almost irreverent to break thesolemn silence of the wintry world; it was so still that their voicessounded far-off and yet clear. She glanced nervously at the black ringof forest encircling the homestead, and feared it for the first time,not for what it might contain, but for its gloom and emptiness.

  The cold was too intense for them to stay out there long, and as thelast notes of the last carol died away, Stephanie was glad that thegreat silence would be no longer disturbed. It seemed more fitting toleave that lonely night to quiet--the utter quiet of snow and windlessair--of life held in suspension.

  But before they reached the door, another sound, distant, distinct,horrible, cut suddenly through that quiet. Dick involuntarily claspedhis sister's hand in his, for, however often one may hear that sound,it never fails to move the nerves. It rose, and sank, and almost diedaway, and was answered by a dozen throats, all taking up the wild,shrill, menacing notes--the howl of the wolf-pack in full cry.

  It was a terrible sound. And though they had heard it a hundred timesbefore, it seemed even more impressive than usual, coming after thewarmth and good cheer, the laughter and singing. It was as if thesurrounding wilderness had chosen to remind them of its presence bythat sad, cruel, awe-inspiring howl--as if their hearts were to berendered more in tune with the great woods by the knowledge that deathwas abroad, even at the edges of the fields; Dick and Stephanie wereglad to return to the light and cosiness of the house.

  That cry of the wolves had disturbed Dick. He had heard it last whenhis father was alive, and when they lived in that dreary littlelog-cabin twenty miles away. It recalled to his memory all those daysof cold and hardship, all the roughness, the poverty, the privation oftheir lives in the dreaded winter-time. But it recalled also his pastfreedom, his wood-running, his neglected skill in shot and snare. Thevery note of the howl suggested the idea of untiring, relentless speed;and he suddenly remembered all the old delight of those long snow-shoeruns he had been wont to take whenever it so pleased him--over thecrackling snow, beneath the black pine branches and the dazzling winterstars. He laughed at himself for being so readily moved from hiscontentment, and then he wondered--had he really been contented? Orhad the old unrest always been there, however much he might strive tohide it even from himself?

  Leaning back in his shadowy corner, he let his thoughts drift to hisold life, and to that little deserted cabin which had been home to himfor so many years.
He imagined just how the roof would fall intodisrepair, and how the feathery snow would drift between the chinks ofthe logs. He supposed that the little bold beasts of the woods wouldinhabit it, and the grey squirrels store their nuts in the corners, andthe birds build under the eaves and on the window ledges. Soon thewoods would creep nearer and nearer, reclaiming the worthless fieldswhich had been wrested from them, and even filling up the naturalclearing with small bushes and thimble-berry vines. At last therewould remain nothing but a pile of mossy logs and a few struggling,widely-dispersed sunflowers, to show where that poor home had been.Remembering the pain and sorrow those walls had often held, he felt itwas the best end for them; yet he had an unreasonable tendernesstowards anything connected with the care-free, idle, roving life he hadloved, and for which he longed.

  "A penny for your thoughts!" cried cheery Mrs. Collinson suddenly. Andwhen he shyly told her, in part, what they had been, she patted hishand tenderly, and her eyes glistened.

  "The lad's fretting for his father," she found opportunity ofwhispering to her husband, a little later.

  But Mr. Collinson was still doubtful. "I don't know, Mrs. C., I don'tknow," and they were silent, as once more the howl of the wolf-packcame faintly to their ears.

  Meanwhile, Dick had retired again to a brown study in his corner.

  On this peaceful Christmas night there was a tumult in his easy-goingmind which confused him sadly. Now he had time to think about it, heknew that during the past few weeks he had not really beencontented--he had only been avoiding the consideration of his ownperplexities. But that avoidance was not always possible, and he knewthat, at any time, his love of roaming might descend upon him, as itwere, in irresistible force. Since that day of the fox-hunt, he hadbecome more fully alive to his own wild hopes and longings; and now hissincere fit of penitence and industry was beginning to wear off a bit,the old, idle, roving mood was all ready to return to him again. Hefeared his own thoughts, and he dreaded the crisis--dreaded the eventwhich must settle his decision one way or the other.

  As he sat there, gazing at the roaring, glowing logs upon the hearth,he reflected half-resentfully that duty and inclination had beenutterly at war in his life of late, and that the worst of the troubledated from his arrival at the Collinson homestead, which was perfectlytrue. Before then, inclination had reigned supreme. He did not puthis own thoughts very clearly to himself. He only felt that, if heyielded to his love of a wild life, that life would soon grow necessaryto his happiness. He thought how cruel it would be if he leftStephanie and all other ties behind him, and struck out into the vastspace and freedom of the north. He shunned the very idea, and wasashamed of it, yet there was an attraction in it which made him dwellupon it again and again. The great plains and the free life of them,the great woods and the mighty rivers, the beautiful lakes, andmountains, pine-clad and snow-crested, untracked, unknown--he had heardof it all dimly, from one and another. All these things he loved andlonged to know, and against them Stephanie. "Of course, I wouldn't doit," he assured himself. Yet his eyes took on their bright gipsy-lookas he gazed into the heart of the blaze.

  For the rest of the evening he was in a dream-world, far from thehomestead; and later, he put on his blanket-coat again, and wanderedout into the garden, that he might indulge in his dreams more easily.Just near the door he nearly fell over a shadowy figure crouchedagainst the wall. The figure rose to its feet, and just then Rogerpulled aside the curtain. In the sudden gleam of light Dick saw akeen, dark face, in which were unexpectedly set two hard, green-greyeyes. He heard the sound of some ceremonial greeting in a strangespeech. But it was so much like a part of his dreams he feltbewildered. It was Peter Many-Names, who presently descended to hisEnglish, and pointing to a frozen haunch of venison, gravely gave Dickto understand that he would dispose of it to the highest bidder.