Christopher spent the whole of the day inspecting possible motors, perfectly aware all the time of the one he meant to purchase, but in no wise prepared to forego the pleasures of inspection. Sam was not free that evening, so he dined with Constantia Wyatt, whose elusive personality continued to remove her in his eyes far from relationship with ordinary women. She was going to a “first night” at His Majesty’s Theatre as a preliminary to her evening’s amusement, and her husband, honestly engrossed in work, seized on Christopher at once as an adequate substitute for his own personal escort. He would meet her with the carriage after and go with her to the Duchess of Z––, but it would be a great help to him to have a few early evening hours for his book; so he explained with elaborate care.

“Basil is so deliciously mediÆval and quaint,” Constantia confided to her young cavalier as the carriage drove off; “he quite seriously believes women cannot go to a theatre or anywhere without an escort, even in our enlightened age. I assure you it is quite remarkable the number of parties we attend together; people are beginning to talk about it. If it’s impossible for him to come himself he always seems to have hosts of cousins or relations ready to take his place. Oh, charming people; but quite a family corps, a sort of ‘Guard of Honour,’ as if I were Royalty—and really, at my time of life.”

She turned her radiantly beautiful face to Christopher. She was indeed one of those beloved of time and it seemed to Christopher as he saw her in the crude 173 flashing glare from the streets without, that the past ten years which had made of him a man had left her a girl still, but since he was as yet no adept at pretty speeches he kept the thought to himself and said shyly:

“It is not a question of age at all.”

“You, too, think me incompetent to look after myself?”

“It is not a matter of competence either, is it? I mean, one can easily understand that Mr. Wyatt is proud of being your....” He stopped lamely.

“Finish your sentence, you tantalising boy.”

“Your caretaker, then,” he concluded defiantly.

“Delicious,” she clapped her hands softly. “I thought you were going to say ‘proprietor.’”

“It is you who are the proprietor of the caretaker, isn’t it?”

“The new cadet is worthy his commission,” she pronounced with mock gravity.

“It is a great honour, especially since I am not one of the family.”

He never forgot this in her presence. It was as if an overscrupulous remembrance of hard days forced him to disclaim kinship with anything so finely feminine as Constantia Wyatt; as if he found no right of way from his own world of concrete fact into that delicate gracious world of illusions in which he placed her. Such barriers did not exist for her, however, and thence it came that it was to Constantia that Christopher spoke most easily of his relationship to the Aston family.

She put aside his disclaimer now, almost indignantly.

“You belong to Aymer. How can you say you do not belong to us, when you have been so good for him?”

His main claim on them all lay in that, that he was and had been good for the idolised Aymer Aston. He recognised it as she spoke and was content, for the 174 proud generosity of his nature was built on a humility that had no underprops of petty pride.

“That was quite unpremeditated on my part,” he protested whimsically; “you are all far too good to me. I can never explain it to myself, but I accept it, and realise I am a real millionaire.”

Constantia Wyatt started slightly. Christopher noticed the diamonds on her hair sparkle as she leant forward.

“How did you discover that?” she asked in a low voice.

“My fortune? I was only ten when I came to CÆsar, but I must have been a very dense child indeed if I had not known even then that the luck of the gods was mine—if I had not been sensible of the kindness––”

His voice was low also and he fell into his old bad habit of leaving his sentence unfinished—hardly knowing he had expressed so much.

Constantia gave a sigh of relief, and Christopher again was only aware of the twinkling diamonds, of melting lines of soft velvet and fur, a presence friendly but unanalysable. They passed at that moment a mansion of a prince of the world of money, and she indicated it with a wave of her fan.

“Supposing, Christopher, you could realise some of your imaginary fortune for his?”

“Heaven forbid. Think how it was made.”

“The world forgets that.”

“You do not forget,” he answered quickly; “besides it’s much nicer to be adopted than to fight other people for fortune.”

“I thought all boys liked fighting.”

