172CHAPTER XIV
Christopher spent the whole of the day inspecting possible motors, perfectly aware all the time of the one he meant to purchase, but in no wise prepared to forego the pleasures of inspection. Sam was not free that evening, so he dined with Constantia Wyatt, whose elusive personality continued to remove her in his eyes far from relationship with ordinary women. She was going to a “first night” at His Majesty’s Theatre as a preliminary to her evening’s amusement, and her husband, honestly engrossed in work, seized on Christopher at once as an adequate substitute for his own personal escort. He would meet her with the carriage after and go with her to the Duchess of Z––, but it would be a great help to him to have a few early evening hours for his book; so he explained with elaborate care.
“Basil is so deliciously mediæval and quaint,” Constantia confided to her young cavalier as the carriage drove off; “he quite seriously believes women cannot go to a theatre or anywhere without an escort, even in our enlightened age. I assure you it is quite remarkable the number of parties we attend together; people are beginning to talk about it. If it’s impossible for him to come himself he always seems to have hosts of cousins or relations ready to take his place. Oh, charming people; but quite a family corps, a sort of ‘Guard of Honour,’ as if I were Royalty—and really, at my time of life.”
She turned her radiantly beautiful face to Christopher. She was indeed one of those beloved of time and it seemed to Christopher as he saw her in the crude173flashing glare from the streets without, that the past ten years which had made of him a man had left her a girl still, but since he was as yet no adept at pretty speeches he kept the thought to himself and said shyly:
“It is not a question of age at all.”
“You, too, think me incompetent to look after myself?”
“It is not a matter of competence either, is it? I mean, one can easily understand that Mr. Wyatt is proud of being your....” He stopped lamely.
“Finish your sentence, you tantalising boy.”
“Your caretaker, then,” he concluded defiantly.
“Delicious,” she clapped her hands softly. “I thought you were going to say ‘proprietor.’”
“It is you who are the proprietor of the caretaker, isn’t it?”
“The new cadet is worthy his commission,” she pronounced with mock gravity.
“It is a great honour, especially since I am not one of the family.”
He never forgot this in her presence. It was as if an overscrupulous remembrance of hard days forced him to disclaim kinship with anything so finely feminine as Constantia Wyatt; as if he found no right of way from his own world of concrete fact into that delicate gracious world of illusions in which he placed her. Such barriers did not exist for her, however, and thence it came that it was to Constantia that Christopher spoke most easily of his relationship to the Aston family.
She put aside his disclaimer now, almost indignantly.
“You belong to Aymer. How can you say you do not belong to us, when you have been so good for him?”
His main claim on them all lay in that, that he was and had been goodforthe idolised Aymer Aston. He recognised it as she spoke and was content, for the174proud generosity of his nature was built on a humility that had no underprops of petty pride.
“That was quite unpremeditated on my part,” he protested whimsically; “you are all far too good to me. I can never explain it to myself, but I accept it, and realise I am a real millionaire.”
Constantia Wyatt started slightly. Christopher noticed the diamonds on her hair sparkle as she leant forward.
“How did you discover that?” she asked in a low voice.
“My fortune? I was only ten when I came to Cæsar, but I must have been a very dense child indeed if I had not known even then that the luck of the gods was mine—if I had not been sensible of the kindness––”
His voice was low also and he fell into his old bad habit of leaving his sentence unfinished—hardly knowing he had expressed so much.
Constantia gave a sigh of relief, and Christopher again was only aware of the twinkling diamonds, of melting lines of soft velvet and fur, a presence friendly but unanalysable. They passed at that moment a mansion of a prince of the world of money, and she indicated it with a wave of her fan.
“Supposing, Christopher, you could realise some of your imaginary fortune forhis?”
“Heaven forbid. Think how it was made.”
“The world forgets that.”
“You do not forget,” he answered quickly; “besides it’s much nicer to be adopted than to fight other people for fortune.”
“I thought all boys liked fighting.”
“Not if there’s anything better to be done. A Punch and Judy show or a funeral will stop the most violent set-to. I’ve seen it times, when I was a boy in the street. Sam and I raised a cry one day of ‘soldiers’175to stop a chum being knocked down. Then we ran.”
“Oh. Christopher, Christopher, can’t you forget it?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t want to. It wouldn’t be fair to Cæsar. Also I couldn’t.”
“Some day you will marry, and perhaps she will rather you should forget.”
“No, she won’t, she is far too fond of Cæsar.”
He stopped abruptly. For one brief moment the great voice of the streets and the yellow glare died away; he was blinded by a bewildering white light that broke down barriers undreamed of within his soul. Then the actual comparative darkness of the carriage obscured it and he found himself again conscious of the scent of roses, the sheen of satin and soft velvet, and his heart was beating madly. He had stumbled over the unsuspected threshold, surprised the hidden temple of his own heart, and this, inopportunely, prematurely, and, to his everlasting confusion, in the presence of another.
