Christopher continued to visit the Sartins and to find considerable pleasure in Sam’s companionship, who on his few holidays was only too glad to explore the grey river and its innumerable wharfs with Christopher. Sam was already a fair waterman; he at least spent all his scant leisure and scantier pennies in learning that arduous profession.

Once Mr. Aston visited Block D. with Christopher, and lingered behind gossiping to Mrs. Sartin while the boy went to meet Sam, expected home to tea. Sam got nothing out of his mother anent that conversation except the information that Mr. Aston was “a real Christian gentleman, who knew what trouble was, and don’t you make any mistake, but as ’ow Mr. Christopher was a lucky young gentleman.”

Mr. Aston also found time to visit Sam’s master, though on this occasion he was not accompanied by Christopher, who, indeed, chanced to be on the river with Sam Sartin that afternoon.

It must not be imagined that Christopher had no other friends than the humble Sartins. Besides the Wyatt household, half a dozen families with boys of his age welcomed him gladly enough, but though he was on good terms with these and though not one of the boys could afford to despise him as an antagonist in any sport, yet none of them contrived to have more than a very superficial idea of Christopher Aston. They took to him at once, but he remained just the good-natured, jolly acquaintance of the first day, never more, if never less. Christopher, indeed, though he confessed it to no one, not even to Aymer, felt a little cut off from this pleasant clan, who held the same traditions, the same experiences, and who went through 117 the same training at their various schools, who led indeed a life that differed essentially from Christopher.

He was never conscious of any lack of company. The Astons, old and young, were companions who answered to every need of his energetic mind. He made giant strides in his studies in these days and passed beyond the average into the class of those of real ability. All his well-earned holidays were spent at Marden, where there was always Patricia as a most admirable playfellow.

It was when Christopher was a little over fifteen and Patricia about the same age that the first definite result of their companionship came about.

On the other side of the lake at Marden Court the high road, sunk between a low wall on one side and the upsloping land on the other, ran directly eastward and westward, joining eventually a second Great Road of historic importance to Christopher Aston. The rough ground beyond the road was covered with low scrub, and dwarf twisted hawthorns, with a plentiful show of molehills. Here and there were groups of Scotch firs, and the crest of the hill was wooded with oaks and beeches and a fringe of larches, with here and there a silvery black poplar.

Christopher and Patricia were fond of this rough land that lay beyond the actual park. In early days it had made a glorious stage for “desert islanders,” with the isle-studded lake to bound it, whose further shore for the nonce melted into vague mistiness. Later on, when desert islands were out of fashion, it was still good ground to explore, and through the woods away over the hill one came to a delectable wide-spread country, where uncultivated down mingled with cornfields and stretches of clover, a country bounded by long, spacious curving lines of hill and dale, tree-capped ridges and bare contours, with here and there the gash of a chalk pit gleaming white. 118

Just at a point where a stretch of down-land ran into a little copse, was a small barrow. A round green mound, memento of a forgotten history that was real and visible enough in its own day, as real as the two children of “the Now,” with whom the spot was a favourite camping ground.

Patricia, who knew all about barrows from Nevil, used to invent wonderful stories of this one, to which Christopher lent a critical attention, adding here and there a practical touch.

It was he who first suggested exploring the mound, and one day they dragged heavy spades thither and worked hard for an hour or two without great result, when suddenly Patricia began shovelling back her pile of brown earth with feverish haste.

“I don’t like it. It is horrid,” she panted in return to Christopher’s protests. The idea of desecration was so strong on her that when her companion still indignantly protested, the black passion leapt up to life and she flung round at him.

It was then that Christopher made his discovery. He saw the mad flare in her face and flung his strong arms round her from behind, and held her against him with her hands in his gripped fast to her breast.

“Steady on, Patricia,” he said sharply, “don’t get frightened. You aren’t going to get wild this time.”

There was no alarm or anger in his voice and a queer, new note of firmness and force. She struggled ineffectually a moment and then came the dangerous quietness that waited a chance.

He could feel her muscles strained and rigid still.

“Patricia,” he said quite loudly, “drop it. I won’t have it, do you hear? You can stop if you like now, and you’ve got to.”

She bent back her head and looked at him, her child face old and worn and disfigured with her still burning fury. She looked right in his eyes: his met hers steady 119 and hard as flints, and through the blind passion of her look he saw her soul leap up, appealing, piteous, and by heaven-taught instinct, he answered that.

