The House of Pride | Page 5

half-breed who played under the
hau tree, and it seemed, as by some illumination, that he was gazing on
a wraith of himself. Feature after feature flashed up an unmistakable

resemblance. Or, rather, it was he who was the wraith of that other full-
muscled and generously moulded man. And his features, and that other
man's features, were all reminiscent of Isaac Ford. And nobody had
told him. Every line of Isaac Ford's face he knew. Miniatures, portraits,
and photographs of his father were passing in review through his mind,
and here and there, over and again, in the face before him, he caught
resemblances and vague hints of likeness. It was devil's work that could
reproduce the austere features of Isaac Ford in the loose and sensuous
features before him. Once, the man turned, and for one flashing instant
it seemed to Percival Ford that he saw his father, dead and gone,
peering at him out of the face of Joe Garland.
"It's nothing at all," he could faintly hear Dr. Kennedy saying, "They
were all mixed up in the old days. You know that. You've seen it all
your life. Sailors married queens and begat princesses and all the rest of
it. It was the usual thing in the Islands."
"But not with my father," Percival Ford interrupted.
"There you are." Kennedy shrugged his shoulders. "Cosmic sap and
smoke of life. Old Isaac Ford was straitlaced and all the rest, and I
know there's no explaining it, least of all to himself. He understood it
no more than you do. Smoke of life, that's all. And don't forget one
thing, Ford. There was a dab of unruly blood in old Isaac Ford, and Joe
Garland inherited it--all of it, smoke of life and cosmic sap; while you
inherited all of old Isaac's ascetic blood. And just because your blood is
cold, well-ordered, and well-disciplined, is no reason that you should
frown upon Joe Garland. When Joe Garland undoes the work you do,
remember that it is only old Isaac Ford on both sides, undoing with one
hand what he does with the other. You are Isaac Ford's right hand, let
us say; Joe Garland is his left hand."
Percival Ford made no answer, and in the silence Dr. Kennedy finished
his forgotten Scotch and soda. From across the grounds an automobile
hooted imperatively.
"There's the machine," Dr. Kennedy said, rising. "I've got to run. I'm
sorry I've shaken you up, and at the same time I'm glad. And know one

thing, Isaac Ford's dab of unruly blood was remarkably small, and Joe
Garland got it all. And one other thing. If your father's left hand offend
you, don't smite it off. Besides, Joe is all right. Frankly, if I could
choose between you and him to live with me on a desert isle, I'd choose
Joe."
Little bare-legged children ran about him, playing, on the grass; but
Percival Ford did not see them. He was gazing steadily at the singer
under the hau tree. He even changed his position once, to get closer.
The clerk of the Seaside went by, limping with age and dragging his
reluctant feet. He had lived forty years on the Islands. Percival Ford
beckoned to him, and the clerk came respectfully, and wondering that
he should be noticed by Percival Ford.
"John," Ford said, "I want you to give me some information. Won't you
sit down?"
The clerk sat down awkwardly, stunned by the unexpected honour. He
blinked at the other and mumbled, "Yes, sir, thank you."
"John, who is Joe Garland?"
The clerk stared at him, blinked, cleared his throat, and said nothing.
"Go on," Percival Ford commanded.
"Who is he?"
"You're joking me, sir," the other managed to articulate.
"I spoke to you seriously."
The clerk recoiled from him.
"You don't mean to say you don't know?" he questioned, his question in
itself the answer.
"I want to know."

"Why, he's--" John broke off and looked about him helplessly. "Hadn't
you better ask somebody else? Everybody thought you knew. We
always thought . . . "
"Yes, go ahead."
"We always thought that that was why you had it in for him."
Photographs and miniatures of Isaac Ford were trooping through his
son's brain, and ghosts of Isaac Ford seemed in the air about hint "I
wish you good night, sir," he could hear the clerk saying, and he saw
him beginning to limp away.
"John," he called abruptly.
John came back and stood near him, blinking and nervously moistening
his lips.
"You haven't told me yet, you know."
"Oh, about Joe Garland?"
"Yes, about Joe Garland. Who is he?"
"He's your brother, sir, if I say it who shouldn't."
"Thank you, John. Good night."
"And you didn't know?" the old man queried, content