A chilly, rainy mist shrouded the country and blotted out the familiar
beauty. Not a day for walking, but Christopher had chosen to tramp to
a far-off corner of the estate on some pretence of business and had
come back through the wet, dripping woods, burr-covered and muddy. He
was met in the hall by a message that Mr. Aymer wanted him at once, so
without waiting to change he strode away, whistling, to the West Room
and came to a standstill on the threshold, finding Aymer had visitors
with him.
There were two gentlemen, one was Mr. Shakleton, the son and successor
of the old solicitor who had played his part in the finding of
Christopher, the other was a stout, complacent man with gold-rimmed
glasses and scanty sandy hair, and all three of the occupants of the
room looked towards the door as if waiting for and expecting him. A
glance at Cæsar's face brought Christopher swiftly to his side and
established instantly a sense of antagonism with the visitors.
"You want me, Cæsar?"
"Yes. We want you. Mr. Shakleton you know. This is Mr. Saunderson."
Both men stood up and to Christopher's amazement bowed profoundly.
"I am very honoured to meet you," said Mr. Saunderson suavely. "I hope
it will be the commencement of a long and fruitful acquaintance."
Christopher felt rather at a loss to know if the man meant to be
impertinent or was merely being silly. He looked at Cæsar with the
hostile impatience he felt only too apparent. The hostility but not
the impatience deepened as he noticed the drawn beaten look on
Aymer's face. Also he was uncomfortably conscious of the three pairs
of eyes watching him with rapt attention. The mild Mr. Shakleton,
however, seemed entirely obscured by the expansive personality of the
bigger man.
"Confound him," thought Christopher, "has he never seen burrs on a wet
coat before or is my tie up?"
"Christopher," said Aymer, at last, "come and sit by me, will you. I
think I should like to tell you myself." He looked at Mr. Saunderson
as if waiting permission.
"Of course, of course, Mr. Aston. I quite understand. It is not the
sort of news we tell people every day."
Christopher sat on the edge of the sofa with his eyes fixed on Cæsar.
"Are you sure it won't keep," he asked abruptly, "you look rather
tired for business, Cæsar."
"It won't keep. It concerns Peter Masters. Mr. Saunderson says public
rumour has underestimated his fortune rather than exaggerated it. He
was worth nearly three millions."
"Three millions six hundred and forty-one thousand." Mr. Saunderson
rolled it out in sonorous tones after a little smack of his lips that
set Christopher's teeth on edge.
"It seems, Christopher," Aymer went on, with an abruptness that did
not accord with his opening words, "that it's yours. You are his
heir."
He made not the smallest movement or sign by which the two strangers
could gather one passing glimpse of the agony it cost him to say it,
for their attention was fixed on the younger man. But Christopher saw
nothing else and had thought for nothing but how soonest to quench
that fierce pain.
The preposterous catastrophe was evidently true, but surely his own
will and wishes were of some account. He put his hand on Aymer,
searching for words which would not form into sense.
"Take your time, take your time, young man," broke in Mr. Saunderson's
resonant voice. "It's not the sort of event a man can be hurried over.
You will grasp it more clearly in a few minutes."
Christopher turned and looked at him.
"I believe I quite grasp the matter," he said coolly. "Mr. Masters
has, with no doubt the kindest meaning in the world, left his fortune
to me. It's unfortunate that I don't happen to want all this money. I
couldn't possibly do with it."
Mr. Saunderson leant back in his chair with a tolerant smile as if
this were just what he would expect to hear after the shock, but Aymer
bit his lip as if face to face with some inevitable ill.
Christopher leant towards him.
"You are worrying about it, Cæsar. There can't be any need to say any
more now. Of course it's out of the question my accepting it. They
can't make me a millionaire against my wishes, I suppose. Anyhow it's
a preposterous will."
"There is no will," began Cæsar and then looked at the big lawyer,
"tell him," he added shortly. Mr. Saunderson cleared his throat.
"That is so. There is no will and the fortune naturally goes to the
next of kin."
"Very well, then," returned Christopher, with blunt relief. "I believe
he told me once he had a son somewhere. You had better find him. I
don't want to deprive him of his luck."
Again the embarrassing silence. Then the big lawyer got up and bowed
solemnly to Christopher.
"We have found him. Allow me to be the first to congratulate you, Mr.
Masters."
Christopher wheeled round on him like a man struck.
"No!" he cried with passionate emphasis. "Cæsar, it's not true. Tell
them so."
But Cæsar lay very still and looked past them all, staring blankly at
the opposite wall. It seemed to Christopher the watching eyes of the
others imprisoned him, held him in subjection. He got up.
