PHRAIM HAMPTON was chopping up old poles between house and barn, when he saw his son coming in from the road. He went on chopping, methodically, that big splay-bladed ax of his driving down into the white wood, snapping and crashing, splitting with fearful force into chunks set on end, shivering the poles, white chips flying all about in the trampled snow.
A terrible man, this, not for his great stooped body, but for the stark thing which was frozen in his gaunt face—the cold, chilled life which looked out of his eyes. No human affection lay there to see. All was naked granite, like the bleak hills rising dark upon the snowy horizon. When the time was come, this man drove his blade into the chopping-block, turned away toward the house, and before the doorway met his son. He gave no word of greeting, and ignored the half-questioning, half-wistful look of the younger man.
“Come inside,” said he, and led the way into the cold house.
That was enough for Dick Hampton, who followed and looked with narrowed eyes of hatred at the clean and chilly parlor, at the fearful mockery of the mottoes and pictures on the wall, at the big Bible resting on the center table. If only a picture of his mother had hung here, all might have been different, but there was none.
“Sit you down,” said his father, stiffly lowering himself into a chair at the table.
The cold voice and the colder heart be hind it drove an icy knife through Hampton's spirit. He was afraid of this man, he had always been afraid of him as his mother had been afraid. Not at all a physical fear; only a desperate and frantic shrinking of the warm soul from this abnormal thing in the guise of a man.
In sudden panic, Hampton longed to be out of here and away. Home! The word was mockery. He had found a better home than this in the squeaky forecastle of ships, with rats astir in the dark, with brine working in past strained bowsprit and leaking over the peak bunks, with the reek of sweat and steaming clothes closed in a week on end; more home, more human affection, in that place with its wild oaths and lewd talk than in this horrible abode of cleanliness and sanctity. No wonder Job Warlock refused to return here! Stout old Job had foreseen hell in prospect for the friend he loved. No wonder poor Eli had fled from this to the lure of golden California, as Dick himself had fled from it years before.
Hampton looked at his father, met those icy eyes, a colder gray than his own, and wondered. No pity lay in him for this man deserted in old age by both sons, for the man needed none. No emotions appeared to lie within that heart of granite—only stern duty. Ephraim Hampton was fiercely sufficient unto himself; he had grimly fought off the world until now it lay clear outside him, ignored, and he hewed only to the line of cold duty as he saw it. Dick stiffened a little, began to throw off his awe and fear, in a bitter rush of remembrances and memories; the man was no longer the child. Five words thus far, and not a word of greeting—while Job Warlock, who loved him, was tramping alone over the snow ruts toward Salem!
Still, the mere coming here had required an effort of will, and the effort must be maintained. Perhaps some spark of kindness might yet be struck from that flinty heart—perhaps it was the older man who was awaiting some sign of affection, of warmth. Dick put hand to pocket and drew out some of the loose gold there, and smiled.
“Well, father, I've not done so badly this trip. We turned a good trade at Havana, and I had a share in it, so here's a roll of the yellow boys that'll put new paint on the house and keep you in comfort”
“I'll have none of your ill-got gold,” said Ephraim Hampton coldly. “Put it away, for ye'll have need of it if ye do your duty, and more beside.”
Dick reddened under his bronze, and anger leaped in his unrestrained.
“Ah, this is more like it!” he said, coolly unsheathing the one weapon which never failed to drive home and infuriate his father. “You've sent out to all the neighbors?”
“And why?” demanded the other, deceived by that casual tone.
“To bid them to the feast, o' course. I suppose you've killed the fatted calf, and have decided to get out a jorum of rum for dinner ”
“Ye sacrilegious ruffian!” snapped his father, then checked the outburst and sat with big gnarled hands clenching and unclenching. The weapon had failed this time.