In after life Dick never forgot those weeks of wandering. The freedom and beauty of all that summer world was indelibly impressed upon his memory. His was a nature readily moved to admiration, and had powers of observation unusual in a lad of his age. But there were two small scenes, each perfect in pictorial beauty, which he afterwards recollected with special clearness.
They were tramping steadily along the bottom of a small ravine, one late July afternoon, through a luxuriance of fern and vine almost tropical. Dick, watching the dark woods ahead, saw a sudden little flame of colour leap to life against the black stems of the pines—a flame so intense in its ruddy gold that it seemed to throb and pulsate like a tongue of fire. A sunbeam, slanting through the branches, had been caught and held in the cup of an open red lily—that was all. But the effect was one which no artist on earth could have reproduced.
Another time, they were paddling up a small stream in a little canoe of Peter's building—a little canoe he had hurriedly made, with Dick's help, while they camped for the purpose—a flimsy, crank craft, but serviceable, and sufficient for their needs. They were gliding slowly along in the shadow of the bank, when they came upon a tall brown crane standing quietly on one yellow leg in the calm shallows. He did not offer to move as they slipped past, but stood there peacefully, in water which reflected the sunset skies and small opalescent clouds floating above. Backed by the green rushes, surrounded by the mirrored glow of sunset, he stood and watched them out of sight with wild, sad eyes—untamed, fearless, and alone. And thus he remained always in Dick's remembrance.
After a time, they hid the canoe in a tiny creek, and took to land-travelling again. Peter's haste increased, and Dick was sometimes hard put to it to keep up with him. His caution increased also as they advanced into more open country—country which gradually grew to foreshadow the prairies. But Peter kept to the trees as much as possible, speeding swiftly and stealthily northwestward.
"One would think we were thieves," murmured Dick, with an uneasy English dislike of stealthiness. It was the first time he had in any way rebelled against Peter's leadership. "All right," the Indian responded, "go on your way, see how far you get. What you know? What you see? What you hear? Nothin'. You blind, deaf, sleepy all times. I see, hear, know. You come with me, or you go alone. But if come with me, you come quiet. I lead you," he concluded, thrusting his little dark face with its strange eyes close to Dick's. Thus the incipient mutiny was crushed.
In all those weeks they had seen and spoken with no one but the solitary trapper to whom Dick had consigned the letter, and the absolute loneliness had become as natural to Dick as the splendid clearness of air was natural. So when one morning in September he came upon the ashes of a fire that were still warm, it gave him a curious feeling of wistful excitement. "Look, Peter," he said, "feel here. The ground is not cold yet under the ashes. Someone was here only a little while ago!"
Peter snarled something inarticulate, and peered about the fire with a frowning face. "White man," he grunted uneasily at last.
"How do you know?" asked Dick; and then, not waiting for an answer, "I should have liked to have spoken to him. I wish we had met him."
"Company's man," grunted Peter, still restless and uneasy. "They bad people. Not like us here." But Dick was full of his own thoughts, and scarcely heeded. There was some reason for Peter's uneasiness, for they were then almost within the vast territories ruled over by the Hudson Bay Company. And at no time did the great Company prove friendly to strangers. The Indian had probably, at some crisis in his chequered career, come in contact with the authority of the said Company, which thereafter he regarded with superstitious awe and veneration.
As they went stealthily on their way, and the miles dropped behind with the vanishing summer, Peter Many-Names became strangely eager and excited. Dick did not understand the cause of this excitement or of the haste that accompanied it. But had he possessed the key to that savage nature, he would have guessed that it was the nearness of the prairies which so moved the impassive Indian. As the sea to a coast-bred man, as the mountains to a hillman, so were the prairies to Peter Many-Names. They had called him north with a voice that, to his wild fancy, was almost articulate—insistent, not to be mistaken. He had been born and bred upon the plains, and now he was returning to them as a tired child runs to its mother, asking only the presence of that which he loved.
And by the time that the woods about the distant homestead were lighted with the purple of the tall wild asters, Dick had had his first sight of the open prairie. In after days he never found words to describe that sight. Once having reached the goal of his desire, Peter's hurry seemed in great measure to evaporate. He was content to see the vast arch of the pale autumn skies above his head, to feel the keen air in his face, to travel over those limitless earthen billows, interrupted only by some bluff of aspens or other soft-wood trees, or by the forest-growth which fringed the courses of the larger rivers. To him, life offered nothing better.
Two days after they had definitely left the last of the wooded country behind them, Dick camped in the shelter of a poplar bluff, while Peter Many-Names went off a day's journey to the east with the intention of procuring a couple of ponies. "Saw fire-smoke dark when sun rose," he declared, "and when fires, there wigwams; where wigwams, there Indians; where Indians, there ponies. You keep close, and I come back soon."
"But you can't buy ponies, for we 've nothing to give in exchange for them," Dick protested. However, Peter took no notice of him, and presently departed, leaving Dick to loneliness, and wonder unsatisfied.
He had leisure to wonder as much as he liked. Peter departed stealthily, leaving him in charge of all their little stores, with only the slim poplars and his blanket to shield him from the winds that had now begun to blow very coldly. He had, as has already been written, leisure to spare, for it was four days before Peter appeared from the southwest, riding one pony and leading another. They were sturdy little brown beasts, very shy of Dick, and practically wild. There was nothing remarkable about them in any way except that they were very muddy. It was not for some time that Dick discovered that this dried mud concealed some very conspicuous white spots. Thereupon he wondered more and more, noticing that there was nothing lacking in the equipment or among the possessions of the triumphant but always taciturn Peter.