He clanged to the gates of his inner consciousness in breathless haste and set curb on his momentary shame and amazement. The break was so short his companion had barely time to identify the image disclosed when his voice went on with quiet deliberation.
“Or will be when she appears. A case of ‘if she be not fair to “he,” what care I how fair she be.’”
Constantia with rare generosity offered no hindrance to the closing of the door and discreetly pretended she had not been aware it had opened. Yet she smiled to herself and decided it was quite a desirable image and very advantageous to Aymer. Also, she reflected with pleasure, she had predicted the result from Patricia’s and Christopher’s intimacy, to her father years ago.176
The piece at the theatre was a modern comedy which did not greatly interest him, indeed, he was more concerned in keeping his attention from that newly-discovered temple within than in unravelling the mysteries of the rather thread-bare plot of the play. Being, however, quite unaccustomed to dealing with this dual condition of mind it is to be feared he was a little “distrait” and mechanical of speech. Constantia allowed him the first act to play out his mood and then with charming imperiousness claimed his full attention, gained it, and with it, his gratitude for timely distraction.
Half way through the play he remembered this was the theatre at which Mrs. Sartin and Jessie were employed. He mentioned the fact to Mrs. Wyatt, who remarked gravely their names were not on the programme. Christopher equally gravely explained quite briefly. If he found nothing surprising in his own interest in these friends of the past, he never made the error of imagining they would be of interest to newer friends. There was a certain independence in his attitude towards all affairs that touched him nearly, which even at this early age made him a free citizen of the world in which he chanced to move. This attitude of mind was more in evidence to-night than he had imagined. Personally, he quite appreciated the fact he was sitting in a box with one of the loveliest women in London, and that she was everything that was charming and nice to him, but it never occurred to him that half the men in the theatre would have given a big share of their worth to be in his place; he was almost childishly unconscious of the envious glances he earned. Constantia was not: neither was she blind to his attitude of personal content and impersonal oblivion. It amused her vastly, and she compiled an exceedingly entertaining letter to Aymer on the strength of it.177
“He handed me over to Basil in the vestibule afterwards,” she concluded, “with the most engaging air of having been allowed a special treat and fully appreciating it, and departed straightway to conduct Mrs. Sartin, dresser at the theatre, to her house in the wilds of Lambeth. He owned it in the most ingenuous way, seeing nothing whatever of pathos in it. Does he lack sense of humour?”
Aymer, ignoring the rest of the letter, refuted this query with pages of vigorous sarcasm, to the complete delight and triumph of his sister.
Christopher, having ascertained from a suspicious doorkeeper that Mrs. Sartin would not be free for twenty minutes, cooled his heels in a dark, draughty passage with what patience he could.
He seized on Mrs. Sartin as she came unsuspectingly down a winding stair, and bore her off breathless, remonstrating, but fluttering with pride, in a hansom.
“I’m only up for a few days,” he explained. “Sam dines with me to-morrow and I want you to come out somewhere in the afternoon. Crystal Palace, or wherever Jessie likes.”
Mrs. Sartin’s face and Mrs. Sartin’s person had expanded in the last few years and her powers of expressing emotion seemed to have expanded with her person. Disappointment was writ large on her ample countenance.
“Well, now, if that isn’t a shame and a contrariwise of purpose. I’ve taken a job, Mr. Christopher, for that blessed afternoon. I’ve promised to dress Miss Asty, who is making a debût at a matiny at the Court. Eliza Lowden, she was goin’ to dress her, but she can’t set a wig as I can.”
“What a nuisance. But, anyhow, Jessie isn’t engaged, is she?”
For an instant he had a glimpse of Mrs. Sartin’s178full face, dubious, questioning, even hostile, but to him it was merely the result of flickering light and conveyed nothing.
“I don’t rightly know,” she said slowly, “maybe she doesn’t care much for gadding about.”
“Rubbish,” he retorted contemptuously, “if you can’t come, Jessie must anyway.”
Mrs. Sartin held firmly to the carriage door and the oscillation of the cab caused her to nod violently, but it was not in assent to Christopher’s proposition. She appeared to be turning something over in her slow mind.
“I don’t know but what I could arrange with Eliza,” she remarked.
“Of course you can, like a good woman; and you and Jessie come up to Aston House at one o’clock and say where you’d like to go, and we’ll go.”
Martha demurred. “Mr. Aston won’t like it.”
“Won’t like what?”
“Our comin’ to ’is ’ouse, like as if we ’ad any claim on you.”
“Do I or you know Mr. Aston best?” he demanded imperiously. “Claim indeed. Martha, you dear old stupid, where would I be now, if you hadn’t taken my mother in?”
