CHAPTER III.
Friends Indeed.
Mr. Collinson pulled the red handkerchief from his grey head and broadweather-beaten face, and crossing the room, threw a handful of pinesplinters on the fire. It was a fire such as one seldom or never seesnowadays. First came the great back log, some four feet long andtwenty inches thick; then upon the "dogs" were laid sticks of the samelength, but only about six inches in diameter; and lastly, upon these,a mighty pile of pieces of pine and various chips of wood. In thosedays, fire-building was an art. The flames leapt up, and caught thehandful of pine chips into a blaze of heat and brightness, which showedevery corner of the room. It was a large and cheerful room, with twowindows which now were covered with red cotton blinds. The walls wereof smooth match-boarding, and a few gay water-colour sketches and oldportraits in little oval brass frames were tacked upon them. Thefurniture was rough and home-made, but comfortable; and in a corner,partly hidden with a red cotton curtain, three cot-bedsteads, coveredwith red quilts, were trying hard to pretend they were sofas.
It was a cheerful room; and most of the people in it were cheerful too.Mr. Collinson was cheerful certainly; and Mrs. Collinson, small andround, with cheeks as pink as roses, seemed made for tender words andsmiling. Two tall lads of eighteen, twins, stood before the blazingfire, and their faces were as broad and merry as anyone could desire.Perhaps the only faces in the room that bore shadows in them were thoseof Dick and Stephanie.
Stephanie sat near one of the windows, patiently stitching at a shirt,which from its dimensions seemed intended for Mr. Collinson. She wasdressed in black, and the gown was of very different material and cutfrom that she had last worn. There were dark shadows under her darkeyes, and her face was thin; but beyond these signs of a recent andterrible grief, she seemed brighter and better for the cheerfulcompanionship of the Collinson homestead.
Dick was as patiently sitting before little Mrs. Collinson, holding theyarn that she was winding. He had discarded his wild Indian finery,and was dressed as were the two older boys on the rug before thehearth. He and Stephanie might have been another son and daughter ofthe house, as far as treatment went; but they had that shadow of sorrowin their eyes which the rest had not.
But now all faces, grave and gay, were turned to Mr. Collinson; forwhen the good man woke himself thus emphatically from his evening nap,and brightened up the blazing fire, it generally meant that he hadsomething important to say. So no one was surprised when he clearedhis throat and put himself into an attitude for speaking. Only thelarger and merrier of the twins looked anxious, and edged imperceptiblynearer to Stephanie.
"Mrs. C," he began, with a bow to his wife, "and youngpeople--Stephanie, Dick, Roger and William Charles--I have something tosay which concerns us all, because it concerns Stephanie and Dick hereespecially. I would not speak of it at all, but it seems to me, andalso to the wife, that things need to be discussed a bit."
Stephanie glanced up quickly, with an expression that was both anxiousand relieved, anxious because the future seemed so dark, and relievedin that the subject had at last been mentioned. Dick looked dejected,he hated discussions.
"You know, my dears," said Mr. Collinson, smiling at his two guests,"that I would not for the world bring up, unnecessarily, any subjectsuch as this, which is bound to give you pain. But things had betterbe talked over, for good and all, to-night."
He gazed thoughtfully into the glowing heart of the fire for a moment,and then continued. "Six or seven weeks ago, Stephanie, my dear," hewent on, "you came here, and welcome indeed you both were. Since thenI have been looking after matters a little, and as far as I can tell,things are like this: Your poor father was more a hermit in thewilderness than a proper settler; he just put up his lodge in the woodsas an Indian might have done. He did not put in his claim for any landin the townships as he ought to have done, but must needs wander off byhimself. He found this clearing--the worst land in the region, by thesame token--and here he managed to keep body and soul together on whathe grew, and the little money he had left. But he was not really asettler, and he had no right there. Though it's not likely anyonewould have interfered with him until the country came to be surveyed,which may never happen. But the land, I fancy, was no more his thanmine, as he was there but four years--though I may be wrong in thinkingso, knowing little of the law. But at any rate, what I want to say isthis, the land is worthless--the poorest in that part, from what I sawof it; so my advice is this--let it go, and when Dick is of age he canhave his pick of a dozen fine claims--a hundred, maybe, if the countryopens up fast. Meanwhile, I 'll take over anything of value upthere--Murphy, and the corn, and the plough, and such, at a fair price,and put the money to the credit of both of you equally. Think of it,and if you agree, the future is arranged. So, now for the present."
He looked at his wife meaningly, and then back at the fire again.After a moment he went on slowly and deliberately. "The beauty of itis," he said, "that the very day before you came to stay with us, Isaid to the wife that we had too much room in the house."
