A Message from the Wanderer.
A few weeks had passed, and sugar-making time had gone for that
year--gone in a sudden burst of life-giving warmth and moisture, in a
tumult of tentative bird songs, in a broidery of earliest green things
which heralded the swift, brief, infinitely caressing spring of the
north. Gone also was peace and happiness from Stephanie's heart, and
the kindly Collinsons grieved with her. For no sooner was the
sugar-making over than Dick disappeared, leaving no word or trace
behind. And with him disappeared Peter Many-Names.
They had looked daily for his return. But as the sweet keen weather
grew more golden to the spring, as the shiny bud-cases burst, and the
leaves showed in delicate wrinkled greens and reds, as the birds came
back in coveys and battalions, fluttering and piping through the sunny
wonderland of the woods, and still neither Dick nor his dark-faced
tempter reappeared, Stephanie lost hope, and even cheery Mr. Collinson
could 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; some
day soon when we least expect it. He's got tired of civilisation and
has gone off picnicking in the forest with Peter for a while, the young
rascal. Don't you worry, lassie, he 'll come back."
Stephanie would try to smile in answer to show how little she was
troubled; but her eyes would stray to the great woods, and her grave,
pale young face would quiver tearfully now and then. Whereupon Roger
would always retreat, and rage in a fury of work and a fever of wrath
among the farm buildings, to the silent distress of William Charles,
and the great anxiety of his mother. The farmer had carefully schooled
himself to view the matter in its best light--and indeed there were
many and great excuses for Dick--but sometimes even he meditated upon
the probable consequences of finding himself confronting the runaways
with a stout cane or sapling in his hand. Yet, in spite of all, he was
as fond of Dick as ever, ungrateful though the lad had shown himself to
be; and he would no more have thought of casting him off as a result of
his folly than he would have thought of casting off one of his own boys
in punishment for some thoughtless error. He felt that Dick's dreamy
nature and inherited tastes had scarcely given him a fair chance in
fighting that temptation which Peter Many-Names had personified. But
he was very angry and even more disappointed.
And Stephanie? Stephanie felt that she could have borne her grief and
anxiety, as she had already borne much sorrow. But there was a more
bitter sting in her trouble than this. She was utterly humiliated.
She had relied on Dick's affection for herself, but above all upon his
gratitude and sense of honour. And to find that he could thus requite
the man who had been such a friend to them was a bitter blow.
Perhaps she underrated the influences which had been brought to bear
upon Dick's resolution, understanding little the gipsy strain that
moved him, and knowing nothing of the ways of Peter Many-Names. Be
that as it may, poor Stephanie felt for a long time that, while she had
love and forgiveness for her brother in plenty, she could have little
trust or pride in him. "I don't think I should mind anything," she
said once to Mrs. Collinson, "if only I could see Dick well and safe
and contented, working round the farm once more. It seems impossible
that he has really gone. If only I could know he was safe!"
Whereupon warm-hearted little Mrs. Collinson kissed her vehemently, as
an outlet for her indignation. "Don't you fret about his safety,
child," she said; "he's safe as can be. Safe, indeed! Why, that
little brown Indian wretch knows the country as few do, and they're
both 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 bottom
of their hearts neither she nor her husband were quite so confident as
they gave Stephanie to believe. They felt sure that the fugitives had
gone north to unknown wildernesses. And what dangers might those
unsettled 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 pair
of 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 doubt
whether that clever little brown villain values the said life enough to
take very good care of it. However, there's no telling. Only when I
see Steenie's face, I should like to have the thrashing of both the
rascals, brown and white. What business had Dick to go off and leave
his 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 in
preparation for whistling, and afterwards regarded Roger thoughtfully
but 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 of
the little ravine that cut through the fields, returning to the
homestead with great store of frail, exquisite arbutus, and the starry
hepaticas, blue, pink, and white, nested in silvery down; the promise
of leaf and blossom was fulfilled on every branch; the first sky-bird
calls were brought to perfect song; and still Dick remained away.
Through all its beautiful subtle changes, the spring passed on to
summer. The young leaves of oak and maple lost their tinge of scarlet,
and the wild fruit trees lost their snow of blossom. Sturdier, less
shadowy flowers replaced the bloodroot and hepatica. The birds were
busier. All about the homestead was a world of warm delicate air, and
skies shadowed with promise of rain, passing gradually to brighter sun
and deeper blue. Yet still Dick did not come.
Stephanie knew that, once having run wild as it were, he would not
return until he had drunk his fill of freedom. That he would return
eventually, she firmly believed, drawn back by his affection for her.
And as the weeks went on, she set herself to wait as patiently as she
might. But it was very weary work, and at times Mrs. Collinson's
tender heart ached for her.
"You are worrying needlessly, my dearie," the good woman would often
say, with a great show of cheerfulness, when Stephanie had been quieter
or sadder than usual. "Dick will be back before very long. We are
sure of it."
"If I could know that," the girl would answer, "I should not mind so
much. But sometimes I can't help thinking, suppose he should never
come? 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 hate
to think so, but--but perhaps he may be too much ashamed ever to
return. How shall I bear to wait, knowing he may never return after
all?"
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 the
bottom of your heart, child. There 's no weariness like the weariness
of waiting, I know. But many lives seem to be made up of waiting and
prayings of which we don't see the end--more hopeless waiting and
praying than yours. For, after all, such things are in higher hands
than ours. And if we watch and pray patiently and trustfully, we are
maybe doing more than we think, Stephanie." Whereat the farmer would
nod in solemn admiration of his wife, and Stephanie would face the
recurring days with hope renewed.
