Peter came close to him, with those hard glittering grey eyes of his gazing into the English boy's softer ones. And suddenly he spoke again, in English. "You come with me?" he whispered.

And d.i.c.k answered, against his own will, in a voice which did not appear to be his. "Yes, I will come!" he said. There was no need of explanation.

CHAPTER VII.

A Message from the Wanderer.

A few weeks had pa.s.sed, 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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, la.s.sie, 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 d.i.c.k--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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k's affection for herself, but above all upon his grat.i.tude 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 d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k remained away.

Through all its beautiful subtle changes, the spring pa.s.sed 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. St.u.r.dier, 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, pa.s.sing gradually to brighter sun and deeper blue. Yet still d.i.c.k 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. "d.i.c.k 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.

"d.i.c.k 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. d.i.c.k'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 G.o.d, and to be more content with her task of waiting and praying, sure that a greater love even than her own was watching over d.i.c.k.

That fair spring pa.s.sed, 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 d.i.c.k 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 pa.s.sed, Stephanie grew in a measure accustomed to d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k. 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 s.p.a.ce, feeling the silence and beauty of the wilds to be, in some vague sense, a link between herself and d.i.c.k.

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 d.i.c.k 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. "d.i.c.k! d.i.c.k! d.i.c.k!" 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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 grat.i.tude 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 d.i.c.k, 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 d.i.c.k's struggle must have been, realised also what was his pa.s.sionate 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. d.i.c.k 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, la.s.sie," 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. d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k fared?

CHAPTER VIII.

A Wood's Adventure.