"How did you get them?" he asked. "Did you find friends, or what? However did you manage to get them?" But Peter only grinned, as he occasionally condescended to do when much amused, and Dick got no further answer. There the ponies were, and there Peter evidently intended they should stay.
To Dick, the beginning of their wanderings across the prairie was as the beginning of a new world. The sense of vast space was almost terrifying. Vision was obstructed by nothing, and the great skies rounded down to the utmost edge of the great undulating plain. They were now travelling quite slowly, but after a few days—nay, a few hours—the prairies seemed to close in upon them, to swallow them up in vastness and silence. Dick, dreamy and impressionable, felt a little lonely and bewildered, troubled by the mighty width and apparently limitless expanse surrounding him. But to Peter Many-Names the prairies were as home-like and familiar as a meadow.
Here, where Dick would see the far skyline broken by the irregular black mass of a herd of bison, the wheat waves now, mile after mile, about the countless farms and homesteads. These fertile lands, known then to few but the Indian and the hunter, have been claimed by civilisation, and their produce goes to the feeding of the nations. Agriculture has taken the prairies, and their nomad life is surely slipping into the past.
To the Indian, these prairies were dear above all things. But they impressed Dick more with awe than admiration, and he grew to long for the friendly trees left behind them, and to regard the limitless plain and the skies arching from the horizon almost as hostile things, with something menacing in their very splendour. Now also for the first time he began troubling about the future, and once he put his feelings into words.
"Where are you going to spend the winter, Peter?" he asked.
"With some tribe of my people," Peter replied carelessly. Of course, it was the only thing to be done, and in Peter's mind no alternative was to be considered at all. But Dick felt a doubt as to his own endurance and toughness compared with the Indian's. He was no weakling; but he dearly loved his flesh-pots, and, with the prospect becoming one of hardship and discomfort, he began to think a little regretfully of the cosy Collinson homestead, now so far away. And Stephanie! "I wonder what Stephanie's doing, and whether she misses me much," he thought. "I should like to see her again."
The last of the yellow leaves fell from the poplar bushes, and the silver foliage of the aspens fluttered to the ground. At night the stars shone large and frosty, but so intensely dry and bracing was the air, that Dick did not feel the cold, and Peter Many-Names was of course inured to any changes of climate. Game became more scarce, and sometimes they wandered far afield in search of their supplies, occasionally falling back upon their reserve store of dried meat. But it was still very enjoyable, and perhaps Peter, who had been an exile from his native plains for several years, strayed somewhat farther away from the river-courses and the sheltered lands than he had formerly intended. But to him the prairies were home; and who would not feel justified in relaxing caution a little when in his native haunts?
So, for some little time, they wandered about, meeting with few adventures. Once they passed too close to a cluster of tepees, and three young braves chased them for miles. The mud had by now scaled off their ponies, and the curiously shaped white spots were as remarkable as the speed of the little animals who were distinguished by these marks. Peter seemed to think that this incident effectually put a stop to the quest for hospitality in that region, but the difficulty could be easily overcome.
"We will muddly ponies again, go farther north," he said. And a little farther north they went, following the trail of a band of Indians. "Many people go along here two, three days ago," Peter remarked, "we follow them. If enemies, bad. If friends, good. Come on quick." The second day after they had struck this trail, the first snow fell. It was only a couple of inches of delicate, powdery white crystals; and in an hour or so the clouds had cleared off, and the sky was dazzlingly fair and blue. But it gave Dick a curious shock to think that the winter was close upon them. His thoughts turned to the homestead where he and Stephanie had been received as welcome guests in the time of sorrow and almost destitution, to that Christmas day when he had, as he thought, fought and conquered his roving inclinations. How different had been his intentions! Even in the hour of his greatest delight, when freedom and the forests had filled his life, he had not been able to stifle thoughts of Stephanie entirely. And now, when he was a little tired of wandering, a little lonely, a little anxious, these returned upon him with double force. Some of the glamour had perhaps passed from a wild life. And it was a fact, that, however he might love the wilderness, he could never become an unthinking, unquestioning part of it, as was Peter Many-Names.
This knowledge brought with it his first feeling of intense shame and repentance. But he fought against these feelings more stubbornly than he had ever struggled against his longings for the gipsy-life of the trapper and the Indian. Indeed, the very awakening of his conscience and his almost dormant affection for Stephanie made him cling more obstinately to the wilds. He angrily assured himself that he would not go back. He had chosen his present deliberately, and the future must take care of itself. With determination worthy of a better cause, he faced the prairies and the cold sky, and nothing, he told himself impatiently, should drive him to forsake that life which was dearer to him than all. But, now the first dazed rapture and delight were over, was it dearer than all? That was the point.
The difficulty was increased by the fact that the fall of snow had been sufficient to cover the slight trail they were following. And now Peter's caution began to re-appear. A bitter wind had suddenly arisen, blowing with increasing force, and Peter as suddenly and emphatically expressed a wish to return by the way they had come.
Dick, for the first time in all their daring journey, flatly refused to follow the wishes of the Indian. He felt that to turn southward now would seem like a concession to those softer, better feelings which filled his heart, and of which he was so anxious to rid himself. If they turned south now, they might never turn north again. And that one homestead which held Stephanie represented to him the whole of the country they had left behind them. He felt that he could never face the Collinsons, could never endure the humiliation of a return to civilised life, could never endure the thought that his dreams had led him astray. "I will go on by myself if you are afraid," he said in a fury of suddenly aroused stubbornness. "I don't care what happens. I may freeze or starve or anything, but turn back I will not."