There was a faint sound, which might have been either assent oramazement, from Mrs. Collinson; and Roger, the largest twin, gazed athis father in open admiration; while the cots, squeezed into the cornerbehind the red curtain, took on a reproachful expression.
"And I also said," continued the serene voice, "that my wife wantedsomeone to be company in the house and help a little with things, andthat I could do well with another handy youngster for outside work; Ihave often," he continued softly, "longed for a daughter, and I don'tmind another son. So, Dick and Stephanie, what do you say? Will youstay here until you get a place of your own to go to? I shall not be aloser in the bargain."
Stephanie was crying quietly into the sleeve of the shirt, and Dickwent over to Mr. Collinson. "Sir," he said, choking, "you 're a goodman, and I hope you will never have to regret what you 've done for me.You know what Steenie is, and need have no fear for her." He spokesteadily and seriously, unlike himself, while Mrs. Collinson went overto Stephanie and patted her hand softly.
And so, after some further discussion, it was settled. What else couldDick and Stephanie do? Even if Mr. Collinson had been one from whomthey would not have received such kindness without a painful sense ofobligation, there was no other opening for them. As it was, theyaccepted his offer warmly and gratefully, all the more so for knowingthat they would and could be of use to him and his wife. And hisplain, sensible, hopeful words had touched the dark future with a glowof rose-colour, which, even before their sorrow, it had lacked.Already Stephanie saw herself keeping house for Dick in the midst ofpeace and plenty.
And Dick himself?
At present all other feelings were swallowed up in the warmth ofgratitude. But that night, as he stood in the dark enclosure in frontof the log-house which in summer was ablaze with flowers, he was awareof a little cool spot in the midst of his gratitude. He was ashamed ofit, but there it was. For he knew that the hard, steady labour he hadto look forward to would be very dull after the idle, gipsy-like lifeand the freedom to which he had been accustomed.
Ever since that terrible day of their father's death, the Collinsonhomestead had been home to himself and Stephanie also, and apparentlyit would be so for some years to come. All this he told himself, as hestood and watched the pale moon of early winter rising behind thetrees; but it did not do away with that little cool thought. And hequickly decided that he would take all the pleasures in the shape ofsport or travel that came in his way.
It was a cold night; but for some reason, after deciding this, Dick didnot feel like facing the kind bright faces in the bright room. He didnot know that it had been another step in the lifelong fight betweenduty and inclination--between the love of wandering that was rampant inhis blood and the clear call of quiet, unromantic, unceasing work thatlay before him--and that, in the one little lazy, selfish thought, hehad lost.
He was roused from his reverie by a fearful clamour that broke outamo
ng the farm buildings. All the geese hissed and screamed as if theyhad another Rome to save, and the hens fluttered and clucked, andsquawked after the manner of their foolish kind. Roger hurried outwith a shot-gun, and he and Dick ran towards the scene of the tragedy.But they were too late. The fox had already gone, and with him haddeparted a venerable gander.
"We have got to get you, my friend," growled Roger, "or we shan't havea bird left. And I repaired the fencing myself. Oh, you villain!"
"Let me go to-morrow," said Dick promptly.
The older boy looked at him and laughed, with one of the flashes ofinsight which sometimes comes to slow people. "I can see you wouldrather be a mighty hunter before the Lord than a humble tiller of thesoil," he said, "and if my father says yes, you might as well catch thethief if you can. But you had better take Peter Many-Names with you."
"Who is he?" asked Dick.
"Well," answered Roger slowly, "he is--himself. An Indian boy about myown age, and the cleverest fellow with a gun or a snare or a paddlethat I ever saw. But beyond that--well, he's an Indian, so I don'tknow anything more about him. He's been round here lately, sellingfish. He wraps them in wet leaves and brings them over from theriver--the Otonabee, you know. There are a lot of settlers over therenow, I 've heard, and I wish we were nearer the river ourselves. Peterhas promised to bring mother some fish to-morrow, and if he turns upyou ask him to go fox-hunting with you, and you will have good sportafter a fashion. His methods are funny, but they 're interesting, anda day in the woods with him is always jolly." So it was arranged thatnext day, if the Indian arrived, he and Dick were to go and catch themarauding fox.
They returned to the house, Dick in great glee. All his dreams thatnight were of the delight and freedom of the forests. And miles awayin the woods, an Indian lad slept beside his fire, with a basket offish hung up on a branch in the shadow overhead.
Next day these two were to meet. What would be the outcome of themeeting?