“That were just a chance, Mr. Christopher, because I ’appened to be comin’ ’ome late and your pore ma was took bad on the bridge as I crossed, and bein’ a woman what ’ad a family, I saw what was the matter.”
“What was it more than a chance that Cæsar in looking for a boy to adopt stumbled on the son of someone he used to know?”
Again the oscillation made Mrs. Sartin nod vigorously. She bestowed on her companion another of those shrewd, dubious glances, began a sentence and stopped.179
“Yes. What were you saying?” asked Christopher absently.
“You’ve come quite far enough, Mr. Christopher,” she announced, with the air of a woman come to a decision, “you just tell that man on the top to stop and let me out. Thanking you all the same, but I don’t care to be seen driving ’ome this time of night and settin’ folks a-talking. You set me down, there’s a dear Mr. Christopher.”
She got her way in the matter of dismissing the cab, but not in dismissing Christopher, her primary desire, lest an indiscreet tongue should prompt her to say more than was “rightful,” as she explained to Jessie.
“For if the dear innocent don’t see ’ow the land lays, it isn’t for me to show ’im, and Mr. Aymer so good to Sam.”
“Maybe you are all wrong,” said Jessie shortly.
Mrs. Sartin sniffed contemptuously.
The Sartins no longer inhabited Primrose Buildings, but were proud inhabitants of a decent little house in a phenomenally dull street, sufficiently near the big “Store” to suit Sam’s convenience. Sam himself came to the door and, late as it was, insisted on walking back with Christopher into the region of cabs, and, becoming engrossed in conversation, naturally walked far beyond it.
“This partnership business,” began Sam at once, “I do wish, Chris, you’d get Mr. Aymer to make it a loan business. I’d be a sight better pleased.”
“I can’t for the life of me see why,” Christopher objected with a frown. “It’s only a matter of a few hundred pounds, and if Cæsar chooses to spend it on you instead of buying a picture or enamel, or that sort of toy, why should you object. It’s not charity.”
“Then what is it?” demanded Sam, “because I’m not a toy. Don’t fly out at me, Chris, be reasonable. I’m as grateful to him as I can be, and I mean to use180the chance he’s given me all I can. But this partnership business beats me. It’s all very well for him to do things for you. Of course he couldn’t do less; but how do I come in?”
A drunken man reeled out of a house and lurched against Christopher, who put out his hand to steady him without a word of comment, and when the drinker had found his balance, he turned again to Sam with sharp indignation.
“He could do a jolly sight less for me and still be more generous than most people’s fathers. There’s no ‘of course’ about it.”
Sam stared stolidly in front of him.
“That’s just it. It’s one thing to do it for someone belonging to one, and another thing to do it for a stranger,” he persisted.
“Well, that’s just how I feel, only I don’t make a fuss. It’s Cæsar’s way, and a precious good way for us.”
They parted at last with no better understanding on the vexed subject, and Christopher, once back at Aston House, sat frowning over the fire instead of going to bed. Why all of a sudden had this question of his amazing indebtedness to Aymer been so persistently thrust on him. Hitherto he had accepted it with generous gratitude, without question, had recognised no room for speculation, allowed no play to whispers of curiosity. It was Cæsar’s will. Now he was suddenly aware, however he might close his mind, others speculated; however guard his soul from inquisitiveness, others questioned, and it angered him for Cæsar’s sake. His mother had never spoken to him of the past, never opened her lips as to the strange sacrifice she had made for her unborn child, except once when they were hurriedly leaving London by stealth, after the episode with Martha Sartin’s rascally husband. Mrs. Hibbault had remarked wearily: “I181wonder, Jim, shall I spend my life taking you out of the way of bad men?”
When he asked her if she had done it before she answered: “I took you from your father.” It was the only time he remembered her mentioning that unknown father; he recollected still how her face had changed and she had hurried her steps, as if haunted by a new suspicion.
It gave him quite unreasonable annoyance that these thoughts intruded themselves to-night, when he wanted to give his full attention to the wonder and glory of the discovery he had made in Constantia Wyatt’s company. That was, indeed, a matter of real moment. How had he contrived to be blind to it so long? He had not reached the age of twenty-one without entertaining vague theories concerning love, and having definitely decided that it had nothing to do with the travesty of its name which had confronted him on his wanderings. Neither taste nor training, nor the absorbing passion for his work had left him time or wish to explore this field which roused only an impatient contempt when thrust on his notice. Of Love itself, as before stated, he held vague theories: regarding it rather as a far-off event which would meet him in future years and land him eventually at Hymen’s feet. And here he found all such theories suddenly reversed. The first moment the idea of marriage was presented to his notice the vision of the only possible bride for him stood out with quite definite distinctness. Instead of Love being a prelude to the thought of Marriage, that thought had been the crashing chords that had opened his mind to Love. But the Love had been already there, unrecognised. He found he could no way now imagine himself as apart from Patricia. To eliminate her presence from his heart was to lose part of his individuality; to separate his practical life from her was as if he wantonly destroyed182a limb. Away from her actual presence and before this dual conception of themselves he was of assured courage, thankfulness and strange joy, but the moment his thoughts flew to her in concrete form, to Patricia Connell at Marden Court, he experienced a reversion: his confidence was gone, the assured vision became a very far-away possibility, a glory which he might hardly hope to attain.
