the master of saltire was no mean enemy to be pitted against in such a feud as had arisen over gabriel, his son. there was much of the bull-terrier about john strong. he had been born of solid yeoman stock, folk who would have gone stubbornly to the stake rather than admit the power of the pope. moreover, the ex-tea-merchant had learned to the full in his commercial life the sure power of gold. he had always laughed at socialism. even judith could remember him standing before a public building in france and staring contemptuously at the inscription:
“liberté, égalité, fraternité”
“bosh!” he had ejaculated; “the revolution did not abolish bullion.”
john strong was not only a stubborn and a very wealthy man, but he was in that pugnacious mood that had served him so well in his commercial struggles in the past. he threw himself into the cause with something of the spirit of an old british sea-dog laying his ship “gun to gun” against the crack “thunderer” of the french fleet.
the day after his interview with miss saker, john strong left by an early train for rilchester, travelling alone, with no luggage to cumber him. judith had driven over with him to rilchester and had taken leave of him there. for fully a week john strong was absent from saltire hall. he returned one evening unexpectedly, looking the more grim and resolved about the eyes, and having the air of a man very well satisfied with his venture.
the following morning he ordered his carriage out and drove in the direction of gabingly, passing the castle on the south. half an hour later he drew up before an old manor-house packed with tall chimney stacks and straggling gables. the garden was a wilderness, the house itself smothered in creepers. john strong walked up the grass-grown drive, pulled the rusty bell-handle, and, withholding his name, desired to see major maltravers.
the master of saltire was shown into the dining-room, that smelled of stale cigar-smoke. the room was but shabbily furnished in the early victorian style, the panelled walls being hung with sporting prints, the heavy table littered with cheap periodicals, gloves, pipes, and ragged novels. it was some minutes before maltravers entered, to find a stout, bull-necked little gentleman standing stolidly in the middle of the hearth-rug. the soldier was dressed as for riding, in checks and yellow gaiters, with a gold pin fastening his white stock. he took john strong for a rilchester tout or a travelling agent, and was more peremptory than polite in his method of address.
“morning. your business?”
“my business, sir, is of a private nature.”
“private, eh? take a seat. i’m busy; you must excuse me being in a hurry.”
the master of saltire remained standing. there was a look of such implacable earnestness upon his massive face that maltravers regarded him with more consideration than before.
“well, sir,” he said, “what can i do for you?”
“your ability to meet my demands is dependent upon circumstances.”
the soldier elevated his arched eyebrows, smiled, and showed his white teeth. he was in debt to no man, and yet this stout little fellow was wondrous like a dun.
“demands?” he asked.
“i will explain them.”
“may i ask who the devil you are?”
“certainly, sir; i am john strong of saltire.”
the soldier thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and slouching his shoulders, looked at the ex-tea-merchant with his alert, black eyes.
“mr. strong?” he repeated.
“john strong.”
“have we met before?”
“i guess not.”
“will you sit down, sir?”
“no, sir; i prefer to stand.”
“as you like,” said the soldier, with a sniff; “kindly explain your business.”
john strong did so; neither was the matter thereof particularly encouraging to james maltravers’ self-esteem. the ex-tea-merchant was not a man given to mincing his epithets or performing his facts. he hit straight from the shoulder, and with solid effect.
doubtless, according to dramatic ideals, maltravers should have lit a cigarette and poised himself on the back of a chair with a cool and insolent complacency. he should have smiled, glittered with mephistophelian cunning, and played his part like the clever egotist that he was. on the contrary, the soldier appeared suspiciously uncomfortable, and betrayed a certain uneasiness that even his military hauteur could not hide.
“really,” he observed with much affectation of surprise, “these are extraordinary remarks, mr. strong. you must have been sitting in the sun.”
“no, sir, i have been at callydon.”
“callydon, eh?”
“and at st. aylmers.”
“a pretty place enough.”
“and at messrs. goring’s office in london.”
the two men remained some seven paces apart and looked each other over. the soldier, suave and angular, stood with his feet planted wide apart, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his riding-breeches.
“i should be much obliged, mr. strong,” he observed, “if you would stop speaking in riddles.”
“certainly,” retorted the other.
“am i to understand—”
“you are to understand this, sir—i shall have you prosecuted for conspiring to defeat justice.”
“a large order, mr. strong.”
“a damned large order, sir—an order upon which i shall spend fifty thousand pounds with pleasure.”
the soldier stared at him, somewhat stupidly, it must be confessed, for one whose wit was usually so nimble. the whole truth was that maltravers was a coward, not in the mere physical sense, but rather morally and ethically. like many a selfish and sensual man, he could play the pistol when his own sleek interests were threatened. his philosophy was epicurean in the vulgar sense, a philosophy that shirked any overshadowing of its comfort.
“so, sir, you consider me a criminal?”
“i have my facts.”
the soldier seemed amused despite the gravity of the occasion; the elder man’s face was as stubborn as ever.
“i doubt very much whether you can prove anything.”
“you admit conspiracy.”
“mr. strong, am i a fool?”
a flicker of a smile passed over the master of saltire’s face.
