Marden Court lay bathed in the mellow October sunshine. Late Michaelmas daisies, fuchsias, and milky anemones stood smiling bravely in the borders under the red brick walls, trails of crimson creepers flung a glowing glory round grey stone pillar and coping, and in the neighbouring woods the trees seemed to hold their breath under the weight of the rich robes they wore. Marden looked its best in late autumn. The ripeness of the air, the wealth of colour, and the harmonious dignity of the season seemed a fit setting to the old Tudor mansion, with its reposeful beauty just touched with renaissance grace. The glory of the world passes, but it is none the less a glory worth observing.

The Astons regarded Marden as the metropolis of their affections. It was “Home” and any member of the family wanting to go “Home” did so regardless of who might be in immediate possession. Nevil Aston, his wife and two small children and his young sister-in-law lived there permanently, but their position was that of fortunate caretakers, and both the elder Aston and the Wyatts went to and fro at their will.

Nevil Aston was at thirty-two a brilliant essayist and rising historian, and there was a magnificent library at Marden which he professed to find useful in his work. He also was wont to say “Marden was an excellent place in which to work, but a far better place in which to play.” He himself did both in turn. A few weeks of furious energy and copious achievement would be followed by weeks of serene idleness from which little Renata, his wife, would arouse him by 46 sheer bullying, as he himself expressed it, driving him by main force of will to the library, setting pen and paper to hand and then placidly consenting to weeks of irregular meals, of absent-minded vagaries, a seeming indifference to her presence, in place of the wholly dependent lovable boyish Nevil of the days of indolence.

It was not till the second autumn after Christopher’s introduction to the mÉnage that the senior Astons decided to desert London for a few months and go “Home.” Mr. Aston had been to and fro not infrequently and Nevil Aston had made a few brief visits to town, when Constantia Wyatt had made it her business to see that her gifted brother did not hide his light under a bushel, but little Christopher failed to connect either Nevil or his beautiful sister very closely with his own particular Astons. They were a part of an outside existence with which he was unacquainted, and Marden Court was to him but a name, an unreal place that got photographed occasionally and that Mr. Aston seemed to like. The Astons, probably quite unconsciously, pursued their usual course of leaving Christopher to drift into the stream of their existence without any explanation or attempt to make that existence a clear cut and dried affair to him. He was pleased enough with the idea of the change, once he had ascertained his guinea-pigs might accompany him, and was still more pleased when he was told he would at all events for a time have no lessons to do.

“You’ll have plenty to learn though,” Aymer had remarked drily when he made the announcement. Christopher refrained from asking for an explanation with difficulty.

Towards the middle of October Nevil Aston, just in the midst of a period of blissful laziness, sauntered down the long walks of the south garden in Renata’s wake, occasionally stopping to pick up one or other of 47 the two fat babies who struggled along after their mother, interrupting more or less effectually the business on which she was engaged. A pathetic-eyed yard or so of brown dachshund and a tortoise-shell kitten completed the party. Renata Aston was small and dark, gentle and deliberate of movement, and possessing an elf-like trick of shrinking her entrancing personality into comparative invisibility that bereft one of further vision. She moved from border to border choosing her flowers with care, and looking even smaller than she was in the proximity of her lanky husband, and the plump little babies toddling after.

Presently she came to a stop. All her satellites stopped too. She regarded her trophies critically.

“This is very good for the end of October, you know.” She remarked to all the assembled court. “I only want some violets now. Nevil, I wish you’d stop Charlotte picking the heads off the fuchsias: there are no more to come out.”

Nevil hoisted his small daughter on his shoulder as the safest way to avoid an altercation and humbly asked if he must pick violets, “they grow so low down.”

“You grow so far up,” she retorted scornfully. “Max can help me. You can watch with Charlotte. You are very good at watching people work.”

“It is not a common virtue,” pleaded Nevil, “watchers generally tell the workers how to do it. I never do. Why don’t you tell a gardener to pick them, Renata?”

“A gardener! For Aymer?”

