Christopher Hibbault, Roadmaker Part 41

Peter Masters saw the effect produced and his lips twitched with a little smile of pleasure.

"My grandfather planted the place," he said. "He understood those things. I don't. But it's pretty. My mother, Evelyn Aston, you know, used to always travel by night if she could, she disliked the country round so much."

"It is rather a striking contrast," Christopher agreed.

They pa.s.sed through a clump of chestnuts just breaking into leaf.

"There is coal here," said Peter. "It will all have to go some day. I make no additions now."

They came suddenly on the house, which was built of grey pointed stone, its low-angle slate roof hidden behind a high bal.u.s.trading. The centre part was evidently the original house and long curved wings had been extended on either side. There was no sign of life about the place, nor did it carry the placid sense of repose that haunts old houses. Stormly Park had an air of waiting; a certain grim expectation lurked behind the over-mantled windows and closed doors. It was as if it watched for the fate foreshadowed in its owner's words. Even the glorious sunlight pouring over it failed to give it a sense of warm living life.

It filled Christopher with curiosity and a desire to explore the grey fastness and trim level lawns beyond. Some living eyes watched, however, for the front door swung open as they approached and two footmen came out. Christopher again noted Peter Masters did not speak to them or appear to notice their presence. On the steps he paused, and stood aside.

"Go in," he said when his visitor hesitated.

Christopher obeyed.

The interior was almost as great a contrast to the exterior as the Park was to the surrounding country. It was rich with colour and warmth and comfort.

They were met by a thin, straightened-looking individual, who murmured a greeting to which Peter Masters paid no attention.

He turned to Christopher.

"This is Mr. Dreket, my secretary. Dreket, show Mr. ----" for an imperceptible moment he paused--"Mr. Aston his room and explain the ways of the place to him. I've some letters to see to."

He turned aside down a long corridor. Christopher and the secretary looked at each other.

"I shan't be sorry for a wash and brush up," said Christopher, smiling.

The other gave a little sigh, expressive more of relief than fatigue, and led the way upstairs. As they went up the wide marble steps Mr.

Masters reappeared and stood for a moment in the shadow of an arch watching the dark, erect young head till it was out of sight, then he retraced his steps and disappeared in his own room.

Christopher did not see him again till dinner-time. The two dined together at a small table that was an oasis in a desert of s.p.a.ce. The room was hung with modern pictures set in unpolished wood panelling.

Peter vaguely apologised for them to one accustomed to the company of the masterpieces of the dead.

"I'm no judge. I should be taken in if I bought old ones," he said.

"So I buy new, provided they are by possible men. They may be worth something, some day, eh?"

"They are very good to look at now," Christopher answered, a little shyly, looking at a vast sea-scape which seemed to cool the room with a fresh breeze.

"You Astons would have beaten me anyhow," pursued Peter. "I've got nothing old: but the new's the best of its kind."

Christopher found this was true. Everything in the house was modern.

There was no reproduction, no imitation. It was all solidly and emphatically modern: gla.s.s, china, furniture, books, pictures, the silk hangings, the white statuary in the orangery: all modern. There was nothing poor or mean or artistically bad, but the whole gave an impression of life yet to be lived, an incompleteness that was baffling in its obscurity.

Peter Masters talked much of events, of material things, of himself, but never of mankind in general. He spoke of no friends, or neighbours: he appeared to be served by machines, to stand alone in life, unconscious of his isolation. They played billiards in the evening and the host had an easy victory, and gave Christopher a practical lesson in the one game he had found time to master.

"I've work to do. Breakfast to-morrow at 8 sharp. You are going to Birmingham with me."

No question about it or pretence of asking his visitor's wishes.

Christopher did not resent that, but he resented his growing inability to resist. He flung open the windows of his room and looked out.

Eastward there was a glow in the sky over the great sleepless city: northward a still nearer glow from a foundry, he thought, but westward the parkland was silvered with moonlight and black with shadows, which under the groups of chestnuts seemed like moving shapes.

He leant out far and the cold night air s.h.i.+vered by. That was familiar and good to feel, but the glare northward caught his eyes again, and held him fascinated. It rose and fell, now blus.h.i.+ng softly against a velvet sky, now flaring angrily to heaven. It seemed to quiver with voices that were harsh and threatening. It filled Christopher's heart with unreasonable horror against which he struggled in vain, as with the dim terror of a stranger. At last he closed the window and shut it out.

"I don't like it," said Christopher half aloud. "It's all right, it's only a foundry, but I hate it."

With that he went to bed and in the dark the dance of the fires flickered before his eyes.

The next few days were spent in gathering fresh impressions and disentangling bewildering experiences, and in small encounters with the unanswerable will of his host.

He was taken to the great offices in Birmingham, and the wonderful system by which each vast machine was worked was explained to him. He was even privileged to sit with the great man in the inner sanctum and copy letters for him, though he was summarily turned out to see the sights of the great city when a visitor was announced. He explored the depths of the coal mines and finally spent a long morning at the foundry whose nightly glare still haunted his dreams. It was the latter sight that Peter Masters evidently expected would interest him most, for here were employed the most marvellous and most complicated modern machinery, colossal innovations and ingenious labour-saving inventions in vast orderly buildings; the complex whole obedient to an organisation that left no item of power incomplete or wasted. But Christopher gave but half his mind to all he was shown, the other half was on those still stranger machines, the grimy, brutal-looking workmen toiling in the hot heart of the place, the white-faced stooping forms on the outskirts. They eyed him aslant as they worked, for visitors were rare occurrences. He asked questions concerning them and received vague answers, and a new machine was offered for inspection.

Fulner, the young engineer who had been told off to show him round, understood what was expected of him and did his duty. Masters himself, though he accompanied them, apparently put himself also in Fulner's hands; he took no particular interest in the work, but his eye followed every movement of Christopher's and his ear strained to his questions. Christopher noticed that none but heads of departments paid any attention to the owner's presence, and he would have thought him unknown but for a word or two he caught as he lingered for a last look at a particularly fascinating electric lathe.

"Thinks he's master," grinned one man, with a shrug, towards the retreating form.

"Thinks we're part of his blasted machinery," growled his fellow worker.

Christopher pa.s.sed on and forgot the lathe.

"Where do these people live?" he asked in the comparative quiet of a store yard.

"In the--the villages round, and as near as they can," said the engineer quietly and looked back. Mr. Masters had gone off to the store-keeper's office and was out of hearing. Fulner looked at Christopher again and apparently came to a decision.

"It is difficult, sometimes, this housing question," he said swiftly, "are you really interested?"

"Yes, I want to know what contrast they get to this. It's overpowering, this place."

"If there was time----" began the other, and stopped, seeing Mr.

Masters was approaching. He was followed by a hara.s.sed-face sub-manager, who waited uneasily a few yards off.

"Christopher, I shall have to stay here an hour or two. You had better go back. You can catch the 12.40 at the station. Fulner will see you there."

He nodded to the engineer and strode off towards the main offices.

The sub-manager exchanged a look of consternation with Fulner before he followed.

"We'll go this way," said Fulner, leading Christopher to a new corner of the great enclosure, "that is, if you don't mind walking."

He did not speak again until they were outside the high walls that surrounded the works, then he looked quizzically at Christopher.

"You shall see where they live if you wish to," he said, "the contrast is not striking--only there is no organisation outside."

They went down a black cindery road between high walls and presently the guide said quietly, "Are you coming here to us, Mr. Aston?"

"No." Christopher's voice was fervent with thankfulness.