Jessie proved by no means averse to "gadding about," as her mother
expressed it. She and Mrs. Sartin turned up punctually at Aston House,
though laden with an air of desperate resolve. On their way they had
both cheerfully concealed some tremulous qualms and neither had
ventured to express a dormant wish that Mr. Christopher had chosen
some other spot for lunch than the lordly, sombre, half-opened house.
It was not until they stood beneath the great portico that their vague
discomfort got the upper hand, and Mrs. Sartin agreed without demur to
Jessie's suggestion that they should seek a smaller entrance. As they
were turning away the great door swung open and Christopher came out.
"How jolly of you to be so punctual," he cried, greeting them warmly.
"Where were you off to? Did you think I wasn't at home because the
blinds were down? They don't open all the house for me," he added,
leading the way through the great hall. "I live on the garden side."
Mrs. Sartin had no mind to hurry: she wanted to take in the solid
beauties as she passed. Jessie plucked her nervously by the sleeve
seeing Christopher was outpacing them, and terrified of being left in
that labyrinth of corridor without a guide. However, once within the
sunny little room with its homely comforts and Christopher's kindly
self for host, they regained their wonted composure.
The smallness of the staff left in charge at Aston House gave
Christopher an excuse for dispensing with the services of Burton, the
footman, and the meal was a great success. It never occurred to the
host to think these good kind friends of his in any way out of place
here. His sense of humour was quite unruffled, nay, he was even
genuinely pleased to see the good, ample Martha, the strings of her
black bonnet untied, her face wreathed in smiles, vigorously clearing
out a tart dish, and Jessie's homely features lit up with passive
enjoyment, her brown eyes shining beneath the ridiculous curls.
They had chosen the Hippodrome for their afternoon's amusement, and
there was plenty of time after lunch to show them some of the glories
of Aston House. Christopher led them through the shrouded rooms, but
the treasures he displayed to view were not so much those of artistic
merit as those which had pleased his own boyish fancy years before.
Passing down a corridor he stopped by a remote closed door. Jessie was
examining some Wedgewood plaques a little way off. Christopher looked
at Mrs. Sartin with a queer little smile.
"When I was a kid," he said rather shamefacedly, "I used to play that
my mother was going about the place with me. You see there were no
women-folk, and the pretence seemed to help things. I used to make it
seem more real by always starting here, and pretending that was her
room. It was the only door that was always locked."
"Lor', what a queer idea!" ejaculated Mrs. Sartin, gazing suspiciously
at the closed door.
Christopher laughed. "Oh, I've been in since; there's nothing there
but newspapers, quite a dull little room. But it was an odd fancy. My
feeling was so strong I used to take her round and show her things
I've shown you to-day. I always wanted to show them to someone instead
of the real treasures, which are rather dull, you know."
Mrs. Sartin said again it was very queer. She followed Jessie and
Christopher reluctantly with backward glances towards the door, full
of puzzled suspicion. When they were again in the hall it was time to
start for the Hippodrome, and there was a great deal of patting of
hats and tying of strings before a Venetian mirror.
But Aymer Aston's room, with its world-famed pictures, was unvisited.
When the Hippodrome performance was over and he had seen his guests
safely homeward, Christopher called on Constantia Wyatt and found her
in. She seemed in no wise surprised to see him, but asked him promptly
when he was going down to Marden.
"I don't know," he said slowly, his eyes on the fire, "I don't think I
shall go back yet."
Constantia rang the bell and told the footman she was not at home, and
then drew her chair up to the fire and made Christopher some fresh
tea.
"Is London proving so very attractive?" she inquired.
"I shan't stay in town. I think I shall go abroad again. I want to
think."
"Dear, dear. Is Marden such a bad atmosphere for the intelligence?"
He coloured up boy-like and then laughed.
"There are too many clever people to help one think there. Also there
is a man in Belgium trying some private road experiments. I want to
help him."
"What will Aymer say to it?"
"He thinks I've been idle long enough."
"And the man in Belgium will help you to think?"
"I'm afraid that's my own job."
Constantia rose and wandered round the room, vaguely touching a flower
here and there and presently came to stand behind her visitor's chair.
She was thinking how young he was, and how strong, and that Patricia
was a fortunate girl. Her eyes were very soft and kind as she bent
over his chair and touched his shoulder with her fingers.
"Christopher, you are in love!"
Very young indeed, was her inward comment on his startled wondering
face turned to her.
"How do you know?" he asked, making no denial of the fact. Denial
would have savoured of disloyalty to his new kingdom.