“All this trouble for Aymer?”

“It is a pleasure.”

“I know just how it will be,” he complained mournfully, “the moment Aymer is here you will hound me off to work and I shall see nothing of you at all. You won’t even give me new pens. Charlotte, I should look horrid if I had no hair: be merciful.” 48

Renata smiled and shook her head. “I shall get no more work out of you this side of Christmas, sir. I have no such impossible dreams. Perhaps Aymer won’t want either of us now he has got Christopher.”

“I wonder now,” remarked Nevil, depositing Miss Charlotte on a seat while he took out his cigarette case, “I wonder if you are jealous, Renata.”

She flushed indignantly and denied the fact with most unnecessary emphasis, so her husband told her in his gentle teasing way. He turned her face up to his and professed to look stern, which he never could do.

“Confess now,” he insisted. “Just a little jealous of Christopher?”

“Well,” she admitted, laughing and still pink, “Aymer has never stayed away from us for so long before. I don’t know what was the use of his having those rooms done up for himself if he never means to use them.”

Renata continued to pick violets, and Max to decapitate those he could find. The dachshund and kitten continued to watch with absorbing interest, and Nevil continued to smoke and to let Charlotte investigate his cigarette case till her mother turned round and saw her.

“You dreadful child!” she cried, “Nevil, just look. Charlotte is sucking the ends of your horrid cigarettes! How can you let her?”

Charlotte was rescued from the cigarettes, or the cigarettes from Charlotte, with considerable difficulty and at the cost of many tears. Indeed her protestations were so loud that nurse appeared and bore her and Max away and silence again reigned in the warm garden between the sunny borders.

The dachshund gave a sigh and flopped down on the path, and the kitten began a toilet for want of better employment. Renata, who had stood aside during the 49 small domestic storm, gazed at her violets gravely as if she were counting them.

Nevil watched her contentedly and did not observe the trouble in her face.

“Nevil,” she said at last, “about Charlotte I wonder—do you think––” she stopped and edged a little nearer her husband and slipped her hand in his.

“Well, dear?”

“You don’t think, do you, Nevil, that Charlotte is—is getting like Patricia?”

He put his arm round her and drew her down on the seat.

“You dear silly child, no,” he said, kissing her.

She seemed only half assured and leant her head against him, sighing.

“It is quite, quite different,” he insisted. “Charlotte’s temper is just like anyone else’s, yours or mine, or anyone’s.”

“Yours—you haven’t got one,” she returned with pretended contempt and then lapsed back into her troubled mien, “but I feel so frightened sometimes.”

“My dear, be reasonable. Patricia’s temper isn’t a temper at all. It’s—it’s a possession—a wretched family inheritance. She can’t help it, poor child, any more than she could help a squint or a crooked nose, and she doesn’t inherit it from your mother but only from your step-father, so why on earth you should imagine it likely to crop up in our family I can’t conceive. It’s absurd.”

He tilted her pretty face up to his again and kissed her. Nevil would like to have killed all his wife’s cares with a caress. It is not always a successful method, but it is more efficacious than the world believes.

“Of course I know all that, though Patricia always seems quite like my own sister. I do hope Christopher won’t tease her.” 50

“Aymer will see to that.”

“Not unless he is reminded. You know he rather loves teasing the poor darling himself.”

“Here is the poor darling, herself. Storm over, I suppose, sky serene.”

The little girl coming down the path to them was barely twelve, but she looked older. The features were too set, if anything, too regular for her to be called pretty as yet, but an observer must have been very blind to beauty not to see the possibilities shadowed in her face. She had quantities of smooth gold hair, one plait of which, for convenience’s sake, was twisted round her little head that was at present too small for its rich burden. Her great dark grey eyes and long lashes had a curiously expectant look as if ever on the watch for some joy or pain to come. In the clearness of her complexion and the good modelling of her little white hands, she did resemble her half-sister, but it was the only likeness between them. She came to them not running, as a child should, but slowly and deliberately.

