Whatever may have been the pressing business that caused Peter Masters
to seek his cousin's company in so speedy a manner, the immediate
necessity of it seemed to have evaporated on the journey. He sat
talking of various things to Aymer and Charles Aston, but uttered
nothing as to the reason of his visit, and Mr. Aston, with his eye on
Aymer, chafed a little and found it hard to maintain his usual
serenity. Aymer, on the contrary, seemed more deliberate and placid
than usual; there was a slowness in his speech, and an unusual
willingness to leave the conversation in his visitor's hands as if he
mistrusted his own powers to keep it in desirable channels. He
appeared to have suddenly abdicated his position on the objective
positive side of life and to have become a mere passive instrument of
the hour, subjective and unresisting.
It was his father who was ready, armed against fate, alert, watchful
to ward off all that might harm or distress his eldest son. Peter
spoke of their exodus from London, their sojourn in the country, told
them anecdotes of big deals, and was, in his big, burly, shrewd way,
amusing and less ruthlessly tactless than usual. He had long ago given
up all hope of interesting Aymer in a financial career, but he
nevertheless retained a curiously respectful belief in his cousin's
mental powers.
"By the way," he said presently, "I've not bought a car yet. That boy
of yours seems to know something about them. Do you think he could be
trusted to choose one for me?"
"Perfectly."
Aymer's tone was completely impartial, and Peter ruminated over his
next remark a moment.
"You still mean him to stick to his Road Engineering?"
"He is perfectly free to do as he likes."
Charles Aston put in a word.
"He is twenty-two now, and he knows his own mind a good deal better
than most boys of that age. He seems bent on carrying out his Road
scheme, and there seems no reason why he should not." He pushed over a
box of cigars to his visitor.
"No, exactly. No reason at all." Peter selected a cigar carefully. "I
expect you find it very interesting watching how he turns out, don't
you, Aymer?"
"It is not uninteresting."
"You've not seen Nevil yet," suggested Mr. Aston. "He is just out of a
spell of work; come out in the garden and find him while you smoke."
"Well, perhaps we might, if you don't mind being left, Aymer?" Peter's
voice was full of kindly interest. To him the great catastrophe was
ever a new and awful thing, and Aymer an invalid to be considered and
treated with such attention as he knew how.
"Not in the least," said Aymer politely, marvelling how exactly his
father had gauged the limits of his endurance. When the heavy
curtained door had shut out voices and footsteps and only the
stillness of the room was with him the forced passivity slipped from
Aymer like a mask, and his was again the face of a fighter, of one
still fighting against fearful odds.
He lay with clenched hands and rigid face, and great beads of
perspiration stood on his forehead, for that passive indifference
towards what had become a matter of life and death to him was the
fruit of a victory that had to be won again and again each time his
perilous position was assailed by the appearance of Peter Masters.
His very existence had become so bound up in the life of the boy he
had taken as his own that the smallest fraying of the cord which bound
them together was a thought of new pain. The passionate, fiercely
jealous nature that had lain dormant so long had gathered strength
from silence and clamoured with imperious insistence on its right, to
love, to whole allegiance, to undisputed sway over Christopher.
What right could this man, Christopher's father though he were, in the
flesh, show beside his, Aymer Aston's? Every instinct rose in
indignant rebellion against the fiat of his own conscience.
For before his deep love was awake to confuse his judgment he had
declared that if he might only be permitted to bring Elizabeth
Masters's son through the perilous passage of boyhood, he would never
stand between Christopher and what, after all, was his right due, and
in the eyes of the world, his wonderful fortune. Elizabeth of the
brave heart and uncompromising creed had thought otherwise of this
fortune, as did Charles Aston and Aymer himself. The first had
imperilled her beloved child's bodily welfare to save him from what
she thought an evil thing, and the Astons, father and son, had bid
defiance to their hitherto straightforward policy and followed
expediency instead of open dealing, but there Aymer stopped.
The decision he had made must be adhered to at all costs. It mattered
nothing he had not been in a position to count the cost ten years ago.
He at least could not discount his own word. If Fate drew Christopher
to the side of his unknown father, Aymer must put out no hand to
intervene.
But the cost of it--the cost!--He put his shaking hands over his face,
trying to consider the position reasonably.
Even if Peter Masters learnt the truth and claimed
Christopher, Christopher was of age and must act for himself, and
Aymer could not doubt his action. His misery lay in no suspicion of
Christopher's loyal love, but in his own unconquerable, wildly jealous
desire to stand alone in the post of honour, of true fatherhood to the
son of the woman he had loved to such disastrous end. And behind that
lay the bitter, unquenchable resentment that, pretend as he would,
Christopher was not his son, not even of unknown parentage, but in
actual fact the son of the man who had unknowingly robbed him of love,
and whom he had all his life alternately hated and despised.
It was some subtle knowledge of what was passing in that still room
that made Charles Aston a shade less kindly, a little more alert than
usual to hidden meanings, and it was the sight of Aymer's apparent
passivity in the face of all that threatened him, that brought him to
the mind to fight every inch of ground before he put into the hands of
Peter Masters the tangled clue of the story that he alone knew in all
its completeness.
