Silas Strong 5

Silas Strong 5

S. STRONG

 

GUIDE AND CONTRIVER

 

 

He was able in either capacity, but his great gift lay in tongue

control--in his management of silence. He was what they called in that

country "a one-word man." The phrase indicated that he was wont to

express himself with all possible brevity. He never used more than one

word if that could be made to satisfy the demands of politeness and

perspicacity. Even though provocation might lift his feeling to high

degrees of intensity, and well beyond the pale of Christian sentiment,

he was never profuse.

 

His oaths would often hiss and hang fire a little, but they were in the

end as brief and emphatic as the crack of a rifle. This trait of

brevity was due, in some degree, to the fact that he stammered slightly,

especially in moments of excitement, but more to his life in the silence

of the deep woods.

 

Silas Strong had filled his great pack at the store and was nearing his

winter home--a rude log-house in the little forest hamlet. He let the

basket down from his broad back to the doorstep. His sister Cynthia,

small, slim, sternfaced, black-eyed, heart and fancy free, stood looking

down at him.

 

"Wal, what now?" she demanded, in a voice not unlike that of a pea-hen.

 

"T'-t'-morrer," he stammered, in a loud and cheerful tone.

 

"What time to-morrer?"

 

"D-daylight."

 

"I knew it," she snapped, sinking into a chair, the broom in her hands,

and a woful look upon her. "You've got t' hankerin'."

 

Silas said nothing, but entered the house and took a drink of water.

Cynthia snapped:

 

"If I wanted t' marry Net Roice I'd marry 'er an' not be dilly-dallyin'

all my life."

 

Cynthia was now fifty years of age, and regarded with a stern eye every

act of man which bore any suggestion of dilly-dallying.

 

"Ain't g-good'nough," he stammered, calmly.

 

"You're fool 'nough," she declared, with a twang of ill-nature.

 

"S-supper, Mis' Strong," said he, stirring the fire.

 

Whenever his sister indulged in language of unusual loudness and

severity he was wont to address her in a gentle tone as "Mis'

Strong"--the only kind of retaliation to which he resorted. He shortened

the "Miss" a little, so that his words might almost be recorded as "Mi'

Strong." In those rare and cheerful moments when her mood was more in

harmony with his own he called her "Sinth" for short. In his letters,

which were few, he had addressed her as "deer sinth." She was,

therefore, a compound person, consisting of a severe and dissenting

character called "Mis' Strong," and a woman of few words and a look of

sickliness and resignation who answered to the pseudonyme of "Sinth."

 

Born and brought up in the forest, there was much in Silas and Cynthia

that suggested the wild growth of the woodland. Their sister--the late

Mrs. Gordon--had beauty and a head for books. She had gone to town and

worked for her board and spent a year in the academy. Silas and Cynthia,

on the other hand, were without beauty or learning or refinement, nor

had they much understanding of the laws of earth or heaven, save what

nature had taught them; but the devotion of this man to that querulous

little wild-cat of a sister was remarkable. She was to him a sacred

heritage. For love of her he had carried with him these ten years a

burden, as it were, of suppressed and yearning affection. Silas Strong

alone might even have been "good enough," in his own estimation, but he

accepted "Mis' Strong" as a kind of flaw in his own character.

 

Every June he went to his camp at Lost River, taking Sinth to cook for

him, and returning in the early winter. Next day, at sunrise, they were

to start for the woods.

 

To-day he helped to get supper, and, having wiped the dishes, put on his

best suit, his fine boots, his new felt hat, and walked a mile to the

little farm of Uncle Ben Roice. He carried with him a gray squirrel in a

cage, and, as he walked, sang in a low voice:

 

"All for the love of a charmin' creature,

 

All for the love of a lady fair."

 

It was like any one of a thousand visits he had made there. Annette met

him at the door.

 

"Why, of all things!" said she. "What have you here?"

 

"C'ris'mus p-present, Lady Ann," said he.