"Let me out," he muttered between his teeth, though none impeded him.
He walked across the room to the fireplace and stood with his back to
them, his hand mechanically altering the order of a procession of
black elephants that stood there.
Aymer broke the silence, speaking with clear evenness.
"Shakleton, will you take Mr. Saunderson into the library. You will
find my brother there, probably."
"Certainly, Mr. Aston. Shall I leave these?" He indicate the papers on
the table before him.
"Yes. Leave them where they are."
Mr. Saunderson rose. "You must not be alarmed, my dear sir," he said
in a forced whisper, with a glance towards Christopher, "such news
often takes a man off his feet for a while. He'll soon appreciate
it."
"No doubt. Order anything you like, Shakleton."
They were alone at last, yet Christopher did not move.
"Christopher, come to me," called Aymer quietly.
At that he turned and walked mechanically to the sofa, seating
himself, again with his elbows on his knees, and his eyes absently
fixed on the carpet.
"Did you know this before, Cæsar?"
Aymer's face twitched. "Yes, always."
"Did--he--know?"
"Yes, apparently."
"You did not tell him?"
"No."
Christopher looked up sharply and met his eyes, and again he forgot
his own intimate trouble before the greater one.
"Thanks, Cæsar," he said, dragging up a smile, "it would have been far
harder at your hand."
Then suddenly he sunk on his knees by Aymer's side, and hid his head
against the arm that had sheltered him as a child.
"They can't make me take it," he whispered, "even if I am his son. But
Cæsar, Cæsar, why didn't you tell me before?"
"I hoped you would never know. Did you never have any suspicion
yourself?"
"Never. It was the last thing I should have imagined."
"You have never asked me anything. You must sometimes have wondered
about yourself."
"I was quite content." Christopher spoke with shut teeth. Under no
provocation must Cæsar know the falsehood that had lain so long in his
mind. He saw it in its full proportion now, and hated himself for his
blindness in harbouring so ugly a thought.
"We were never certain how much Peter knew and I've never known for
the past three years whether he meant to claim you or not."
"If you'd only told me, Cæsar!"
"It was my one hope you should not know."
"I don't think I've earned that," he said reproachfully.
"It was myself, not you, I thought of. You've got to know the whole
thing now. Go and sit there in your old place and don't look at me
till I've finished."
So Aymer at last reached the moment when he must break the seals of
silence--that expected moment that had hung over him like some shadowy
fate as a foretaste of judgment, when he must retrace the painful
footsteps of his life across the black gulf from which he had climbed.
But as he turned his face to the darkness, there was light also on
the other side, and he forgot he had feared.
"Peter and I were friends, as you know. He was five years my senior,
but it did not make much difference. He was a worker, just as I was a
player. He had tremendous capabilities and he put all his big brain
into his work and when he wanted change he came to me. I represented
to him the reverse side of his strenuous life and he was oddly fond of
me. Before he was thirty he had well started his fortune as he raced
to wealth. I raced to ruin and found every inch of the road made easy
for me. Peter came into conflict with the socialistic party. There was
a certain James Hibbault, who was a great power, and Peter, who was
not so heavy a power in those days, employed the wisdom of the serpent
to crush him. He came up to London and offered me a chance of new
amusement in abetting his plans. The Hibbaults were middle class
people without middle class virtues. They lived a scrambling, noisy
life propagating their crude ideas and sowing broadcast the seeds of a
greater power than they knew. They were, however, a real force to be
reckoned with, they and their party, because of certain truths hidden
in their wildest creeds--truths which did not suit Peter's creed in
the least. He made their acquaintance, and he introduced me to them.
They were sufficiently new to amuse me, but I should have probably
have tired of them soon had it not been for your mother."
He paused a moment. "Do you remember her, Christopher?"
Christopher nodded.
"Elizabeth Hibbault," went on Aymer slowly, "was extraordinarily
beautiful, with the beauty of grace rather than of feature. She was as
distinct from the rest of her clamorous family as a pearl from
pebbles. She was an enthusiast, a dreamer, passionately sincere,
passionately pitiful. She recognised truth as a water diviner finds
water. She was brought up in a labyrinth of theories, creeds of
equality, in hatred for the rich, and out of all the jargon she
gathered some eternal truths which she made her own. She did not live
with her people: she had rooms of her own and she was a
black-and-white artist. But she was often at the Hibbaults. Peter
probably knew her accustomed days. She used to speak of her faiths. It
was like one note of gold in the discordant babble. Men came and
listened to her and she never knew it was not for her words but for
her magnetic wonderful unknown self that they came. She might, and
probably did, impress men who were dreamers or fanatics already, but
those to whom all her beliefs were childish nonsense went just the
same, Peter and I with them."
