Christopher Hibbault, Roadmaker Part 45

Nevil crossed and uncrossed his long legs, gazing abstractedly at a modern picture of mediaeval warfare.

"Those helmets are fifteen years too late for that battle," he volunteered, "and the pikes are German, not French. What a rotten picture. Don't you think you could come back with me? I hate travelling alone. I always believe I shall get mislaid and be taken to the Lost Property Office. Porters are so careless."

He did not look round, but continued to examine the details of the offending picture.

Christopher leant over his chair and put his hands on Nevil's shoulders.

"Nevil, I can't stand any more. Tell me why I am to come back."

The other looked up at him with a rueful little smile, singularly like his father's.

"You were not always so dense, Christopher. I hoped you wouldn't ask questions that are too difficult to answer. To begin with, neither my father nor Aymer know I've come. They think I'm in town. You see, Caesar misses you, though he wouldn't have you think so for the world, in case it added to your natural conceit, but it makes him--cross, yes, rather particularly cross and that upsets the house. I can't write at all, so I thought you had better come back. The fact is," he added with a burst of confidence, "I've promised an article on the Masterpieces of Freedom for August. I seldom promise, but I like to keep my word if I do, and it's impossible to write now. If you're enjoying yourself it's horribly selfish--but you see the importance of it, don't you?"

"Yes," allowed Christopher with the ghost of a smile, "it's lamentably selfish of you, but I realise the importance. Shall we go by rail to-night?"

"But Leamington?"

"Will the man run away?"

"My father might have been interested to see the papers."

"You dear old fraud," said Christopher with an odd little catch in his voice, "do you suppose St. Michael won't see through you? Is it like you to travel this distance to see doubtful records when you won't go to London to see genuine ones? Why did not St. Michael write to me?"

"Caesar would not let him."

"He must be ill."

"He is not, on my word, Christopher. He is just worried to the verge of distraction by your being here. It seems ridiculous, but so it is."

"Why didn't you write yourself?"

Nevil considered the question gravely.

"Why didn't I write? Oh, I know. I only thought of it this morning and it seemed quicker to come."

"Or wire?" persisted Christopher.

"It would have cost such a lot to explain," he answered candidly. "I did think of that and started to send one. Then I found I had only twopence in my pocket. If I had sent anyone else to the office everyone would have known I was sending for you and Caesar would have been more annoyed than ever."

"I quite see. What did Mrs. Aston say?"

"I think she said you'd be sure to come."

Christopher nodded. "Yes, I'll go by mail to-night." Then he shut his teeth sharply and looked out of the window with a frown, thinking of the renewed battle of wills to come, and at last said he would go and find Mr. Masters, since no one appeared to have told him of Nevil's arrival.

He went straight down the corridor to Peter Masters' room. The owner was still seated as he had left him, smoking placidly.

"Changed your mind already?" he asked as his guest entered.

"No, not that, but Nevil Aston has come and I must go back with him by the mail to-night."

"What's up?" The big man sprang to his feet. "Is Aymer ill?"

"No, no. I don't think so. It may be Nevil's fancy. He thinks Aymer wants me back. Of course it sounds absurd, but Nevil, who won't stir beyond the garden on his own account, has come all this way to fetch me to Caesar."

Peter Masters was half-way to the door and tossed a question over his shoulder curtly.

"Where is he?"

"In the little reception-room."

Christopher followed him down the pa.s.sage puzzling over this unexpected behaviour.

Nevil was re-exploring the inaccurate picture with patient sorrow and despair. He hardly turned as they entered.

"How do you do, Peter," he said unenthusiastically, "why do you buy pictures like that by men who don't even know the subject they are painting?"

"I'll burn it to-morrow. What's the matter with Aymer, Nevil?"

Nevil looked reproachfully at Christopher.

"Nothing is the matter, as I told Christopher, only I'd a man to see at Leamington and thought I could get a fellow victim here for the journey home."

