Christopher Hibbault, Roadmaker Part 47

It's I who can't share."

"Jealousy, cruel as the grave." Involuntarily the words escaped Mr.

Aston.

"More cruel."

He dropped his head again. St. Michael continued to kneel by him in silence. The elementary forces of nature are hard matters with which to deal. Silence, sympathy, and the loan of mental strength were all he could offer.

It came to his mind in the quiet stillness how in just such a crisis as this, when he was not at hand to help the same cruel pa.s.sion had wrought the irrevocable havoc with his son's life. He looked at the dark head pressed on the pillows and remembered his young wife's half-laughing pride in her first-born's copper coloured aureole of hair. He recollected the day he had first held him in his arms, himself but just arrived at man's estate, and this helpless little baby given into his power and keeping. He had done his best: G.o.d knows how humbly he confessed that more than truthful Truth, yet even all his love had failed to save that little red-haired baby from this ...

jealousy, cruel as the grave! Perhaps he had been too young a father to deal with it at first. Was it his failure or were there greater forces behind--the forces of ages of other failures for which poor Aymer paid....

Aymer moved till his head rested against his father's arm, like a tired child. Presently he looked up rather shamefacedly.

"It's over. What a fool I've been. Don't tell Christopher, father."

A faint reflection of what Aymer considered his own terrible monopoly, caught poor St. Michael for a fleeting moment, a jealous pang that his son's first thought must go to the boy. He realised suddenly he was tired out and old, and got to his feet stiffly.

Aymer gave him a quick, penetrating glance.

"Send Vespasian back, father," he said abruptly, "and you go to bed.

What a selfish brute I've been." And when Mr. Aston had bidden him good-night he added in the indifferent tone in which he veiled any great effort, "If Peter should want Christopher to stay longer, you might tell him to come back--it doesn't pay to be so proud--and I'll apologise to Vespasian."

"He's worth it," said Mr. Aston with a smile, "he and I are getting old, Aymer."

"Negatived by a large majority, sir," he answered quickly.

It was not of Christopher he thought in the silent hours of the night, and Mr. Aston's brief jealousy would have found no food on which to thrive had it survived its momentary existence.

When Mr. Aston came down in the morning the first sight that met his astonished eyes was Christopher, seated at the breakfast table and attacking that meal with liberal energy. He sprang up as Mr. Aston entered.

"My dear boy, I thought you were not coming till to-morrow at the earliest."

"Will it be inconvenient?" asked Christopher, with demure gravity.

"I'm sorry, but I was so bored."

He stumbled a little over the prevarication. St. Michael was not Peter Masters, even excuses found no easy flow in his presence.

"I'm delighted," said Mr. Aston, and looked it.

He had breakfasted in his room, so he sat down by Christopher and tried to find out the reason of the opportune return.

"Your letters did not sound at all bored."

"I only realised it yesterday evening," returned Christopher, with great gravity, "so we--that is I--came down by the mail last night--and Nevil...."

"Nevil?"

"Yes, I picked him up, you know. He was seeing a man in Leamington."

Christopher carved ham carefully, and avoided Mr. Aston's eye, smiling to himself over his promise to Nevil not to betray him.

"Nevil went to London. How did--" Mr. Aston stopped suddenly, "Christopher."

"Yes, St. Michael."

"You are not to lie to me whatever you do to others. Tell me what it means."

Christopher regarded him doubtfully and then laughed outright.

"Nevil did not like travelling alone. He thought he would get lost, so he asked me to look after him."

"He went from London to Leamington to get a companion to travel home with?"

"Exactly. Isn't it like him, St. Michael?"

They again looked steadily at each other.

"And being a bit weary of fighting for the right of individual existence," went on Christopher, "I agreed to bring him home. Mr.

Masters has been most kind, but he does like his own way."

"And what about you?"

"Oh, I like mine, too. That's why it was so boring. How's Caesar?"

"He will be pleased to see you. Where is Nevil?"

"Gone to bed, I expect. How he hates travelling."

"Yes."

"He hates explanations still more, please St. Michael."

"He should have prepared a more plausible story."

"He thinks it quite credible. He expected me to believe--about the man in Leamington."

"And did you?"

"Well, do you?"

They both laughed and Christopher looked at the clock.

"Do you think Vespasian will let me take in Caesar's breakfast?"

"He would be delighted, I'm sure. Caesar won't believe in Leamington either, Christopher."

"But he will easily believe I was bored--which is true. I don't think he is as fond of Mr. Masters as he pretends to be."

Whether Aymer believed or not, he asked no questions. He only remarked that Peter was far more likely to have been bored and Christopher had no eye to his own advantage. To which Christopher replied flippantly that it was a question of "vantage out," and he was not going to imperil his game with a rash service.