the master of saltire hall was a hard man, a man of steady nerve and unbending obstinacy. his brain was as a granite-plinthed banking-house, his soul a delicately designed machine for testing the current gold of the realm. provided an argument bulked short by five grains in his estimation, he would toss it aside with an abrupt and hard-mouthed confidence that abhorred sentiment.
walled within his materialism, he yet believed himself to be religious, his creed being a species of mosaic law, practical and eminently rigid. had fate destined him for an annas, he would have crucified a christ with quiet conscience—ay, even with zest. there was nothing spiritual about him in the higher sense; yet he passed as a good man, orthodox and respectable to the last button.
hence it may be imagined that when lord gerald gusset rode over to saltire one morning, and proceeded to harangue the ex-tea-merchant on the iniquities of his son, john strong gaped like a ravaged sepulchre, and discovered no relief in monosyllabic wrath.
above and before all things the master of saltire had been ambitious for his son. it was the ambition of a tyrant, a task-master who had conceived the erection of a social pyramid. he had thought to pinnacle his son on the summit of this ambition, to make of him a fashionable anachronism, a member of a new nobility coroneted by commerce. it was the dream of a materialist, of a man who trusted in his gold.
john strong’s wrath may be pictured when he beheld this excellent edifice crumbling before his eyes. grim man that he was, he was overwhelmed for the instant, beaten to his knees, threatened as with social bankruptcy. his fibre, however, was not of the willow. with twisted branches he stood to the storm, and shook out anathemas at the cloud that had given it birth. he turned iconoclast against his own ambition, and prepared to tear down with his own hands the idol that had disgraced his pride. lacking any elasticity of sentiment, he was the more incensed against gabriel, his son.
the morning after his reunion with joan gildersedge, gabriel took horse and rode for saltire to see his father. he was ignorant as to lord gerald’s previous visit and the insurrection of john strong’s ambitious prejudices. gabriel was in a sanguine mood. joan’s spirit had borne him above himself; her love like a golden banner beaconed him from the hills. chivalry stirred in his blood. his poetic pessimism had fallen from him like the bonds of a witch damsel broken by the hand of a saint.
he rode through saltire village with his chin high and his horse well in hand. the few sleepy folk idling about the street gaped at him with an apathetic curiosity. he passed james marjoy rolling along in his gig, a red carnation in his button-hole and his stethoscope hanging from his pocket. the doctor gave him a curt nod and stared blankly into space. by the church the rev. jacob mince eyed the horseman under the brim of his black hat, and turned from him with a pharisaical dignity. gabriel tilted his chin more loftily towards the stars, put his shoulders back, touched his horse with the spurs.
threading the park, a slumbering arcady, he came, by the three sun-burnished fish-ponds, to the dusky edge of the saltire garden. a wicket-gate closed a grass-path that delved into the green. gabriel saw a streak of white amid the bushes and a hand that waved to him with quick appeal.
“gabriel!”
the man dismounted, threw the reins over the fence, and turned to the gate. judith stood there with her hand upon the latch, her bronze hair brilliant in the sun. she was in white, fair as a magnolia in bloom, her eyes preternaturally dark in her pale and wistful face.
“gabriel, i must speak to you.”
he met her very calmly, with the strength gotten of his rehallowed love. there was no distrust upon her face, only a sorrowful foreboding, a fear for that which was to follow. the man saw that the cup of malice had been emptied at her feet.
“are you also against me?” he asked her, sadly.
their hands met. gabriel went in and stood beside her under the laurels. he seemed taller than of yore, more deep of chest, keener about the eyes. judith looked at him, a slight color suffusing her face.
“gabriel, this is terrible.”
“mere venom,” he said.
“i do not believe these lies,” she answered, with the calm of one whose convictions were carven out of white marble.
“for these words, dear, i thank you.”
“it is these women who have worked this web of slander.”
brother and sister stood silent a moment, looking at each other like two trustful children.
“what of father?” he asked her, suddenly.
a shadow swept across her face, and her eyes darkened.
“he is reasonless,” she said—“mad, mad.”
“i must renew his sanity.”
“i doubt it—i doubt it.”
“is he so ungenerous to his own son?”
“ah, gabriel, did i not warn you against prejudiced affections and ambitious love. slander and shame have turned father into a shylock. he will believe nothing, accept nothing.”
“i must face him,” he said to her, moving on amid the laurels.
