Back to Stephanie.
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.