“one of your chief witnesses has confessed to me,” he said.
“who?”
“never mind, sir; keep to the point.”
now it was only by subtle sword-play that such a man as john strong could be delicately baffled. maltravers, who now had his temper admirably under control, had adapted himself to the situation with the adroitness of an athlete. he was not fool enough to indulge in sword and buckler work, or to suffer himself to be bullied by an old plutocrat who had both the will and the means to make matters vastly uncomfortable for a gentleman of fashion. it was matador’s work this, to dangle the red rag of a woman’s honor before this bovine and stolid being, and to reserve the steel to consummate his own safety.
thus maltravers had the wit to see that he might turn the situation to his own credit by performing sundry subtle gyrations about the truth. he might victimize john strong by making a victim of the very woman who trusted him. no very noble strategy this! but, then, who would be the wiser if the trick succeeded, and if john strong recoiled from sacrificing a woman? maltravers’ easy sophistry was capable of an?sthetizing his own none too vivid conscience.
“believe me, mr. strong,” he began; “let me be frank with you. as an english gentleman, i should be sorry to see a woman’s honor dragged in the mire.”
“don’t preach to me, sir, on honor,” quoth john strong; “what about my son’s honor?”
“your son, sir, was perhaps more fool than knave.”
“indeed!”
“it seems to me, mr. strong,” said the soldier, with admirable magnanimity, “that we are both waxing hot over a matter which has passed beyond our control. let us talk more calmly. what has been done has been done, and we are all of us human. you are aware, of course, that no legal readjustment can be made.”
“fully aware.”
the soldier smiled again.
“then i am to understand that your chief desire is to drag me down into the mud.”
“exactly.”
“my dear sir, you are mistaken. your vengeance would not fall upon me, nor should i be the one to suffer.”
“you insinuate—”
“i make no insinuations, sir. i repeat the suggestion that you only would sacrifice a woman.”
john strong planted his feet more firmly on the hearth-rug and knitted his brows.
“explain,” he said.
maltravers adopted a more graceful and easy attitude, and spoke as a man who knew something of the world.
“firstly, sir,” he observed, “you have to prove that i am a scoundrel.”
“true.”
“what are your chances? they are not very great, i must confess. but, mr. strong, have you considered the other side of the question. you desire to justify your son.”
“i do.”
“so you think you can improve matters by dragging all concerned again before the world. i presume you know something of the british public, what they would say in the matter. the pot and the kettle—there is much truth in the proverb. another big scandal; all the old ladies shaking their heads over ‘a depraved and corrupt society.’?”
john strong was silent.
“why not let matters stand?” said the soldier. “perhaps i am not so bad as you think me. there is another person more deeply concerned, as i have suggested to you, but i will not betray a woman’s secret. if you persist, what will be the result? two women besmirched the more and your own son rendered doubly ridiculous.”
the master of saltire squared his shoulders and looked maltravers over with his keen, gray eyes. there was much logic in the soldier’s argument, and john strong, even in his most obstinate mood, was not a man who was blind to prudence.
“there is something in all this,” he observed, “but—”
“well, sir?”
“i shall stand out for two things.”
“state them, mr. strong.”
“that you leave the neighborhood within a week.”
maltravers’ black brows lifted a moment, but he smiled as before and seemed perfectly agreeable.
“a small matter,” he said. “i was preparing to leave, intending to travel abroad. there will be no difficulty in this.”
john strong could not refrain from blurting out his thoughts.
“and ophelia gusset?”
“the honorable miss gusset, mr. strong, is nothing to me.”
“nothing to you?”
“nothing, sir—nothing. what i have done i have done; it belongs to the past. take the hint, sir; but understand, as a gentleman, i will not betray a woman. her affairs are her affairs; i meddle no further. and the second demand?”
“that you inform me who it was that wrote a certain anonymous letter concerning my son.”
maltravers, suave diplomat, contrived to conjure up a laugh over the question.
“really, mr. strong,” he said, “i have not the faintest notion.”
“impossible.”
turning suddenly, the soldier strode to a bureau, unlocked it, fumbled in a pigeon-hole, drew out a crumpled sheet of note-paper, tossed it on the table before john strong.
“the very letter,” he said, apparently much amused; “take it, sir, and unravel the mystery for yourself. eve might have written it, so far as i am concerned.”
“and now—”
“we had better shake hands, mr. strong. your son was innocent, perfectly innocent. this, of course, is in confidence. in the witness-box i should swear the opposite.”
“by god!” said the elder man, “where are we, on our heads or on our feet?”
“ask god, sir,” said the soldier, “for is not god himself a paradox?”
thus, with this last gross piece of inconsistency, the parley ended, as many such a passage of passion has ended, and will end. maltravers had sheltered himself behind the woman who had trusted him. wrong-doer and avenger cried a truce over the business, shirking the last death-grip, the one from selfishness, the other because hearts more dear would have been the more deeply wounded. for man cannot conquer truth at times save by dragging the innocent through the dust, even as achilles dragged hector about the walls of troy.