“Not if there’s anything better to be done. A Punch and Judy show or a funeral will stop the most violent set-to. I’ve seen it times, when I was a boy in the street. Sam and I raised a cry one day of ‘soldiers’ 175 to stop a chum being knocked down. Then we ran.”

“Oh. Christopher, Christopher, can’t you forget it?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t want to. It wouldn’t be fair to CÆsar. Also I couldn’t.”

“Some day you will marry, and perhaps she will rather you should forget.”

“No, she won’t, she is far too fond of CÆsar.”

He stopped abruptly. For one brief moment the great voice of the streets and the yellow glare died away; he was blinded by a bewildering white light that broke down barriers undreamed of within his soul. Then the actual comparative darkness of the carriage obscured it and he found himself again conscious of the scent of roses, the sheen of satin and soft velvet, and his heart was beating madly. He had stumbled over the unsuspected threshold, surprised the hidden temple of his own heart, and this, inopportunely, prematurely, and, to his everlasting confusion, in the presence of another.

He clanged to the gates of his inner consciousness in breathless haste and set curb on his momentary shame and amazement. The break was so short his companion had barely time to identify the image disclosed when his voice went on with quiet deliberation.

“Or will be when she appears. A case of ‘if she be not fair to “he,” what care I how fair she be.’”

Constantia with rare generosity offered no hindrance to the closing of the door and discreetly pretended she had not been aware it had opened. Yet she smiled to herself and decided it was quite a desirable image and very advantageous to Aymer. Also, she reflected with pleasure, she had predicted the result from Patricia’s and Christopher’s intimacy, to her father years ago. 176

The piece at the theatre was a modern comedy which did not greatly interest him, indeed, he was more concerned in keeping his attention from that newly-discovered temple within than in unravelling the mysteries of the rather thread-bare plot of the play. Being, however, quite unaccustomed to dealing with this dual condition of mind it is to be feared he was a little “distrait” and mechanical of speech. Constantia allowed him the first act to play out his mood and then with charming imperiousness claimed his full attention, gained it, and with it, his gratitude for timely distraction.

Half way through the play he remembered this was the theatre at which Mrs. Sartin and Jessie were employed. He mentioned the fact to Mrs. Wyatt, who remarked gravely their names were not on the programme. Christopher equally gravely explained quite briefly. If he found nothing surprising in his own interest in these friends of the past, he never made the error of imagining they would be of interest to newer friends. There was a certain independence in his attitude towards all affairs that touched him nearly, which even at this early age made him a free citizen of the world in which he chanced to move. This attitude of mind was more in evidence to-night than he had imagined. Personally, he quite appreciated the fact he was sitting in a box with one of the loveliest women in London, and that she was everything that was charming and nice to him, but it never occurred to him that half the men in the theatre would have given a big share of their worth to be in his place; he was almost childishly unconscious of the envious glances he earned. Constantia was not: neither was she blind to his attitude of personal content and impersonal oblivion. It amused her vastly, and she compiled an exceedingly entertaining letter to Aymer on the strength of it. 177

“He handed me over to Basil in the vestibule afterwards,” she concluded, “with the most engaging air of having been allowed a special treat and fully appreciating it, and departed straightway to conduct Mrs. Sartin, dresser at the theatre, to her house in the wilds of Lambeth. He owned it in the most ingenuous way, seeing nothing whatever of pathos in it. Does he lack sense of humour?”

Aymer, ignoring the rest of the letter, refuted this query with pages of vigorous sarcasm, to the complete delight and triumph of his sister.

Christopher, having ascertained from a suspicious doorkeeper that Mrs. Sartin would not be free for twenty minutes, cooled his heels in a dark, draughty passage with what patience he could.

He seized on Mrs. Sartin as she came unsuspectingly down a winding stair, and bore her off breathless, remonstrating, but fluttering with pride, in a hansom.

“I’m only up for a few days,” he explained. “Sam dines with me to-morrow and I want you to come out somewhere in the afternoon. Crystal Palace, or wherever Jessie likes.”

