[Ill.u.s.tration: "THEY BEGAN TO SING THE OLD CAROLS THEIR MOTHER HAD TAUGHT THEM LONG BEFORE."]

As they sang, Stephanie felt that it was almost irreverent to break the solemn silence of the wintry world; it was so still that their voices sounded far-off and yet clear. She glanced nervously at the black ring of forest encircling the homestead, and feared it for the first time, not for what it might contain, but for its gloom and emptiness.

The cold was too intense for them to stay out there long, and as the last notes of the last carol died away, Stephanie was glad that the great silence would be no longer disturbed. It seemed more fitting to leave that lonely night to quiet--the utter quiet of snow and windless air--of life held in suspension.

But before they reached the door, another sound, distant, distinct, horrible, cut suddenly through that quiet. d.i.c.k involuntarily clasped his sister's hand in his, for, however often one may hear that sound, it never fails to move the nerves. It rose, and sank, and almost died away, and was answered by a dozen throats, all taking up the wild, shrill, menacing notes--the howl of the wolf-pack in full cry.

It was a terrible sound. And though they had heard it a hundred times before, it seemed even more impressive than usual, coming after the warmth and good cheer, the laughter and singing. It was as if the surrounding wilderness had chosen to remind them of its presence by that sad, cruel, awe-inspiring howl--as if their hearts were to be rendered more in tune with the great woods by the knowledge that death was abroad, even at the edges of the fields; d.i.c.k and Stephanie were glad to return to the light and cosiness of the house.

That cry of the wolves had disturbed d.i.c.k. He had heard it last when his father was alive, and when they lived in that dreary little log-cabin twenty miles away. It recalled to his memory all those days of cold and hardship, all the roughness, the poverty, the privation of their lives in the dreaded winter-time. But it recalled also his past freedom, his wood-running, his neglected skill in shot and snare. The very note of the howl suggested the idea of untiring, relentless speed; and he suddenly remembered all the old delight of those long snow-shoe runs he had been wont to take whenever it so pleased him--over the crackling snow, beneath the black pine branches and the dazzling winter stars. He laughed at himself for being so readily moved from his contentment, and then he wondered--had he really been contented? Or had the old unrest always been there, however much he might strive to hide it even from himself?

Leaning back in his shadowy corner, he let his thoughts drift to his old life, and to that little deserted cabin which had been home to him for so many years. He imagined just how the roof would fall into disrepair, and how the feathery snow would drift between the c.h.i.n.ks of the logs. He supposed that the little bold beasts of the woods would inhabit it, and the grey squirrels store their nuts in the corners, and the birds build under the eaves and on the window ledges. Soon the woods would creep nearer and nearer, reclaiming the worthless fields which had been wrested from them, and even filling up the natural clearing with small bushes and thimble-berry vines. At last there would remain nothing but a pile of mossy logs and a few struggling, widely-dispersed sunflowers, to show where that poor home had been.

Remembering the pain and sorrow those walls had often held, he felt it was the best end for them; yet he had an unreasonable tenderness towards anything connected with the care-free, idle, roving life he had loved, and for which he longed.

"A penny for your thoughts!" cried cheery Mrs. Collinson suddenly. And when he shyly told her, in part, what they had been, she patted his hand tenderly, and her eyes glistened.

"The lad's fretting for his father," she found opportunity of whispering to her husband, a little later.

But Mr. Collinson was still doubtful. "I don't know, Mrs. C., I don't know," and they were silent, as once more the howl of the wolf-pack came faintly to their ears.

Meanwhile, d.i.c.k had retired again to a brown study in his corner.

On this peaceful Christmas night there was a tumult in his easy-going mind which confused him sadly. Now he had time to think about it, he knew that during the past few weeks he had not really been contented--he had only been avoiding the consideration of his own perplexities. But that avoidance was not always possible, and he knew that, at any time, his love of roaming might descend upon him, as it were, in irresistible force. Since that day of the fox-hunt, he had become more fully alive to his own wild hopes and longings; and now his sincere fit of penitence and industry was beginning to wear off a bit, the old, idle, roving mood was all ready to return to him again. He feared his own thoughts, and he dreaded the crisis--dreaded the event which must settle his decision one way or the other.