Peter Many-Names shrugged his shoulders uneasily. "So," he said, "you go on if you will, I come with you. You my brother now, and I cannot leave you. But it is for true we go into death." And the ponies hung their heads and shivered restlessly before that steady, unceasing wind as they proceeded. But Dick kept his face turned obstinately northward, resolved that he would never yield.
It is written that "the stars in their courses fought against Sisera." And now the spirit of the wide prairies was to fight against Dick.
That night they found no game. And, by the morning, fine particles of icy snow gave an edge of steel to that steady, unceasing wind. By midday the sky was overcast, the wind increased, and the snow became thicker and thicker.
A world of small, whirling, white flakes, rushing, eddying, drifting before a wind that continually shifted from one quarter to another; a cold, grey light filtering through this haze of stinging snow; a continuous, angry murmur, as the icy particles struck the tall, stiff, prairie grasses, sometimes deepening to a roar as the wind momentarily increased; and, in the midst of this unresting, resistless tumult, two dark figures staggering uncertainly northward, leading between them an almost exhausted pony, laden with the last remnants of their food.
For three days, the snow, and the wind, and the great cold had scourged the prairies, and the storm was almost an early blizzard in its wild fury, in the confusion of air-currents and always-falling, never-resting white flakes, tipped with ice, and stinging like fire. And for these three days Dick and Peter Many-Names had gone blindly on their painful way, trusting to the Indian's sense of direction, yet not knowing where they were going. An Indian's bump of locality is a marvellously developed organ; but it is of little use in a blizzard. And now the two lads were staggering forward, with no hope that they were keeping to the right path—one in stoic resignation, the other in a passion of regret and despair. They were almost exhausted, and only kept moving through fear of that snow-sleep from which there is no awakening. Even this fear had now become dulled through cold and weariness.
When the blizzard first struck them, Dick's obstinacy had changed to a very lively realisation of danger. "We will turn back now, if you like," he had said somewhat shamefacedly.
But Peter had given one of his rare, bitter laughs. "All too late," he had said grimly. "Death behind as well as in front—everywhere. P'raps so we go on we find band of Indians that we followed. P'raps we do. All too late go back now, too late." And, with those words in their ears, they had faced the unsheltered prairie and the strength of the storm.
For the first day hope had been left to them, for they could judge their direction from the steady, cutting wind. But, after that, the wind began to shift constantly, and thus their only guide failed them. A prairie is not as bare of all landmarks as a lawn, but one buffalo-wallow is much like another, one poplar-bluff is not distinguishable from the next, and most sloughs have a family likeness to each other, especially when one's circle of vision is limited to a couple of yards' radius, and everything beyond is blotted out with pitiless, hurrying, scurrying clouds of white flakes. Dick was utterly lost. "Where are we? Where are we?" he kept saying. "Is the whole world turning to snow?" And sometimes, angrily, "I know you are going the wrong way, Peter. I know you are." Whereupon he would stumble off by himself, and the Indian would follow and drag him back again.
"No right, no wrong, no anything," Peter exclaimed angrily in answer; "but you must not go round, round, round in circles. That what you doing, an' if you do so, you die pretty quick. You come on with me." And actually they had kept a straighter course than they knew, or than they would have dared to hope, thanks to the Indian's sense of direction.
The first night they passed in the shelter of a large bluff of aspens, and were not very much the worse for it. It was then that they somehow lost one of their ponies through inexcusable carelessness in securing it, and it was after that also that they began to lose hope.
Their food as well as their strength was failing them, and on this third day they were in a very bad case. Dick had, of course, suffered more than the Indian, and plodded forward in a sort of stupor, which threatened to end in fatal unconsciousness at any moment. But even Peter's keen senses were dulled by the cold, and his movements, though little less agile, were more mechanical. His face was grey and pinched, and his hard, grey eyes were very weary also. He seemed leaner and more shrunken than ever. But his mouth was set in grim determination to meet whatever fate might be in store for him with fitting dignity.
At first, Dick's remorse had been passionate. "It's my wretched obstinacy has led us into this, Peter," he said repeatedly; "but sorrow can't do any good now. Nothing can do any good. Oh, what a fool, what a silly, self-willed fool I was! And all my regret is useless! Everything's useless! There's nothing to help us."
"Except Great Spirit," the Indian replied austerely, though Dick, in his despairing mood, scarcely noticed the words, and went on with his vain regrets and repentance.
But now the stealthy hand of the frost was lulling all his hopes and fears and regrets to sleep. As he plodded on beside the staggering pony, he thought only of his previous life, and that without any pain or grief. He vaguely remembered one May morning long ago, before his mother had died, when Stephanie had crowned herself with all the first frail blossoms of the year, and had then danced over the miserable log-hut, brightening it with the spirit of grace and childhood, and sweetening it with the shy fragrance of spring flowers. He had forgotten the little incident entirely, but now he remembered it clearly enough, and idly wondered over it. He suddenly seemed to remember so many things, pleasant little happenings of past years. And his mind dwelt upon them more and more dreamily. More and more slowly he walked, half-forgetting the benumbing ache of cold, the rush and whirl of the surrounding snow.
