The Exiles from the Settlement
Late that afternoon Kirstie Craig arrived. Her coming was a migration.
The first announcement of her approach was the dull _tank, tank, a-tonk,
tank_ of cow-bells down the trail, at sound of which Old Dave threw
aside his axe and slouched away to meet her. There was heard a boy’s
voice shouting with young authority, “Gee! Gee, Bright! Gee, Star!” and
the head of the procession came into view in the solemn green archway of
the woods.
The head of the procession was Kirstie Craig herself, a tall, erect,
strong-stepping, long-limbed woman in blue-grey home-spuns, with a vivid
scarlet kerchief tied over her head. She was leading, by a rope about
its horns, a meekly tolerant black-and-white cow. To her left hand clung
a skipping little figure in a pink calico frock, a broad-brimmed hat of
coarse straw flung back from her hair and hanging by ribbons from her
neck. This was the five-year-old Miranda, Kirstie Craig’s daughter. She
had ridden most of the journey, and now was full of excited interest
over the approach to her new home. Following close behind came the yoke
of long-horned, mild-eyed steers,—Bright, a light sorrel, and Star, a
curious red-and-black brindle with a radiating splash of white in the
middle of his forehead. These, lurching heavily on the yoke, were
hauling a rude “drag,” on which was lashed the meagre pile of Kirstie’s
belongings and supplies. Close at Star’s heaving flank walked a lank and
tow-haired boy from the Settlement, his long ox-goad in hand, and an
expression of resigned dissatisfaction on his grey-eyed, ruddy young
face. Liking, and thoroughly believing in, Kirstie Craig, he had
impulsively yielded to her request, and let himself be hired to assist
her flight into exile. But in so doing he had gone roughly counter to
public opinion; for the Settlement, though stupidly inhospitable to
Kirstie Craig, none the less resented her decision to leave it. Her
scheme of occupying the deserted cabin, farming the deserted clearing,
and living altogether aloof from her unloved and unloving fellows, was
scouted on every hand as the freak of a madwoman; and Young Dave, just
coming to the age when public opinion begins to seem important, felt
uneasy at being identified with a matter of public ridicule. He saw
himself already, in imagination, a theme for the fine wit of the
Settlement. Nevertheless, he was glad to be helping Kirstie, for he was
sound and fearless at heart, and he counted her a true friend if she did
seem to him a bit queer. He was faithful, but disapproving. It was Old
Dave alone, his father, who backed the woman’s venture without criticism
or demur. He had known Kirstie from small girlhood, and known her for a
brave, loyal, silent, strongly-enduring soul; and in his eyes she did
well to leave the Settlement, where a shallow spite, sharpened by her
proud reticence and supplied with arrows of injury by her misfortunes,
made life an undesisting and immitigable hurt to her.
As she emerged from the twilight and came out upon the sunny bleakness
of the clearing, the unspeakable loneliness of it struck a sudden pallor
into her grave dark face. For a moment, even the humanity that was
hostile to her seemed less cruel than this voiceless solitude. Then her
resolution came back. The noble but somewhat immobile lines of her large
features relaxed into a half smile at her own weakness. She took
possession, as it were, by a sweeping gesture of her head; then silently
gave her hand in greeting to Old Dave, who had ranged up beside her and
swung the dancing Miranda to his shoulder. Nothing was said for several
moments, as the party moved slowly up the slope; for they were folk of
few words, these people, not praters like so many of their fellows in
the Settlement.
At last the pink frock began to wriggle on the lumberman’s shoulder, and
Miranda cried out:—
“Let me down, Uncle Dave, I want to pick those pretty flowers for my
mother.”
The crimson glories of the fireweed had filled her eyes with delight;
and in a few minutes she was struggling after the procession with her
small arms full of the long-stalked blooms.
In front of the cabin door the procession stopped. Dave turned, and said
seriously:—
“I’ve done the best I could by ye, Kirstie; an’ I reckon it ain’t so bad
a site for ye, after all. But ye’ll be powerful lonesome.”
“Thank you kindly, Dave. But we ain’t going to be lonesome, Miranda and
me.”
“But there’s painters ’round. You’d ought to hev a gun, Kirstie. I’ll be
sackin’ out some stuff fur ye nex’ week, Davey an’ me, an’ I reckon as
how I’d better fetch ye a gun.”
“We’ll be right hungry for a sight of your faces by that time, Dave,”
said Kirstie, sweeping a look of tenderness over the boy’s face, where
he stood leaning on Star’s brindled shoulder. “But I ain’t scared of
panthers. Don’t you mind about the gun, now, for I don’t want it, and I
won’t use it!”
“She ain’t skeered o’ nothin’ that walks,” muttered Young Dave, with
admiration.