"I'll meet you in London on Monday," put in the fellow victim quietly to Mr. Masters.

Peter looked from one to the other, lastly he looked long at Christopher and Christopher looked at him. Nothing short of the revelation Peter was as yet unprepared to make would stop Christopher from going to Aymer Aston that night he knew, and if he let the boy go back with the truth untold, it would be forever untold--by _him_. That it _was_ the Truth was a conviction now. There was no s.p.a.ce left for a shadow of mistrust in his mind.

"If you go by the mail we'd better dine at eight sharp," he said abruptly. "I want to see you, Christopher, before you go, in my room."

He turned towards the door, adding as an afterthought, "You must look after Nevil till I am free."

Nevil gave a gentle sigh of satisfaction as the door closed.

Christopher laughed. The relief was so unexpected, so astounding.

"We'll have some tea in the orangery," he said after a moment's consideration. "You may not like the statuary, but the orange trees at least offer no anachronisms."

Peter Masters shut the door of his room with a bang and going to an ever-ready tray, helped himself to a whiskey and soda with a free hand. Then he carefully selected a cigar of a brand he kept for the Smoke of Great Decisions, and lit it. All this he did mechanically, by force of habit, but after it was done, habit found no path for itself, for Peter Masters was treading new roads, wandering in unaccustomed regions, and found no solution to his problem in the ancient ways.

Was he, who for thirty-five years of life--from full manhood till now--had never consulted any will or pleasure but his own--was he now going to make a supreme denial to himself for no better reason than the easing of a stricken man's burden?

The man once had been his friend, but the boy was his. And he wanted him. He clenched his fist on the thought. He was perfectly aware of his own will in this matter.

Even from the material or business point of view his need of a son and heir had grown great of late. He had never contemplated the non-existence of one, just as he had never contemplated the non-existence of Elizabeth. He had counted, it is true, on overpowering the alert senses of one who had known the pinch of poverty with superabundant evidence of the fortune that was his. He had noted the havoc wrought to great fortunes by children brought up to regard great wealth as the natural standard of life; he meant to avoid that error, and in the unnatural neglect of the boy he had believed to be his, there was less callous indifference than Charles Aston thought: it was more the outcome of a crooked reasoning which placed the ultimate good of his fortune above the immediate well-being of his child. The terrible event in Liverpool that had shattered his almost childish belief in his wife's existence had also wiped away her fading image from his mind. The whole force of his energetic nature was focussed on the possible personality of his son. This Christopher of Aymer Aston's upbringing, entirely different from all he had purposed to find in his heir, called to him across forgotten waters.

His very obstinacy and will power were matters in which Peter rejoiced--they were qualities no Aston had implanted. He was proud of his son and his pride clamoured to possess in entirety what was his by right of man.

What could prevent him? He sat biting his fingertips and frowning into the gathering twilight without--at that persistent vision of Aymer Aston's face.

There were plenty of men in the world who would have shrugged their shoulders over the question of Peter Masters' honesty, some who would have accredited his lightest word and yet would have preferred a legal buffer between them and the bargain he drove: many who considered him a model of financial honesty. It was a matter of the personal standpoint: perhaps none of them would have troubled to measure the millionaire by any measure than their own. Peter's own measure was of primitive simplicity--he never took something for nothing, and if he placed his own value on what he bought and what he paid, he at least believed in his own scale of prices. Had he picked up a banknote in the street he would have lodged it with the police unless he considered the amount only equalised his trouble in stopping to rescue it. Had his son dragged himself up the toilsome ladder to manhood (he ignored the possibility of woman's aid), he would have taken him as he was, good or bad, without compunction, but he recognised that Christopher was not the outcome of his own efforts only, that Aymer having expended the unpriceable capital of time, patience and love, might, with all reason, according to Peter Masters'

code of life, look for the full return of sole possession in the result. Was he, then, in the face of his own standard of honest dealing, going to rob Aymer of the fruit of his labours, to take so great a something for nothing?