“Patricia, do come and hear what this dreadful Nevil has let Charlotte do,” cried Renata, still under shelter of her husband’s long arm. For some reason she seemed anxious to let the child know she was seen and wanted. Nevil smiled and made room on the seat for her to sit by his side.

Patricia stood in front of them, her great pathetic eyes looking from one to the other. She finally addressed herself to Nevil.

“I’m ever so sorry, Nevil,” she said with a dejected sigh.

“Of course, of course, it’s all right, child,” he answered hastily, “come and hear my short-comings. I’m in deep disgrace.”

She sat down obediently and the dachshund immediately shifted its quarters and wedged itself in between 51 her feet. She leant forward with her elbows on her knees and gazed absently at the brown head.

“What have you been doing, Nevil, darling?”

“I? Not I, but Charlotte. Don’t you know by this time, Patricia, I’m only a scapegoat for the autocrat of the nursery.”

“He let Charlotte nibble a cigarette,” explained Renata.

“One of my very best.”

“It might have been one of his worst, Rennie,” suggested Patricia consolingly.

“They are all ‘worst’ for Charlotte,” cried Renata springing up. “I must go and put up my flowers or they’ll be here before I’m ready.”

She flitted away in the direction of the house. Her husband looked after her with mute sorrow at his own incapacity to melt from vision in that intangible manner—from situations that were too difficult.

He glanced at his little companion, who was making attempts to tie the dachshund’s ears round his own neck.

“You won’t be able to treat Christopher that way, Patricia,” he said contemplatively, “but it will be jolly for you to have a companion of your own age, won’t it?”

“Perhaps he won’t like me.”

“He is quite likely to like you.”

“Oh, yes, at first, because I’ll make him,” she returned with engaging candour, but then her mouth drooped a little, “but when he knows what I’m really like, he won’t.”

Nevil examined another cigarette carefully to see it had not been nibbled. He was really very fond of his little sister-in-law though occasionally at a loss how to deal with her strange moods.

“Well, we are all very fond of you, anyway, child,” 52 he said easily; “as for the temper, you can’t really help it, you know, and you’ll grow out of it. I’m sure you try to, my dear.”

“But I don’t try,” cried poor Patricia wildly, “I haven’t time, I don’t know anything about it till it’s there and then it’s too late. I might just as well have flung that plate at Charlotte as at you to-day. I wonder Renata lets me go in the nursery.”

“No, no. You wouldn’t be angry with a baby.”

She turned to him with a sort of exasperated patience. “That’s just it. You don’t any of you understand. It does not make any difference, why, who or where. It just comes. I can’t help it.” She kicked her heel on the gravel fiercely.

“Poor little Patricia,” said Nevil gently. “I can only say we all love you just the same, and I believe you’ll grow out of it.” She changed suddenly and flung herself into his arms in a wild transport of tears and childish abandonment. He was in no wise taken aback and soothed her with adroitness born of practice. When she was calm again he sat with his arm round her talking of indifferent things till a clock somewhere near struck three.

“They should be here directly,” he said, but made no effort to rise.

“Would Aymer really mind being met?” she questioned.

“He’d rather be left to Vespasian and Tollens.”

Tollens was the old butler.

“Won’t he ever get used to it?”

“He is afraid of becoming an invalid if he gets hardened to it.”

“But he is, isn’t he?”

“Not a bit of it. He has perfectly wonderful health. He has massage and all sorts of things to keep him up to the mark. Aymer’s as vain as a girl.”

“I don’t call it vanity. I call it pluck.” 53

Nevil groaned, “Oh, you women, old and young! But you are right—and there are my father and Christopher himself.”

Christopher to his great joy had been allowed to drive down with Aymer and Mr. Aston, and had found the journey not one mile too long. Indeed towards the end his early curiosity as to the termination had evaporated and the mile-stones had come in sight and vanished all too quickly. It had been reassuring to find Vespasian awaiting them at the door with the old butler to whom he was formally introduced as Mr. Aymer’s ward. Then having inquired of Tollens of the family’s whereabouts, Mr. Aston bore off Christopher for further introductions.

