Young Dave at the Clearing
During the rest of the journey—a matter of an hour’s walking—there was
little talk between Miranda and Dave; for the ancient wood has the
property that it makes talk seem trivial. With those who journey through
the great vistas and clear twilight of the trees, thoughts are apt to
interchange by the medium of silence and sympathy, or else to remain
uncommunicated. Whatever her misgivings, her resentments and
hostilities, Miranda was absorbed in her companion. So deeply was she
absorbed that she failed to notice an unwonted emptiness in the shadows
about her.
In very truth, the furtive folk had all fled away. The presence of the
hunter filled them with instinctive fear; and in their chief defence,
their moveless self-effacement, they had no more any confidence while
within reach of Miranda’s eyes. The stranger was like herself—and though
they trusted her in all else, they knew the compulsion of nature, and
feared lest she might betray them to her own kind. Therefore they held
prudently aloof,—the hare and the porcupine, the fox and the red cat;
the raccoon slipped into his hole in the maple tree, and the wood-mice
scurried under the hemlock root, and the woodpecker kept the thickness
of a tree between his foraging and Miranda’s eye. Only the careless and
inquisitive partridge, sitting on a birch limb just over the trail,
curiously awaited their approach; till suddenly an intuition of peril
awoke him, and he fled on wild wings away through the diminishing
arches. Even the little brown owl in the pine crotch snapped his bill
and hissed uneasily as the two passed under his perch. Yet all these
signs, that would have been to her in other moods a loud proclamation of
change, now passed unnoted. Miranda was receiving a new impression, and
the experience engrossed her.
Arrived at the edge of the clearing, Dave was struck by the alteration
that had come over it since that day, thirteen years back, when he had
aided Kirstie’s flight from the Settlement. It was still bleak, and
overbrooded by a vast unroutable stillness, for the swelling of the land
lifted it from the forest’s shelter and made it neighbour to the
solitary sky. But the open fields were prosperous with blue-flowered
flax, pink-and-white buckwheat, the green sombreness of potatoes, and
the gallant ranks of corn; while half a dozen sleek cattle dotted the
stumpy pasture. The fences were well kept. The cabin and the barn were
hedged about with shining thickets of sunflower, florid hollyhocks, and
scarlet-runner beans. It gave the young woodman a kind of pang,—this bit
of homely sweetness projected, as it were, upon the infinite solitude of
the universe. It made him think, somehow, of the smile of a lost child
that does not know it is lost.
Presently, to his astonishment, there rose up from behind a blackberry
coppice the very biggest bear he had ever seen. The huge animal paused
at sight of a stranger, and sat up on her hind quarters to inspect him.
Then she dropped again upon all fours, shuffled to Miranda’s side, and
affectionately smuggled her nose into the girl’s palm. Dave looked on
with smiling admiration. The picture appealed to him. And Miranda,
scanning his face with jealous keenness, could detect therein nothing
but approval.
“This is Kroof,” said she, graciously.
“Never seen such a fine bear in all my life!” exclaimed the young man,
sincerely enough; and with a rash unmindfulness of the reserve which
governs the manners of all the furtive folk (except the squirrels), he
stretched out his hand to stroke Kroof’s splendid coat.
The presumption was instantly resented. With an indignant squeal Kroof
swung aside and struck at the offending hand, missing it by a hair’s
breadth, as Dave snatched it back out of peril. A flush of anger
darkened his face, but he said nothing. Miranda, however, was annoyed,
feeling her hospitality dishonoured. With a harsh rebuke she slapped the
bear sharply over the snout, and drew a little away from her.
Kroof was amazed. Not since the episode of the hare had Miranda struck
her, and then the baby hand had conveyed no offence. Now it was
different: and she felt that the tall stranger was the cause of the
difference. Her heart swelled fiercely within her furry sides. She gave
Miranda one look of bitter reproach, and shambled off slowly down the
green alleys of the potato field.
During some moments of hesitation, Miranda looked from Kroof to Dave,
and from Dave to Kroof. Then her heart smote her. With a little sob in
her throat, she ran swiftly after the bear, and clung to her neck with
murmured words of penitence. But Kroof, paying no attention whatever,
kept her way steadily to the woods, dragging Miranda as if she had been
a bramble caught on her fur. Not till she had reached the very edge of
the forest, at the sunny corner where she had been wont to play with
Miranda during the far-off first years of their friendship, did the old
bear stop. There she turned, sat up on her haunches, eyed the girl’s
face steadily for some seconds, and then licked her gently on the ear.
