Jasper’s blood coursed hot through his veins. He was angry. He was a forbearing man, ready always to find an excuse for a transgressor, but this was a transgression too malicious to be easily forgiven. Jasper determined, now that he was at home, to see his father, and then to return to the Jordans as quickly as he could. He had ridden his own horse, that horse must have a night’s rest, but to-morrow he would return.
He was thus musing when Mr. Babb came in.
‘You here!’ said the old man. ‘What has brought you to Buckfastleigh again? Want money, of course.’ Then snappishly, ‘You shan’t get it.’
‘I am come,’ said his son, ‘because I had received information that you were ill. Have you been unwell, father?’
‘I—no! I’m never ill. No such luck for you. If I were ill and helpless, you might take the management, you think. If I were dead, that would be nuts to you.’
‘My father, you wrong me. I left you because I would no longer live this wretched life, and because I hate your unforgiving temper.’
‘Unforgiving!’ sneered the old manufacturer. ‘Martin was a thief, and he deserved his fate. Is not Brutus applauded because he condemned his own son? Is not David held to be weak because he bade Joab spare Absalom?’
‘We will not squeeze old crushed apples. No juice will run from them,’ replied Jasper. ‘The thing was done, and might have been forgiven. I would not have returned now had I not been told that you were dying.’
‘Who told you that lie?’
‘Walter.’