Christopher Hibbault, Roadmaker Part 36

Christopher made no answer. He was idly flinging bits of bark into his hat. If he were but certain--oh, if he could but be certain she were right! He looked up at her at last.

There could be no room for the grey shadows of doubt any longer. She _was_ right. He felt it as he looked and as the thought she suggested sank deeper into his mind. Was not he truly one with her in it? He, too, had been conscious of a Life and History here at Marden not his own, that exacted no obligations from him, but rather silently insisted on the freedom. Such freedom, mated to hers, was the last great boon he asked of life that had already given him so much. Still he hesitated for very fear of losing the joy of the hour that would be his and hers for eternity when he sealed it with the pa.s.sionate words in his heart.

"I know just what you mean," he said, "it is no disloyalty to them to feel it--only loyalty to ourselves. As for the sea and all that, I will motor you down to Milford whenever you like."

"Oh, Christopher!" She clasped her hands with joy like a child. "Have you brought the new motor? What is it like?"

"It's a perfect love, Patricia. I drove it down from town to-day. Such a road, stones, ruts--and it behaved like an angel although weighted with an extra sixteen stone of colossal brutality--Peter Masters, Esquire, millionaire."

"Oh, why on earth did you bring him down here?"

"He did not ask permission. He just came--wanted to see St. Michael.

Don't let's talk about him. Let's talk about ourselves. We are much more interesting."

"Egoist!"

"Doesn't the plural number cancel the egoism? But I really have something to tell you about myself. Two things, indeed, if you'll kindly listen."

"I will try to be polite. Proceed." She ensconced herself comfortably against the trunk of the tree, folded her hands in her lap and smiled down at him under her half-shut lids. He also moved his position a very little so that he could see her better.

"First, then, Patricia, I have actually done something in Belgium. The roads of which I have dreamed are not quite such fantastic fancies now as they were a year ago."

She sat erect at once, alert and br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with interest.

"Oh, Christopher!"

"It is not done yet," he went on slowly, "but it is on the way to be done. It means that all the roads here, and the roads all over the world, will one day be made easy to travel upon. It means that mud, dirt and noise will be evils of the past, and they will be roads that will last down the ages." He stopped with a little catch in his breath and looked at her half ashamed, half pleadingly.

But Patricia was gazing past him through a gap in the trees at a white flinty road that struggled up to the distant downs. "Yes," she said very softly, as if fearing to quench a vision she saw there, "yes, that is a great and a good thing, and like you."

"Thank you," he answered laughing--the spell of their mutual earnestness pressed him too sorely.

"Don't laugh," she returned swiftly with a frown; "it is not the goodness that's like you. It's a sort of strongness about it--something to hold on to for all time." She stopped abruptly, looking at him gravely.

This time he did not laugh, but he put one hand on hers, and his was shaking.

"Christopher," she said coaxingly, "will you really take me down to the sea when I like?"

"Whenever you like."

"Then do it this afternoon. Now, at once," she cried pleadingly, and seeing his face of amazement, added, "you promised, Christopher."

"Of course. I'll do it; but why not to-morrow, when we can have a long day?"

"Because--because to-day is all my own," she said softly, "and to-morrow isn't. Christopher, I did not mean to tell anyone to-day, but I must tell you, I am going to marry Geoffry,"--she flushed rosy red, but he did not see it--"it was last night--he wanted to see Nevil at once, but I wouldn't let him. I wanted this day to myself. It was nice of you to come and make it complete."

His hand still held hers, but it was still and motionless now. She stroked it softly. Christopher drew it gently away.

"You ought to wish me happiness or something, ought you not?" she said.

"I do, Patricia," he said, looking up at her.

He wanted to say more; self-preservation demanded it, and again demanded silence. Their voices seemed to him far away, speaking in some fairy orchard where he was not. He could barely hear them.

"You'll pretend not to know anything about it till to-morrow, won't you?" she pleaded. "Don't spoil my day. It isn't that it won't be perfectly lovely to be engaged, but the past has been, lovely too, and I want to keep it a tiny bit longer. You'll help me, won't you?"

"Yes, I'll help you."

If he could but keep to-day forever shut in his heart with her, though life crumbled to ruins about them! But the invincible hours were ranged against him, and would claim it their own.

"And you'll take me to the sea?"

"Yes, if you come at once."

She descended from her perch with his help. She did not know his hands felt numb and dead as he held and released her.

"You haven't told me the second thing about yourself," she remarked, brus.h.i.+ng the bark and lichen from her dress.

"It will keep," he said quietly.

And they went out of the orchard.

CHAPTER XVIII

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 pa.s.sive 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?"