At the entrance to the garden on the long terrace and by the gate leading to the south garden he had paused and looked round with the slow comprehensive glance of one acquainted with every detail. He spoke nothing of his thoughts to Christopher, but the boy was quite acutely aware that Mr. Aston loved this place and was happy to see it again, while he calmly discussed the possibilities of fishing in the lake that lay below like a silver mirror in the clear sunlight.

And in the south garden Nevil and Patricia met them. Patricia, still white and shaken with the past storm, greeted Mr. Aston shyly, but had no qualms about greeting Christopher. He, for his part, was far too shy and too unused to girls’ society to notice her mien. He did, however, remember afterwards that she was standing by a great clump of purple starlike flowers and that he thought her the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, excepting, of course, Constantia Wyatt. He made that mental reservation as they walked along together in front of their elders, and then glancing sideways at the wonderful hair again, decided he liked fair hair best. Constantia’s was dark. They soon outdistanced the two men who followed at 54 a leisurely pace. Mr. Aston looked after them and said kindly:

“The little girl still gives trouble, I see.”

“Occasionally.” Nevil made the admission with reluctance. “There was a scene this morning. I don’t know what started it. Perhaps I teased her. She flung a plate at me. I don’t believe she can help it, poor child.”

“You mustn’t tell her so, Nevil.”

“You’d tell her anything you could if you saw her after. She’ll grow out of it.”

“I hope so.”

They fell to talking of the estate, which Nevil was supposed to look after. He did, when he remembered it, but that was not often, and not of late. His father, half exasperated, half laughing, told him he would defer his lecture till later on. Nevil penitently agreed it was only fitting to do so, and slipping his arm through his father’s, began to explain to him the rights of a controversy just started in the Historical Review. No one was ever angry with Nevil long. His unchangeable sweet temper and gentle judgment of mankind, his entire lack of vanity and the very real ability that was concealed under his elusive personality outweighed the exasperation his irresponsibility and indolence sometimes awoke. He had no enemies among those who knew him, and the bitterest controversy with pen and ink could be brought to a close in an interview. It must, however, be confessed that with pen in hand Nevil was more dangerous than the unwary might imagine. He knew his power with that weapon and when he chose to use it, did so to good purpose with a polished finish to his scathing periods, that made men twenty years his senior hate with fierce passion Aston the writer, as surely as they would end by appreciation of Aston the man after a personal encounter.

Patricia and Christopher having outdistanced their 55 elders proceeded to make friends in their own way. The girl began operations by asking if he would like to see the stables and found it aroused no enthusiasm in him, which was a point to the bad. But he was polite enough to say he would like to go if she wished it, which nearly equalised matters again. She confessed it might be nice to have someone to play with, which Christopher thought very friendly of her, and told her of his guinea-pigs, which would arrive in the evening with Robert and the luggage. That was distinctly a point to the good; they both waxed eloquent over the special qualities of guinea-pigs. Christopher’s original two had already increased alarmingly in numbers. He hinted some might even be left at Marden—in a good home. Also he told her he had christened the family by the names of great painters.

“CÆsar taught me the names,” he explained, “there is Velasquez—he painted the Don Carlos in CÆsar’s room, you know—he’s brown all over except for one spot—my Velasquez, I mean—and there’s Watteau—an awful frisky little beast—and Sir Joshua, who sleeps in my pocket. You’ll like Sir Joshua, he’s awfully good tempered.”

“I know,” nodded Patricia wisely, “and he painted Nevil’s great grandmother. It’s in the drawing-room. Why do you call Aymer ‘CÆsar’?”

“Because he always does what he means to do, or gets it done; besides he is—just CÆsar.”

“It isn’t bad,” she said condescendingly, “perhaps I shall call him so myself. I do hope we are going to have tea in his room. It’s such a lovely, lovely room.”

“So it is in London. The beautifulest room I’ve seen.”

“It’s just as nice here,” she maintained stoutly, “he planned how it was to be done, and Nevil saw to it. I like this best.”

