CHAPTER VII.
A Message from the Wanderer.
A few weeks had passed, and sugar-making time had gone for thatyear--gone in a sudden burst of life-giving warmth and moisture, in atumult of tentative bird songs, in a broidery of earliest green thingswhich heralded the swift, brief, infinitely caressing spring of thenorth. Gone also was peace and happiness from Stephanie's heart, andthe kindly Collinsons grieved with her. For no sooner was thesugar-making over than Dick disappeared, leaving no word or tracebehind. And with him disappeared Peter Many-Names.
They had looked daily for his return. But as the sweet keen weathergrew more golden to the spring, as the shiny bud-cases burst, and theleaves showed in delicate wrinkled greens and reds, as the birds cameback in coveys and battalions, fluttering and piping through the sunnywonderland of the woods, and still neither Dick nor his dark-facedtempter reappeared, Stephanie lost hope, and even cheery Mr. Collinsoncould give her little comfort in this strait. "He's sure to come back,my dear," he said to her often, "stout and wiry and very penitent; someday soon when we least expect it. He's got tired of civilisation andhas gone off picnicking in the forest with Peter for a while, the youngrascal. Don't you worry, lassie, he 'll come back."
Stephanie would try to smile in answer to show how little she wastroubled; but her eyes would stray to the great woods, and her grave,pale young face would quiver tearfully now and then. Whereupon Rogerwould always retreat, and rage in a fury of work and a fever of wrathamong the farm buildings, to the silent distress of William Charles,and the great anxiety of his mother. The farmer had carefully schooledhimself to view the matter in its best light--and indeed there weremany and great excuses for Dick--but sometimes even he meditated uponthe probable consequences of finding himself confronting the runawayswith a stout cane or sapling in his hand. Yet, in spite of all, he wasas fond of Dick as ever, ungrateful though the lad had shown himself tobe; and he would no more have thought of casting him off as a result ofhis folly than he would have thought of casting off one of his own boysin punishment for some thoughtless error. He felt that Dick's dreamynature and inherited tastes had scarcely given him a fair chance infighting that temptation which Peter Many-Names had personified. Buthe was very angry and even more disappointed.
And Stephanie? Stephanie felt that she could have borne her grief andanxiety, as she had already borne much sorrow. But there was a morebitter sting in her trouble than this. She was utterly humiliated.She had relied on Dick's affection for herself, but above all upon hisgratitude and sense of honour. And to find that he could thus requitethe man who had been such a friend to them was a bitter blow.
Perhaps she underrated the influences which had been brought to bearupon Dick's resolution, understanding little the gipsy strain thatmoved him, and knowing nothing of the ways of Peter Many-Names. Bethat as it may, poor Stephanie felt for a long time that, while she hadlove and forgiveness for her brother in plenty, she could have littletrust or pride in him. "I don't think I should mind anything," shesaid once to Mrs. Collinson, "if only I could see Dick well and safeand contented, working round the farm once more. It seems impossiblethat he has really gone. If only I could know he was safe!"
Whereupon warm-hearted little Mrs. Collinson kissed her vehemently, asan outlet for her indignation. "Don't you fret about his safety,child," she said; "he's safe as can be. Safe, indeed! Why, thatlittle brown Indian wretch knows the country as few do, and they'reboth used to wood-wandering, the naughty boys. Oh, he 's safe enough,if that were all you have to worry about." But perhaps at the bottomof their hearts neither she nor her husband were quite so confident asthey gave Stephanie to believe. They felt sure that the fugitives hadgone north to unknown wildernesses. And what dangers might thoseunsettled countries hold?
"I don't doubt Dick's wanting to come back here before the year's out,"remarked Mr. Collinson privately to his wife; "but they 're only a pairof boys, and in my opinion, Mrs. C., it's a risky thing. Practically,young Underwood has put his life into the Indian's hands, and I doubtwhether that clever little brown villain values the said life enough totake very good care of it. However, there's no telling. Only when Isee Steenie's face, I should like to have the thrashing of both therascals, brown and white. What business had Dick to go off and leavehis only sister in this fashion?"
"Others would be glad to take care of her better," remarked Mrs.Collinson oracularly. And her husband screwed up his face as inpreparation for whistling, and afterwards regarded Roger thoughtfullybut with approval.
The last of the grey drifts of snow disappeared from the cool hollows.Roger always found time to visit the sheltered nooks along the edge ofthe little ravine that cut through the fields, returning to thehomestead with great store of frail, exquisite arbutus, and the starryhepaticas, blue, pink, and white, nested in silvery down; the promiseof leaf and blossom was fulfilled on every branch; the first sky-birdcalls were brought to perfect song; and still Dick remained away.