He stopped a moment and shot a glance at Christopher, who never
moved.
"I lost my interest in Peter's schemes and he ceased to explain them
to me, but I still visited Elizabeth at her own rooms when I was
allowed. She was very anxious to convert Peter and myself, more
especially Peter. I was not in love with her, Christopher, yet, but
she fascinated me. I speculated as to how it would be with her if all
the fire and devotion she brought to a mere Cause were turned into a
more personal direction. She paid more attention to Peter than to
myself, and she evidently considered him a more desirable convert. One
evening we went together to call on her and they fell into the usual
line of discussion, he answering her in a tolerant amused way as if
she were a precocious child. I stayed behind when he left and she
walked up and down in restless agitation, half forgetful of me. 'The
personality of the man!' she cried fiercely, 'he is too strong, he is
ruthless! One cannot escape him. I cannot get him out of my head.' I
told her she had much better tackle me. She told me plainly that I was
a negative force in the world and my cousin an active. That was enough
for me. I thought she despised me and I vowed she should recognise my
possibilities as well as Peter's. If any man were to turn the
passionate stream of her nature back on herself, or to love--to see
the woman rise above the fanatic--it should be I, not Peter. But I
said nothing of this to him. I do not think he ever knew it at all. It
began in pique on my side, then jealousy, lastly passion. Christopher,
if I had loved her from the first beginning of things I should not be
ashamed to meet your eyes now. Don't look round yet. I laid deliberate
siege to her heart and found she possessed my mind night and day. Soon
it was not Peter who was my rival, but her own soul. I was confident I
should win, though Peter, it was clear, was also wooing her
persistently. He at least meant her well, Christopher. He loved her in
his uncomprehending way, wanting her for the woman she was
_not_--except in his mind. And I--I wanted her for the outward woman
she was."
He paused long enough for his listener to face clearly the portrait of
the worn, broken woman he remembered, the outward woman that bore no
likeness to the clear knowledge of the inner soul.
Aymer continued:
"At last I felt it was time to end it. Peter had been in town some
time then. I knew the senior Hibbault and he were coming to some
understanding, but I guessed nothing of the nature of it. She never
mentioned him to me at this time. She stood, poor girl, between the
two of us like a trapped creature, and because she feared herself and
neither of us, she overstepped one snare to fall into the other.
Christopher, I don't know what was in my mind when I went to her that
last evening: I had not seen her for some days, but when I stood
before her I knew suddenly I loved her, and then, like a flash, I saw
it was neither Peter nor her that stood between us, but my own evil
self. I told her all--that she was the victor and I the conquered. I
was proud of my new humbleness. For once I recognised myself and my
true place in the order of the world. But she knew me better than I
guessed, and she was afraid to tell me the truth. She put me off with
gentle words, terrified lest I should guess before I left her--Don't
turn away, Christopher--At last she owned she had written me a letter
and I should find it when I got back. Her attitude maddened me. The
better self, if it ever existed, got stamped out. I told her nothing
should come between us, that nothing short of death should keep me
from her, while I could move hand or foot."
The white scar on Aymer's forehead was very plain and his face had
grown thin and sharp. Christopher for the first time looked up at him
and away again.
"I went home at last, Christopher, wild to get this mysterious letter
to which she would refer me. I went back and took seven devils with
me--my passion and love fighting for possession. Nevil and I had a
room of our own on the ground floor. I think they use it for storing
papers in now."
Christopher gave a slight movement: he knew that well.
"I went straight in, knowing any letter for me would be taken there.
Nevil was going upstairs as I crossed the hall and he called to me
across the banisters that Wayband had sent back my revolver and he had
opened it. Revolver shooting was a passion just then and I was
accounted a crack shot. I answered him savagely and went on. The
letter lay on the table. She had been married to Peter two days before
at a Registrar's office. I felt I must have known it from eternity,
but it caught me on the crest of my fury, it overwhelmed me in a
torrent of mad shame and wild jealousy. I had failed--had been beaten
at my own game--beaten and fooled by some God who had used my passion
for his own ends. Those short minutes of purer love burnt my soul like
fire till I raged at my folly. Christopher, I'd give all I have left
to say I was mad. I wasn't. I knew what I was doing. The revolver lay
there on the table and an open box of cartridges by it. It was the
coward's way out of the agony, and I took it. I shot myself--the crack
shot of Waybands Club missed his own life by a hair's-breadth."