Very slowly this latter aspect blotted out the first triumphant joy of his discovery. Mundane things, such as Renata Aston’s wishes, Cæsar’s consent, and even the person of Geoffry Leverson interposed between Patricia and him. This mood had its sway and in turn succumbed to an awakening of his dormant will and every fighting instinct. Patricia must be his, was his potentially, but he recognised she was not his for the asking. He would have to acquire the right to say to Cæsar, “I want to marry Mrs. Aston’s sister.” Aymer might easily make the way smooth for him, if he would. He had no reason then for believing he would oppose the idea. Yet Christopher knew that in the gamut of possible needs and desires the one thing he could not freely accept from Cæsar’s hands was his wife. His life was before him, before Patricia too. When he reached this point in his deliberation he made a sudden movement. The fire had gone out and it was very cold. Christopher decided it was time to go to bed.
183CHAPTER XV
Jessie proved by no means averse to “gadding about,” as her mother expressed it. She and Mrs. Sartin turned up punctually at Aston House, though laden with an air of desperate resolve. On their way they had both cheerfully concealed some tremulous qualms and neither had ventured to express a dormant wish that Mr. Christopher had chosen some other spot for lunch than the lordly, sombre, half-opened house. It was not until they stood beneath the great portico that their vague discomfort got the upper hand, and Mrs. Sartin agreed without demur to Jessie’s suggestion that they should seek a smaller entrance. As they were turning away the great door swung open and Christopher came out.
“How jolly of you to be so punctual,” he cried, greeting them warmly. “Where were you off to? Did you think I wasn’t at home because the blinds were down? They don’t open all the house for me,” he added, leading the way through the great hall. “I live on the garden side.”
Mrs. Sartin had no mind to hurry: she wanted to take in the solid beauties as she passed. Jessie plucked her nervously by the sleeve seeing Christopher was outpacing them, and terrified of being left in that labyrinth of corridor without a guide. However, once within the sunny little room with its homely comforts and Christopher’s kindly self for host, they regained their wonted composure.
The smallness of the staff left in charge at Aston House gave Christopher an excuse for dispensing with the services of Burton, the footman, and the meal was184a great success. It never occurred to the host to think these good kind friends of his in any way out of place here. His sense of humour was quite unruffled, nay, he was even genuinely pleased to see the good, ample Martha, the strings of her black bonnet untied, her face wreathed in smiles, vigorously clearing out a tart dish, and Jessie’s homely features lit up with passive enjoyment, her brown eyes shining beneath the ridiculous curls.
They had chosen the Hippodrome for their afternoon’s amusement, and there was plenty of time after lunch to show them some of the glories of Aston House. Christopher led them through the shrouded rooms, but the treasures he displayed to view were not so much those of artistic merit as those which had pleased his own boyish fancy years before. Passing down a corridor he stopped by a remote closed door. Jessie was examining some Wedgewood plaques a little way off. Christopher looked at Mrs. Sartin with a queer little smile.
“When I was a kid,” he said rather shamefacedly, “I used to play that my mother was going about the place with me. You see there were no women-folk, and the pretence seemed to help things. I used to make it seem more real by always starting here, and pretending that was her room. It was the only door that was always locked.”
“Lor’, what a queer idea!” ejaculated Mrs. Sartin, gazing suspiciously at the closed door.
Christopher laughed. “Oh, I’ve been in since; there’s nothing there but newspapers, quite a dull little room. But it was an odd fancy. My feeling was so strong I used to take her round and show her things I’ve shown you to-day. I always wanted to show them to someone instead of the real treasures, which are rather dull, you know.”
Mrs. Sartin said again it was very queer. She followed185Jessie and Christopher reluctantly with backward glances towards the door, full of puzzled suspicion. When they were again in the hall it was time to start for the Hippodrome, and there was a great deal of patting of hats and tying of strings before a Venetian mirror.
But Aymer Aston’s room, with its world-famed pictures, was unvisited.
When the Hippodrome performance was over and he had seen his guests safely homeward, Christopher called on Constantia Wyatt and found her in. She seemed in no wise surprised to see him, but asked him promptly when he was going down to Marden.
“I don’t know,” he said slowly, his eyes on the fire, “I don’t think I shall go back yet.”
Constantia rang the bell and told the footman she was not at home, and then drew her chair up to the fire and made Christopher some fresh tea.
