Settlers of the Marsh

by Frederick Philip Grove

  Niels felt intimidated. This prosperity which had invaded the Marsh was unexpected; the old pioneers had receded to the margin of civilisation; a new generation had taken hold. The change was not entirely welcome: he was of the old generation which had been evicted. On almost every farmstead he saw a garage: cars had always been his pet aversion …

  The old familiar bluffs had been cleared away. Fields stretched in their places. About the yards straight-lined plantations of imported trees framed the clusters of buildings.

  This was no longer the bush land he had loved …

  He came to the corner of the section on which his own land lay. He stopped and put his bundle down to look about. For a moment he was not even sure it was the section … And yet, a lump rose in his throat: there, in the evening sun, ahead of him, stood the bluff, still bare of leaves, but towering and dominating the landscape all about. No barns could dwarf it …

  Beyond, the cliff of the forest still fringed the creek.

  He looked east.

  A mile away, in the very margin of the bush which, many miles wide, bordered the west shore of the Lake, a smaller farmstead became visible to his searching eye: that was the old Bates place, the place he had bought for Bobby in the long-ago past … Yes, there was a small house, log-built so it seemed, a little stable, and two or three other small buildings, all of logs … That would be Bobby’s establishment. Bobby was married.

  And ahead: where the small grove of second-growth aspens had marked his own line to the west, big, towering trees stood, a narrow strip of them, between road and fields, quiet in the evening sun …

  He picked his bundle up and went on.

  To the west, too, there were farmsteads, two in the open sand-flats—log buildings, these—how could any one make a living there? One, in the margin of the bush that fringed the creek—this one a large, ambitious establishment. That must be the old Sigurdsen place? …

  He went on and came to his corner.

  He looked at the fence: it was in good order: here and there rotting posts had recently been replaced.

  Again a lump rose in his throat: he had come to a gap in the young bush fringe which he had spared when he cleared his land: through it he saw horses grazing along the edge of the field which lay black, ridged, duly fall-plowed. They were Percherons, pure-bred; he knew the breed … And … and … was not that aged mare there … that lifted her head and gazed at him … was not that Nellie?

  Putting down his bundle, he climbed the fence. Tears were trembling in the corners of his eyes as he approached the horse, his hand outstretched. But she eyed him warily; and with a sudden motion which fully betrayed her identity—a peculiar throwing of the head, chin upward, while her ears flicked back flat on her head—she scampered away, ten, twelve younger horses breaking cover, out of the bush, and following her.

  Niels laughed; his laugh was shot with tears …

  He returned to the road and went on.

  There, ahead of him, was a small gate in the fence. He did not know it; it was new.

  Curiously he approached. A white sign was fastened to the gate-post by its side—a sign with blue letters … It bore the words “Post Office” as its legend.

  He saw that a path led from the gate through the bush fringe, up to a little house … Should this … should this be the shack in which he and Bobby had lived in the past which was now so remote—the shack that had first been built for old man Sigurdsen, dead and buried these ten years and more? And who might be living there now?

  But that remained to be cleared up later …

  He went on.

  Yes, there was the big gate that led on to his place; with the stile by its side; just as he had left it. His heart began to beat faster, faster …

  Then the vista opened on his yard … There stood the buildings—granary, stable, cowshed, implement shed, pig-pen, milk house, and … dwelling … There was the horse-lot, the garden behind the house, the cow-enclosure north of the entrance, in the bluff …

  Yes, there was one thing he felt sure of: no matter what else the future might hold in joy or sorrow, this would be home: his refuge, his hermitage …

  Slowly he stepped over the stile.

  As of old he went all about the place, looked into the granary where grain—oats and barley—was stored; into the stable, empty but for one old, old horse, a Clyde that stood, blind and lame, in his stall; into the pig-pen where half a dozen pigs came grunting and sniffing to meet him; into the milk-house where tin pails were inverted over stakes driven into the earthen floor, scoured and shining … All was as it used to be.

  He looked at the house … should he enter? There were new curtains on all the windows; on the lower floor the blinds were drawn.

  His heart pounded like a hammer as he touched the door knob and turned it. It was almost dark inside. He entered …

  The hall was empty. From it the staircase led up, without banisters, into the upper story where there was still a little light.

  A shudder ran over him as he thought of entering the north room. No; he would go upstairs instead …

  He climbed the steps: the door to the east room was closed; that to the west room open; the reverse of what it had been in his time.

  In the west room stood his old bed, made up as if to receive a guest. The curtains were of scrim which he recognised.

  Slowly he turned back to the landing … Slowly, hesitatingly, he opened the door to the other room: it was empty except for crates and boxes stored there …

  From that sight Niels took courage and went down again. There, in the hall, he stood for a moment. His huge frame seemed to shrink. But at last he raised one of the blinds, went to the rear of the room, and turned the knob.

  The first object that struck his sight was the old tin heater of his bachelor days.

  The second one, the deal table, covered with oil-cloth.

  The third, a piece of cardboard lying on it, inscribed with a blue pencil, “Welcome Home.”