He was roughly roused from his dangerous dreams. The restless, dancing drifts and eddies of snow seemed to vanish from beneath his feet, and he fell head foremost down a steep bank, some three feet deep, into a little depression of the soil between two high ridges. In spring this was doubtless a slough, haunted by wild-fowl, but now it was dry, and covered with grass, thin and poor, but much relished by the trembling, famished pony. It was sheltered on all sides by the three-foot banks, crested with little straggling bushes, against which the snow had drifted. So cosy did this desolate little valley seem after the roaring tempest without, that Dick grew quite comfortable and drowsy, and would have gone to sleep where he fell. But this Peter would by no means allow. "You wake up," he commanded; "even little child know better than go sleep in snow an' cold. You wake up."
"For pity's sake, let me alone!" Dick pleaded. "Go on if you like and leave me here. I 'm so comfortable."
"'FOR PITY'S SAKE, LET ME ALONE!' DICK PLEADED. 'GO ON AND LEAVE ME.'""'FOR PITY'S SAKE, LET ME ALONE!'DICK PLEADED. 'GO ON AND LEAVE ME.'"
"'FOR PITY'S SAKE, LET ME ALONE!' DICK PLEADED. 'GO ON AND LEAVE ME.'""'FOR PITY'S SAKE, LET ME ALONE!'DICK PLEADED. 'GO ON AND LEAVE ME.'"
"Ugh! Yes, you very comfortable, so you stay there that your bones scare the birds away in the spring. That how comfortable you are."
And, roused by this grisly picture, Dick fought off the weariness that was overwhelming him. They huddled in their blankets silently, and ate some pieces of dried and icy deer's meat—ate with despair in their hearts, for this food was their last.
The slight refreshment following the food and rest was almost unwelcome to Dick, bringing with it a keener realisation of the consequences of his wilfulness, and of the desperate strait they were in. When they started again on their hopeless tramp, his thoughts turned to the probable fate that awaited them. Once more he seemed to hear himself say, "Nothing, nothing to help us!" And once more he seemed to hear Peter's solemn answer, at the time unheeded, "Nothing, except Great Spirit." With his whole soul he felt that it was true. He was facing death more nearly than ever in his life before, and he knew it. With the knowledge came the old, instinctive cry, the readiest of all prayers, "God help us!"
But had he deserved such help? He knew that he had not. He was too much confused with bitter cold and exhaustion to feel these things other than vaguely and uncertainly. But as he stumbled on through the swirling haze of white, he gave full sway to those softened thoughts which he had hitherto rejected, seeing his past conduct in a clearer light-the light of repentance. "Before I ask for help," thought poor Dick, "I have need to say, 'God forgive me!' But if we get through this, I 'll do my best to be less selfish, and to think less of my own wishes. Oh, Steenie, Steenie! Indeed, I have need to ask for forgiveness."
Resolves made under such circumstances are not generally worth much. But though that hour might pass, Dick would never again be quite what he was before. Some of his careless selfishness would be wanting, and in its stead would appear a far more manly humility.
For the first time he had dimly realised that no human being can live to himself alone—realised that, even if a man is responsible to no earthly duties of kinship and labour, he is responsible to his Maker. And such realisation could not fail to bear fruit in deeds.
But presently the insidious hand of the frost fell heavily upon them again. Peter's long, savage step became shorter and less sure, and he fell to crooning little snatches of some wild chant under his breath—a brave's death-song, if Dick had known. The pony lagged more and more, and Dick noticed nothing, felt nothing any longer. He was benumbed, mind and body, with the cold. Peter's song blew past his ears on the irregular gusts of wind, but he did not hear. He was back again in those long ago days, and his mother was standing at the door of the cabin, calling, "Stephanie, Stephanie!"
The name was on his blue lips as strength failed, and he fell full length in the snow, while the whirling haze of white, the pony, and Peter Many-Names, slid away to nothingness, and only that voice remained—"Stephanie, Stephanie!"
Peter, partly roused from the lethargy which was creeping over him, tried to lift Dick from the drifts, but was too weak. So he quietly pulled off his own blanket, laid it over the English boy, and then crouched down with his back to the worst of the wind, and waited stoically—waited for death, which was all he looked for. He thought of it quite calmly; but then through all his stormy life the gates of the Happy Hunting-Grounds had never been far away. There was something very pathetic in that little crouching brown figure waiting so gravely and patiently for the end.
The wind blew the snow into little ridges on his long black hair, and then blew it off again. The pony came close to him with drooping head, as if for company; but by then the Indian was too far gone to heed anything, though still he crooned little snatches of his desolate song, as was right and fitting.
Presently he too fell softly sideways into the snow as a tired child falls. His last distinct thought was of the great broad woods through which they had passed, and of the warm summer sun upon the fair, green world.
Just then the pony lifted its lean head, fringed over with the long ragged mane, and pointing its nose to the blast, neighed shrilly, piercingly, as only an Indian pony can neigh. But neither Dick nor Peter Many-Names heard it.
That neigh was answered by a dozen or more. But so strongly blew the irregular winds that only faint echoes of the shrill clamour were to be heard. It proceeded from the very heart of an unusually large bluff of willows upon the bank of a river. There was an open space in the middle of this thick growth of stunted trees, which was occupied by several horses and a cluster of tepees. A band of Indians were very comfortably weathering the unexpected storm in this manner, little more than a few yards distant from the spot where Dick and Peter Many-Names had been overcome.
When the pony neighed, no echo of the sound reached the ears of the people in the tepees; but the loud whinnyings of their own horses at last aroused Man-afraid-of-a-Bear, who had been sleeping the sleep of the just after a full meal, and he therefore went cautiously forth to investigate.