At the bottom of her heart she had always dreaded and expected
something 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 love
of the wilds. That did not make the pain of disappointment and anxiety
any the less. But as time went on, the sincere and simple faith of the
Collinson homestead taught Stephanie an abiding lesson. She learned to
leave her brother's welfare in the hands of God, and to be more content
with her task of waiting and praying, sure that a greater love even
than her own was watching over Dick.
That fair spring passed, and its flowers gave place to the more
gorgeous blossoms of early summer. Wild roses opened their red petals,
and wild strawberries were nearly ripe. And still no word of Dick or
Peter Many-Names. The day after the sugar-making was finished they had
gone off together, with a gun and a blanket each, and very little
besides, and the great wilderness had taken them to itself.
After some time had passed, Stephanie grew in a measure accustomed to
Dick's absence. She was so surrounded by affection, and so much
occupied by work, that she had no opportunity for brooding and
melancholy thoughts. She always watched for him, always waited for him.
"I know he will come back to me," she said to Mrs. Collinson, "but how
long, how long will it be? It seems to me that I have waited a long
time already."
But she was not to be left entirely without knowledge of him throughout
the summer. It was one morning in June that she had word of Dick. She
had just finished milking two of the cows, and, having a few spare
moments afterwards, she had hurried down to the edge of that ravine
which 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 roam
whenever she could into the outskirts of the woods, and there wait and
listen 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 faint
haze that gave promise of heat, and the dew was still damp and chilly
in 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 tree
has still its own individual shade of green, not yet merged into the
heavier, denser, universal tint of the later season. And Stephanie
found both peace and promise in the still radiance of the early day.
She paused at the brink of the ravine, watching the tree-creepers with
wide, unconscious eyes. She remembered that morning, now many weeks
ago, when the knowledge, hard, inevitable, had first come to her that
Dick had run away with the Indian; and when for a time she could feel
nothing, think nothing, but that he had left her, his only sister.
Those feelings were softened now; softened with the sure though gradual
growth of her trust and faith in that love deeper than her own, which
could guard and care for her brother through all things. But she
longed for a sight, a word of him, more than for anything else in the
world. Just at that moment the longing was almost unbearable, and the
little, long-beaked birds scuttled away in fright as Stephanie leant
over the stump fence. "Dick! Dick! Dick!" she cried very softly, and
the words held a prayer.
It was a prayer which was to be immediately answered, for, without any
preliminary rustle of leaves or noise of footsteps, a man walked softly
out of the thick-leaved undergrowth, and stood before her. Her heart
leapt wildly, and then grew quiet again, for the man was a stranger to
her. He was tall, and his dark, bright face showed his mixed French
and Indian descent; he was almost fantastically dressed in fringed
deerskins and quaint finery, and the cap which he raised was decorated
with feathers. But Stephanie had seen such trappers before in the old
days, and did not fear his long gun or his savage silence. And,
indeed, in his flourishing bow, French courtesy was apparent. But he
was slow of speech, as are all dwellers in the woods; and now he merely
held out a tiny package, wrapped in birch-bark, with an inquiring
glance towards her.
[Illustration: "HE HELD OUT A TINY PACKAGE, WRAPPED IN BIRCH-BARK, WITH
AN INQUIRING GLANCE TOWARDS HER."]
She saw her name scrawled upon the outside, and took it eagerly. There
was a mist before her eyes for a moment, and she could do nothing but
clasp the precious package close, and murmur little phrases of
gratitude and comfort and endearing words--she scarcely knew what.
When she came to herself a little, the trapper had gone, as he had
come, in utter silence. She tore off the outer wrapping of the smooth
bark, with its fringe of fragile green lichen, and read the few lines
scrawled within. The note was from Dick, as she had expected, and it
had been written weeks before.
"Dear, dear Steenie," it ran, "I am almost too much ashamed to write to
you, but I think of you always. I could not go on with the farm work
any longer. You don't know how I hated it. I know what you must all
think of me; but I only wish you were with me now! I never thought the
world could be so beautiful, and I feel as if I were living now for the
first time. I 'm sorry and miserable, of course; but I wish you were
here to see the trees and the skies and the rivers that I am growing to
love. It is all splendid. Never forget me, as I never forget you."
That was all; but, besides the not very deep shame and penitence, these
lines held a great joy, a great happiness--the happiness that comes
from fulfilment of longing.
She refolded the paper in its wrapping with trembling fingers, and then
stood, gazing with wide, unseeing eyes at the rustling trees. For the
first time she realised what Dick's struggle must have been, realised
also what was his passionate love of freedom. She felt the tears wet
on her cheeks--tender, forgiving tears--and her heart was full of
thankfulness to think she was not forgotten. But he had said nothing
of 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 little
fire, apart from Peter Many-Names, scrawling those hurried words of
affection and penitence and boyish delight; and then wrapping them in
birch-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 he
who had written it was actually a little older than herself. He seemed
to realise so little the deeper meaning of his action, and evidently
regarded it as a child might regard a delightful but naughty escape
from school. For a time, she saw freedom and the forests held his
heart. "But he loves me, and he will come back, for we have no one but
each other."
She showed the letter to the good farmer and his wife, her joy shining
in her dark eyes. "It came to me from the woods," she cried almost
merrily; "a trapper came out of the woods and handed it to me like a
messenger in a fairy-story. Dick is safe and well, you see, and he
does 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 fell
silent, reading and re-reading the boyish scrawl, while Mrs. Collinson
watched him with secret uneasiness.
He was almost especially gentle to the girl that evening; but as soon
as possible he drew his wife aside, and spoke to her in his gruff
whisper. "We must keep up Steenie's heart," he said, "but it's my
opinion, 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 did
not forget her, and she could trust his welfare to a greater love than
her 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?