The strong face darkened.
“Yes, I am, Davey,” she answered; “I’m afeard of evil tongues.”
“Well, my girl, here ye’re well quit of ’em,” said the old lumberman, a
slow anger burning on his rough-hewn face as he thought of certain busy
backbiters in the Settlement.
Just then Miranda’s small voice chimed in.
“Oh, Davey,” she cried, catching gleefully at the boy’s leg, “look at
the nice, great big dog!” And her little brown finger pointed to a
cluster of stumps, of all shapes and sizes, far over on the limits of
the clearing. Her wide, brown eyes danced elvishly. The others followed
her gaze, all staring intently; but they saw no excuse for her
excitement.
“It might be a b’ar she sees,” said Old Dave; “but I can’t spot it.”
“They’re plenty hereabouts, I suppose,” said Kirstie, rather
indifferently, letting her eyes wander to other portions of her domain.
“Ain’t no bear there,” asserted Young Dave, with all the confidence of
his years. “It’s a stump!”
“Nice big dog! I want it, mother,” piped Miranda, suddenly darting away.
But her mother’s firm hand fell upon her shoulder.
“There’s no big dog out here, child,” she said quietly. And Old Dave,
after puckering his keen eyes and knitting his shaggy brows in vain,
exclaimed:—
“Oh, quit yer foolin’, Mirandy, ye little witch. ’Tain’t nothin’ but
stumps, I tell ye.”
It was the child’s eyes, however, that had the keener vision, the
subtler knowledge; and, though now she let herself seem to be persuaded,
and obediently carried her armful of fireweed into the cabin, she knew
it was no stump she had been looking at. And as for Kroof, the she-bear,
though she had indeed sat moveless as a stump among the stumps, she knew
that the child had detected her. She saw that Miranda had the eyes that
see everything and cannot be deceived.
For two days the man and the boy stayed at the clearing to help Kirstie
get settled. The fields rang pleasantly with the _tank, tank, a-tonk,
tank_ of the cow-bells, as the cattle fed over the new pasturage. The
edges of the clearing resounded with axe strokes, and busy voices echoed
on the autumn air. There was much rough fencing to be built,—zig-zag
arrangements of brush and saplings,—in order that Kirstie’s “critters”
might be shut in till the sense of home should so grow upon them as to
keep them from straying.
The two days done, Old Dave and Young Dave shouldered their axes and
went away. Kirstie forthwith straightened her fine shoulders to the
Atlas load of solitude which had threatened at first to overwhelm her;
and she and Miranda settled down to a strangely silent routine. This was
broken, however, at first, by weekly visits from Old Dave, who came to
bring hay, and roots, and other provisions against the winter, together
with large “hanks” of coarse homespun yarn, to occupy Kirstie’s fingers
during the long winter evenings.
Kirstie was well fitted to the task she had so bravely set herself. She
could swing an axe; and the fencing grew steadily through the fall. She
could guide the plough; and before the snow came some ten acres of the
long fallow sod had been turned up in brown furrows, to be ripened and
mellowed by the frosts for next spring’s planting. The black-and-white
cow was still in good milk, and could be depended on not to go dry a day
more than two months before calving. The steers were thrifty and sleek,
and showed no signs of fretting for old pastures. The hoarse but homely
music of the cow-bells, sounding all day over the fields, and giving out
an occasional soft _tonk-a-tonk_ from the darkness of the stalls at
night, came to content her greatly. The lines which she had brought from
the Settlement smoothed themselves from about her mouth and eyes, and
the large, sufficing beauty of her face was revealed in the peace of her
new life.
About seven years before this move to the cabin in the clearing, Kirstie
Craig—then Kirstie MacAlister—had gone one evening to the cross-roads
grocery which served the Settlement as General Intelligence Office. Here
was the post-office as well, in a corner of the store, fitted up with
some dozen of lettered and dusty pigeon-holes. Nodding soberly to the
loafers who lounged about on the soap boxes and nail kegs, Kirstie
stepped up to the counter to buy a quart of molasses. She was just
passing over her gaudy blue-and-yellow pitcher to be filled, when a
stranger came in who caught her attention. He did far more than catch
her attention; for the stately and sombre girl, who had never before
taken pains to look twice on any man’s face, now felt herself grow hot
and cold as this stranger’s eyes glanced carelessly over her splendid
form. She heard him ask the postmaster for lodgings. He spoke in a tired
voice, and accents that set him apart from the men of the Settlement.
She looked at him twice and yet again, noted with a pang that he seemed
ill, and met his eye fairly for just one heart-beat. At once she flushed
scarlet under it, snatched up her pitcher, and almost rushed from the
store. The loafers were too much occupied with the new arrival to notice
her perturbation; but he noticed it, and was pleased. Never before had
he seen so splendid a girl as this black-haired, sphinx-faced creature,
with the scarlet kerchief about her head. She was a picture that awoke
the artist in him, and put him in haste to resume his palette and
brushes.
