Christopher Hibbault, Roadmaker Part 59

CHAPTER x.x.x

Patricia sat by the fire in her little sitting-room seeking for a plausible excuse to return to Constantia as soon as might be. The grey weather, the strange sense of impending events weighed on her, she knew. She was in the mood when the old evil might flash up again, and for this reason she kept away from her sister a while, hoping to nurse herself into a better mind before evening. Christopher had gone again in his usual abrupt way. Presumably Caesar understood, but she found herself wis.h.i.+ng she also held his confidence. She was hungry for a repet.i.tion of that first evening as a starved child is hungry for a crust, when the better things seem as far away as heaven. She must go back to Constantia when she could frame a suitable reason for her capricious movements. She was much safer there, beside the considerate friend, who kept the surface of life in a pleasant ripple, and never seemed to look into the depths or ask her what she found there to trouble her, as dear little sympathetic Renata did occasionally. Yet how could she go if Christopher were really coming back to-day, as St.

Michael said, and the future held any possibility of another golden hour? The force of her deep love turned back on herself, broke through spirit and heart and let loose in her mind strange imaginings, alternate glimpses of a heaven or h.e.l.l that had no relations.h.i.+p with tradition. She put her hands over her face and kept quite still in the grip of a sudden agony that made her physically cold and faint and exhausted. It would pa.s.s as it had pa.s.sed before, yet was she forever to be at the mercy of this torturing realisation of empty years and eternal loss? Did Christopher love her or not? The a.s.sured "yes" and the positive "no" were as two shuttlec.o.c.ks tossed over her strained mind by the breath of circ.u.mstance. Her own erroneous idea that her still unconquered pa.s.sion kept them apart was breeding morbid misery for her, as all false beliefs must do. She had kept herself under control to-day by dint of isolation, and the inadequacy of that course filled her with self-contempt. In her solitary fight against the life forces within and without, she was getting worsted. She knew she resisted the invasion of their hours of depression with less courage than of old. It did not seem to matter so greatly if there were nothing to be won from life, and she was very tired. It had been a mistake to come to Marden at all, there was too much time to think there. She returned to that fact eventually. The afternoon wore on and she fell into a lethargy with no desire to escape it, and did not hear Christopher's motor arrive.

Christopher for once paused in the hall, instead of going straight to Aymer's room, as was the invariable rule, after even a day's absence.

"Where is Mrs. Aston?" he asked the footman, who replied vaguely, when Renata herself appeared. But it was not Renata that Christopher wanted.

"Where is Patricia?" he questioned with more truth.

"Upstairs in her room, I think. She seems rather worried and tired, Christopher. Do you want her?"

There was a note of anxiety in Renata's gentle voice. She was always nervous and anxious if she fancied Patricia was worried, struggling to stand between her and the petty annoyances which were supposed to be so irresistibly maddening to a true Connell.

"Yes, I want her." He smiled as he said it. "But I'll go to her. Don't trouble."

He went upstairs two steps at a time, and along the familiar corridor, and outside the door paused for the first moment since he had seen his vision on the highroad.

The corridor was already dark, but when he entered in obedience to her languid "Come in," the fire light made a rosy glow and filled the quiet s.p.a.ce with tremulous light.

Patricia sat facing the fire, with her back to the door. He could see her golden head over the back of the chair, and his heart beat quickly.

"May I come and talk to you, Patricia?"

For the moment she did not answer or move. She was almost in doubt if she could accept his presence just now, until he was actually standing on the rug before her, looking down at her with keen, searching eyes, before which all her wild thoughts sunk back into oblivion, and a sense of quiet content and security stole over her.

"What have you been doing?" he demanded. "You look very tired."

"The result of laziness," she rejoined, and then was angry with herself for allowing an opening for mere trivialities.

"No, that's not true, Christopher. It's a bad day with me. I'm afraid to face anyone, even my own maid."

With no one else in the world could she have owned so much, and the keen pleasure of exercising her right to open dealing with him, outweighed the humiliation of her avowal.

Christopher seemed intent on his own affairs, however, for he asked her abruptly if St. Michael or Caesar had told her the news.

"What news?"

"Something rather disconcerting has happened to me," he said slowly, "but I'll tell you that presently. The most important thing now is that I want to get married."

All the cold waters of the world closed over her head for a moment. It was as if he had wrenched a plank from one drowning. She answered him, however, in a low, mechanical voice:

"Soon, Christopher?"

"That will be for her to say, if she will have me at all."

"You have not asked her yet?"

"I am asking her."

She looked up at him, puzzled and incredulous of the apparent meaning.

Then suddenly he was on his knees by her side, with his strong arms round her.

"My dear, my dear, surely you must know. Is there need for any words between us? I've known so long all you must mean to me. Listen, Patricia, you will have to forgive me a great thing. I've let outside considerations, absurd ambitions, and the shadow of a lie, stand between us. I've waited when I should have spoken. You _will_ forgive me that, my dear one, will you not? I'm not humble a bit in asking. I am so proud of the one great thing, that _I_ can give you, Love,--can hold you and wrap you in it, so that nothing can hurt you any more.

You understand, you recognise my right, Patricia?"

She could say nothing, understand nothing, but the great peace of perfect security. She let him hold her still, with her head against his shoulder and his dear face near, so near she seemed to lose sense of her own ident.i.ty. All the answer to her life's riddle lay there, behind the love that emptied her soul of need. Out of the blissful unspeakable light some words vibrated into new meaning.

"There shall be no more sea."

It meant this then, this experience that was theirs. For him and her there was no more tempest, no more restless craving or peril, all had pa.s.sed with the old incompleteness.

Still, she had not spoken audibly to him nor had he pressed her to do so. Words were too imperfect a medium. But presently, when all had been said in the silence that could be said, he touched her hair with caressing hand and reminded her:

"You have never answered me, sweet."

She put her hand on his as it held her and whispered, "Have I not, Christopher?"

And then he kissed her.

Afterwards as they sat watching the red fire, it seemed to her there was no problem in all the world he could not solve, no struggle in which he would not prove victor, nor any knowledge too deep to reach.

In the illumination of their great love the gates of life became visible and open, never to be quite closed again.

She spoke at last slowly and quietly.

"Christopher, I am not going to ask you if you are afraid or have counted the risk you run, I being what I am. I know what you would say and I love you so well that now at this moment I have no fear either.

But it will come nevertheless. Others will point out to you that it is a mad thing to do, and I shall say it too. It is then you must hold me, Christopher, against my will and against myself. For this is my clear sane hour, when I really know, and I know it means my salvation.

Only when that certainty slips from me you must keep and save me yourself, dearest."

He held her hands against him and looked down into her eyes. "As I would keep and save myself, beloved."

She smiled a little, understanding to the finest shade his meaning, and then a quiver of weakness touched her.

"I should die if you let me slip, Christopher."

"You are going to live," he said firmly, and kissed her again.

CHAPTER x.x.xI

Christopher entirely forgot to tell Patricia of his fortune or parentage. He remembered that little omission as he went down to dinner and looked back to see if she were visible, but she was not in sight, and as he was already late he had to go in without her.

She came down still later, looking so beautiful with such a touch of warm colour in her face, and so sweet a light of wonder in her eyes that even Nevil regarded her with speculative interest.