It meant forgiveness, reconciliation; but Kroof was too deeply hurt to
go back with Miranda to the cabin. In response to the girl’s
persuasions, she but licked her hands assiduously, as if pleading to be
not misunderstood, then dropped upon all fours and moved off into the
forest, leaving Miranda to gaze after her with tearful eyes.
When she went back to where the young hunter awaited her, Miranda’s
friendly interest had vanished, and in a chilly silence—very unlike that
which had been eloquent between them a short half hour before—the two
walked on up to the cabin. In Kirstie’s welcome Dave found all the
warmth he could wish, with never a reproach for his long years of
neglect,—for which, therefore, he the more bitterly reproached himself.
The best of all protections against the stings of self-reproach is the
reproach of others; and of this protection Kirstie ruthlessly deprived
him. She asked about all the details of his life as a solitary trapper,
congratulated him on his success, appeared sympathetic toward his
calling, and refrained from attempting his conversion to vegetarianism.
Looking at her noble figure, her face still beautiful in its strength
and calm, the young man harked back in his memory to the Settlement’s
scandals and decided that Frank Craig had never, of his own will,
forsaken a woman so altogether gracious and desirable. He resolved that
he would come often to the cabin in the clearing—even if Miranda _was_
unpleasant to him.
Unpleasant she certainly was, all the evening, coldly unconscious of his
presence, except, of course, at supper, where civility as well as
hospitality obliged her to keep his plate supplied, and not to sour his
meal with an obstinate silence. He watched her stealthily while he
talked to her mother; and the fact that her wild and subtle beauty,
thrilling his blood, made ridiculous the anger in his heart, did not
prevent his accomplishing a brave meal of eggs, steaming buttered
pancakes with molasses, and sweet cottage cheese with currant jelly.
Kirstie would not hear of his going that night, so he stayed, and slept
in the bunk which his father had occupied a dozen years before.
In the morning he was diligent to help with the barnyard chores, and won
golden comment from Kirstie; but he found Miranda still ice to his
admiration. About breakfast time, however, Kroof reappeared, with an air
of having quite forgotten the evening’s little unpleasantness. Of Dave
she took no notice at all, looking through, beyond, and around him; but
with her return Miranda’s manner became a shade less austere. Her
self-reproach was mitigated when she saw that her passing interest in
the newcomer had not unpardonably wronged her old friend.
Dave was bound for the Settlement, to arrange some business of bounties
and pelt sales. In spite of Kirstie’s hospitable arguments, he insisted
on setting out as soon as breakfast was over. As he picked up his rifle
from the corner beside his bunk, Miranda, as a sign of peace between
them, handed him his pouch of bullets. But not so his big powder-flask,
on its gay green cord. This she took to the door, and coolly emptied its
contents into a clump of burdocks. Then, with an enigmatic smile, she
handed back the flask to its owner.
The young hunter was annoyed. Powder was, in his eyes, a sacred thing,
and such a wanton waste of it seemed to him little less than criminal.
“That was all the powder I had ’twixt here an’ the Settlement,” he said,
in a tone of rebuke.
“So much the better,” said Miranda.
“But I don’t see no sense in wastin’ it that way,” he persisted.
“No knowing what may happen between here and the Settlement,” rejoined
the girl, meaningly.
Dave flushed with anger. “Didn’t I pass ye my word I’d not harm a hair
of one of your beasts?” he demanded.
“Then what do you want with the powder this side of the Settlement?” she
inquired, with tantalizing pertinence.
The young hunter, though steady and clear in his thought, was by no
means apt in repartee, and Miranda had him at a cruel disadvantage.
Confused by her last question, he blundered badly in his reply.
“But—what if a painter should jump onto me, like he was goin’ to
yesterday?” he protested.
“I thought you promised you wouldn’t harm a hair of one of them,”
suggested Miranda, thoughtful yet triumphant.
“Would you have me let the critter kill me, jest to keep my promise?” he
asked, humour beginning to correct his vexation.
“I don’t see why not,” murmured Miranda. “Anyhow, you’ve got to do
without the powder. And you needn’t be frightened, Dave,”—this very
patronizingly,—“for your father never carries a gun on our trail, and
he’s never needed one yet.”
“Well, then,” laughed Dave, “I’ll try an’ keep my hair on, an’ not be
clean skeered to death. Good-by, Kirstie! Good-by, Mirandy! I’ll look
’round this way afore long, like as not.”
“Inside of twelve years?” said Kirstie, with a rare smile, which robbed
her words of all reproach.
“Likely,” responded Dave, and he swung off with long, active strides
down the trail.
Miranda’s eyes followed him with reluctance.