He noticed with satisfaction that the blizzard showed signs of abating, and he also noticed that another pony had been added to their little herd; so he carefully followed that pony's track for a few yards, and came upon Dick and Peter Many-Names. He had looked for something of the kind, being accustomed to the chances of the plains.
The Red Man is hospitable, but suspicious. However, there was nothing about the half-frozen and unconscious pair that might have led Man-afraid-of-a-Bear to suppose that they were enemies. Besides, their advent had added a very fine pony to the wealth of the tribe; so, without much more ado, he dragged them one after the other to the tepees.
His haste was probably their salvation. Heroic and weird remedies were applied to ward off frost-bite, and after a time Peter Many-Names recovered sufficiently to eat a hearty meal.
But it was days before the grip of the frost loosened from Dick's brain. An old woman had taken a queer fancy to the white boy, and she nursed him patiently and fed him well long after the great storm had passed, and long after Peter had begun to do his share of the hunting and other tasks which fell to the men. Day after day passed, and still Dick lay helpless on the pile of skins in the dusky tepee, waited on by the grim, silent old squaw, and knowing nothing of his surroundings. He fancied the Indian woman was Stephanie, and kept calling out to her and begging her to forgive him. "For indeed, Steenie, I 'm sorry," he would cry; "and after this I will be different, dear, and try and make it up to you. I was selfish and did not think, but I loved you all the time. I never forgot you. Forgive me, Stephanie! Stephanie, Stephanie!" And so it went on, until, exhaustion brought quiet.
No one noticed him much or was much interested in him. But Peter Many-Names, after a few weeks, was counted a valuable addition to the tribe; and the pony was the swiftest of the herd.
The days passed, and the prairies lay a vast field of white beneath the radiant blue of the skies. Then the snow blew off the higher mounds and ridges, and only the hollows and sloughs were white. So the season advanced, through all its changes of cold, through all its shifting winds, and brilliant sun and sudden tempest. And still the old squaw tended Dick, filling him with fearful herb-drinks, feeding him nobly, wrapping him close in soft skins. It was a fancy of hers that Death should not have the white boy; and once having become possessed with the idea, she nursed Dick as if he had been her own son, to the wonder of the tribe. And at last her care was rewarded, and the clouds cleared from his brain, though he had little hold on life for a time.
But the days of weakness passed, and with them passed the last shadow of hesitation in Dick's mind. He had had long hours in which to repent and think as he lay in the corner of the smoky tepee—long hours in which to realise the fulness of that mercy which had shielded him in danger and saved him from death. And he went out into the sunshine again, resolved that as soon as he was strong enough to travel he would go back to that life in which his lot had been cast. He would go south, back to the Settlements, to work, and to Stephanie. And the wilds should thereafter call him in vain.
That long winter spent among the Indians was a bitterly hard one to Dick, 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 it would be some time before his strength became sufficient for the long journey back to the Settlements. And accustomed as he was to the possession of perfect health, he fretted under the knowledge, and chafed against the sense of helplessness which was so new to him. "But what's the use of fidgeting over it?" he told himself over and over again. "What's the use of thinking of it even, when I 'm fit for nothing but to sit at the entrance of the tepee when the sun's warm, or to lie on the pile of skins when the weather 's bad, and eat between times? Oh, but that old woman can cook things!" And indeed the old squaw, who was a person of position and influence, took care that he had 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 looked upon him merely as an appanage of Peter Many-Names, and not a particularly creditable one at that.
Peter was enjoying himself thoroughly. The lean and haughty young braves, who looked down upon the white boy, were glad of his silent company; and the elders considered him a promising youth. While poor Dick lay weak and restive in the old squaw's wigwam, Peter was ruffling about the camp with a dozen arrogant young rascals at his tail. He was pre-eminently skilful as a hunter, and he added many ponies to the wealth of his host—ponies which were certainly never taken in trade for other articles, excepting probably an occasional bullet, or no less deadly arrows. In the genial warmth of admiration Peter expanded visibly in more respects than one. While poor Dick chafed under the knowledge that he was neither needed nor respected.
But in time a better frame of mind came to him. "How can I win respect, even the respect of untaught Indians," he thought, "when I don'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 and discouraged, but as strength of body increased under the old squaw's care, strength of soul increased also. And he resolved that in future he would think less of his pleasure and more of his duty, in whatever way of life his lot should be cast.
Some of this passive resignation passed off with his weakness; and he foresaw more clearly that his whole life might be passed in struggling against just such temptations as this one to which he had yielded. But by then the keen, clean prairie had begun to do its work, and he faced his future resolutely. With surprising wisdom he did not make many far-reaching and likely-to-be-broken resolves. "I will go back to Stephanie as soon as I can," he thought; "and after that I will settle down to any work I find, as near to her as possible. At present, this is enough to think of."
So, with unusual patience, he set himself to wait for the return of strength and spring; while the old squaw grunted in undisguised admiration of his appetite, which bordered on the voracious.
The weary weeks of cold passed slowly. At the end of March the change came, and the prairies suddenly leapt into life. The skies were softer, and full of great white clouds which sailed grandly before the wind. The long, low earthen billows were covered with grass and all the radiant flowers of spring. Every depression of the soil was a slough full of green water, covered with battalions of mallards and other wild-fowl. The poplars put forth shiny leaves which glittered restlessly in the sunshine, and the meadow-larks filled the whole world with music.
