Christopher Hibbault, Roadmaker Part 67

"Of course. Do you know if Mr. Fegan is still at Stormly Foundry?"

"I can ascertain."

"Do so. If he is, tell him to come and see me here to-morrow. And who is the best builder you employ?"

"Builder? What kind of builder, sir?"

"Bricks and mortar. Cottages. I don't want an architect. I'll employ the man we used in Hampshire."

"You mean to build?"

"I mean to build."

Mr. Clisson coughed. "The late Mr. Masters found it did not pay----"

"Mr. Clisson," said Christopher firmly, "let us understand one another from the beginning. I do not intend to work on the same lines as my father worked. I intend to do many things which he would not have done, but I am inclined to think he knew it would be so. I believe I am a very rich man. At all events I mean to spend a lot of money. You would have no objection to my spending it on yachts and motors and grouse moors, I suppose? These things do not, however, interest me.

You probably won't approve of my hobbies, and I've no doubt I shall make heaps of mistakes, but I've got to find them out myself. You can help me make them, but once for all, never try to prevent me. Those are all the letters I can manage to-day. You can take the others. I'll answer these myself."

The flabbergasted Mr. Clisson rose, trembling a little in his agitation.

"I hope, Mr. Masters, I should know better than ever attempt to dictate to you on any matter."

Christopher gave him one of his rare half-shy, half-boyish smiles and leant forward over the big desk.

"Mr. Clisson, I shall need your help and advice every hour of the day.

I haven't the slightest doubt you could dictate to me to my great material advantage on every point, only I don't care for this material advantage and I don't want us to misunderstand each other, that is all."

Mr. Clisson thawed, but his soul was troubled. He looked at the letters as he gathered them up. It was a goodly pile yet left to his decision, but he missed one that Christopher had pa.s.sed over without comment.

"The application for the post of gardener at Stormly Park, sir. Did you wish to attend to that yourself?"

"What has happened to Timmins? Wasn't that his name? Is he dead?"

"Oh, no."

"He wishes to go?"

Mr. Clisson shook his head. "It is simply a matter of routine, sir.

Timmins is a very excellent man, but the invariable rule is that no one remains after they are fifty-five."

"After they are fifty-five?" repeated Christopher slowly.

"Not those employed in manual labour: with very few exceptions that is. Timmins will be fifty-five next month. He suffers from rheumatism already, I find."

Christopher never took his eyes from the other's face.

"He would be pensioned, I suppose."

"Oh, dear me, no. We have no pension list. Timmins has received very high wages. He has no doubt put by a nice little sum."

"How long has he worked for--for us?"

"I cannot tell without reference. I believe for twenty years or so. I can easily ascertain."

Christopher stared out of the window for so long that the head clerk thought he had forgotten the matter and was disagreeably surprised when he spoke again.

"I shall be at Stormly this week and will see if Timmins wishes to retire or not. You have no fault to find with him as a gardener, I suppose?"

Mr. Clisson smiled. "A man who has served for twenty years will not be an indifferent workman sir. Timmins' accounts are exemplary."

"The matter will stand over. Please see no one is dismissed under this age regulation without my knowledge. That is all now." His manner was as curt again as his father's. Mr. Clisson closed the door behind him with a vague feeling that the two years of his authority were but a dream and that the thin, square figure behind the office table had unaccountably widened out to the portly proportions of his old master.

Christopher drew to him the pile of letters he had reserved and fell to work. He dared not allow himself to think yet, but now and again when his heart and soul ran counter to the tenor of what he read he put out his hand and touched the little green knife his father had handled for some unknown person's sake.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

"I understand the fortune well enough now," said Christopher bitterly; "anyone can do it if they take one aspect of things and subordinate everybody and everything to it."

He was at Marden again. It was a glorious spring evening and Caesar's couch was drawn up to the open window. Mr. Aston sat on the far side of it and Christopher leant against the window-frame smoking moodily.

"You will dissipate it fast enough at the rate you are going,"

remarked Caesar. His eyes followed every movement of the young man with a jealous hunger.

Christopher shook his head resignedly. "It can't be done. It goes on making itself. We are going to allow ourselves ten thousand a year.

It's a fearful lot for two people"--his eyes wandered across the lawn to Patricia, where she sat with Renata--"or even three, but that's what it costs to live properly at Stormly, and the rest has to be used somehow."

"How about Stormly Park? Do you and Patricia like the place?"

He shook his head again. "I'm afraid we don't. We both feel we are living in an hotel. But I must be there on the spot, and she too. As it is, we have only had time to do so little."

"Cottages, schools, hospitals," murmured Mr. Aston, softly.

"They are only means to an end," returned Christopher quickly, "only what they are ent.i.tled to as human beings in a civilised world. Think of having to begin at that. We've got to make rest.i.tution before we can make progress. They mistrust all one does, of course. They use the bathrooms as coal stores, their coppers for potatoes, their allotments as rubbish ground, but it's better than the front yard, and, anyhow, the children will know a bit more about it."

"You have laid down Patrimondi roads for them," Caesar put in.

"Of course," Christopher answered, accepting it literally, "they appreciate _that_ at least. The roads were beastly."

Mr. Aston looked at Caesar and they both smiled.

"I've persuaded Sam to open a shop in Stormly and put Jim into it. He _says_ you can't make a living honestly in grocery, but I'd take himself in preference to his word."

"You've beaten him after all, old chap."

It was Caesar who spoke, and he held out his thin hand towards his big boy, who came and sat by him in silence a while. The twilight crept up over the earth and freed the soul of things as it stole their material forms. The two men looking out and watching the gentle robber, wasted no regrets on the day, no fears on the approaching night. Behind them, where Mr. Aston sat, it was dark already, and as his son watched Christopher, so he watched Aymer.