“It’s all right, Patricia, you are safe enough. I’m not going to let you make a fool of yourself, my dear; don’t be afraid. Stop thinking. Look at the dark shadows over there—on the cornfield. They’ll cut that next week.”

Little by little he loosed his grasp on her as he felt the tension slacken, and presently she stood free, still dazed and bewildered. Christopher picked up a spade and whistled.

“All the same, you are right, Patricia,” he said thoughtfully, “it does seem a shame to disturb the old Johnny, and creepy too. I’ll fill up.”

He continued to work hard, watching her out of the corner of his eye, but talking cheerfully. Presently she took up her spade and made a poor pretence of helping him, but she said nothing till they had done and he suggested a return.

“Do you mind resting a bit, first?”

Her subdued voice called for a scrutinising glance. Then he dropped his spade and flung himself on the grass by her side. A little wind swept up the downland to them, making the brown benets nod in a friendly fashion. The purple scabious, too, nodded cheerfully. Patricia picked one and began stroking it with her fingers. Christopher lay on his back and whistled again softly, watching a lark, as he had watched one five years ago, when a small boy, by the side of the Great Road.

“Christopher, how did you do it?” demanded Patricia abruptly.

“Do what?”

“Stop me.”

“I didn’t. You stopped yourself.”

“I never have before.” 120

“Then you ought to have. You see you can, if you only will think.”

“I can’t think.”

“But you did,” he insisted, with some reason.

“Because you made me. I’d have been much angrier with anyone else—it was like—like—holding on to a rock, when the water was sucking one away.”

“Bosh,” said Christopher, sitting upright suddenly.

“Look here, Patricia, it was only that I made you take time to think: no one, even you (he put in rudely enough), could be silly enough to make such a little idiot of yourself if you thought a moment. Everyone seems to take it for granted you’ll go on being—stupid—or else they are afraid to stop you, and I—well I won’t have it, Patricia, that’s all. You must jolly well learn to stop.”

His boyish words were rougher than his voice, just as his real feeling in the matter was deeper than his expression of it, and secretly he was a little proud of his achievement and felt a subtle proprietorship over his companion that was not displeasing.

Patricia slipped her arm in his and leant her golden head against him.

“Christopher, I want to tell you all I can remember about it. I don’t know what anyone else has told you.”

“All right, fire away,” returned Christopher resignedly.

“The only thing I can remember at all about my father is seeing him get into rages like that with my mother. I can remember him quite well, at all sorts of times; he was very big and fair, and splendid, but always everything I remember ends in that. And I can remember getting in a rage when I was quite little and seeing my mother turn white, and she jumped up and ran out of the room crying out to Renata. My father was killed hunting when I was six years old and mother 121 died when I was nine years old. Renata was married then, you know, so I came to live with her and Nevil. But always I remembered when I was naughty like that, my mother used to look frightened and go away and our old nurse used to come and scold me and watch me till I could have killed her. Renata, darling Renata, used to talk to me after and make me promise to try and be good, but she, too, was really afraid when I was bad. I suppose they had both had so bad a time with father.” She stopped, gazing out at a misty half-understood tragedy, whose very dimness woke a faint echo of terror in her heart, for she was as surely the daughter of the woman who had suffered as of the man who had caused the suffering.

“That’s all,” said Patricia, with a sudden movement, “everyone always takes it as part of me. Nevil says I’ll outgrow it. I don’t—and Renata cries.”

“And I scold you. Anyhow, it isn’t part of you in my eyes, but just a beastly sort of thing which you let get hold of you, and then it isn’t you at all. It’s all rot inheriting things, though of course, if you think so––” this young philosopher on the much-debated subject shrugged his shoulders.

“But I don’t think so, I don’t want to think so,” cried poor Patricia; “it’s just because you don’t think it that you made me feel I can stop it. Oh, Christopher, go on believing I can help it, please.”

“But I do. Of course I do. It’s a beastly shame anyone ever suggested anything else to you. Come along home, Patricia, it will be tea-time.”

This was the establishing of a covenant between the two. Whether it was from the suggestion or the dominant will of the boy himself, or both causes combined, Patricia began to gather strength against her terrible inheritance and, at all events in Christopher’s presence, actually did gain some show of control over her fits of passion. 122

The first of these times, about six months after the covenant on the barrow, Nevil was present. Renata and one of the children had been there also, but Renata had seen the queer pallor creep up in her sister’s face before even Christopher had guessed and had straightway hurried off with Master Max, a proceeding which usually precipitated events.

