Christopher Hibbault, Roadmaker Part 34

"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?"

"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 Masters was 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 pa.s.sing minutes crowded on his notice. He put on speed; tried to outstrip the evil thought of it, to think only of Caesar, the dear companion of his days, the steady friend, the un.o.btrusive 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 Caesar; 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 pa.s.s an old woman in a donkey 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 gra.s.s 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 satisfaction of hearing Peter Masters heave a relieved sigh.

"The roads here need re-making," as they proceeded b.u.mpily over a rather bad piece of ground.

"For motors?"

"For everything. A road should be easy going for motors, horses, and foot-pa.s.sengers. 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?"