Christopher Hibbault, Roadmaker Part 31

Mrs. Sartin held firmly to the carriage door and the oscillation of the cab caused her to nod violently, but it was not in a.s.sent 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 Caesar 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.

"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 Caesar 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 use the 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 Caesar'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 grat.i.tude, without question, had recognised no room for speculation, allowed no play to whispers of curiosity. It was Caesar'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 Caesar'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: "I wonder, 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 pa.s.sion 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 destroyed a limb. Away from her actual presence and before this dual conception of themselves he was of a.s.sured 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 a.s.sured 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, Caesar's consent, and even the person of Geoffry Leverson interposed between Patricia and him. This mood had its sway and in turn succ.u.mbed 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 Caesar, "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 Caesar'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.

CHAPTER 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 pa.s.sed. 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 was a 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 pa.s.sive enjoyment, her brown eyes shining beneath the ridiculous curls.

They had chosen the Hippodrome for their afternoon's amus.e.m.e.nt, 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.

Pa.s.sing 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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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 followed Jessie 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."