Christopher Hibbault, Roadmaker Part 28

"Yes, for a time, but we were not like that. My mother was--was a lady, educated, and all that, I think, only quite poor. She understood poor people and tramps. We used to walk with them, talk to them. They were kind."

"And if Caesar hadn't adopted you?"

"I should be a workhouse porter by now, perhaps," laughed Christopher lightly and then was silent. A picture of the possible or rather of the inevitable swam before his eyes; a picture of a hungry, needy soul compa.s.sed by wants, by fierce desires, with the dominant will to fulfil them and no means, and the world against him. He did not reason it out to a logical conclusion, but he saw it clearly.

Max concluded the subject was not to be discussed and went on with an explanation of why Christopher had not been met in state after four years' absence.

"The motor was to come for you, but it's gone wrong, and Aymer said you'd rather walk than drive, and we were not quite certain of the train. Do you really hate driving, Christopher?"

"Yes, I always think the horses will run away. Aymer knows that. Is it really four years since I was here, Max?"

"Yes, at Christmas. You never came down when you were in town two years ago. It was a beastly shame of you."

"I'd only two months and Caesar wanted me. That was before I went to Switzerland, wasn't it? They know something about road-making there, Max, but I've learnt more in France."

"And all about motors, too?" questioned Max eagerly. "Can you really drive one?"

Christopher laughed. "I've won a race or two, and I've got a certificate. Perhaps it won't pa.s.s in England."

"Will you teach me to drive? I just long to: but St. Michael says no--though he doesn't mind Geoffry Leverson teaching me to shoot. He's home now, you know, and comes over most days, and when Patricia won't play golf, he takes me shooting."

"Patricia's taken to golf then?"

"Yes. Geoffry says she's splendid, but I expect that's just to make her play up."

They had turned off the highroad now and were in the fields following a path on the side of the sloping meadows. The mist that hung over the river did not reach up to them and Christopher could see the thick foliage of the woods opposite, splashed with gold and russet, heavy with moisture. The warm damp smell of autumn was in the air. He took a long breath and squared his shoulders.

"It's good to be back. To think of its being four whole years."

"And two since you've seen any of us. Are you going away again, Christopher?"

"In the spring. There's St. Michael."

He was waiting by a stile leading into a wood that gave quicker access to Marden Court, and he came forward to meet them with undisguised pleasure.

Charles Aston had rendered but small homage to time. He was as erect and thin as ever, hair perhaps a little white, but the kind eyes had lost nothing of their penetrating quality.

Christopher's welcome could not have been warmer had it been his own father. Max went ahead to find Charlotte and left the two to come on together.

"How is Caesar?" demanded Christopher, the moment they were alone.

"Can't you wait for his own report?"

"I want yours." There was an urgent insistence in his voice, and Mr.

Aston looked at him sharply.

"Well, he is decidedly better since he came down here, and I want him to stay, Christopher, to give up London in the end perhaps altogether."

"He has not been well then?"

"I have not thought so: but what made you suspicious, my dear boy?"

"His letters have been over-witty and deliberately satirical. Just the sort of things he says when something is wrong."

Mr. Aston nodded.

"Yes, I felt that. There seemed nothing physically wrong, but I felt he must have more people round him."

"And you?"

"Oh, I stay here too, and go up and down when needs must."

"And the Colonial Commission? How will it get on without you?"

"Oh, they easily found a better man. As I explained to Caesar, I was only asked as a compliment," he answered simply.

Christopher kept to himself his dissent from this, and was silent a moment, thinking how this man's life was spent to one end; and desirable as he felt that end to be, he was of age now to feel a tinge of regret for all that had been and still was sacrificed to it. An infinitesimal sacrifice of personal feeling and convenience was demanded of him now, if he were to second St. Michael's attempt to keep Aymer from Aston House and teach him to permanently regard Marden Court as home, for dearly as Christopher loved Marden it was only there he was awake to the apparently indisputable truth that he was not one of that dear family who had done their best to make him forget once and for all that obnoxious fact. His sense of proprietorship in Aymer and of Aymer's in him was undeniably stronger in town than in the country, and this not entirely because Nevil was to all intents master of Marden, but rather that there Aymer himself was less isolated, merged more into the general family life, and became again part of the usages and traditions of his own race.