Then Christopher flung down his work and caught her clenched hand in his.

“Stop it, Patricia,” he said imperiously.

Nevil held his breath. It was a tradition in the Connell family that interference invariably led to a catastrophe. In his indolent way he had taken this belief on trust, the “laissez faire” policy being well in accordance with his easy nature.

However, tradition was clearly wrong, for after one ineffectual struggle, Patricia stood still and presently said something to Christopher that Nevil did not catch, but he saw the boy free her and Patricia remained silently looking out of the window. Christopher turned to pick up his book, and for the first time remembered Nevil was present and grew rather red. Nevil had watched them both with a speculative eye, for the moment an historian of the future rather than of the past. He said nothing, however, but having discoursed a while on the possibility of skating next day, sauntered away.

He came to anchor eventually in Aymer’s room, and sat smoking by the fire, his long legs crossed and the contemplative mood in the ascendency. His brother knew from experience that Nevil had something to say, and would say it in his own inimitable way if left alone.

“Christopher’s a remarkable youth,” he said presently.

“Have you just discovered it?” said Aymer drily.

“He is no respecter of persons,” pursued Nevil 123 quietly; “by the way, has it ever struck you, Aymer, that he’ll marry some day?”

“There’s time before us, yet. I hope. He isn’t quite sixteen, Nevil.”

“Yes, but there it is,” he waved his hand vaguely. “I think of it for myself when I look at Max sometimes.”

Aymer wanted to laugh out loud, which would have reduced his brother’s communicative mood to mere frivolity, and he wished to get at what lay behind, so he remained grave.

“There’s Patricia, too,” went on Nevil in the same vague way. “She, too, will do it some day. It’s lamentable, but unavoidable. And talking of Patricia brings me back to Christopher’s remarkableness.”

He related the little scene he had just witnessed in his slow, clear way, made no comment thereon, but poked the fire meditatively, when he had finished.

Aymer, too, was silent.

“You are her sole guardian, are you not?” he asked presently.

“With Renata. I wonder, Aymer, if anyone could have controlled that unhappy Connell?”

Aymer ignored the irrelevant remark.

“Renata does not count. Nevil, would you have any objections—as her guardian?”

Nevil strolled across to his brother and sat on the edge of his couch. He took up a sandy kitten, descendant of one of Christopher’s early pets, and began playing with it, attempting to wrap it up in his handkerchief.

“If you would mind, we will guard against the remote contingency at which you hint, by keeping Christopher away when he is a bit older,” said Aymer steadily.

“My dear CÆsar, it’s not I who might object—it’s you. You know what Patricia is, poor child. I 124 thought it might not fit in with your plans. She hasn’t a penny of her own, though, of course, Renata and I will see to that.” He knotted the handkerchief at the four corners and swung it to and fro to the astonishment of the imprisoned kitten.

“Christopher has nothing either,” said Aymer almost sharply, “and I shall see to that, with your permission, Nevil. That unfortunate kitten!”

Nevil released it. It scampered over the floor, hid under a chair and then rushed back at him and scrambled up his leg.

“Indeed, if things turn out as I hope, I shall have to provide for him,” went on Aymer steadily, “indeed I wish to do so anyway. It will mean less for Max, but––”

“What a beastly ugly kitten,” remarked Nevil suddenly with great emphasis, placing the animal very gently on the floor again.

“Don’t swear, Nevil,” retorted Aymer with a little ghost of a smile.

“Very well,” answered his brother meekly, “but it is. Aymer, don’t be an ass, old fellow—Max won’t want anything.”

He lounged out presently before Aymer could make up his mind to vex him further with the question of Max’s inheritance.

The property set aside for the use of the son and heir of the Astons provided a very handsome income, the original capital of which could not be touched. In early days Aymer had found the income barely sufficient for his wants. He spent it freely now—the Astons were no misers, but his father and he managed to nearly double the original capital and this was Aymer’s to do with as he would. Apparently he meant it for Christopher. It was one of Nevil’s little weaknesses that he could not endure any reminder of the fact that to him and his small son would the line descend, 125 and that his brother’s was but a life interest, and his position as his father’s heir a merely formal matter of no actual value. Poor Nevil, who was the least self-seeking of men, could not endure any reminder of his elder brother’s real condition of life.