  He sank down on a chair, overcome with a strange feeling it was almost happiness …

  Lastly, he went into the kitchen. There, everything looked as if he had just left it. There were eggs in the colander on the shelf where they used to be; a smoked ham lay on the table, with the butcher knife beside it; the water pail stood on the bench by the door, filled to the brim.

  Everywhere on the lower floor, too, scrim curtains were hung in the windows.

  Who had put them there?

  Well, who but Bobby? …

  Bobby had tried to wipe the past out as far as Niels was concerned. He had removed whatever might remind him of it. Bobby was like a son …

  It was chilly in the house, the season being still early. So, after a while, Niels lighted a fire in the little stove …

  Then he sat again and mused.

  It would be a lonely life … a life like that of his first winter in the north, in Nelson’s shack … Still, it would be home. He remembered how that little shanty of Nelson’s had first seemed like home to him: there he had felt anchored for the first time after his wanderings: he had played with, and rejoiced at, the thought that he had already money enough to put up such a shack for himself.

  This house—a big house; but no longer the largest or best-built house for many miles around; it was over twelve years ago now since it had been built … Just how long was it? Yes, it must be thirteen years—this house could never be what a little shack would be … It would always remind him of, always oppress him with, the thought of the years which he had lived here, not alone …

  There was that other shack on this very place. But it was occupied … And for the first time he wondered by whom …

  JUST THEN a commotion arose outside on the yard.

  A voice was calling, a strong, almost masculine voice which he yet recognised as that of a woman, Mrs. Lund.

  He went into the bare front room and looked out through a crack between blind and frame of a window.

  There, in the darkening dusk, Mrs
. Lund stood in the horse-lot, the southern gate of which she had opened. She stood upright, her hands raised to her mouth as a megaphone, calling, calling. “Come on!” she called, “come on, come on, come on!”

  And the horses obeyed. They knew her. They knew her voice …

  Slowly, through the bush beyond, they approached the gate; and when they had reached it, they tossed their heads, shot past the strong, grey-haired woman that stood there with a brief spurt of a gallop, drank at the trough, and filed into the stable, one by one. His horses … Percherons all … There were twelve of them, of all ages, with Nellie, the oldest one, following last …

  Mrs. Lund was closing the gate; and when she had done so, she, too, went after them into the stable.

  It was getting dark.

  NIELS FELT THAT he should go out; but something held him back.

  Yes, of course, it was Mrs. Lund who was looking after the place: it was she who lived in the shack: it was she who was keeping the post office as in the past …

  Once more thoughts flooded in on him: he visualised things that had happened long ago.

  One day in the past he had gone to Odensee to get Mrs. Lund so she would cook for the threshers on his place.

  “They’ve sold me out now,” Mrs. Lund had said with reference to her little store in the village.

  “Couldn’t Nelson have done something?” Niels had asked.

  “Oh Nelson! He’s getting to be altogether too big for the likes of me. He has no time to be thinking of his poor mother-in-law … Nelson, the big cattle man. Olga, of course, would like to help … But there are the children; and I suppose she has her own worries, too.”

  “Have you a place yet?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Lund had answered, “yes; and a good place, I think. At Judge Cameron’s, at Poplar Grove … But to think that at my time of life I must still go again and hire out to do housework!”

  “In a few years,” Niels had suggested, “Bobby will get a place.”

  And Mrs. Lund, with suddenly renewed animation, relapsing into her grandiose manner, had fallen in with him. “Yes, Mr. Lindstedt. What’s true must be true. Bobby’s a good boy. Bobby’s a clean boy, Mr. Lindstedt. Thanks to you. Bobby’s the hope of my old age. We took him from the children’s home. We gave him what we could. We kept him as if he had been our own.… He will remember. He’ll do the right thing by me when the time has come …”

  Had Bobby done so? No doubt he had …

  And here she was taking care of his, Niels’ place …

  Again Niels sat and mused.

  “No,” the warden had said to him, one day, in the prison; “how you stand with God, I cannot tell. God keeps his own counsel. But let me remind you of the great sinner who had been a bad man all through his life; but on the cross he repented; and Christ forgave him … Niels, though you have sinned, I don’t think you’ve been a bad man …” And searchingly he had looked into his eye.

  And Niels had answered, after a silence of thought, slowly, hesitatingly, “No; I believe I have tried to do what was right, in most things. I’ve been self-seeking when I was young … I have too often thought of my own life only … As for the thing that has sent me here. I don’t blame myself … Not for that immediate thing … But for what preceded it … For what led up to it … For the very beginning of it … Many years before it happened … I have long since seen that I had sinned …”

  “Niels,” the warden had gone on, “if I’m any judge, God has forgiven you … The killing … That, too, was in the atonement … But as for men, you have been judged by your peers, and you have paid the penalty. You have taken life. Yet they have judged you fit to live on. What I’d like you to feel is this. When you go out of here, you can hold your head up. You must hold your head up. As far as human justice goes, you have paid the price …”

  And yet it was hard: out there, the woman went about doing the chores on his place … Could he face her? But face her he must …

  THEN THE FRONT DOOR of the house was opened.