As he sat there, gazing at the roaring, glowing logs upon the hearth, he reflected half-resentfully that duty and inclination had been utterly at war in his life of late, and that the worst of the trouble dated from his arrival at the Collinson homestead, which was perfectly true. Before then, inclination had reigned supreme. He did not put his own thoughts very clearly to himself. He only felt that, if he yielded to his love of a wild life, that life would soon grow necessary to his happiness. He thought how cruel it would be if he left Stephanie and all other ties behind him, and struck out into the vast s.p.a.ce and freedom of the north. He shunned the very idea, and was ashamed of it, yet there was an attraction in it which made him dwell upon it again and again. The great plains and the free life of them, the great woods and the mighty rivers, the beautiful lakes, and mountains, pine-clad and snow-crested, untracked, unknown--he had heard of it all dimly, from one and another. All these things he loved and longed to know, and against them Stephanie. "Of course, I wouldn't do it," he a.s.sured himself. Yet his eyes took on their bright gipsy-look as he gazed into the heart of the blaze.

For the rest of the evening he was in a dream-world, far from the homestead; and later, he put on his blanket-coat again, and wandered out into the garden, that he might indulge in his dreams more easily.

Just near the door he nearly fell over a shadowy figure crouched against the wall. The figure rose to its feet, and just then Roger pulled aside the curtain. In the sudden gleam of light d.i.c.k saw a keen, dark face, in which were unexpectedly set two hard, green-grey eyes. He heard the sound of some ceremonial greeting in a strange speech. But it was so much like a part of his dreams he felt bewildered. It was Peter Many-Names, who presently descended to his English, and pointing to a frozen haunch of venison, gravely gave d.i.c.k to understand that he would dispose of it to the highest bidder.

CHAPTER VI.

The Call of the Forest.

From that time onwards throughout the winter, Peter Many-Names was never more than a few miles away from the homestead. He did a flourishing business with the Collinsons in the way of small game and so forth, and appeared to think he had come upon a land of plenty, so many were the meals with which kindly Mrs. Collinson supplied him.

Soon the farmer began employing him in small jobs about the fences and farm buildings, which, for some dark reason of his own, Peter condescended to do, and to do well. He was too proud to be dishonest, and he was never there when he was not wanted; so that after a few weeks the inmates of the homestead looked for his silent presence as a matter of course. Mr. Collinson was interested in him--in his quaint English, his stately ways, his swiftness, and his untiring activity--and said that he belonged to none of the tribes which occasionally visited that neighbourhood, but that he was probably an outcast from some northern tribe, who, separated from his people for some reason, and caring little to take up with others, fended for himself, and lived his own proud, lonely life. And the shrewd farmer was probably as nearly right as might be.

After a time it seemed to d.i.c.k that he never left the house to go to his work about the farm without seeing the dark face and the cold grey eyes which had grown so familiar to him. And by degrees Peter's tongue became loosened, and he told tales in his odd, sing-song English which sent d.i.c.k about his tasks with wide, dreamy eyes and ears that heard not. d.i.c.k feared the Indian as he might have feared all his temptations embodied in a human form; but he went about with him, and listened hungrily to his stories, feeling fascinated and attracted in spite of this wise fear. He did not realise what a great influence that strong savage nature was gaining over his own.

Thus the winter went on, peacefully and happily to all outward seeming; but as the year drew closer to the spring it was noticed by watchful Mr. Collinson that d.i.c.k sought Peter's companionship more and more frequently, and that the Indian's uncanny eyes often rested upon the English boy with a half-amused, half-malicious expression of power that was hard to read.

The cold weather held until the end of March, with scarcely a break.

But at the beginning of the month the monotony was broken by an important annual event in the lives of all settlers. This was no less than sugar-making. Curiously enough, the Collinsons had few sugar-maples on their farm, so they used to go to their nearest neighbour's, where a certain number of trees were yearly set aside for them. This neighbour was more than ten miles distant as the bird flies, and the journey there, the sugar-making among fresh surroundings and with fresh companionship, and the triumphant return through the woods that were just beginning to awaken, were all looked forward to throughout the winter.

This year it was arranged that one of the twins, d.i.c.k, Stephanie, and two of the farm-hands, should go; William Charles was chosen at first, but he yielded to Roger's evident disappointment, and said he would stay at home. "Though I 'm sure," he said to himself placidly, "that I should take just as much care of Stephanie as he could. However, if he wants to go, I would just as soon stay at home, for it is hard work they will get and plenty of it." And stay he did, with complete satisfaction.

