Christopher Hibbault, Roadmaker Part 6

But in spite of small differences of opinion, Vespasian and he were good friends, and he received much instruction from the mouth of that inestimable man. It was he who drilled him in Mr. Aymer's little ways, warned him how he hated to be reminded of his helplessness, and could not endure anyone but Vespasian himself to move him from sofa to chair, and that only in the strictest privacy. How he disliked meeting anyone when wheeled from his own room to the dining-room for dinner, which was the only meal he took in public, and that only in company with his father or very intimate friends. How he avoided asking anyone to hand him things though he did not object to unsolicited help, which Christopher soon learnt to render as unostentatiously as Vespasian himself. Also it was Vespasian who explained to him woodenly, in answer to his direct question, that the scar on Mr. Aymer's forehead was the result of a shooting accident. His revolver had gone off as he was cleaning it, said Vespasian, had nearly killed him, had left him paralysed on one side, so he'd never be better. He added, Mr. Aymer didn't like it talked about. All this and more did the boy learn from this discreet man, but never did Vespasian hint at those dark years when to serve poor Aymer Aston was a work for which no money could pay, when the patient father and much-tried man had secretly wondered whether that fight for mere life that had followed on the ghastly accident had indeed been worth the winning. There was no word of this in Vespasian's revelations. He only impressed on Christopher the necessity of avoiding any expression of pity or commiseration with the paralysed man, and a warning that a somewhat casual manner towards the world, and his entirely undemonstrative way, was no true index of Mr.

Aymer's real feelings.

Christopher was himself warm-hearted and given to expressing his joyous feelings with engaging frankness. It could hardly have been otherwise, brought up as he had been by a woman of ardent nature and pa.s.sionate love for him, but in contradiction to this he had learnt to be very silent over the disagreeables of life and to keep his own small troubles to himself, so that he readily entered into Aymer's att.i.tude towards his own misfortune, and the relationship between the two pa.s.sed from admiration on Christopher's part to pa.s.sionate devotion, and from the region of experimental interest on Aymer's part to personal uncalculated affection, and to an easing of a sharp heartache he had tried valiantly to hide from his father. Aymer never questioned him on the past, never even alluded to it. Partly because he hoped the memory of it would dwindle from the boy's mind, and partly for his own sake. But Christopher did not forget. There were few days when he did not contrast the old times with the new, and gaze for a moment across the big gulf that separated Christopher Aston from little Jim Hibbault and the quiet woman absorbed in a struggle for existence in an unfriendly world. He occasionally spoke of his mother to Mr. Aston when they were out together, but he kept his implied promise faithfully with regard to Aymer and made no mention of his former experiences, or of his mother, until one day an event occurred which recalled the black terror under whose shadow they had left London, and necessitated an elucidation of knotty points.

There was in one corner of the garden far away from the house a gap in the high belt of shrubs that jealously guarded the grounds from the curious pa.s.serby. In fact the gap had once meant a gateway, but it had been disused so long that it had forgotten it was a gate and merely pretended it was part of the big railings; only it had not got a little wall to stand on. Christopher was fond of viewing life from this sequestered corner. The road that ran by was a main thoroughfare--an ever-varying picture of moving shapes. One morning as he stood there counting the omnibuses--he had nearly made a record count--his attention was attracted by a small boy about his own age or possibly older, who was dawdling along, hands in pockets, with a dejected air. He appeared to be whistling, but if he were, without doubt it was also a dejected air. His was a shabby tidiness that spoke of a Woman and little means. He had sandy hair and light eyes and--but Christopher did not know this--an uncommonly shrewd little face and a good square head, and as he pa.s.sed by the boundaries of Aston House he glanced at the small fellow-citizen gazing through the railings--rather compa.s.sionately, be it said--for he knew for certain the boy inside was longing to get through the gate. That one glance carried him beyond the gate, but he suddenly spun round on his heel, collided with an indignant lady laden with parcels, and stared hard at Christopher. Christopher stared hard at him. Then the boy outside went on his way.

"Jolly like Jim," he ruminated, "but a swell toff, I reckon. Poor little kid."

Christopher, after one shout as the boy went on, tore back through the garden towards the entrance gate, meaning to intercept him there. Such at least was his laudable intention, but half way there his pace slackened; he stood irresolute, kicking a loose stone in the gravel path, and finally strolled off to the stable yard to feed his guinea-pigs.

He was preoccupied and thoughtful for the rest of that day. Mr. Aston was absent, and when evening came and Christopher was still a prey to hara.s.sing ideas he decided he must appeal to Caesar even at the cost of disregarding Mr. Aston's prohibition. He came to this decision as he lay in his usual position on the hearth-rug and was goaded thereto by the approach of bed time.

"Caesar, could anyone be taken to prison for something he had done ever so long ago--I mean for--for stealing, and things like that?"

"Yes, if he had not been already tried for it. Why do you ask?"

"And if anyone met the person suddenly who had done something would they have to give him up?" persisted Christopher.

Aymer regarded him curiously. He had an unreasonable impulse to check the coming revelation, as he might the unguarded confidence of a weak man, but common-sense prevailed.