Christopher was too polite or too shy to insist, but 56 he felt doubtful and became impatient to see for himself, so they went indoors to find Patricia’s hopes were justified. Tea was served in “Mr. Aymer’s” room.

And Christopher was obliged to allow that Patricia had some ground for her statement. It was a smaller room than the one in London, and singularly like it, only the prevailing note was lighter and gayer in tone. Aymer was there, lying on a similar sofa to his usual one, with the familiar cover across his feet.

Renata was making tea, and making CÆsar laugh also. Christopher was uncomfortably conscious it was all new to him and the familiarity only superficial, while it was a well-recognised phase in CÆsar’s life. Even Nevil Aston seemed a different person in his easy country dress, and Christopher failed at first to connect the dark little lady at the tea table with him, and only noted she took Aymer his tea, which was his, Christopher’s, special privilege, and treated him with a friendly familiarity that nearly bordered on contempt in Christopher’s eyes.

Aymer saw the children and called to them. Patricia greeted him with the air of a young princess and drew herself up when he said she had grown, and would soon be a child instead of a baby. Then he faced Christopher round towards Renata, who had suddenly become grave and shy.

“Here is Christopher, so you can approve or condemn Nevil by your own judgment, Renata. Christopher, shake hands with Mrs. Aston.”

Christopher did as he was told, but he realised they had been speaking of him and felt on the defensive. However, he sat down as near to CÆsar as he could. They talked of all manner of people and things of which he knew nothing, traditional jokes cropped up, and Aymer’s propensity for teasing asserted itself in a prominent manner. Renata never failed to respond 57 and never failed to claim Nevil’s protection and to look delightfully shy and dignified and feminine. Presently the children were sent for. To Christopher’s indignant amazement they were plumped down on Aymer and allowed to treat him much as if he was a new species of giant plaything. Charlotte, in her efforts to burrow under Aymer’s arm, rolled off the edge of the sofa and was deftly caught by Christopher, who deposited her on the floor. She immediately tried to clamber up again, but Aymer could not second her efforts with his left arm.

“Put her up again, Christopher,” he said.

But Christopher apparently did not hear, and Mr. Aston, who had been watching, came to the rescue. Christopher slipped away to the window.

“A question of a third baby, I think,” said Mr. Aston softly as he rearranged Charlotte, and Aymer, looking sharply at Christopher, laughed.

When Christopher went to bid him good-night, he found CÆsar alone, looking tired and doing nothing, not even reading.

Christopher said good-night gravely.

“It’s not very late,” remarked Aymer. “Stay with me a bit.”

He patted the chair beside him. Christopher with rather a hot face obeyed.

“How do you like Marden?”

“I—I don’t know yet. There seems to be a lot of people here.”

“It’s home, you see. We all come home when we want to see each other and have people round.”

“Yes, I suppose everyone wants to see their people sometimes.”

“Don’t you like seeing people?”

“I haven’t any of my own,” said Christopher, without looking at him.

“That’s unkind. You have us.” 58

Christopher changed the subject.

“Do those—those little children live here?”

“Yes. It’s their home. They are rather jolly little kids. What’s the matter, Christopher?”

Christopher assured him nothing was the matter.

Aymer continued in his most matter-of-fact voice.

“I’m fond of those babies. To begin with they are Nevil’s and they are the only youngsters I am likely to know well. But I’m a greedy person. I had Nevil, Renata, the kiddies—and that delightfully odd Patricia, and it wasn’t enough for me. They were all as good as could be to me, but I wanted to be more than an extra in someone’s life, so I must needs encumber myself with a troublesome little boy who’s even more greedy than myself, apparently.”

Christopher sat with his curly head on his hands trying not to give in to the smile that was struggling to express some undefined sense of content which had sprung to life.

“You are a bad, silly boy to be jealous,” said Aymer, watching him, half laughing, half affectionately, “you ought to have known for yourself, if they had been enough for me, you wouldn’t be here at all.”