 

It should be said that with Silas a gift was a "Christmas present" every

day in the year--the cheerful spirit of that time being always with him.

 

He proudly put the cage in her hands.

 

"Much obliged to you, Sile," said she, laughing.

 

"S-Strong's ahead!" he stammered, cheerfully.

 

This indicated that in his fight with the powers of evil Strong felt as

if he had at least temporary advantage. When, perhaps, after a moment of

anger it seemed that the Evil One had got the upper hold on him, he was

wont to exclaim, "Satan's ahead!" But the historian is glad to say that

those occasions were, in the main, rare and painful.

 

"Strong will never give in," said Annette, with laughter.

 

Strong's affection was expressed only in signs and tokens. Of the former

there were his careful preparation for each visit, and many sighs and

blushes, and now and then a tender glance of the eye. Of tokens there

had been many--a tame fox, ten mink-skins, a fawn, a young thrush, a

pancake-turner carved out of wood, and other important trifles. For

twenty years he had been coming, but never a word of love had passed

between them.

 

Silas sat in a strong wooden chair. Under the sky he never thought of

his six feet and two inches of bone and muscle; now it seemed to fill

his consciousness and the little room in which he sat. To-day and

generally he leaned against the wall, a knee in his hands as if to keep

himself in proper restraint.

 

"Did you just come to bring me that squirrel?" Annette inquired.

 

"No," he answered.

 

"What then?"

 

"Squirrel come t' b-bring me."

 

"Silas Strong!" she exclaimed, playfully, amazed by his frankness.

 

He put his big hand over his face and enjoyed half a minute of silent

laughter.

 

"Silas Strong!" she repeated.

 

"Present,"'said he, as if answering the call of the roll, and sobering

as he uncovered his face.

 

In conversation Silas had a way of partly closing one eye while the

other opened wide beneath a lifted brow. The one word of the Emperor was

inadequate. He was, indeed, present, but he was extremely happy also, a

condition which should have been freely acknowledged. It must be said,

however, that his features made up in some degree for the idleness of

his tongue. He brushed them with a downward movement, of his hand, as

if to remove all traces of levity and prepare them for their part in

serious conversation.

 

"All w-well?" he inquired, soberly.

 

"Eat our allowance," said she, sitting near him. "How's Miss Strong?"

 

"S-supple!" he answered. Then he ran his fingers through his blond hair

and soberly exclaimed, "Weasels!"

 

This remark indicated that weasels had been killing the poultry and

applying stimulation to the tongue of Miss Strong. Silas had sent her

fowls away to market the day before.

 

"Too bad!" was the remark of Lady Ann.

 

"Fisht?" By this word Silas meant to inquire if she had been fishing.

 

"Yesterday. Over at the falls--caught ten," said she, getting busy with

her knitting. "B-big?"

 

"Three that long," she answered, measuring with her thread.

 

He gave a loud whistle of surprise, thought a moment, and exclaimed,

"M-mountaneyous!" He used this word when contemplating in imagination

news of a large and important character.

 

"How have you been?"

 

"Stout," he answered, drawing in his breath.

 

Annette rose and seemed to go in search of something. The kindly gray

eyes of Silas Strong followed her. A smile lighted up his face. It was

a very plain face, but there was yet something fine about it, something

which invited confidence and respect. The Lady Ann entered her own room,

and soon returned.

 

"Shut yer eyes," said she.

 

"What f-for?"

 

"Chris'mas present."

 

Silas obeyed, and she thrust three pairs of socks into his coat-pocket.

With a smile he drew them out. Then a partly smothered laugh burst

from his lips, and he held his hand before his face and shook with good

feeling.

 

"S-socks!" he exclaimed.

 

"There are two parts of a man which always ought to be kep' warm--his

heart an' his feet," said she. Silas whacked his knee with his palm and laughed heartily, his wide eye aglow with merriment. His __EXPRESSION__ quickly turned serious.