Then Dick spoke to Peter Many-Names. "To-morrow," he said, "we will begin to get ready, and next week we will start south again. I have had enough of your plains."
But Peter Many-Names was quite comfortable, and found many and plausible 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 he could not fathom. But the day on which Dick was to start found Peter ready 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, you get lost or starve or drown or somethin'," which was likely, though Peter might have expressed it in a less uncomplimentary fashion.
"I can go by myself," said Dick, a little indignant, though much relieved that the Indian had elected to go with him. But Peter only grunted again.
"I goin'," he repeated, "come back here in spring—next spring. You come along quick."
Many and ceremonious were the farewells between Peter and his stately savage host. But the old squaw was the only one who grieved for the loss of Dick; she gave him three pairs of delicately embroidered moccasins, and then stood and watched him out of sight with dull tearless 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, dim old eyes.
The two travellers were accompanied by a crony of Peter's, who was to go with them to the end of the prairie-lands, and then return to the tribe with the three ponies they rode. They proceeded swiftly, and for the most part in silence; for the two Indians were sparing of words, according to their wont. They rode together ahead of Dick; but sometimes Peter fell back and opened a brief conversation. "To-morrow we begin to see woods again," he said once, "prairie soon break up, end. Then come trees, rivers, lakes. Now we see whole sky; then only little bits above leaves. Now we see who comes, miles an' miles away, then we see only grass, leaves, shadows, an' know less." But Dick welcomed the thought that the prairies would soon end.
His dreams had led him astray. He fully realised that now. But it was not in him to think of the long woodland journey that lay before them with anything but keen and somewhat wistful pleasure. The prairies were not attractive to him. They were too vast, too monotonous, too remote from the little hopes and cares of human life. But the forests were different, and he was full of longing to behold them once more in all the beauty of the early year. Yet other longings were now stronger; and every night he counted that he was so much nearer to Stephanie. At last the prairies were behind them, and he and Peter were alone and on foot once more. It had been autumn when they passed through this country on their northward way, and now, looking back, Dick could scarcely believe that in a few months such changes could have taken place in all his hopes and aims and feelings.
There were changes also in his appearance. Severe illness and long-continued hardship had made him taller and thinner and older. He bore himself with less light-hearted confidence, and seemed to expect less consideration. Instead of being a careless boy to be guided and excused, he now gave greater promise of becoming a good man to be relied upon and trusted. The trials of that winter had been excellent moral medicine for his selfishness, and the nearness of danger and death had led him to realise something, however dimly, of his unavoidable duty to his friends, his sister, and above all, to his God.
Through all the splendour of the northern spring they went steadily southward. Not this time was Dick lost in a lazy dream of delight, though he loved the great woods more intensely than ever. The free skies were as fair to him, the winds still sang their little gipsy-songs to his heart, the green solitudes were as welcome to him as ever, but he held to his purpose firmly. And the days passed from clear dawns to tender twilight, and every day left him so much nearer to Stephanie.
Steadily they journeyed southward, into lands of warmer sun and fuller blossom. Flower gave place to promise of fruit on all the wild bushes; the birds lost their spring songs with which the woods had rung, and flitted about busily and silently. Never had fairer season visited those forests, and Dick was alive to every subtle shade and gradation in all the beauty about him. He noted every point that made for loveliness in the glades and ravines and waterways, he felt akin to the very bees and butterflies in their enjoyment of sun and summer. Yet never did he turn from his purpose, even in thought.
And neither did he rely so utterly upon the Indian; who, feeling that his influence had somehow lessened, watched closely and wondered more. Dick was no longer as pliable as of yore, but his moral fibre seemed to be tougher and less yielding.
As the weeks passed and they proceeded farther and farther south, Dick grew restless and anxious. All sorts of vague fears began to torment him, and he imagined that some disaster might have befallen Stephanie. She might be ill. She might be needing him in a hundred ways, and probably had been, throughout all those long months. The thought of her in illness or trouble became as a spur to goad him on, and Peter marvelled at the pace. Dick was still Dick, and his penitence was always deep in proportion to its tardiness.
So the year went on. The wild asters showed their buds, and presently opened into golden-hearted stars, filling the forest glades with a mist of delicate purple. Farther and farther south they went, while the wild sunflowers bloomed and faded, and the fair green growth became lifeless and sere with the sinking of the sap. And every day's journey brought Dick so many miles nearer to Stephanie.
Until at last, almost at the end of the autumn, they camped for the night only a few miles away from the Collinson homestead. That same night, as they sat beside their little fire, Peter Many-Names glanced at Dick curiously. "You go on alone to-morrow," he said, as one stating a long-decided fact.
Dick looked up, almost startled that the Indian should show so perfect a knowledge of his feelings. "Yes, I go on alone," he answered quietly, "I go on alone—to see my sister."
The Indian leant forward, his eyes shining greenly in the flicker of the firelight. "Yes, you go on alone, my brother," he replied in his own speech, "you go on alone, to the life of the white man. In dark houses shall you live, in hard labour shall you grow old. The white stars, the great stars of the north, the clear winds that are the breath of the Great Spirit, the noise of the buffalo-herd, the shrill cry of the eagle, the note of the twanging bowstring—all these shall be to you as a forgotten tongue. In the plains and the forests man sees 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 no more."
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 life as in yours, Peter."