"It would depend on circ.u.mstances entirely, and the relationship of the two. Are you wanted, Christopher?" he asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

"I was," returned Christopher slowly. "That's why we left London, you know. It was Marley Sartin. He took me out with him. You see," he broke off parenthetically, "I stayed with Martha, that's Mrs. Sartin, all the day while mother took care of a gentleman's house, and sometimes Marley was there, and he taught me things."

"What things?"

Christopher shifted his position a bit, and tossed a piece of wood into the fire.

"Oh, lots of things," he repeated at last, "tricks, and how not to answer, and how to avoid coppers and how to get money. Mother said it was stealing."

The scar on Aymer's forehead was very visible. He took up a paper-knife and ran his fingers along the edge slowly.

"Well?"

The boy looked round, suddenly aware of where he was, of the beauty and comfort around him, of Caesar's personality, and the incongruity of his admission. However, so it was: facts were facts: it was imperative he should know his own position, even if it was an unpleasing subject.

So he went on hastily. "Oh, well, one day he took me out with him for a walk. We went into a big sort of shop with lots of people buying things and he knocked up 'accidental like' (this was evidently a reminiscence of a phrase often used), against a lady and she dropped her parcels and purse and things, and I pretended to pick them up, and if there were only parcels or pennies I really did, but if the money spilt and it was gold I put my foot on it and picked it up for Marley when I could. We made a lot that way. Of course mother didn't know,"

he added hurriedly, "or Martha. Then one day there was a row and Marley was caught, and I ran away. You see I was pretty small, and could slip in anywhere. I got back and told Martha, and she cried and told mother, and said as how I should be sure to be took too. So we went away from London that night. I don't know what happened to Martha, but mother said I mustn't go back to London or I'd be taken too."

The grim tragedy of it all, the miserable fate from which the woman had fought so hard to save her child, and the same child's dim appreciation of it struck Aymer with the sharpness of physical pain.

"Marley told me it was only keeping what one found, but mother said it was just stealing, and that Marley was bad. He was good to me anyhow.

Martha--Mrs. Sartin--you know--used often to cry about Marley's ways.

_She_ was always very respectable; her father kept a linen-draper's shop, and she meant to put Sam into a shop. Sam didn't like his father. I saw Sam go by to-day--he's bigger, but it was him and he knew me--and I asked about the being taken up because I thought it wouldn't be safe for me to go about perhaps."

So level and even was his voice that Aymer did not guess the agony of apprehension and fear the boy was holding back behind his almost abnormal self-control, but he did his best to rea.s.sure him.

"They would not know you, Christopher, and if they did they would not take you away from me. You were a very little boy then. I could let them know how it happened, and how it could never happen again."

Christopher hid his face in his arms and the room became very silent.

The fire crackled cheerfully and strange shadows lived uncertain lives on the ceiling. Aymer put the paper-knife down at last and looked at his charge. He was aware it was a critical moment for them both: also he was quite suddenly aware he was more fond of the child than he had previously imagined. But mostly in his mind was the sickening appreciation of what hours of torture that solitary silent woman must have endured.

"Christopher, old boy, come here," he said quietly.

The boy got up. His face was flushed, hot with his efforts to control himself.

"Do you want the light, Caesar?"

"No, I want you."

He came unwillingly and sat down on the edge of the sofa, playing with a piece of string.

"You need not be frightened at all," said Aymer. "It is all utterly impossible now, we both of us know that."

"I suppose so."

"You know it. You only did what Marley told you to do. You didn't steal because you wanted money yourself."

But Christopher was doggedly truthful.

"Marley used to give me some for myself, Caesar, and I liked it and I didn't think it was stealing. It was just keeping what one found."

"But you knew to whom it belonged."

"Not certain sure, Marley said."

"What did your mother say?"

"Just that it was stealing. She said, too, lots of people in the world were thieves who didn't know, and Marley was no worse than many rich men, who just knocked people down to get the best of them. What did she mean, Caesar?"

"She thought it was as wrong for a rich man to take advantage of a poor man, as for a strong man to attack a weak one, or a cunning man to cheat a simpleton."

Christopher was conscious he had heard something like this before. He nodded his small head sagely. Aymer went on.

"It really means you must never get money at someone else's expense.

If you can give them something in return, something equal, it's all right, but it must be equal. That is what your mother believed, and I do too--now."

Christopher regarded Caesar thoughtfully. He was speculating what he did in return for the golden sovereigns that seemed so plentiful with him.

"We try to give fair exchange," explained Caesar, answering his thoughts. "The money comes to us out of the big world. And my father gives the world good service in return. You will know how good, some-day."

"Does everybody do things?" sighed his listener, much perplexed.

"Everyone should. You are wondering what I do. My money comes to me before I earn it, from houses--land--I have to see the people who live in my houses have all that is fair and necessary, that the land is in order. Then sometimes we lend other people our money, and they find work for many others, and make more of it. Money is a very difficult thing to explain, Christopher. What I want you to remember now is that you must never take money from other people without giving something in return, because it's stealing."

Christopher, with his usual disconcerting shrewdness, found an unsatisfactory point.

"I don't do anything for the money you give me every week, Caesar."