they buried zeus gildersedge in saltire churchyard, mr. mince officiating, bleating through the burial service with his usual sentimental unction.

“earth to earth, and dust to dust.”

good gold also to the greedy, and the dead man’s store consecrated to strangers and to hirelings. thus zeus gildersedge, who had never given a penny away gladly in his life, went to his last resting-place, and, lazarus-like, lay in charity’s bosom, while his child was barred out from before the gates of “the worthy.”

there was a goodly gathering about the grave, for the funeral had excited the curiosity of the villagers. mrs. mince was there in black gloves and black bonnet; also james marjoy, pulling his ragged mustache; also his wife, eying creation irritably through her brimming glasses. mrs. primmer, hard mouthed and self-satisfied, stood beside the gravestone of a girl who had died in child-bed, dabbing her eyes at intervals with a large, white handkerchief. to judge by the dignity of the display, zeus gildersedge might have been one of the most respected of patriarchs, a man whose sympathies had fathomed the woes of many a poor fellow’s pocket.

at the end thereof, the crowd dwindled through the lych-gate, under the green chestnut-trees, and by the school-house where the children were at work. mrs. primmer, whose tongue had been busy ascribing zeus gildersedge’s death to his daughter’s “shocking interference,” accompanied mrs. mince up saltire high street to the vicarage. mrs. primmer carried a little black hand-bag, wherein lay the handkerchief she had used at the funeral, her post-office savings book, and several trinkets she had appropriated from joan’s bedroom at burnt house. mrs. primmer, in acknowledgment of her many virtues, was to be received once more at the vicarage as cook.

dr. marjoy and his wife drove home together, uninspired above their mean level of materialism by the miser’s funeral. the suggestiveness of the scene had been lost upon them—the subtlety of those significant words, “dust to dust.” they discussed the profits of the case over the tea-table, discussed it with that complacency that had accustomed them to existing upon the misfortunes of others.

“i should send in my account at once to the executors,” said the lady, eying the carpet and debating inwardly how much it would cost her to replace it with a new one.

“mince and lang are acting in the matter.”

mrs. marjoy frowned and fidgeted in her chair.

“how much have you charged?” she asked.

“thirty pounds or so.”

“make it fifty, dear; dead men can afford to pay. i am sure you were backward and forward enough.”

“i think it is only fair,” said the doctor, “that one should recuperate one’s self from the wealthy for the amount of time one has to waste gratuitously on the poor. it is an extraordinary thing, but whenever i get a bad diphtheria case it is always in a cottage, and one gets nothing out of it.”

“i thought the robinsons’ baby was really going to have whooping-cough at last,” added mrs. marjoy, “but it turned out only a cold. that would have been a good case, james; people are always ridiculously anxious about an only child.”

the doctor sipped his tea.

“i think i might charge old gildersedge’s estate sixty guineas,” he observed. “i spared the daughter any inquiries about that last attack of syncope.”

“his death lies at her door,” said mrs. marjoy, pursing up her mouth. “infamous wench—attacking an old man on his death-bed. nothing more has been seen of her; i suppose she has gone back to that young blackguard of a strong.”

“at all events, zeus gildersedge did not leave her a farthing.”

“vice must be suppressed,” quoth mrs. marjoy, with irritable unction.

judith strong had heard in saltire of zeus gildersedge’s death, but she had kept the news from joan, knowing that gabriel’s wife had had sufficient sorrow since the autumn. the same day that the old man was buried in saltire churchyard, judith had ordered out her dog-cart and persuaded her father to drive with her towards the sea.

judith seemed to be the one being in the world for whom john strong had any sentimental respect. the merchant was a hard man, even as many men are hard who have buffeted their way to the van in their strenuous and materialistic struggle of the day. the aggressive and self-reliant elements of his nature had been exaggerated to a degree that rendered him often offensive to folk of finer fibre. john strong’s vindictiveness towards his son had originated largely from outraged vanity and imbittered pride. it was not so much the offence, but the destructive and thorough sincerity of the deed that had made john strong so implacable a minos. doubtless he would have ignored a guarded indiscretion. gabriel’s whole-hearted enthusiasm in consummating his own social overthrow had maddened his father, to whom prudence was one of the prime virtues.

yet john strong had a heart in him under all the grim and orthodox materialism that had contracted about his character. judith could remember the time when her father, less cumbered by the cult of gold, had romped with her like a great boy. nor was it imbittered ambition alone that had whitened his hair and bowed his broad shoulders a little those winter months. deep under the granite surface john strong had loved his son, and loved him still with a doggedness that he himself perhaps would never have allowed.

judith, warm-hearted woman, had suspected this same truth, and had drawn her dreams therefrom. had not her father, silent and stubborn, watchful as some grizzled dog, confessed that he had received rumors that had set him pondering anew? there was old symes, the solicitor at rilchester, a fast friend, who had seen ophelia at st. aylmers while he was taking his own holiday there. had not symes sworn in confidence that he had seen this same maltravers with ophelia, this maltravers whose name was now linked with hers? then there were certain of the friary servants, hired creatures whom john strong had distrusted, and had taken pains to strengthen his distrust. some such suggestive hints as these had fallen casually to him since the autumn; nor was he the man to throw a hint away.