The suspicion that had gripped Peter Masters on the journey down was
slowly stiffening into a certainty, but he was still undecided in his
mind as to the line of action he would take. If these people with
their ultra-heroic code of honour had fooled him, and forestalled him
in this matter of his son with deliberate intent to frustrate any
advances he might make, it would go hard with them in the end, cousins
or no cousins. Such was his first thought; but he had yet to prove
they were not simply waiting for a sign to deliver back his son to
him, in which case Peter was not unprepared to be grateful, for his
heart--and he had one--had gone out to the plucky, determined young
man who had lied so bravely. Peter determined, therefore, he would
give Charles Aston a chance and see what happened. In a blindly,
inarticulate way he felt it was impossible to play with Aymer, he was
even conscious it was a matter of great moment to him, though he could
not in any manner see why it was so.
"Nevil will survive if we put him off a little longer," said Peter as
they crossed the hall, "I want to see you on a private matter, Cousin
Charles."
Mr. Aston led the way without a word to his own room. He made no doubt
as to what the matter was. Perhaps the shadow of the expected
interview had lain too heavily on him of late to leave room for
suspicion of other affairs.
It was a long, cheerful room, lined with books, and the furniture was
solid and shabby with long service. There was an indefinite atmosphere
of peace and repose about it, of leisured days haunted by no grey
thoughts, very typical of the owner. The window stood open, though a
fire burned clearly on the plain brick hearth, beneath a big hooded
chimney-piece.
Mr. Aston indicated a big easy chair to his visitor and seated himself
at his writing table, from whence he could see, behind Peter, on the
far wall, a portrait of Aymer painted in the pride of his life and
youth, so wonderfully like even now in its strong colour and forcible
power, and so full of subtle differences and fine distinctions.
"I don't know even if you'll listen to me," began Peter, who knew very
well Charles Aston would refuse to listen to no man; "fifteen years
ago you told me you'd said your last word on the subject."
"I beg your pardon, Peter, it was you who said the subject was closed
between us."
"Ah, yes. So I did. May I reopen it?"
"If it can serve any good purpose, but you know my opinions."
"I thought perhaps they might have altered with the changing years,"
said Peter blandly.
"Not one bit, I assure you."
"Really. It never strikes you that I was justified in attending to
Elizabeth's very plainly expressed wishes, or that it might be a happy
thing for the boy that I did so."
"The question between us," said his cousin gently, "was whether you
were justified in abandoning them, not whether it was advantageous to
them or not."
"I would point out in passing, Cousin Charles, that Elizabeth
abandoned me, but we will let that be. My reason for opening the
subject at all is not a question of justification." He puffed away
slowly at his cigar for a minute and then went on in an even,
unemotional voice. "The fact is something rather strange has happened.
For twenty years I have believed I knew the exact whereabouts of
Elizabeth and my son. I had a good reason for the belief. One man only
shared this supposititious knowledge with me." His hearer seemed about
to speak, but desisted and looked away from Peter out of the window.
Not a movement, a sign, a breath, escaped those hard blue eyes, and
Charles Aston knew it. It did not render him nervous or even
indignant, but he was a trifle more dignified, more obviously
determined to be courteous at any cost.
"That boy and his mother were living at Liverpool," went on Peter
calmly. "He was employed in a big shipping firm in a very minor
capacity. He was killed in the great explosion in the dock last
week."
He spoke as calmly as if he were saying his supposed son had lost his
post or had gone for a holiday.
Charles Aston gave a sudden movement and turned a shocked face towards
the speaker.
"Terrible!" he said, "I wonder how the shareholders in that company
feel? Did you see the verdict?"
Peter waved his hand. "Yes, yes. Juries lose their heads in these
cases. But to continue. I went down to Liverpool at once before the
funeral, you understand." He paused. "I was naturally much disturbed
and horrified, and then--well, the boy wasn't my son, after all."
"Not your son?" echoed Charles Aston slowly.
"No, not my son." There was a tinge of impatience in his voice. "I
should not have known, but the mother was there. She went in as I came
out."
"His mother was alive?"
"Yes. She was not Elizabeth."
His cousin turned to him, indignation blazing in his eyes. "For twenty
years, Peter, you believed you knew your wife's whereabouts, you knew
she was in more or less a state of poverty, and you made no attempt to
see her face to face? You accepted the story of another with no
attempt to personally prove the truth yourself?"
"I had good reason to believe it," returned Peter sulkily. "She would
have let me know if she were in want. I had told her she could come
back when she had had enough of it."
"And this poor woman, whose son was killed. What of her?"
"I don't know anything about her except she wasn't Elizabeth."
"You had believed her so for twenty years."
"I had made a mistake. She knew nothing about that. I took good care
she should not. There was no doubt about her being the boy's mother,
and no doubt she was not Elizabeth. She had no claim on me."
"No claim!" Charles Aston stood up and faced him, "not even the claim
of the widow--her one son dead. No claim, when for all those years
those two items of humanity represented in your perverse mind the two
people nearest--I won't say dearest--to you. No claim!" He stopped
and walked away to the window.