Through all its beautiful subtle changes, the spring passed on tosummer. The young leaves of oak and maple lost their tinge of scarlet,and the wild fruit trees lost their snow of blossom. Sturdier, lessshadowy flowers replaced the bloodroot and hepatica. The birds werebusier. All about the homestead was a world of warm delicate air, andskies shadowed with promise of rain, passing gradually to brighter sunand deeper blue. Yet still Dick did not come.
Stephanie knew that, once having run wild as it were, he would notreturn until he had drunk his fill of freedom. That he would returneventually, she firmly believed, drawn back by his affection for her.And as the weeks went on, she set herself to wait as patiently as shemight. But it was very weary work, and at times Mrs. Collinson'stender heart ached for her.
"You are worrying needlessly, my dearie," the good woman would oftensay, with a great show of cheerfulness, when Stephanie had been quieteror sadder than usual. "Dick will be back before very long. We aresure of it."
"If I could know that," the girl would answer, "I should not mind somuch. But sometimes I can't help thinking, suppose he should nevercome? Suppose I wait for years, and still he does not come? I know I'm silly, but you don't know--you can't know what he was to me. I hateto think so, but--but perhaps he may be too much ashamed ever toreturn. How shall I bear to wait, knowing he may never return afterall?"
Then the rosy, motherly, little woman would soothe and comfort her."Dick loves you too well to stay away for good, and you know it at thebottom of your heart, child. There 's no weariness like the wearinessof waiting, I know. But many lives seem to be made up of waiting andprayings of which we don't see the end--more hopeless waiting andpraying than yours. For, after all, such things are in higher handsthan ours. And if we watch and pray patiently and trustfully, we aremaybe doing more than we think, Stephanie." Whereat the farmer wouldnod in solemn admiration of his wife, and Stephanie would face therecurring days with hope renewed.
At the bottom of her heart she had always dreaded and expectedsomething of the sort to happen. Dick's character was easy to read,and no one was surprised that he should have thus yielded to his loveof the wilds. That did not make the pain of disappointment and anxietyany the less. But as time went on, the sincere and simple faith of theCollinson homestead taught Stephanie an abiding lesson. She learned toleave her brother's welfare in the hands of God, and to be more contentwith her task of waiting and praying, sure that a greater love eventhan her own was watching over Dick.
That fair spring passed, and its flowers gave place to the moregorgeous blossoms of early summer. Wild roses opened their red petals,and wild strawberries were nearly ripe. And still no word of Dick orPeter Many-Names. The day after the sugar-making was finished they hadgone off together, with a gun and a blanket each, and very littlebesides, and the great wilderness had taken them to itself.
After some time had passed, Stephanie grew in a measure accustomed toDick's absence. She was so surrounded by affection, and so muchoccupied by work, that s
he had no opportunity for brooding andmelancholy thoughts. She always watched for him, always waited for him.
"I know he will come back to me," she said to Mrs. Collinson, "but howlong, how long will it be? It seems to me that I have waited a longtime already."
But she was not to be left entirely without knowledge of him throughoutthe summer. It was one morning in June that she had word of Dick. Shehad just finished milking two of the cows, and, having a few sparemoments afterwards, she had hurried down to the edge of that ravinewhich ran up through the fields to the very farm buildings themselves.It had been her wont of late to haunt the edge of the clearing, to roamwhenever she could into the outskirts of the woods, and there wait andlisten for a space, feeling the silence and beauty of the wilds to be,in some vague sense, a link between herself and Dick.
It was a very fair morning. The distant trees were softened by a fainthaze that gave promise of heat, and the dew was still damp and chillyin the shadows. There is no more lovely time of the year than June,when things are ripened to full beauty, and yet young, when each treehas still its own individual shade of green, not yet merged into theheavier, denser, universal tint of the later season. And Stephaniefound both peace and promise in the still radiance of the early day.
She paused at the brink of the ravine, watching the tree-creepers withwide, unconscious eyes. She remembered that morning, now many weeksago, when the knowledge, hard, inevitable, had first come to her thatDick had run away with the Indian; and when for a time she could feelnothing, think nothing, but that he had left her, his only sister.Those feelings were softened now; softened with the sure though gradualgrowth of her trust and faith in that love deeper than her own, whichcould guard and care for her brother through all things. But shelonged for a sight, a word of him, more than for anything else in theworld. Just at that moment the longing was almost unbearable, and thelittle, long-beaked birds scuttled away in fright as Stephanie leantover the stump fence. "Dick! Dick! Dick!" she cried very softly, andthe words held a prayer.
