“No, father, you’re not going to kill me. And when you go talking so, I’ve cause to believe you’re not quite sane.”
It was the boy’s utter calm and perfect poise in a crucial situation, more than the girl question now, which was making Johnathan a man obsessed. He wanted Nathan to cringe and be afraid. Nathan was driven back against the wall but he did not cringe. Neither was he afraid. For the son had at last looked into his father’s weak, inflamed eyes and realized that he—the son—was the better man.
Johnathan’s lips moved ghastly before his voice would come.
“So I’m crazy, am I? And if I choose to murder you, what would you do?”
“I won’t hit you, father. But no one could criticize me for defending myself when any one, even my own father, announces he’s going to murder me.”
“You’ll defend yourself? How?”
“That remains to be seen.”
“God Almighty——”
“It strikes me, father—and this is as good a time to say it as any—it strikes me that there’s altogether too much dragging of God into our family affairs, and mouthing His name over and over is little short of blasphemy. Let’s leave God out of this and settle it between ourselves.”
On the son’s face was slight contempt. Johnathan moved deadly close. Forked lights were dancing in his eyes.