Christopher Hibbault, Roadmaker Part 46

Let it be to Peter's everlasting credit that he knew his millions to be as inadequate to offer a return as any beggar's pocket. He had no quarrel with himself over his past conduct, he repudiated nothing and regretted nothing, he merely viewed the question from the immediate standpoint of the present. Was he going to violate the one rule of his life or not? He made no pretence about it. If he claimed his son he would claim him entirely. Christopher would refuse, would resist the claim at first--of that Peter was a.s.sured. But it would be Aymer himself who would fight with time on his side and insist on Peter's rights, he was equally a.s.sured of that. But still Christopher would refuse.

Peter Masters got up and began to walk up and down and parcelled out bribes.

"He shall have the Foundry to play with--a garden city for them if he likes. His own affair run on his own silly lines." So he thought, ready to sweep to oblivion rule and system for the possession of this son of his.

But there remained Aymer.

Whether he gained Christopher in the end or not the very making of the claim would make a break between Aymer and his adopted son,--a gulf over which they would stretch out hands and never meet.

Aymer loved him. Aymer of the maimed life, the shattered hopes, whose destiny filled Peter with sick pity even now, so that he stretched out his great arms and moved sharply with a dumb thankfulness to something that he could move.

He might as well rob a child--or a beggar--better: he could give them a possible equivalent.

He went slowly to the side table and had a second whiskey and soda, mechanically as he had done at first, then he rang the bell.

When Christopher sought him shortly before dinner-time he was told curtly he could go to London at his leisure and purchase a car where and how he liked, so it were a good one.

"I shall want a chauffeur with it," he added, "English, mind. You can charge your expenses with your commission, whatever that is."

Christopher said gravely he would consider the matter.

"You can send me word how Aymer is," concluded Masters shortly. "I suppose he's ill. The whole lot of you spoil him outrageously."

CHAPTER XXIII

Perhaps they did spoil Aymer Aston, these good people, who loved him so greatly, setting so high a store upon his happiness that their own well-being was merged therein.

While it was quite true that neither Nevil nor any other could have worked peacefully in the electrical atmosphere of the house after Christopher left with Peter Masters, it is also true that no temporary personal inconvenience would have driven Nevil to undertake the long and tiresome journey, if his brother's welfare had not been involved.

The need had been great. Aymer's restless misery increased every day of Christopher's absence. He refused to see any of the household but his father and Vespasian, and though at first he made desperate efforts to control himself, in the end he gave up, and long hours of sullen brooding silence were interposed with pa.s.sionate flashes of temper. It was the old days over again, and all those near him realised to the full how great was the victory that had been won and how terrible life might have been for them all without it. Therefore they were very patient and tolerant, though Mr. Aston began to consider seriously if he would not be justified in breaking his given word to Aymer and summoning Christopher back at once.

He looked very worn and tired when he joined Renata at dinner on the Thursday night.

"Nevil does not mean to be away long, does he?" he inquired anxiously.

"No, I think not. Why, St. Michael? Does Caesar want him?"

"He asked for him this evening."

"What a pity."

She went on with her soup, with a little rose of colour on her face, thinking of the secret her husband had of course confided to her.

Presently observing St. Michael hardly touched his dinner and seemed too weary to talk, she suggested nervously that she should sit with Aymer that evening. He conjured up a kind smile of thanks, but refused in his gentle, courteous way, saying that Aymer seemed disinclined to talk.

When Mr. Aston went back to the West Room a little later, that disinclination seemed to have evaporated. He heard Caesar's furious voice pouring a cascade of biting words on someone as he opened the door. Vespasian was the unfortunate occasion and the unwilling victim; Vespasian, who was older by twenty years than in the days when he stood unmoved before continuous and worse storms. His usually impa.s.sive face was rather red and he now and then uttered a dignified protest and finally bent to pick up the shattered gla.s.s that lay between them and was the original cause of the trouble. Aymer, with renewed invective, clutched a book to hurl at the unfortunate man, but before he could fling it, Mr. Aston leant over the head of the sofa and seized his wrists. The left would have been powerless in a child's grasp and the elder man's position made him master of the still strong right arm.