“Is London proving so very attractive?” she inquired.
“I shan’t stay in town. I think I shall go abroad again. I want to think.”
“Dear, dear. Is Marden such a bad atmosphere for the intelligence?”
He coloured up boy-like and then laughed.
“There are too many clever people to help one think there. Also there is a man in Belgium trying some private road experiments. I want to help him.”
“What will Aymer say to it?”
“He thinks I’ve been idle long enough.”
“And the man in Belgium will help you to think?”
“I’m afraid that’s my own job.”
Constantia rose and wandered round the room, vaguely touching a flower here and there and presently came to stand behind her visitor’s chair. She was thinking how young he was, and how strong, and that Patricia was a fortunate girl. Her eyes were very186soft and kind as she bent over his chair and touched his shoulder with her fingers.
“Christopher, you are in love!”
Very young indeed, was her inward comment on his startled wondering face turned to her.
“How do you know?” he asked, making no denial of the fact. Denial would have savoured of disloyalty to his new kingdom.
She laughed gently. “Don’t you even know that? What a lot I could teach you if Aymer would hand you over. Listen, Master Christopher, love is the only thing men want to think about alone, just as it’s the only thing a woman never wants to keep to herself. You could think to much better advantage at Marden but it’s no use telling you so. You won’t believe it.”
“I do believe it, only it’s not a question ofmyadvantage, you see.”
“There spoke Aymer’s pupil. Remember roads take a good deal of making and short cuts were made for—lovers.”
She returned to the fire and stood there looking at him with an interest that surprised herself: a tall, gracious presence whose knowledge of his secret hurt not one bit, so clearly did it lie within the realms wherein all gracious, tender women reign.
Then she changed the subject quite abruptly, thrust it back into those hazy regions of speculation from which Christopher had so hardly and impatiently dragged it the previous night.
“I wonder if your mother were alive, if she would be satisfied with you, Christopher, and if she would still want to make a socialist of you.”
“My mother?” he echoed dully.
For a while he struggled with a strange inability to lay hold on the shadowy form he knew so well. He looked round the beautiful room that was but a setting187to a lovely woman and then back at her. Why had she spoken of his mother? He again attempted to crystallise the thought of the dearly loved, defeated woman in the presence of her to whom the world denied nothing.
“I can’t do it,” he said aloud with a quick breath.
“Do what?” she queried swiftly, but got no answer.
“Was my mother a socialist?” he asked presently with difficulty.
“So I have always understood.”
“Who told you so?”
“My father. I thought you knew that, Christopher, or I should not have mentioned it. All I know is, she chose to be poor rather than expose you to the dangers of wealth. I know nothing else.”
Christopher stood up. “Thank you,” he said, “I believe I did know that, but I have never been reminded of it. I do not know her story: I suppose she did not wish me to know it, but I do know whatever she chose, whatever she did, it was chosen and done because it seemed to her the right course and therefore the only one she could take.”
Constantia nodded, still gazing at the fire.
“Aymer’s training on the top of that,” she mused, “I suppose you are accounted for.”
He grew red and looked a boy again. “I should have much to account for if I failed them.”
“Them?” She swung round.
“Cæsar and my mother.”
There was a pause.
“And so you will go to Belgium and think?” she said lightly.
“No, I shall go to Belgium and work.”
“You saidthink,” she insisted.
“I have thought here. I was not sure when I came, but I am now.”188
“May I know what you have thought?”
For a moment the strangeness of speaking to her like this held him dumb. How did it happen she should know so much and must know more, she who had been barely a real individual to him before? It bewildered and confused him. He did not understand that the unspoken passionate claim he made on one woman had broken the barriers between him and woman-kind, that because he loved Patricia Connell he could speak to Constantia Wyatt, for they stood together on holy ground.
“You have every right. You helped me after all,” he said doubtfully, but smiling “I ought not to have hesitated. Cæsar is waiting for me to make roads, not to take short cuts.”
“You think love can better afford to wait than Cæsar?”
“I have my life before me.”
“And if you lose her?”
“It is settled,” he said simply.
She drew in her breath. By every law of man he was right, and yet all the woman in her cried out against this decision as falseness to some other law imperfectly understood, but clamorous for recognition. Nevertheless how her heart went out to him for the quiet finality of that refusal to yield to a law not of his own making! She was proud he was so much the handiwork of Aymer, while she recognised the very weakness of his strength.
“He will lose her,” she mused as she sat alone when he had gone, “and it would break Aymer’s heart if he knew, but he won’t know. He has succeeded in making a man of him, but, oh, what a nice boy he would have been!”
So Christopher turned his back on the great discovery and went to Belgium. Whereupon Patricia complained bitterly, but her golf improved, and Geoffry189Leverson, who knew nothing of road-making, started on a very short cut indeed.
