To a Goodly Heritage.
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?"
[Illustration: "'DICK! DICK! WHERE ARE YOU?'"]
"Dick!" echoed Stephanie, lovingly and a little anxiously.
"Coming, dear lady," he answered, "coming, Steenie." Yet he lingered a
little, while they waited for him. But it was Nonie O'Brien of the
soft speech and the shining eyes who ran down the long path and caught
him laughingly by the hand, and drew him away from his dreams into the
light and cheer again.
LORIMER AND CHALMERS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
End of Project Gutenberg's Dick's Desertion, by Marjorie L. C. Pickthall