At a faint sign from Mr. Aston, Vespasian vanished.

Aymer made one unavailing attempt to free himself as his father drew his hands up level with his head. He tried not to look at the face leaning over him.

"Aymer," said his father, with great tenderness, "do you remember what I used to do with you when you were a little boy and lost your temper?"

Aymer gave a short, uneasy laugh. "Tie my hands to a chair or a bed head. It was all right then, it is taking a mean advantage now." He ended with a choking laugh again, and Mr. Aston felt his hands tremble under his careful grasp.

"Aymer, my dear old fellow, if you must turn on someone, then turn on me. I understand how it is. Vespasian doesn't. That's not fair. It's the way of a fractious invalid, not of a sane man. Where's your pride?"

Aymer bit his lip. He was helpless and humiliated, but after all it was his father. He looked up at him at last with a crooked smile.

"I've none--in your power like this, sir. Let me go, I'll be a good boy."

They both laughed, and Mr. Aston released him. The colour burned on Aymer's face. Grown man as he was, the sudden subjection to authority so exerted was hard to bear even in the half-joking aspect with which his father covered it.

Mr. Aston knew it. He had deliberately used the very helplessness that was his son's best excuse for his outbreak, to check the same, and however thankful for his success, the means were bitter to him also, only he was not going to let Aymer see it or get off without further word.

"I shall have to send you to school again," he said, picking up the broken gla.s.s. "I can't have Nevil's property treated like this. He'll be adding 'breakages' to the weekly bill."

"I'll pay," pleaded Aymer, contritely, "if you won't tell him. Where is he?"

"Gone to London, of all the preposterous things; so Renata says. She expects him back to-morrow, I suppose Bowden will look after him, but I should have wired to them had I known he was going."

He seemed really a little worried, and Aymer laughed.

"What a family, St. Michael! Nevil can look after himself a good deal better than you think. He puts it on to get more attention."

"Do you think he is jealous?"

"Not an ounce of it in him. I have the monopoly of that," he added, with a sharp sigh, and then, without any warning, he caught his father's arm and pulled him near.

"Father," his voice was hoa.r.s.e and unsteady, "if Peter tells Christopher, what will happen? I can't think it out steadily. I can't face it."

Mr. Aston knelt by him and put his hand on his shoulder, concealing his own distress at this unheard-of breakdown.

"My dear boy, it would not make the slightest difference to Christopher. I'm seriously afraid he'd tell Peter to go to the devil--and he'd come home by the next train. He'd never accept him."

"He'd never forget," persisted Aymer, the sleeping agony of long years shining in his eyes. "It would not be the same, father. He would not be--mine. I could not pretend it if he knew. Peter would be there between us--always as he was----"

He broke off and took up the thread with a still sharper note of pain, "Father, can't you understand. I don't mind a woman. He'll love and marry some day: it's his right. I don't grudge that. But another father--his real one. Oh, My G.o.d, mayn't I keep even this for myself?"

He hid his face on the cushions, all the wild jealousy of his nature struggling with his pride.

His father put his arm round him, hardly able to credit the meaning of the crisis. Was that white scar on his son's forehead no memorial to a dead jealousy, but only an expression of a slumbering pa.s.sion?

"Aymer, old fellow, listen. Peter isn't going to tell, I feel sure of it. And it would make no difference. You must allow I know something of men. I give you my word of honour, Aymer, I know it would make no difference to Christopher. You wrong him. You will always be first with him."

"It's not Christopher," returned Aymer, lifting hard, haggard eyes to his father, "it's myself. Twice in my life I've wanted something--someone for myself alone. Elizabeth--and now Christopher!