Mr. Aston, without actually speaking the words, had conveyed to Christopher his own dread lest some day Aymer might be left alone, stranded mentally and physically in the great silent London house that was their home by force of dear companionship. Christopher saw it in a flash, saw it so clearly that he involuntarily glanced at his companion to a.s.sure himself of the remoteness of that dread chance.

Hard on this thought pressed the knowledge that neither of these two men who had done so much for him made the least claim on his life or asked ought of him but success in his chosen line--and that knowledge was both sweet and bitter to him.

"Caesar will be far better satisfied when you are actually started at work," Mr. Aston went on. "He lives in your future, Christopher, he is more impatient for this training period to be over than you yourself."

"Because I am training and have no time to think. The first real step is coming. I have a good chance, only I must tell him first."

He quickened his steps insensibly, for the thought of Caesar waiting was like a spur even to physical effort, and even so his mind outraced his feet, till it came full tilt against a girl coming directly from its goal and momentarily obliterating it by her very presence.

"Oh, Christopher, Christopher," Patricia cried, holding out both hands. "How long you have been! I began to think you never would come again!"

Christopher, taking her hands, felt it was a long two years since they parted and that time had made fair road here meanwhile. His thoughts outpaced his feet no longer, but kept decent step with the light footfall beside him.

Mr. Aston, following, noted it all, and first smiled and then sighed a little. The smile was for them and the little sigh for Aymer waiting within.

He found, however, little reason to repeat his sigh during the next few weeks, for Christopher was in constant attendance on Aymer, and gave but the residue of his time to the rest of the little world. His suspicions as to Aymer's well-being vanished away, for the latter betrayed by no outward sign the sleepless nights and long days spent in wrestling with intangible dread of impending evil and the return of almost forgotten black hours. Indeed, Christopher's steady dependable strength and vigorous energy seemed to renew belief and confidence in the man with whom life had broken faith. He was jealously greedy of Christopher's company, though he sought to hide this under a mask of indifference, and he made a deliberate attempt to keep him near him by the exercise of every personal and social gift he possessed. It was not enough for him to hold his adopted son's affection by the bond of the past, it was not enough to be loved by force of custom, his present individuality struggled for recognition and won it.

Deliberately, skilfully and successfully he bound Christopher to him by force of personality, by reason of being what he was as apart from all he had done.

None of the household grudged him his triumph or resented their own dismissal from attendance in the West Room. The women-kind once more superfluous to Caesar's well-being, resumed their wonted routine with generous content.

Patricia's routine appeared to consist very largely of golf in which she and Geoffry Leverson could undoubtedly give Christopher long odds.

Christopher, however, was undaunted, and the few hours he did not spend in Aymer's company, he spent toiling round the links points behind Patricia, play she never so badly. Geoffry complained bitterly to Patricia in private that she was spoiling her game, but she, indifferent to her handicap, continued to play with Christopher and to ignore promised matches with Geoffry whenever her old playmate chose to set foot on the green.

At length Geoffry could stand it no longer and protested loudly when Christopher challenged her, that it was the third time she had put off a return match. Christopher withdrew his challenge at once and declared he would infinitely rather watch a match. Patricia demurred and pouted, whereupon he sternly insisted that promises must be kept.

She played Geoffry and beat him by one point, secured by a rather vicious putt, then lightly requesting him to take her clubs back to the Club House with his, she summoned Christopher to take her home.

Geoffry had not protested again. He took early opportunity to challenge Christopher instead and reaped a small revenge of easy victories, half embittered, half enhanced by Patricia's plainly expressed annoyance with the vanquished one. He knew she would have condoled with him had he lost.

So the weeks slipped by unnoticed and autumn merged into winter.

Christmas came and went--with festivities in which both Patricia and Christopher took active part.