It was a prayer which was to be immediately answered, for, without anypreliminary rustle of leaves or noise of footsteps, a man walked softlyout of the thick-leaved undergrowth, and stood before her. Her heartleapt wildly, and then grew quiet again, for the man was a stranger toher. He was tall, and his dark, bright face showed his mixed Frenchand Indian descent; he was almost fantastically dressed in fringeddeerskins and quaint finery, and the cap which he raised was decoratedwith feathers. But Stephanie had seen such trappers before in the olddays, and did not fear his long gun or his savage silence. And,indeed, in his flourishing bow, French courtesy was apparent. But hewas slow of speech, as are all dwellers in the woods; and now he merelyheld out a tiny package, wrapped in birch-bark, with an inquiringglance towards her.
"HE HELD OUT A TINY PACKAGE, WRAPPED IN BIRCH-BARK, WITHAN INQUIRING GLANCE TOWARDS HER."]
She saw her name scrawled upon the outside, and took it eagerly. Therewas a mist before her eyes for a moment, and she could do nothing butclasp the precious package close, and murmur little phrases ofgratitude and comfort and endearing words--she scarcely knew what.When she came to herself a little, the trapper had gone, as he hadcome, in utter silence. She tore off the outer wrapping of the smoothbark, with its fringe of fragile green lichen, and read the few linesscrawled within. The note was from Dick, as she had expected, and ithad been written weeks before.
"Dear, dear Steenie," it ran, "I am almost too much ashamed to write toyou, but I think of you always. I could not go on with the farm workany longer. You don't know how I hated it. I know what you must allthink of me; but I only wish you were with me now! I never thought theworld could be so beautiful, and I feel as if I were living now for thefirst time. I 'm sorry and miserable, of course; but I wish you werehere to see the trees and the skies and the rivers that I am growing tolove. It is all splendid. Never forget me, as I never forget you."That was all; but, besides the not very deep shame and penitence, theselines held a great joy, a great happiness--the happiness that comesfrom fulfilment of longing.
She refolded the paper in its wrapping with trembling fingers, and thenstood, gazing with wide, unseeing eyes at the rustling trees. For thefirst time she realised what Dick's struggle must have been, realisedalso what was his passionate love of freedom. She felt the tears weton her cheeks--tender, forgiving tears--and her heart was full ofthankfulness to think she was not forgotten. But he had said nothingof coming back, though in her great relief she scarcely noticed it.
She pictured his probable surroundings when that letter was written;until she almost fancied she could see him sitting beside a littlefire, apart from Peter Many-Names, scrawling those hurried words ofaffection and penitence and boyish delight; and then wrapping them inbirch-bark and consigning them to the care of the half-savage trapper,who had thus, after many days, given them into her hands.
It was a very boyish note, and she smiled half sadly to think that hewho had written it was actually a little older than herself. He seemedto realise so little the deeper meaning of his action, and evidentlyregarded it as a child might regard a delightful but naughty escapefrom school. For a time, she saw freedom and the forests held hisheart. "But he loves me, and he will come back, for we have no one buteach other."
She showed the letter to the good farmer and his wife, her joy shiningin her dark eyes. "It came to me from the woods," she cried almostmerrily; "a trapper came out of the woods and handed it to me like amessenger in a fairy-story. Dick is safe and well, you see, and hedoes not forget. I can think of nothing but that now!"
The farmer raised his eyes from the fragrant screed of birch-bark."No, lassie," he said tenderly, "he does not forget." Then he fellsilent, reading and re-reading the boyish scrawl, while Mrs. Collinsonwatched him with secret uneasiness.
He was almost especially gentle to the girl that evening; but as soonas possible he drew his wife aside, and spoke to her in his gruffwhisper. "We must keep up Steenie's heart," he said, "but it's myopinion, Mrs. C., that the boy won't be back for many a long day."
"We must not let Stephanie think that," echoed his wife sadly.
But they need not have troubled. Stephanie was confident. Dick didnot forget her, and she could trust his welfare to a greater love thanher own.
So thereafter she watched and waited with a new and confident patience,comforted and strengthened, not to be shaken in her hope and trust.And thus for a time we will leave her.
For, meanwhile, how had Dick fared?