Even then, after the long years, Christopher caught an echo of
bitterness in the voice. He dully wondered at his own inability to
move or speak or send out a thought of consolation to the man who had
suffered so fiercely.
Aymer gave a little gasp and was still a moment Then he went on:
"That's all my story, Christopher. Now comes your mother's part of it.
The first result of her marriage was that the Hibbaults' name ceased
to be a power for the Socialist party--became less than a power. James
Hibbault severed his connection with them entirely. I think Peter gave
him a place at one of his big affairs. He had bought them out, and for
a time the party fell into disrepute. But Elizabeth, whom he had
married, he had not bought. I think she believed she had and could
influence him, that she could sway him without loss of her own being.
I know she clung to her true personality with passionate strength. I
had failed to break it down, but I think Peter failed here also. When
she heard of her father's and brother's betrayal of their party--it
was nothing else--she was nearly crazy with grief. It was some time
before Peter could get her to acknowledge their marriage at all, and
she never, I believe, spoke of her people again. But at last he got
her to Stormly. I know very little of what happened there. I believe
he was willing she should play Lady Bountiful to his people if it
pleased her--even made her a big allowance for the purpose. But she
went amongst them and she would have none of it. She would make no
compromise with what she regarded as wholly evil. She found Peter had
only played with her regarding her creed--that he never had the least
intention of altering his plan of life to suit it. She hated it all a
hundredfold more than you did, Christopher, and the thought of
bringing a child into an atmosphere that was rank poison to her,
became a nightmare. Perhaps she was not wholly accountable then--there
was no woman to stand by her or counsel patience. Anyhow, about six
weeks before you were born, we believe she just disappeared. No one
knows how Peter really felt about it. In the face of the world he
shrugged his shoulders and went on with his life as if wife and
expected child had never been. We suppose he tried to find her at
first, but he always declared there was no need--she would come back
when she had had enough of the world. Eventually a letter reached him
saying you had come into the world and that, rather than put you under
the power of your father and all he stood for, she would bring you up
among the people she loved and pitied. My father tried all he could to
make Peter seriously seek for his wife. We know now he had some false
clue and that he believed she and you were living in Liverpool. But
either from pride or indifference he would never see for himself these
two whose fortunes he watched so closely. Saunderson tells me it was
the younger Hibbault who supplied him with the false clue and found it
to his advantage to keep up the fraud. They can't trace either
Hibbault now. They seem to have emigrated. My father once visited
Peter, before Elizabeth left him. There was some dispute at the works
and a certain foreman named Felton protested against his orders. My
father heard the interview between them, and the man made a strong
appeal to him. He did his best as go-between and failed. Peter did not
quarrel about it. He was just immovable in his heavy way, but your
mother was greatly troubled over the whole business and was generously
good to Felton and his wife in the face of Peter's direct commands.
Ten years afterwards this man, tramping from Portsmouth to London in
search of work, met your mother again. He was evidently a man of
strong memory, and he knew her."
Christopher nodded. He remembered the little narrow paths in the tiny
garden, the smell of the box edging, a pink cabbage rose that fell
when the man's sleeve brushed against it. The man and his mother had
talked long and the old woman had asked him if he knew the man. The
next day they were on the road again and he had felt a resentment
towards this man as the cause. All these recollections crowded
themselves into his mind.
"Felton seems to have been a man with some strength of character. He
had easily promised your mother not to betray her existence to her
husband, but the memory of her face and some uneasy sense of unfitness
troubled him, I suppose. He remembered Mr. Aston, who had spoken for
him, and that he was something to do with these people. He turned up
here one day and Nevil had the sense to send him direct to us in
London. It was just at the time when I was wanting to adopt a child. I
had stopped cursing fate and myself, and I wanted something of my own
almost as fiercely as I wanted my freedom."
There was another long pause. This time Christopher put out his hand
and laid it on Aymer's.
"There isn't any more. We followed up the clue and found you. My
father made another appeal to Peter on behalf of his unknown son, and
Peter declared the subject was not discussable: so I kept you. I vowed
I'd never stand between your own father and you, but also that I'd
never put out a hand to bring you together. That visit you paid him,
Christopher, was the blackest time I've had since the day I realised
what I'd done. I thought I had got over my jealousy, and I had not."
Christopher leant over him and gripped his hands.
"Cæsar," he said in a breathless low voice, looking him straight in
the eyes. "Cæsar, there was no need of that then--there never has
been, nor could be. I have no father at all if it be not you."