The Roadmaker remained in Belgium longer than he expected and in the laboratory of a great man stumbled on the key of the discovery that in a few years was to make him famous from one end of Europe to the other.
When the apple blossoms were again blushing pink across the land and the blue sky was piled high with dreams of love castles, Christopher remembered the short cut and abruptly announced his intention of returning home. He sent no warning of his coming, but arrived one day at Aston House with his beloved car. It was in his heart to continue his journey straight away, but thinking what pleasure it would give Aymer to watch the practical working of his experiment, he put aside the dictates of his desires and spent the day purchasing materials. Also he called on Constantia and found himself incomprehensibly making excuses for the delay. “I shall go down early to-morrow,” he said; “it can make no difference, since they do not know I am in England.”
“No, I don’t suppose it can,” said Constantia thoughtfully.
190CHAPTER XVI
Christopher flecked an imaginary speck of dust from the burnished metal of his car. He was all ready to start, but seeing a postman coming up the drive, waited to take down the latest delivery of letters, and as he waited a hansom drove up, and since his car occupied the portico, stopped at the side. A big form emerged with a jovial red face and wide shoulders. It was six years since Christopher had seen the man, but his name and personality and, above all, the antipathy with which he had formerly inspired him flashed with lightning vividness to his mind. Peter Masters glanced at Christopher with a momentary puzzled look and turned to ring the bell.
“If you want to see Mr. Aston, Mr. Masters, he is at Marden, and Aymer also. I’m just going down.”
“Ah.” The keen eyes searched him up and down. “I’ve seen you before; can’t place you, though; you aren’t Nevil’s boy.”
“No, I’m––” Christopher hardly knew why he changed the form of his answer, or that he had. “I’m the boy Aymer adopted. You saw me about six years ago.”
“Oh, I remember. Christopher Aston, they call you. You did not like me. What have you done with that clever head of yours, eh?”
Christopher carefully examined a nut on the car.
“Well, never mind. When will Cousin Charles be back?”
“Not until May if he can help it.”
“Not well?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
Peter Masters stood biting his lip and considering.191The footman brought out some letters which Christopher put in his pocket and then mounted.
“Can I take any message for you?” he asked politely.
“Are you going straight to Marden now?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
Christopher devoutly hoped he was, but a sudden fear assailed him: he would not make the momentous journey in solitude. He answered somewhat indistinctly.
“You might run me down; I must see Cousin Charles.”
“I should warn you it is a new road to me and I’ve had my car nearly a year; it’s due to go wrong somehow, and I drive rather fast.”
“I expect you set sufficient value on your own life to insure mine.”
“It will be cold. You can’t ride in that thin coat.”
“You pass the Carlton; I’m staying there. It won’t delay us two minutes. What luck.”
He walked round and got into the car, oblivious of the trifling fact its owner had neither acquiesced nor expressed an enthusiasm over the luck.
“I hope he is nervous,” thought Christopher vindictively, “though there’s not much chance of it. He hasn’t much hair to stand on end, but I’ll do my best to make it.”
Peter Masters rolled himself contentedly in the spare rug. “Ready,” he said cheerfully.
Christopher, however, made no attempt to start. He beckoned to the footman.
“Fetch me the blue paper-covered book you’ll find on the second left-hand shelf of the low book-case in my room, Burton.”
He waited immovable while the man went on the errand, being quite determined to start unprompted by192Mr. Masters if he started at all. The old butler came out and acknowledged Mr. Masters’s presence with a deferential bow. He addressed himself to Christopher.
“Mr. Christopher, will you tell Mr. Aymer we’ve raised the Raphael in his room, as he said, four inches, but the paper is a little faded and it shows. What will he like us to do?”
Christopher nodded. “All right, I’ll tell him. I shall probably be up again next week.”
“We shall be glad to see you again, sir.”
Burton returned in indecorous hurry with the book. Christopher bade them good-bye in a friendly way and the car glided quietly down the drive out into the busy thoroughfare.
“You are quite at home there,” remarked Mr. Masters affably.
“It happens to be my home.”
It was a very busy hour and the driver of the car might reasonably be excused if he were silent. At all events if Mr. Masters spoke, Christopher did not hear him. They slipped in and out of the traffic, glided round corners, slid with smooth swiftness along free stretches of road, crept gingerly across a maze of cross-ways and drew up at the Carlton.
Peter Masters, who appreciated the situation and found humour in it, plunged into that Palace of Travellers and reappeared in an incredibly short time, coated for the occasion.
“Now,” he said cheerily, “we are ready for the fray—when you are ready, Master Christopher,” he added with a twinkle in his eye.