The others started on their journey one chill morning in early March, before day had dawned. In the first sleigh were Stephanie, d.i.c.k, Roger, and one of the farm-hands driving the pair of horses. The other and more roughly built sleigh followed them, loaded with all the appliances necessary for the sugar-making--three great cast-iron kettles, a couple of heavy troughs cut out of pine-logs, and so forth--in charge of the second man.

Stephanie never in her life forgot that drive through the great woods; there had been heavy snow, which filled up all the hollows between stumps and natural roughnesses that generally made the rude trail a path of torment; the snow had been followed by sharp, incessant frost, so the going was good. At first so impressive was the hush of the cold, dim world into which they drove, that only the jingle of harness and the squeal and b.u.mp of the clumsy runners broke the silence. But as the pale March day dawned in a flood of blue and primrose-yellow, crystal-clear and chill behind the trees, subdued talking and laughter startled the solitudes as the sleighs pa.s.sed. The skies, as the sun rose higher, were of a deep translucent blue, and the breeze had an edge as of steel. Nothing seemed at first sight to give promise of spring. But an observant eye would have seen that the smaller branches and twigs of the trees had lost their winter hue of dull grey-brown, and shone as the sunlight struck them, in all hues from bright yellow-green to warm deep reddish-brown. The bud-cases, too, were very dark and sticky, and some little birds were feasting on the close-curled green within, while once, far away, a robin called huskily, not yet triumphant in his shrill bubbling whistle.

Stephanie never forgot that journey. Trees, trees, nothing but trees before them behind them, on either side--except where the trail wound onwards, and even that, the low branches and the long-armed bushes were striving to reclaim. And between these trees the carpet of white lay as yet unbroken, though somewhat shrunken here and there. Winter seemed to be still present; but as the day advanced, Stephanie noticed that the woods were disturbed by an occasional whirr and flutter of birds, while in the sunnier spots could be heard the soft insistent music of melting snow. The spring melody had not yet begun, but the forests were crooning s.n.a.t.c.hes of it in their sleep.

That journey was never forgotten, and not forgotten easily was the welcome extended to the chilly travellers by the warm-hearted Irish family they counted their nearest neighbours. Stephanie was to sleep at the house, and all the evening she discussed matters with the eldest daughter, bright-faced, soft-tongued Nonie O'Brien--matters dear to the hearts of girls; and Nonie exhibited with speechless pride the never-worn dress of rose-pink tabinet, less pink than her own cheeks, which her father had brought her from distant Cobourg on her last birthday.

Meanwhile, the men and boys had taken the kettles to the sugar-bush, stabled the horses afterwards, then returned to the bush and built the rough shelter of boughs they were to inhabit for the nine or ten days of their stay. This finished, they rolled themselves in their blankets, and were almost instantly asleep, too tired even to snore.

The next morning the sugar-making began. Notches were cut in the trees, and below these the cedar spiles were driven in, down which the sap trickled into little troughs set for the purpose. Several times during the day the sap was all gathered in buckets, carried at the end of a yoke which was placed across the shoulders, and taken to the great store-troughs. The iron kettles slung over the fires had to be kept full and constantly watched, until the sap should turn to syrup; and then came the "sugaring-off."

Everyone was kept busy almost every hour of the twenty-four, for the sugar-making went on day and night. And on one particular night, about a week after his arrival, d.i.c.k was chosen to sit up and keep watch until two o'clock in the morning, filling the kettles and replenishing the fires when necessary.

He was quite willing to do so. And after the others had had their evening meal at the homestead, and had returned to the shelter and to peaceful but noisy slumbers, he cheerfully began his vigil.

There was no comfortable log at hand, he decided, so he scratched a hole in the snow, lined it with small twigs and pieces of bark, placed a folded blanket over all, and then settled himself in his nest with complete satisfaction. He had the happy faculty of adapting himself to his surroundings, and so was seldom uncomfortable, whatever other people might be.

The woods were dark, a vast and shadowy background of gloom to the wavering circle of firelight. The calm stars looked down between the dark twigs of the upper branches, and the snow showed red and full of uncertain gleams in the flicker of the flames. It was all empty and still, and the silence at first seemed unbroken; but, owing perhaps to the breeze and the recent thaw, on carefully listening the forest was full of very slight sounds--sounds as if living things were moving about in it with infinite caution and stealth. It was a disturbing idea, and d.i.c.k was glad of the heavy breathing of his comrades in the shelter for company.