The next day Dick went on alone. He had no very distinct plan in his mind, but he was too much ashamed of himself to go directly to the homestead, and face the grave, displeased looks which he felt sure would be his portion, and deservedly so. Instead, he skirted round the edges of the familiar fields, and struck upwards through that little rocky ravine which cut through the fertile acres.
As he walked cautiously amongst the dead fern and bracken, stooping beneath the swinging, leafless branches, sinking knee-deep in the drifted, dead leaves, he wondered what chance he would get of speaking to Stephanie. Every familiar tree and fence, every detail of the ground, everything which he had known before and now saw again, gave him a feeling of half-painful pleasure which astonished him, for he had not realised that anything about the farm had grown dear to him. And the dearest thing of all—what of Stephanie? He almost ran along the bottom of the narrowing ravine, brushing through the bushes, leaping the fallen and rotting trees, yet his instinct of caution kept his progress quiet.
The ravine ended in a steep bank, and Dick climbed up it swiftly in the deep, dead leaves, breathless, and looked, and looked again. Beyond the stump fence, on the gradually rising ground, stood Stephanie. Her eyes and mouth had a wistful look, but she did not seem unhappy. She was standing a little turned away from the ravine, watching the distant forests beyond the farm-buildings—watching them dreamily, and a little sadly. She had neither heard nor seen Dick. And he knelt in the deep leaves, and looked at her, and looked. All his shame and repentance surged upon him overwhelmingly, and kept him dumb and helpless, unable to move.
Everything was very quiet—quiet as only the woods can be in the late fall. Once, while Dick knelt there, two big, brown woodpeckers flew heavily across the fields; once some little shrill-voiced bird called suddenly from the bushes, with a distant flutter of wings, and he could hear Roger's deep tones from the far, far distance, shouting directions to the farm-hands. Still Stephanie did not move.
At last he made some involuntary sound, and she turned swiftly and saw him. He saw the light of wonder and joy flash into her clear, pale face, and sprang to his feet, calling her eagerly by name. Somehow, he could never tell in what manner he cleared the barrier of the stump fence, and was beside her in an instant.
"Dick! Dick! Dick!" And then for the first time in her life Stephanie fainted.
Three years have passed, shifting from bud to blossom, from sun to snow, from promise to fulfilment, bringing with them all their store of light, and shadows only deep enough to make the brightness clearer. Three times the snow has cleared from the good brown soil, three times the tender green of wheat has gladdened the eye, three times the fruitful fields have grown golden to the harvest, since Dick came home. And how have these changing seasons affected Dick and Stephanie, and all the people at the Collinson homestead?
On the third of these golden autumns there were great festivities at the homestead, the occasion being no less than a barn-raising. It took place on a clear, cool, golden October day, when the woods were yellowed with softly-falling leaves, and late sunflowers and goldenrod carried on the scheme of colour, with the brave purple asters to add a last royal touch to the loveliness of nature looking forward to her winter rest. The wide fields and the forest-bordered clearing had rung all day with shouts and merriment, and the cheerful noise of willing labour, for all the O'Brien family had lent their aid, and there were nine of them. And now, when the early evening had darkened down in clear grey twilight, they were all gathered in the great, low-ceilinged living-room of the homestead, brightened only by the warm flicker of flames 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 little more grey in his hair, and, if possible, a little more genial ruddiness in his broad face than when we saw him last. Mrs. Collinson sat near him, plump and smiling as ever, and Mrs. O'Brien talked to her exhaustively.
In the pauses of the general murmur of talk that filled the room, her words 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 as good as ever for ordinary wear. And sure, my nasturtium-coloured tabinet is only for the best occasions, and so I told O'Brien. But there! What sense has a man in these matters, my dear?"
"And did you put the frills on again," inquired Mrs. Collinson, with smiling interest. And then the hum of talk arose, drowning even that penetrating soprano for a while. But soon it rose again above the other voices. "And a fine lass she is," it said, "and it's happy your Roger ought to be, me dear. But Dick's a fine fellow, too, by all accounts. Though, as for me, William Charles was always the one for my money. He 's a head on his shoulders, has that boy." Whereupon a general laugh ensued.
The "boy" in question, now a tall young man, was joking solemnly with the three O'Brien boys. And there was Stephanie, tall, and grave, and quiet, with Roger beaming at her from the other side of the room, all unconscious 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, and her sweet, soft Irish speech. And there also was Dick.
He was sitting in the shadow, grave and somewhat silent, except when Nonie teased him, which she did frequently. Her treatment of him was a standing joke with the two families, as was also his meekness and patience in putting up with it. He was almost less changed in the three years than were any of the other young people; still one might have seen in him a certain dreaminess and tendency to choose the easier path, which were as much characteristic of him as his deeply sunburned face and short, fair hair were characteristic of his outward appearance. Yet there were many changes in him, after all.
Since his return from the wilds, Dick had never swerved from his purpose. His shame and boyish pride yielded to Stephanie's entreaties, and he accepted the work on the homestead which good Mr. Collinson freely offered. Here he had been ever since, facing cheerfully the humdrum round of toil, turning a deaf ear and unseeing eye to the beauties and delights of the wilds, and bent upon "making it up to Steenie." It had been a hard struggle at times, harder than anyone had guessed, but he had come through it well. And now he was thinking of taking up land for himself when a good opportunity should come. But the reward he had hoped for was not to be his. Throughout the first year of labour he had held firmly to his purpose of somehow, at some not too distant date, making a home for Stephanie. After that, he had no longer been able to shut his eyes to the little romance that she and Roger were unconsciously acting. And, with an ache at his heart, he had 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 she told every one, "I 've always regarded Steenie as a daughter, ever since she's been here with us. So it won't make any difference in that way."