But Christopher’s ill-temper had evaporated with the short wait. After all, the man was Aymer’s cousin, and he couldn’t help being a brute, and if he really wanted to see St. Michael perhaps it was a piece of luck for him that the postman was late. So he193laughed and said a little shyly he hoped Mr. Masters would not mind his not talking till they were out of the streets.
“I shall expect conversation with compound interest,” returned the other good-humouredly.
He was, however, quite quiet until Christopher turned into a narrow back street.
“That’s not your best way,” said Peter Masters sharply.
“I’m going to call on a friend,” replied the driver without apology.
They threaded their way through a maze of small ill-looking streets, slowly enough, for there were children all over the road; not infrequently a big dray forced them to proceed backwards. Masters noted that Christopher never expected the legitimate traffic should give way to him. They emerged at last on a crowded thoroughfare of South London, where small shops elbowed big ones and windows blazed with preposterous advertisements. There were trams too, and scarcely room for the big car between rail and pavement. Presently they stopped before a prosperous-looking grocery store. A white-aproned man rushed out with undisguised complacency to wait on the fine equipage.
“I want to see Mr. Sartin if he’s free,” said Christopher, and waited quietly.
In a minute Sam was with them, white-aproned, pencil behind ear. To Masters’s amusement his companion greeted the young grocer with the familiarity of long friendship.
“I heard from Jessie the other day,” said Christopher when he had explained his appearance; “what about this man Cladsley? Is she going to marry him?”
Sam looked down the street, a little frown on his face.194
“Jessie’d no business to write you. Cladsley’s all right. Don’t you worry about Jessie.”
“I’m not worrying,” laughed the other, “I only wanted to be sure it was suitable and all that.”
“I’ll look after Jessie.” The words were ungracious, but Sam looked worried and uncertain. “You’ve done enough for us.”
“You old dog in the manger,” persisted Christopher good-temperedly, “you’ll never let me do anything for Jessie, and, after all, it was she who used to take my part when you fought me, Master Sam, and wouldn’t let you bully me.”
Sam grinned. “Yes, it was always Jim that was in the right then. Don’t you bother. Cladsley’s a good sort if she would only make up her mind.”
“I gathered his job would be up soon and I thought I might find another for him if it’s all straight with them. That’s why I came to see you.”
Sam appeared still reluctant.
“It’s all beastly stuck-up pride on your part,” concluded Christopher after more argument. “I expect you’ll cut me next; you are getting too prosperous, Mr. Sartin.”
But they parted good friends, and the car re-threaded its way through the crowded streets out into a meaner, more deserted neighbourhood, till at length they emerged on a long empty straight road with small yellow brick houses on either side, as yet uninhabited.
“What’s the engaging young grocer’s name?” asked Masters abruptly.
“Sartin—Sam Sartin.”
“Known him long?”
“We were children together.”
“Relations, perhaps?”
“No.”
“Why did he call you Jim?”195
“I used to be Jim.”
“James Aston?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I’ve forgotten,” said Christopher very deliberately.
Mr. Masters laughed genially. “I like a good liar. You don’t want to tell me anything about yourself. Very likely you are wise, but all the same I am very curious to know all about you—who you are, and how you came to the Astons, and who was your mother, and when and where Aymer met her. You see,” he added confidentially, “I used to be about with Aymer a good bit and I thought I knew all––” He stopped abruptly. If he were being purposely tactless he realised he had gone far enough.
“I do not think Aymer ever met my mother. I am certain you haven’t. Mr. Aston used to know her, and suggested Aymer’s adopting me when he heard I was left stranded in a workhouse. I was just a workhouse boy. Now, are you satisfied as to my private history, sir?”
“No,” retorted the inquisitor good-humouredly as ever, “you must have had a father, you know.”
“It seems possible. I do not remember him.”
He began to resign himself to fate and this Juggernaut of a man who rolled other people’s feelings flat with no more compunction than a traction engine.
“Fathers are useful. You may want to remember, some-day.”
“I’m quite satisfied at present.”
“I’m not suggesting you have anything to complain of. Aymer doesn’t do things by halves. Christopher is as much a family name as Aston, for example.”
Something in his tone caught Christopher’s attention and he looked at him sharply. Peter Masters196was gazing straight before him with that same cynical smile on his face it had worn when Christopher was first introduced to him six years ago.
“I wonder why on earth they did that?” ruminated the Juggernaut. “Cousin Charles is capable of any unworldly folly, but Aymer was a man of the world once. It looks like colossal bluff.”
And then the meaning of all this swept over Christopher’s mind like a wave of fire, scorching his soul, desecrating and humiliating the very mainspring of his life.
Aymer’s son! He knew Masters believed it as surely as if he had blurted it out in his own unbearable way, and it was not to save him, it was from no sense of decency Masters had not said it audibly. Christopher longed to fling the unspoken lie back to him, to refuse the collaboration of detail that the passing minutes crowded on his notice. He put on speed; tried to outstrip the evil thought of it, to think only of Cæsar, the dear companion of his days, the steady friend, the unobtrusive mentor and guide. But a thought he could not outstrip slipped into his mind so insidiously and stealthily, he could not tell how or whence it came.