john strong climbed heavily into the dog-cart that day, and sat himself down beside judith, telling the groom they did not need him for the afternoon. judith touched the brown mare with the whip, and they swung away down the drive and under the great oaks of the home park. john strong’s eyes wandered almost wistfully over the rich meadow-land, the woods, the fish-ponds glimmering below the garden. had he not held this for his son, that son whom he had hoped to see more of an aristocrat than was his father?

as they went through saltire they heard the church-bell tolling, slowly and heavily, from the tall spire.

“who’s dead?” john strong asked, as he saw people moving towards the gate.

“zeus gildersedge,” judith answered, glancing at him slantwise as she drove.

she saw her father’s figure stiffen unconsciously, his forehead grow full of lines under the brim of his shooting-hat. his lids were half closed over his keen, gray eyes as they drove on down the street in the full glare of the sun.

“zeus gildersedge is dead, is he?”

“yes, father.”

“his daughter’s doing, i suppose?”

“no, not that. he has been killing himself for years with wine and opium.”

“so. but how do you know that?”

judith colored.

“every one knows of it,” she said.

john strong sat silent, staring southward where he could see cambron head and a streak of sea-blue in the distance. his mouth was not so implacable as of old, and there was something in his eyes that half suggested to judith the thoughts that were in his heart.

“girl,” he said suddenly.

judith tightened her hold upon the reins.

“did you ever see this wench? don’t be afraid of telling the truth.”

“i have seen her, father.”

“mere baggage, i suppose.”

“gabriel thought her a noble woman. i think as gabriel did.”

john strong cast a rapid glance at his daughter’s face. there was some movement about his mouth—the hard lines were softer, the gray eyes less repellent.

“you mean to tell me that the woman is presentable?”

“far more presentable than i am. do you think gabriel would have risked all for a slattern?”

john strong winced.

“then whose fault was it?” he asked.

“whose, indeed?”

“you tell me that gabriel is an honest man, that the girl is all that she should be, while the law has declared for the gusset woman. how can these things harmonize?”

“my dear father, do you trust ophelia gusset?”

john strong considered his reply a moment, like a witness confronting an expert advocate.

“the law trusted her,” he said.

“what is the law?”

“common-sense, girl.”

“it was ophelia’s word against gabriel’s. you believed ophelia.”

“the evidence was on her side. and why the devil should the woman kick up such a dust if she had suffered nothing?”

“because that marriage was a mockery; because she did not love gabriel; because she wanted to get back her liberty.”

john strong leaned back and stared sullenly under his bushy brows towards the sea. judith knew that he was thinking deeply, and that his thoughts were tinged with bitterness, the bitterness of a proud and self-righteous man half moved to confess himself deceived. had not his own reason uttered these same words that he heard from judith’s lips, and had he not hurled them again and again out of his heart with scorn?

“judith,” he said, “i would give my right hand to know whether my son was a fool or a knave.”

“and the proof lies—”

“partly with the woman for whom he ruined himself. gabriel was always a dreamer and an enthusiast. i tried to break him of his quixotism. that’s where we clashed.”

“and joan gildersedge?”

“the girl may have been an adventuress, or a mere twin fool to gabriel. if i could have that girl’s heart like an open ledger before me, i wager i could discover who falsified the accounts.”

“you think so, father?”

“i have seen something of the world.”

“and ophelia?”

he answered with an oath.

before them ran a straight road. on the left towered a beech-wood, where huge trunks pillared the gloom under the dense cloud of green. on the right ran meadows ablaze with gold. set back from the road stood a red-tiled cottage under the shade of two poplars and an elm. the white garden-gate blinked between two yew-trees at the end of a path that ran over the meadow.

judith drew up suddenly by the roadside and sprang down into the grass. she took a strap from under the seat and tethered the mare to a stake in the hedge. her father watched her with no great interest. judith had many poor folk on her charity, and such visits as this were by no means rare.

“come with me,” she said, holding out her hand to him.

“who lives yonder? old milton? you don’t want me on these occasions.”

“yes, i do want you, father. old widow milton was very grateful for the seeds you sent her.”

“seeds i sent her?”