The time pa.s.sed on, and the nest in the snow was very comfortable indeed. The woods were still full of those ghostly rustlings, but after a while d.i.c.k ceased to notice them, and it is probable that he was asleep.

But whether he was asleep or not, about midnight he roused quickly enough, with the instinct that someone was near him. Owing to his wild training, he had enough of the savage in him to lie perfectly still and listen for several minutes before moving. The noise that must have awakened him was not repeated, but there seemed to be an increase in those faint, ghostly rustlings and whisperings and half-heard stealthy footfalls, so at last he climbed reluctantly out of his cosy nest and built up all the fires.

Having done this, he settled himself once more in the blanket-lined hollow. The fires were now beds of leaping flame beneath the bubbling kettles of sap, and the shifting light made it difficult to distinguish objects at a little distance. But d.i.c.k had sharp eyes; and soon he had gained the knowledge that someone, he knew not who, was crouching on the opposite side of the fire nearest his nest in the snow!

It was disturbing knowledge, for he knew it was not one of his comrades; but no one could have accused d.i.c.k of physical cowardice, and immediately he tiptoed round the fire to investigate, with a heart that beat a little faster than usual.

The crouching figure glanced up at him with eyes that shone like a wild animal's in the glow of the fire, and d.i.c.k, thrilling suddenly, recognised Peter Many-Names.

The Indian did not give him the usual greeting, but remained crouched as he was, staring across the fire into the black mystery of the forest. His dark face was shaken with some strange excitement, and his eyes gleamed green like a wolfs behind their grey. He seemed to be in one of those states of wild exaltation to which his race is liable; and as he crouched there, he rocked himself backwards and forwards in a sort of ecstasy.

"I-i-o-i-o-o, I-i-o, I-o-o, I-e-e!" he crooned over and over again, and at each repet.i.tion his eyes shone more wildly. He seemed unconscious of d.i.c.k's presence after the first glance, and gave himself up to his own mad mood and the odd charm of his wild chant.

d.i.c.k's nerves tingled. There seemed to be some curious rhythmic infection in the whole unexpected performance. The rocking, the swaying, the subdued, incessant crooning were fascinating him, just as they might fascinate and excite a young brave at his antelope dances.

After a few minutes he fancied he felt his own senses urging him to join in the monotonous, mesmeric swaying, the soft barbaric chant.

The suggestion fairly frightened him, and he dropped his hand heavily on the Indian's shoulder.

Peter sprang to his feet, his eyes still glittering with that strange excitement. For a moment he was silent. Then he flung out his arm, lean, brown, circled with savage ornaments--flung it out with a wild gesture to the north, and began to speak.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "HE FLUNG OUT HIS ARM, CIRCLED WITH SAVAGE ORNAMENTS--FLUNG IT OUT WITH A WILD GESTURE, AND BEGAN TO SPEAK."]

He spoke in his own tongue, deep-noted, musical almost as Greek, and though the English boy, standing white-faced and motionless in the glow of the fire, did not understand one word in twenty, there was no need to ask the meaning.

Many have borne witness to the marvellous charm of Indian oratory, and the meaning was plainly to be read in the wonderful play of expression in Peter's dark face and flashing, grey-green eyes, in the faultless artistic skill of his every gesture, wherewith he painted what he had in his mind almost without need of words.

It was a barbaric song of freedom--a song of the rush and roar of the buffalo hunt, a song of the evening fires before the lodges; of the call of birds at the dawn, and the evening star hanging silver above the pines; of the limitless northward world, and the homeless wind of the prairies; of the flowers whiter than snow, redder than blood; of the pipe of willow-flutes in the dusk, and the triumph-cry of the raiders as they thunder home to the music of a hundred stolen hoofs--all these things d.i.c.k thought of as he listened, only understanding a word here and there, yet charmed to the bottom of his restless soul by the art of Peter Many-Names. It was a chant of the spring, of roving feet and tents that are never in one place for long; a gipsy song of the north. And as such d.i.c.k's very soul responded to it.

He stared at the Indian with fascinated eyes even after that wild speech was ended.