Flood Tide Part 18

"Yes."

"'Twas like her."

"It was like both of you."

The old man raised a hand in protest against the grat.i.tude the remark implied.

"Delight ain't often wrong; she's a fair dealer." Then he added significantly, "Them as ain't fair with her deserve no salvation."

"Hanging would be too good for the man who was not square with a girl like that," came from Robert Morton with an emphasis unmistakable in its sincerity.

CHAPTER X

A CONSPIRACY

On Sunday morning, when a menacing east wind whipped the billows into foam and a breath of storm brooded in the air, the Galbraiths' great touring car rolled up to Willie's cottage, and from it stepped not only Robert Morton's old college chum, Roger Galbraith, but also his father, a finely built, middle-aged man whose decisive manner and quick speech characterized the leader and dictator.

He was smooth-shaven after the English fashion and from beneath s.h.a.ggy iron-gray brows a pair of dark eyes, piercing in their intensity, looked out. The face was lined as if the stress of living had drawn its muscles into habitual tensity, and except when a smile relieved the setness of the mouth his countenance was stern to severity. His son, on the other hand, possessed none of his father's force of personality.

Although his features were almost a replica of those of the older man, they lacked strength; it was as if the second impression taken from the type had been less clear-cut and positive. The eyes were clear rather than penetrating, the mouth and chin handsome but mobile; even the well-rounded physique lacked the rugged qualities that proclaimed its development to have been the result of a Spartan combat with the world and instead bore the more artificial st.u.r.diness acquired from sports and athletics.

Nevertheless Roger Galbraith, if not the warrior his progenitor had been, presented no unmanly appearance. Neither self-indulgence nor effeminacy branded him. In fact, there was in his manner a certain magnetism and warmth of sympathy that the elder man could not boast, and it was because of this a.s.set he had never wanted for friends and probably never would want for them. Through the talisman of charm he would exact from others the service which the more autocratic nature commanded.

Yet in spite of the opposition of their personalities, Robert Morton cherished toward both father and son a sincere affection which differed only in the quality of the response the two men called forth. Mr.

Galbraith he admired and revered; Roger he loved.

Had he but known it, each of the Galbraiths in their turn esteemed Robert Morton for widely contrasting reasons. The New York financier found in him a youth after his own heart,--a fine student and hard worker, who had fought his way to an education because necessity confronted him with the choice of going armed or unarmed into life's fray. Although comfortably off, Mr. Morton senior was a man of limited income whose children had been forced to battle for what they had wrested from fortune. Success had not come easily to any of them, and the winning of it had left in its wake a self-reliance and independence surprisingly mature. Ironically enough, this power to fend for himself which Mr. Galbraith so heartily endorsed and respected in Bob was the very characteristic of which he had deprived his own boy, the vast fortune the capitalist had rolled up eliminating all struggle from Roger's career. Every barrier had been removed, every thwarting force had been brought into abeyance, and afterward, with an inconsistency typical of human nature, the leveler of the road fretted at his son's lack of aggressiveness, his eyes, ordinarily so hawklike in their vision, blinded to the fact that what his son was he had to a great extent made him, and if the product caused secret disappointment he had no one to thank for it but himself. Instead his reasoning took the bias that the younger man, having been given every opportunity, should logically have increased the Galbraith force of character rather than have diminished it, and very impatient was he that such had not proved to be the case.

Robert Morton was much more akin to the Galbraith stock, the financier argued. He had all the dog-like persistency, the fighter's love of the game, the courage that will not admit defeat. Although he would not have confessed it, Mr. Galbraith would have given half his fortune to have interchanged the personalities of the two young men. Could Roger have been blessed with Bob's attributes, the dream of his life would have been fulfilled. Money was a potent slave. In the great man's hands it had wrought a magician's marvels. But this miracle, alas, it was powerless to accomplish. Roger was his son, his only son, whom he adored with instinctive pa.s.sion; for whom he coveted every good gift; and in whose future the hopes of his life were bound up. Long since he had abandoned expecting the impossible; he must take the boy as he was, rejoicing that Heaven had sent him as good a one. Yet notwithstanding this philosophy, Mr. Galbraith never saw the two young men together that the envy he stifled did not awaken, and the question rise to his lips:

"Why could I not have had such a son?"

The interrogation clamored now as he came up the walk to the doorway where Robert Morton was standing.

"Well, my boy, I'm glad to see you," exclaimed he with heartiness.

"You are looking fit as a racer."

"And feeling so, Mr. Galbraith," smiled Bob. "You are looking well yourself."

"Never was better in my life."

As he stood still, sweeping his keen gaze over his surroundings, a telegraphic glance of greeting pa.s.sed between the two cla.s.smates.

"How are you, old man?" said Roger.

"Bully, kipper. It's great to see you again," was the reply.

That was all, but they did not need more to a.s.sure each other of their friendship.

"You have a wonderful location here, Bob," observed Mr. Galbraith who had been studying the view. "I never saw anything finer. What a site for a hotel!"

Robert Morton could not but smile at the characteristic comment of the man of finance.

"You would have trouble rooting Mr. Spence out of this spot, I'm afraid," said he.

"Mr. Spence?"

"He is my host. My aunt, Miss Morton, is his housekeeper."

Robert Morton had learned never to waste words when talking with Mr.

Galbraith.

"I see. I should be glad to meet your aunt and Mr. Spence."

"I know they would like to meet you too, sir. They are just inside.

Won't you come in?"

Leading the way, Bob threw open the door into the little sitting room.

In antic.i.p.ation of the visit Celestina had arrayed herself in a fresh print dress and ruffled ap.r.o.n and had compelled Willie to replace his jumper with a suit of homespun and flatten his locks into water-soaked rigidity. By the exchange both persons had lost a certain picturesqueness which Bob could not but deplore. Nevertheless the fact did not greatly matter, for it was not toward them that the capitalist turned his glance. Instead his swiftly moving eyes traveled with one sweep over the cobweb of strings that enmeshed the interior and without regard for etiquette he blurted out:

"Heavens! What's all this?"

The remark, so genuine in its amazement, might under other conditions have provoked resentment but now it merely raised a laugh.

"I don't wonder you ask, sir," replied Willie, stepping forward good-humoredly. "'Tain't a common sight, I'll admit. We get used to it here an' think nothin' about it; but I reckon it must strike outsiders as 'tarnal queer."

"What are you trying to do?" queried the capitalist, still too much interested to heed conventionalities.

Simply and with artless navete Willie explained the significance of the strings while the New Yorker listened, and as the old man told his story it was apparent that Mr. Galbraith was not only amused but was vastly interested.

"I say, Mr. Spence, you should have been an inventor," he exclaimed, when the tale was finished.

He saw a wistful light come into the aged face.

"I mean," he corrected hastily, "you should have a workshop with all the trappings to help you carry out your schemes."

"Oh, Mr. Spence has a workshop," Robert Morton interrupted. "The nicest kind of a one."

"Would you like to see it?" inquired Willie.

"I should, very much."

"I'm afraid it's no place to take you, sir," objected Celestina, horrified at the suggestion. "It ain't been swept out since the deluge. Willie won't have it cleaned. He says he'd never be able to find anything again if it was."

Mr. Galbraith laughed.