“be wise, weigh well your words.”
judith followed at his heels. there was great sadness upon her face. before the path upon the saltire lawns, she touched gabriel’s arm and beckoned him back within the shadows of the thicket.
“gabriel,” she said.
“sister.”
“tell me one thing before you go: do you love this joan gildersedge?”
he started to hear the hallowed name upon her lips, for he had never heard it save in his own heart.
“i love her as dante loved beatrice.”
“and she is worthy?”
“worthy indeed.”
judith looked at the sky; her lips moved as in prayer; the sunlight played upon her face.
“would to god, gabriel, she had come into your life before.”
“amen to that.”
“this will prove a fiery trial to you both.”
“judith, i must stand betwixt her and the world.”
“well said, brother mine; remember, i am with you ever.”
he kissed her, and passed on alone towards the house.
a path betwixt yews led him to the garden below the terrace, a garden redolent of jasmine, lavender, and rose. a thousand flowers upturned their innocent faces at his feet.
beyond the balustrading of the terrace, with its rampart of red roses, gabriel saw his father standing in the sun. the old man turned to meet him as he climbed the steps. there was a ruthlessness upon his stubborn face, an arrogance in his stout, stolid manner. john strong stood out like a patriarch of old, save that there was but little ardor in his keen, gray eyes.
without one word to his son, and with no outstretching of the hand, he turned towards the library and entered by the open window, gabriel following him. john strong locked the door with the composure of a man sure of his own cause.
father and son faced each other in the silent room. the antique clock measured the moments with unhurried hand. john strong was the first to open the debate.
“a nice muddle you have made of life,” was his magnanimous decree.
gabriel, leaning against the carved pillar of the mantel-shelf, regarded his father with a melancholy smile.
“so you believe these lies,” he said, with a twinge of scorn.
john strong retreated to the library chair before his escritoire and fingered a quill.
“let me tell you,” he began, “that you have acted like a scoundrel and a blackguard. son of mine that you are, the evidence of your guilt is overwhelming. what can you plead to lessen you dishonor?”
“that there is no truth in these allusions.”
“pah! am i a fool?”
“has god made you a judge to read truth or evil in the hearts of others?”
gabriel walked the room behind his father’s chair. the summer sunshine smote into the room, and the incense of flowers perfumed the atmosphere.
“will you tell me,” said the son, “upon what evidence you base your condemnation?”
“i am not here, sir, to argue.”
“nor to damn me—like a tyrant.”
john strong flashed round and stared in his son’s face.
“come,” he said; “have you had to do with this bawdy rustic, or have you not? there lies the pith of the problem.”
gabriel faced him, his shoulders squared.
“i remember that you are my father,” he said.
“a rare privilege, it seems.”
“the instincts of a gentleman—”
“answer my question.”
“—should keep you from dishonorable abuse.”
john strong’s temper burst its bonds. he sprang up, overturning his chair in the effort, and stood with his gray eyes gleaming under his bushy brows.
“you young fool!” he said—“insolent even in your folly. for this farm wench you have damned your life, shamed your sister, soiled our name. think of it, you puppy, to wreck your career for—”
gabriel’s voice, clear yet passionate, rang out, drowning the elder man’s violent refrain. he stood at his full height, defiant and eager.
“silence! i have heard enough!”
“by heaven—”
“silence! you have bullied me over long; i will turn tyrant at the last.”
john strong’s broad face grew a shade grayer. he mastered the wrath that streamed to his lips, grew calm and deliberate like the hard man that he was. the spirit of the commercial autocrat rose to chasten him. he spoke slowly and distinctly, fixing his hands on the back of a chair.
“very well,” he said, “i give you one month to leave saltire. your house, your furniture, your very servants are mine. you defy me? very good; go out and starve.”
gabriel stood with head thrown back, breathing deeply, staring in his father’s face.
“let it be so,” he said, calmly.
“the remnant of your quarter’s allowance, two hundred pounds, i leave with you. not another farthing shall you ever draw out of my pocket. defy me if you will, but, by god, i’ll drive you out of saltire!”
gabriel stood a moment as in thought. then he turned to the window, unlatched it, and stepped out onto the terrace.
“let it be so,” he said; “i will be pampered no more that i may act a lie.”
when gabriel had gone, john strong walked to his escretoire, took down his son’s photograph that stood thereon. pursing up his lips, he stared at it calmly, tore it into fragments, and threw them into the empty grate.