“yes, you remember, for her garden. come. jenny will be safe tied to the hedge.”

john strong, rising with something betwixt a grunt and a sigh, clambered out of the trap and followed judith over the stile. he did not trouble himself to understand her humor, and, moreover, he was busied with reflections of his own that drove dame milton and her small affairs into oblivion. he was thinking of gabriel, and of what judith had said to him as they drove from saltire. like a man who had lost his way in a fog, he peered round him into space, ignorant that the very path he sought curled close to his feet.

they came to the gate and entered the little front garden, bright with its flowers. judith turned off along the brick path that ran round the cottage to where several fruit-trees overhung a patch of grass. beds of cottage flowers bloomed in barbaric abundance about the lawn. under a plum-tree was set a table covered with a clean, white cloth, and in an old arm-chair sat a girl reading.

john strong had followed his daughter round the cottage, with his hands in his coat-pockets and his hat tilted over his eyes. he glanced half listlessly at the flowers, as though the opulence of his own garden had spoiled him for the humbler broideries of nature. he had no definite consciousness with regard to externals for the moment, and had followed judith more from lack of thought than from any desire to speak with widow milton. thus when he came to a sudden halt on the grass behind the cottage, and saw a pale, slim woman standing under a fruit-tree with an open book held in both her hands, he started, stiffened at the hips, and seemed not a little nonplussed by the unexpectedness of the vision.

his surprise was increased the more by judith’s behavior. he saw his daughter go to the woman standing under the tree, kiss her, and thrust her back gently into the chair. a look, a word or two passed between them. instinctively john strong had taken off his hat. he stood irresolutely in the middle of the lawn, holding his hat between his hands, staring first at joan and then at judith.

but gabriel’s sister had no intention of suffering the scene to degenerate into melodrama. she put a chair forward, took her father’s hat, smiled at him as though the situation was the most natural thing in the whole world.

“sit down, father dear.”

and john strong sat down.

judith had flown to the cottage door.

“we are ready for tea, please, mrs. milton; there are three of us.”

she was back again in her white dress like a beam of light, her eyes tremulous, her face eager with the inspiration of the moment. was not the delicate balance poised upon her diplomacy? she gave joan one long, loving look, and then turned to watch her father.

as for john strong, he sat there a man very ill at ease within himself, neither knowing whether to be angry nor upon what reason he could base his anger. who was this white-faced woman with the splendid hair, whose half-frightened and mesmeric eyes stared at him from under the shadow of the tree? how had she come there, and what was she to judith? john strong’s eyes twinkled nervously over the half-reclining figure. he was expecting an introduction, but no such trite formality released him from his ignorance.

judith’s voice reached his ear. it was a perilous hour for gabriel and for joan, and judith’s courage rose to the occasion. father and sister both looked to her for promptings, and judith sustained the burden of it all.

“my father is a great gardener,” she said, flashing a look into joan’s eyes.

“ah, yes; i, too, know something of flowers, for i love them all.”

john strong, autocrat though he was, accepted the opening gladly, even as a callow boy welcomes a partner’s sympathy at a dance. he awoke and expanded, grew warm and even eager. the two women encouraged him with that luminous interest that a philosopher loves in his disciples. mysteries were unfolded, the subtleties in horticulture were discussed. john strong, enthusiast that he was, grew the more surprised at the knowledge this mere woman possessed. nor was her knowledge mere book-lore concerning birds and flowers, but the vivid wisdom of one who had waded through dew-drenched fields at many a dawn and watched wild life from many a woodland hermitage.

john strong was very partial to a pretty woman, provided she had l’air spirituel and a certain stateliness that suggested “birth.” this stranger under the fruit-tree was wonderfully intelligent, nor was there anything of the “blue” about her to arouse distrust. what eyes she had, and what a mouth! who the dickens was she? what a goose judith was to forget the decent formalities of society. gabriel’s wife? could it be possible?

tea came. mrs. milton, in a clean apron and cap, beamed upon them like a ruddy cottage rose, honest and uncultivated.

joan drew to the table, and john strong watched her white, delicate hands hovering over the cups. he had grown silent of a sudden—thoughtful, restless. joan’s eyes wavered up to his, large, limpid, and entreating.

“may i give you sugar?”

“three lumps, please.”

“cream?”

“cream, thank you.”

“won’t you sit in the shade. it is such a glare out there in the sun.”

john strong edged his chair under the tree, while judith watched him, smiling out of her dark eyes. it was all very simple, yet very strange. she wondered what thoughts were working in her father’s brain.

half an hour passed, smoothly enough, and then came the leave-taking. joan, very pale and a little defiant for all her wistfulness, stood up and looked into john strong’s face. the gray eyes and the blue ones met and challenged each other steadily. judith was watching joan as a mother watches a child taking the first step on the stair of fame. it was joan’s instinct that triumphed in that moment. she went straight up to john strong, put up her mouth to him to be kissed.

and john strong kissed her.

“thank you,” was all she said.

as for gabriel’s father, he spoke never a word as he drove home with judith towards saltire. his daughter watched him, biding her time, wondering whether he were angry or not, and what would follow if his pride should prove too strong.

it was not till he had entered his own lodge gates that john strong spoke to judith of the woman he had met at the cottage.

“is she—?” he said.

“yes—gabriel’s wife.”

john strong was silent again for fully a minute. then he asked joan a single question.

“was this a plant?”

his daughter looked him full in the face.

“no, father,” she said; “i did not know we should drive there till after we heard the death-bell tolling.”

“this is the truth?”

“have i ever lied to you in my life?”