One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 3

was deep in the heart of the woods. The sound of his axe rang sharp in the silence. Now and then a blue-jay, startled by a heavier blow or a falling limb, flew with a harsh cry to a more distant tree. Richard marked the blue and white flash, standing for a moment with axe suspended, then the blow fell again, always to the same bitter accompaniment. 'The sight of the bird only roused a new phase of the old thought. “Last year I shot a blue-jay and gave the wings to her. Edwards can give her store things prettier than that.” The blows fell again, faster and stronger.

Presently he dropped his axe. Walking to a little distance, he kneeled down and began brushing the snow lightly aside. Underneath lay the dark vines of partride-berry—the bright berries shining red among the green lines. Swiftly he passed his hands across them. The finger-tips seemed alive. They raised a slender vine and held it a moment, as if to pick it; they laid it reluctantly again in its place. “No,”—he was brushing back the snow with quick fingers,—“I can't carry them to her, and Mother wouldn't want them.”

He stood looking up through the network of branches into the clear sky of the winter's day. His eyes dropped; they noted the straight, dark trunks, the straggling underbrush, through which the sun fell softly, the whiteness of the snow, broken only by shadows. Long he looked, as if he were bidding it all good-by; then he turned away and, shouldering his axe, walked swiftly down the snowy wood-road.

For a month past the neighbors had been discussing the engagement of Emily and Edwards. They were to be married in the spring. Everyone said it was a good match for Emily. They felt sorry for Richard. He was a fine fellow—but too dreamy and fanciful. It was a good thing that Emily was off with him. He had queer notions. That poetry he wrote for the Lyceum meeting,—about “the red fingers of the woodbine at the throat of the dying year,”—it sounded pretty, but it was queer—too much like his Grandfather Crane. No, he would never get on.

He followed the wood-road for about half a mile. Then he left even this slight trail and struck into the unbroken wood, making his way through the underbrush and light snow with free, swinging step.

He had evidently a goal in view, and he emerged at last into a small clearing. A small, time-worn house stood a few rods away. Beyond the house a long, sloping hill rose to the horizon, and half-way up the hill an isolated pine lifted its branches against the sky. A barn stood a short distance from the house, a path connecting the two. If there was any way of approach except that by which Richard had come, it did not appear.

He struck across the open space, smiling as he looked up to the line of smoke rising from the chimney. “He's home, fast enough,” he said to himself. He scarcely waited to hear the response to his knock before he lifted the latch and stood in the low doorway.

An old man was standing by the stove. He had paused in the act of putting a stick of wood in the fire, and stood, with stove-lifter suspended, looking expectantly towards the door.

“Hallo, Dick,” he said, nodding as he saw his visitor. Turning once more to the stove, he rapped vigorously on the stick until it fell into place.

Richard seemed to expect no other welcome. He crossed the room and seated himself on a rough, home-made bench near the fire.

The old man looked at him keenly from under shaggy gray brows as he brushed the chips and dust from his hands. “Pretty cold,” he said at last.

Richard nodded. He knew from experience that the less he said himself the more Seth Kinney would say. He picked up a pine splinter from the floor and began whittling it as if unconscious of the shrewd look bent upon him from the other side of the stove.

The figure that stood there was a curious one. A rough gray beard and a shock of gray hair rose above the blue smock that reached to the tops of heavy cowhide boots. Short, square, solid, his feet well apart, he formed a striking contrast to the younger man, who sat leaning heavily forward, one elbow resting negligently on his knee, whittling the soft pine splinter.

Seth shook his head as he watched the listless figure. He seated himself by the western window and took up a book that was lying, face down, on the broad sill. “How are you feeling, Dick?” he asked abruptly.

“All right,” was the answer. Silence fell on the room. The old man ran his eye rapidly down the page, found the place where he had left off, settled himself comfortably in his chair, and was lost in the book. The fire blazed and crackled and shone through the chinks of the warped stove.

Richard watched the blaze and waited. The silence was broken by an inarticulate sound from the window. It might be assent or it might be the end of a train of thought.

“What is it?” asked Richard.

The old man looked up absently. “Oh—still there, Dick? Just listen to this.” He began to read from the brown book in his hand.

“Oh, bother!” said Richard impatiently. “Translate it, won't you, Seth? What is it, any way? I can't understand Greek.”

The old man waited a moment as if searching for fit words, and then read in a clear, full voice that contrasted oddly with his uncouth appearance:

""

“That's all bosh!” said Richard irritably. “The fellow that wrote it never had anything worse to bear than the toothache.”

He stopped a minute and then began again abruptly, the words tumbling out. “What can I do?—I can't stand it—I thought I'd stay home and fight it out. But I can't. It's killing me—but I don't want to go away,” he added.

He had sunk again into the listless attitude. “It isn't worth while—nothing is worth while.”

His companion said nothing. He was watching the listless figure keenly, as a physician might watch a restless patient. “Have you thought of killing yourself?” he said at last.

The young man started and flushed. “Yes,”—under his breath and half shamed,—“but somehow I don't dare. But I can't bear to live either,” he went on. “Perhaps if I could get away from folks the way you have, I could stand it.”

The other looked up quickly. He waited a minute. Then he spoke with slow emphasis. “You're not going to spoil your life. I've spoiled mine. That's enough.'

“It isn't spoiled. You are contented. You believe all that stuff about philosophy and your mind being an impregnable citadel. Perhaps I should, too, after awhile.”

“Resignation isn't living,” said the old man bitterly. “I had power, I tell you.” He was sitting erect and his eyes flashed. “I had a mind, and because a woman jilted me I threw it away. I buried myself. Don't do it, Dick,” his voice had dropped, “no woman is worth it. Be a man. Show that you are made of better stuff.” Again his voice rang out as if he were addressing a jury. He was transfigured.

Richard, watching, understood for the first time what his grandfather, Geoffrey Crane, had meant when he used to speak of Seth Kinney's power and of his spoiled life.

In a flash the young man, looking into the future, saw himself in the older man's place. His figure straightened and his hands clenched. The teeth behind the square jaw came together with even firmness.

“What shall I do?”

The older man paused a moment. “You'd better go to college,” he said at last. “You have Latin enough. I'll teach you Greek and you can work up the mathematics by yourself. Go to work. Work hard. Don't give yourself time to think. That's the way out.”

The young man rose, shutting his knife with a snap. “All right, Seth.”

“Wait a minute.” The old man mounted a chair and searched among the worn volumes on a high shelf. He selected one and, slapping the covers together, handed it to Dick. “Learn the first twenty pages,” he commanded. “When you are ready, come and recite.”

When Richard was outside the door he looked at the title-page in the fading light. It was “The Elements of Greek Grammar—taken chiefly from the Grammar of Casper Frederick Haschenberg, 1820.”