“You only know Cæsar; you never knew Aymer Aston of the silent past.”
Faster and faster rushed the car in futile attempt to outpace the whispered treason. The speed indicator stood at 40 and still mounted.
“I should like to remark,” said Peter Masters thoughtfully, “that I have not yet made my will and it would cause some inconvenience to a vast number of people to have several millions left masterless.”
“It’s an open road,” returned Christopher, “I know what I’m at. I expect I enjoy life as much as you do.”
He slowed down suddenly, however, to about twenty miles an hour to pass an old woman in a197donkey cart, and the hateful thought swept on in advance apparently, for he overtook it again when their speed ran up ten points.
Christopher had chosen a rather circuitous route which offered fewer villages than the general high-road. It was a glorious day, the banks were starry with primroses, and all the hedgerows, just bursting into green rosettes, were hunting ground for birds innumerable.
Green emerald grass in water-meadows, fresh green growth on the hillside, and red bud and green promise hung from every tree. The crisp air whispered warnings of frosts still to come, but braced the nerve and gladdened the heart nevertheless, and called imperiously to youth to seek its kingdom. Christopher was at no pains to spare the nerves of the master of millions, and though he invariably crept through villages and towns sedately and drove with an eye for crossroads and distant specks on the white track before him, they swept through the open country with a breathless rush.
How good it would have gone alone, Christopher thought savagely, and resentment rose high in his heart. He was going to meet Patricia for the first time with understanding eyes. In the past months his love had grown with steady insistence until the imperious voice of spring, singing in concord with it, had overridden the decision of his stubborn will, demanding surrender, clamorous for recognition, and now having allowed the claim he was again forced back on the unsolved question of his own history. It was as if some imp of mischief had coupled his love to the Past, and had left him without knowledge to loose the secret knot. The silence became intolerable for fear of the next words that might break it from his companion. It would be better to take control himself—so he slackened speed a little and had the satisfaction198of hearing Peter Masters heave a relieved sigh.
“The roads here need re-making,” as they proceeded bumpily over a rather bad piece of ground.
“For motors?”
“For everything. A road should be easy going for motors, horses, and foot-passengers. Easy and safe.”
“How would you do it?”
“A raised causeway for walkers; a road for carriages, and a track for motors. It only means so many yards more and there is plenty of land. Look at that turf—four yards of it. Might as well be road.”
“What are you going to make your roads of?”
Christopher took a deep breath; the pace of the car increased a little.
“That has to be found—will be found. It is a question of time.”
“And you mean to find it?”
“A good many people mean to find it.”
Masters shook his head.
“It won’t pay you so well as iron, Master Christopher. My offer is still open.”
Christopher was so surprised that he nearly swerved into an unfenced pond they were passing.
“It was very kind of you to make it again,” Christopher managed to stammer out, adding with a bluntness worthy of Masters himself, “I never could understand why you made it at all.”
“Neither do I,” returned Peter Masters with a laugh, “and I generally know what I’m at. Perhaps I thought it would please Aymer. As I told you just now, we were friends before his accident. I suppose you’ve heard all about that?”
For a brief moment Christopher felt temptation grip him. He was convinced the man beside him knew the untold story, and at this juncture in his life he would give much to understand all those things he199had never questioned or ventured to consider. Then recognising disloyalty in the very thought, he hastened to escape the pitfall. It was no use to take half measures with this man, however, so he lied again boldly.
“Of course I know,” and went back again to safer ground. “Whatever your reasons, it was good of you to think of me and kinder still to renew your offer. I expect you will think me a silly fool of a boy to refuse it again.”
“Not exactly; but a boy brought up by an Aymer Aston the second.”
“That is sufficient luck for one boy to grab out of life.”
Peter Masters chuckled. “I take it, young man, you’d rather be fathered by Aymer than by me, eh?”
Christopher muttered a very fervent affirmative between clenched teeth, which did not appear to reach his hearer’s ears, for as Masters finished his own sentence he shot a sudden, sharp, puzzled look at Christopher, and his teeth shut together with a click. He spoke no more and when Christopher hazarded a remark he got no answer.
The glory of the day was at its height when Marden came in sight; the whole world seemed to have joined in a peon of thanksgiving which for the moment drowned the unwonted echoes in Christopher’s heart that Peter Masters’s hard voice had awoken.
Youth was his, Love was his, and Patricia was to be his, and he was going to see her. He covered the distance from the lodge gates to the house in a time that taxed his companion’s nerve to the uttermost and bid fair to outpace even the throbbing, rushing pulse of spring that filled the land.