“He was my son—when he was a man,” he retorted grimly.
“He is the son of the woman you once loved,” she answered.
The old man turned his head away.
“What would she have said to what you did to Jim?” He drew himself around sharply. Her dagger had gone home, but he would not let her know it.
“Leave her out of the question—she was a saint,” he said roughly.
“She cannot be left out; nor can you. He got his temperament naturally; he inherited his weakness from your grandfather, from her father. Do you think you are in no way responsible?”
He was silent for a moment, but then said stubbornly: “Why—why have you done it? What’s between him and me can’t be helped; we are father and son; but you—you had no call, no responsibility.”
“I love Jim. I always loved him, ever since I can remember, as you did. I see my way ahead. I will not desert him. No one cares what happens to him, no one but me. Your love wouldn’t stand the test; mine will.”
“Your folks have disinherited you,—you have almost nothing, and I will not change my mind. What do you see ahead of you?”
“Jim—only Jim—and God.”