And, perhaps, on this particularly merry evening, it is not to be wondered at that Dick should feel a little sad; though Nonie O'Brien did her best to keep him in good spirits, acting on the principle that whoever is annoyed and irritated has no time to be melancholy as well. But he was gradually learning the most difficult lesson of cheerful self-effacement, and did not allow his own thoughts and feelings to spoil the cheeriness of the others. He wove wonderful Indian romances for the benefit of the children; he helped Mrs. Collinson in a score of ways; he sang old English songs; he played games. Yet he could not help being a little sad that so soon his life and Stephanie's would be divided. They were as dear to each other as ever—dearer, perhaps, in view of the coming change. But now their hopes, and fears, and joys were to be no longer in unison. Dick's character had deepened and strengthened much in those three years; and his affections, and the slight sorrows which came through them, had deepened and strengthened proportionately.
But there was one source of help and comfort ever open to his heart—his love of nature, which should grow with his growth and strengthen with his strength as long as his life endured, and his growing faith and trust in nature's God. Whenever he was in trouble or perplexity, he managed to steal a quiet hour in the forests, and always returned 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 very tenderly and proudly as he went, for still she seemed the elder of the two. "Dear Dick," she thought, "I know how he feels. It will be hard on him."
The wilderness surrounding the farm was no longer a source of temptation to Dick; it was a refuge where he might find comfort and peace. He had mastered his roving inclinations, and Peter Many-Names' free faring no longer filled him with envy. But his struggles for victory had almost imperceptibly saddened his irresponsible, sunny nature. He was still the old Dick, but with a difference—a difference that made for trustworthiness, patience, and power. The night, as he stepped from the door into the dusk quiet of the garden, was hushed and dark. Very soft misty clouds were drifting across the sky, with a suggestion of ghostly trailing draperies in their movement; here and there they opened to let a star look through, but the general aspect of the slumbering world was of an infinite variety of shadow, rather than of darkness relieved by any light. In an instant, the tumult and merriment of that fire-lit room had become remote, and the great silence of the night had enclosed him as with a palpable substance.
Yet, as he walked down the straggling garden, with its vegetables on one side and its late flowers on the other, he was aware that the night was not as quiet as he had thought at first. From far, quiet heights of air incessant soft calls and uneasy, melancholy pipings came down to him; and he knew that the dark above him was alive with great flocks of migrating birds, calling ceaselessly to one another, travelling ceaselessly on their way. Peter Many-Names could have told him what birds they were, from the soft, sad echoes of their notes which floated down to earth. But Peter was away in unknown wildernesses, exploring on his own account; and the people at the homestead were rather glad that it should be so.
Dick sighed a little as he leant over the gate at the foot of the garden, watching the dim belt of grey forest before him. The memory of his time of wandering was over with him, and he had spent many such nights as this encamped with Peter Many-Names as his only comrade. His sense of loneliness increased as he watched a far-off pallid line advancing slowly across the sky, a line which marked the edge of the field of ghostly cloud which was passing over. Beyond this edge the sky was clear and dark, lighted by a few large stars.
When the clouds had faded to a low, pale bank of receding vapour behind the forest, the aspect of the night changed. It grew more distinctly dark, less unreal and shadowy, while the stars seemed to shine more brilliantly in consequence. But the faint bird-calls, the elfin pipings, still floated down from the hushed heights of air.
The quiet, the calm, the slow stately ascension of the stars were already soothing Dick.
A meteor fell with a curious, leisurely slide, from the midst of the heavens to the outermost darkness upon the horizon. He remembered how, when he and Stephanie had been children, they used to watch for the falling stars, so that they might wish their dearest wish upon seeing them. "After all," he said to himself with a sudden rush of tenderness, "my greatest wish is to see her as happy as she deserves to be. Roger's a good fellow, and I should be a selfish brute if I let my moping ways sadden her, God bless her!" Even this little thought showed how great a change had taken place in Dick's character.
His thoughts turned to the limitless prairies of richest soil, to the untouched forests, to the wide beauty of lake and river, to all those fair pictures of the wilderness graven upon his heart. He thought of the clear skies, of the stinging cold, of the splendour of summer, of the fulfilment of the fall. He thought, with new insight, of the meaning hidden beneath the round of farmer's toil which now held him, of the results of that labour which he had at first given so grudgingly, of the great purpose, the divine symbolism, which may make agriculture the highest of all occupations, the most far-reaching of all labours.
And then as he leant over the little gate, with eyes as dreamy as of old, some vision of a possible future did come to him. Dimly, as dreams must go, he saw towns arising beside those rivers, and chimneys sending the smoke of peaceful hearts across those radiant skies. Not much he saw; but it was enough to make him say in his soul with the man of ancient days: "The lot is fallen unto me in a fairground; yea, I have a goodly heritage." A goodly heritage indeed, O Dick, as we of later generation know. Though you knew it not, the unloved toil you faced so well went to the building of a nation. In a fair ground the lot had fallen unto you, and, standing there in the darkness, you realised the possibilities of that lot for the first time. You realised that the beauty of the wilderness must give way, and rightfully, before the wants of man; that the splendour of freedom is less than the splendour of toil; and that it lay in your hands to do your part towards the building of a future for that fair country, which hitherto you had loved ignorantly.
Yet, standing there beneath the still, bright stars, Dick did no more than 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?"