Peter smiled tolerantly. He enjoyed making this kind, generous man
flash out with indignation. It was all very high-flown and impossible,
but it suited Charles Aston. To-day, however, he was too engrossed in
his own affairs to get much satisfaction from it.
"Well, well, don't let us argue about it. We don't think alike in
these matters. The point I want to consult you about is not my
susceptibility to sentiment, but the chances of my picking up a clue
twenty years old."
"I should say they were hardly worth considering." He spoke
deliberately, turning from the window to resume his place by the
table. The fight had begun; they had crossed blades at last.
"There is a very good detective called Chance and a better one called
Luck."
"You have secured their services?"
"I am not certain yet. Can you help me?"
He made the appeal with calculated directness, knowing his man and his
aversion to evasion, but if he expected him to hesitate he was
disappointed.
"No, I can do nothing. I tried for five years to bring you to some
sense of your responsibility in this matter. You were not frank with
me then, it seems. I can do nothing now."
"And have lost all interest in it, I suppose?"
"No. It is your interest that rises and falls with the occasion, but I
decline to have anything to do with it. If--as I do not
believe--Elizabeth is still alive she and your son have done without
your help for twenty years and can do without it still."
"They have doubtless plenty of friends."
"Let us hope so. What was the name of the Liverpool woman?"
"Priestly. What does it matter? The question is, I must find my son
somehow, for I must have an heir."
"Adopt one."
"As did Aymer?" He shot a questioning glance at him. "It's such a
risk. I might not be so lucky. Sons like Christopher are not to be had
for nothing."
"No, they are not," said Charles Aston drily. "They are the result of
years of love and patience, of generous tolerance, of unquenchable
courage. They bring days of joy which must be paid for with hours of
anxiety and nights of pain. Were you prepared to give your son this,
even if you had taken him to you as a boy?"
Peter waved his big hand again. "I quite admit all that is needed to
produce men of your pattern, Cousin Charles, and I have the
profoundest admiration for the result; but I am not ambitious; I
should be content to produce the ordinary successful man."
"I think Christopher will score a success."
"Yes, in spite of you both, by reason of his practical, determined,
hard-headed nature which he probably inherits from his father, eh?"
"You are probably right. I am not in a position to say."
"You did not know his parents?"
Charles Aston pushed back his chair and looked beyond Peter to the
portrait of Aymer. They must come to close quarters or he would give
out, and suddenly it came to him that he must adhere to his universal
rule, must give the better side of the man's nature a chance before he
openly defied him. The decision was made quite quickly. Peter only
recognised a slight pause. "You seem interested in Christopher," Mr.
Aston said slowly. "I will tell you what there is to know. About
eleven years ago Aymer became possessed of a passionate desire to have
a boy to bring up, since he might not have one of his own. In hunting
for a suitable one I stumbled on the son of someone I had known who
had fallen on very evil days." He stopped a moment. Peter took out
another cigar and lit it. "On very evil days," repeated the other.
"The boy was left at a country workhouse in this county as it
happened. I knew enough of his paternity to know that he was a
suitable subject for Aymer to father. I have never regretted what I
did. The boy has become the mainspring of Aymer's life; he lives again
in him. All that has been denied him, he finds in Christopher's
career; all he cannot give the world he has given to this boy, this
son of his heart and soul. No father could love more, could suffer
more. And Christopher is repaying him. He has known no father but
Aymer, no authority but his, no conflicting claim. I pray God daily
that neither now nor in the future shall any shadow fall between these
two to cancel by one solitary item Christopher's obligation to his
adopted father. Perhaps I am selfish over it, but anyway, Aymer is my
son, and I understand how it is with him."
There was a silence in the room. Peter puffed vehemently and the
clouds of blue-grey smoke circling round him obscured the heavy
features from his cousin when his eyes left the picture to look at
him.
"Yes, yes, I see. Quite so," said a voice from the smoke at last, and
slowly the strong, bland expressionless face emerged clearly from the
halo, "but I am no further on my way towards my son. And who's to have
the money if I don't find him? Will you?"
"Heaven forbid!--and Nature! Peter, I'm sixty and you are
fifty-four."
"Will Nevil's boy?"
"We have enough. We should count it a misfortune. Leave it in
charities."
"And suppose he discovers some day who he is, and wanted it?"
"Hardly likely after so long."
"Quite likely. Shall I leave it to Christopher?"
It was the last thrust, and it told. There was quite a long silence.
Charles longed passionately to refuse, but even he dared not. The
issue was too great. "I cannot dictate to you in the matter," he said
at length, "but I do not think Christopher would appreciate it."
"Then I must hope to find a Christopher of my own," returned Peter,
rising; "let us meanwhile find Nevil."
The duel was over and apparently the result was as undetermined as
ever. The only satisfaction poor Charles Aston derived was from the
fact that Peter was unusually gentle and tactful to Aymer that
afternoon. He seemed in no hurry to go, urged as excuse he wanted to
consult Christopher about a motor, but when they sent to find that
young gentleman, they discovered he and Patricia and the motor were
missing.