For Frank Craig, dilettante and man of the world, was a good deal of an
artist when the mood seized him strongly enough. When another mood
seized him, with sufficient vigour to overcome his native indolence, he
was something of a musician; and again, more rarely, something of a
poet. The temperament was his; but the steadiness of purpose, the
decision of will, the long-enduring patience, these were not. He had
just enough money to let him float through his world without work.
Health he had not, and the poor semblance of it which mere youth
supplied he had squandered childishly. Hearing of new health in the gift
of the northern spruce woods, with their high, balsam-sweet airs, he had
drifted away from his temptations, and at last sought out this remote
backwoods settlement as a place where he might expect to get much for
little. He was very good to look upon,—about as tall as Kirstie
herself,—slender, active, alert in movement when not wearied,
thoroughbred in every line of face and figure. His eyes, of a very deep
greyish green under long black lashes, were penetrating in their
clearness, but curiously unstable. In their beautiful depths there was
waged forever a strange conflict between honesty and inconstancy. His
face, pale and sallow, was clothed with a trimly pointed, close, dark
beard; and his hair, just a trifle more abundant than the fashion of his
world approved, was of a peculiar, tawny dark bronze.
The air of the Settlement was healing and tonic to the lungs, and before
he had breathed it a month he felt himself aglow with joyous life.
Before he had breathed it a month he had won Kirstie MacAlister, to whom
he seemed little less than a god. To him, on her part, she was a
splendid mystery. Even her peculiarities of grammar and accent did no
more than lend a piquancy to her strangeness. They appealed as a rough,
fresh flavour to his wearied senses. Here, safe from the wasting world,
he would really paint, would really write, and life would come to mean
something. One day he and Kirstie went away on the rattling old
mail-waggon, which visited the Settlement twice a week. Ten days later
they came back as man and wife, whereat the Settlement showed no
surprise whatever.
For a whole year after the birth of his child, the great-eyed and
fairy-like Miranda, Frank Craig stayed at the Settlement, seemingly
content. He was loving, admiring, tactful, proud of his dark impressive
wife, and the quickness with which she caught his purity of speech. Then
one day he seemed restless. He talked of business in the city—of a
month’s absence that could not be avoided. With a kind of terror at her
heart Kirstie heard him, but offered no hint of opposition to so
reasonable a purpose. And by the next trip of the rattling mail-waggon
he went, leaving the Settlement dark to Kirstie’s eyes.
But—he never came back. The months rolled by, and no word came of him;
and Kirstie gnawed her heart out in proud anguish. Inquiry throughout
the cities of the coast brought no hint of him. Then, as the months
climbed into years, that tender humanity which resents misfortune as a
crime started a rumour that Kirstie had been fooled. Perhaps there had
been no marriage, went the whisper at first. “Served her right, with her
airs, thinkin’ she could ketch a gentleman!”—was the next development of
it. Kirstie, with her superior air, had never been popular at best; and
after her marriage the sufficiency and exclusiveness of her joy, coupled
with the comparative fineness of speech which she adopted, made her the
object of jealous criticism through all the country-side. When the
temple of her soaring happiness came down about her ears, then was the
time for her chastening, and the gossips of the Settlement took a hand
in it with right good-will. Nothing else worth talking about happened in
that neighbourhood during the next few years, so the little rumour was
cherished and nourished. Presently it grew to a great scandal, and the
gossips came to persuade themselves that things had not been as they
should be. Kirstie, they said, was being very properly punished by
Providence, and it was well to show that they, chaste souls, stood on
the side of Providence. If Providence threw a stone, it was surely their
place to throw three.
At last some one of imagination vivid beyond that of the common run
added a new feature. Some one else had heard from some one else of some
one having seen Frank Craig in the city. There was at first a difference
of opinion as to what city; but that little discrepancy was soon
smoothed out. Then a woman was suggested, and forthwith it appeared that
he had been seen driving with a handsome woman, behind a spanking pair,
with liveried coachman and footman on the box. Thus gradually the myth
acquired a colour to endear it to the unoccupied rural imagination.
Kirstie’s inquiries soon proved to her the utter baselessness of the
scandal; but she was too proud to refute what she knew to be a cherished
lie. She endured, for Miranda’s sake, till the dark face grew lined, and
the black eyes smouldered dangerously, and she began to fear lest she
should do some one a hurt. At last, having heard by chance of that
deserted clearing in the forest, she sold out her cottage at a sacrifice
and fled from the bitter tongues.