  “Anybody in here?” Mrs. Lund’s voice called.

  Niels rose and stood silent, a lump in his throat, his heart pounding fast. “Yes, Mrs. Lund,” he answered at last, “I’m here, Niels …”

  “Mis-ter-Lind-stedt,” she sang out and came running in. “Where are you? We didn’t know just when to expect you … I saw smoke coming from the chimney … It’s so dark. Where are you?”

  “No,” Niels said, “don’t light a lamp yet …”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Lund said. “Well, I won’t, then …”

  And they shook hands in the dark.

  “Sit down.” Niels said, “sit down …”

  And Mrs. Lund sat and cried. “Excuse me, Mr. Lindstedt,” she said. “Excuse an old woman. You’ve been our benefactor when we were poor.… We’ve been worried about you …”

  “How’s Bobby?” Niels asked after a while.

  “Bobby? Fine. Bobby’s a farmer, Mr. Lindstedt, thanks to you. He’s doing fine. Considering, you know … He’s only a beginner. But he’s going to give me a home as soon as he can. It was he who thought of putting me here for the time being, so we could be together at least. I’ve got the post office again, you know. It relieved him of so much work to have me here. I’m an old farmer myself, you know. You remember how we worked on the place in the edge of the slough … Poor daddy, he couldn’t do much any longer. Oh, Mr. Lindstedt, he was the best husband, the very best; God have mercy on his poor soul … But it all went to smash; you know that, too … Bobby’s fine, thank the Lord … Not that he’s rich. He’s married. You’ve heard about that, I suppose … She’s a daughter of Henry Kelm, George Kelm’s brother. She’s a good girl, I can assure you, Mr. Lindstedt … She’s a fine girl … A real helper … And they’ve five children by now …”

  “Five?” Niels echoed.

  “Yes, sir. Five. Five little Bobbies on the place …Two pairs of twins, all boys … and one girl …”

  Niels smiled in the dark.

  “That’s as many as Nelson’s got. He’s got only five, you know. But Nelson, of course, has a car, a big one, a oh … I don’t know what you call them, an Underground or something. And he’s got a new eight-roomed house, of brick …”

  “Well, well,” Niels said. “And now, Mrs. Lund, I don’t think I’d mind any longer if you lit the lamp. You know so much better where to find it than I …”

  Mrs. Lund bustled about excitedly; and when she came back, the two looked at each other by the light of the lamp which she was carrying in her hand.

  “Well, I declare!” Mrs. Lund exclaimed. “You’re looking younger … younger and better than when I saw you last …”

  She stopped; for, when she had seen him last, there had been a woman in this house, sitting in the corner of the kitchen, gossiping with her and Mrs. Schultze; she had been clad in a silk dressing gown; and she had been smiling ironically from morning till night, smiling at such trivialities as threshing …

  But Niels merely nodded.

  Mrs. Lund, on the contrary, looked older, much older than she had done at the time; though, on closer scrutiny, the impression arose perhaps chiefly from the fact that her hair was light-grey, almost white.

  In Niels’ mind, far back, there hovered a question: a question which he did not dare to ask …

  “But the changes,” Mrs. Lund went on, “the changes, Mr. Lindstedt! You won’t recognise the Marsh any longer … Nearly all the old settlers are gone: the Dahlbecks are gone; the Schultzes—Mr. Schultze was frozen to death the year after … well, you know; the Bakers, the Wagners, the Smiths … They proved up and sold and went … That’s the way it’s been going in this settlement, Mr. Lindstedt. Bobby and you, and Kelm and Ellen Amundsen. That’s all that are left of the old bunch now …”

  Niels closed his eyes. Then he smiled.

  There was one thing left for which he had to atone. He had doubted and worried, worried and doubted about that one point … He had come to the conclusion that, if he found the
girl still living in the bush, he would take it as a sign that once more there would be peace, once more there would be some semblance of life left for him in the future …

  Mrs. Lund saw, divined, and kept her peace …

  At last Niels rose. “Mrs. Lund,” he said, “would you mind helping me once more with my chores? I’ll be awkward, I’m afraid. I’ve lost the knack of things. There’s the milking still to do, I suppose. And the feeding. And when we are through, we’ll go and call on Bobby…”

  “Sure,” Mrs. Lund replied. “I’ll hustle up …”

  There was hay in the loft of the barn, crushed oats in the bin … The cows came home …

  It was eight o’clock when the chores were done. Mrs. Lund went into the house and lighted the kitchen stove …

  Niels remained on the yard, going here and there … In the farthest corner, on the east side, behind pig-pens and milk-house, he came across a pile of squared timbers; timbers which he had cut and squared with Bobby in years gone by. They had been meant for a smokehouse … They were dry and sound …

  He stood and mused …

  Would he ever be able to establish a routine again? Would he ever be able to do the work on the farm? …

  And yet, already the place was home …