She laughed gently. "Don't you even know that? What a lot I could
teach you if Aymer would hand you over. Listen, Master Christopher,
love is the only thing men want to think about alone, just as it's the
only thing a woman never wants to keep to herself. You could think to
much better advantage at Marden but it's no use telling you so. You
won't believe it."
"I do believe it, only it's not a question of _my_ advantage, you
see."
"There spoke Aymer's pupil. Remember roads take a good deal of making
and short cuts were made for--lovers."
She returned to the fire and stood there looking at him with an
interest that surprised herself: a tall, gracious presence whose
knowledge of his secret hurt not one bit, so clearly did it lie within
the realms wherein all gracious, tender women reign.
Then she changed the subject quite abruptly, thrust it back into those
hazy regions of speculation from which Christopher had so hardly and
impatiently dragged it the previous night.
"I wonder if your mother were alive, if she would be satisfied with
you, Christopher, and if she would still want to make a socialist of
you."
"My mother?" he echoed dully.
For a while he struggled with a strange inability to lay hold on the
shadowy form he knew so well. He looked round the beautiful room that
was but a setting to a lovely woman and then back at her. Why had she
spoken of his mother? He again attempted to crystallise the thought of
the dearly loved, defeated woman in the presence of her to whom the
world denied nothing.
"I can't do it," he said aloud with a quick breath.
"Do what?" she queried swiftly, but got no answer.
"Was my mother a socialist?" he asked presently with difficulty.
"So I have always understood."
"Who told you so?"
"My father. I thought you knew that, Christopher, or I should not have
mentioned it. All I know is, she chose to be poor rather than expose
you to the dangers of wealth. I know nothing else."
Christopher stood up. "Thank you," he said, "I believe I did know
that, but I have never been reminded of it. I do not know her story: I
suppose she did not wish me to know it, but I do know whatever she
chose, whatever she did, it was chosen and done because it seemed to
her the right course and therefore the only one she could take."
Constantia nodded, still gazing at the fire.
"Aymer's training on the top of that," she mused, "I suppose you are
accounted for."
He grew red and looked a boy again. "I should have much to account for
if I failed them."
"Them?" She swung round.
"Cæsar and my mother."
There was a pause.
"And so you will go to Belgium and think?" she said lightly.
"No, I shall go to Belgium and work."
"You said _think_," she insisted.
"I have thought here. I was not sure when I came, but I am now."
"May I know what you have thought?"
For a moment the strangeness of speaking to her like this held him
dumb. How did it happen she should know so much and must know more,
she who had been barely a real individual to him before? It bewildered
and confused him. He did not understand that the unspoken passionate
claim he made on one woman had broken the barriers between him and
woman-kind, that because he loved Patricia Connell he could speak to
Constantia Wyatt, for they stood together on holy ground.
"You have every right. You helped me after all," he said doubtfully,
but smiling "I ought not to have hesitated. Cæsar is waiting for me to
make roads, not to take short cuts."
"You think love can better afford to wait than Cæsar?"
"I have my life before me."
"And if you lose her?"
"It is settled," he said simply.
She drew in her breath. By every law of man he was right, and yet all
the woman in her cried out against this decision as falseness to some
other law imperfectly understood, but clamorous for recognition.
Nevertheless how her heart went out to him for the quiet finality of
that refusal to yield to a law not of his own making! She was proud he
was so much the handiwork of Aymer, while she recognised the very
weakness of his strength.
"He will lose her," she mused as she sat alone when he had gone, "and
it would break Aymer's heart if he knew, but he won't know. He has
succeeded in making a man of him, but, oh, what a nice boy he would
have been!"
So Christopher turned his back on the great discovery and went to
Belgium. Whereupon Patricia complained bitterly, but her golf
improved, and Geoffry Leverson, who knew nothing of road-making,
started on a very short cut indeed.
The Roadmaker remained in Belgium longer than he expected and in the
laboratory of a great man stumbled on the key of the discovery that in
a few years was to make him famous from one end of Europe to the
other.
When the apple blossoms were again blushing pink across the land and
the blue sky was piled high with dreams of love castles, Christopher
remembered the short cut and abruptly announced his intention of
returning home. He sent no warning of his coming, but arrived one day
at Aston House with his beloved car. It was in his heart to continue
his journey straight away, but thinking what pleasure it would give
Aymer to watch the practical working of his experiment, he put aside
the dictates of his desires and spent the day purchasing materials.
Also he called on Constantia and found himself incomprehensibly making
excuses for the delay. "I shall go down early to-morrow," he said; "it
can make no difference, since they do not know I am in England."
"No, I don't suppose it can," said Constantia thoughtfully.