Mrs. Sartin’s face and Mrs. Sartin’s person had expanded in the last few years and her powers of expressing emotion seemed to have expanded with her person. Disappointment was writ large on her ample countenance.

“Well, now, if that isn’t a shame and a contrariwise of purpose. I’ve taken a job, Mr. Christopher, for that blessed afternoon. I’ve promised to dress Miss Asty, who is making a debÛt at a matiny at the Court. Eliza Lowden, she was goin’ to dress her, but she can’t set a wig as I can.”

“What a nuisance. But, anyhow, Jessie isn’t engaged, is she?”

For an instant he had a glimpse of Mrs. Sartin’s 178 full face, dubious, questioning, even hostile, but to him it was merely the result of flickering light and conveyed nothing.

“I don’t rightly know,” she said slowly, “maybe she doesn’t care much for gadding about.”

“Rubbish,” he retorted contemptuously, “if you can’t come, Jessie must anyway.”

Mrs. Sartin held firmly to the carriage door and the oscillation of the cab caused her to nod violently, but it was not in assent to Christopher’s proposition. She appeared to be turning something over in her slow mind.

“I don’t know but what I could arrange with Eliza,” she remarked.

“Of course you can, like a good woman; and you and Jessie come up to Aston House at one o’clock and say where you’d like to go, and we’ll go.”

Martha demurred. “Mr. Aston won’t like it.”

“Won’t like what?”

“Our comin’ to ’is ’ouse, like as if we ’ad any claim on you.”

“Do I or you know Mr. Aston best?” he demanded imperiously. “Claim indeed. Martha, you dear old stupid, where would I be now, if you hadn’t taken my mother in?”

“That were just a chance, Mr. Christopher, because I ’appened to be comin’ ’ome late and your pore ma was took bad on the bridge as I crossed, and bein’ a woman what ’ad a family, I saw what was the matter.”

“What was it more than a chance that CÆsar in looking for a boy to adopt stumbled on the son of someone he used to know?”

Again the oscillation made Mrs. Sartin nod vigorously. She bestowed on her companion another of those shrewd, dubious glances, began a sentence and stopped. 179

“Yes. What were you saying?” asked Christopher absently.

“You’ve come quite far enough, Mr. Christopher,” she announced, with the air of a woman come to a decision, “you just tell that man on the top to stop and let me out. Thanking you all the same, but I don’t care to be seen driving ’ome this time of night and settin’ folks a-talking. You set me down, there’s a dear Mr. Christopher.”

She got her way in the matter of dismissing the cab, but not in dismissing Christopher, her primary desire, lest an indiscreet tongue should prompt her to say more than was “rightful,” as she explained to Jessie.

“For if the dear innocent don’t see ’ow the land lays, it isn’t for me to show ’im, and Mr. Aymer so good to Sam.”

“Maybe you are all wrong,” said Jessie shortly.

Mrs. Sartin sniffed contemptuously.

The Sartins no longer inhabited Primrose Buildings, but were proud inhabitants of a decent little house in a phenomenally dull street, sufficiently near the big “Store” to suit Sam’s convenience. Sam himself came to the door and, late as it was, insisted on walking back with Christopher into the region of cabs, and, becoming engrossed in conversation, naturally walked far beyond it.

“This partnership business,” began Sam at once, “I do wish, Chris, you’d get Mr. Aymer to make it a loan business. I’d be a sight better pleased.”

“I can’t for the life of me see why,” Christopher objected with a frown. “It’s only a matter of a few hundred pounds, and if CÆsar chooses to spend it on you instead of buying a picture or enamel, or that sort of toy, why should you object. It’s not charity.”

“Then what is it?” demanded Sam, “because I’m not a toy. Don’t fly out at me, Chris, be reasonable. I’m as grateful to him as I can be, and I mean to use 180 the chance he’s given me all I can. But this partnership business beats me. It’s all very well for him to do things for you. Of course he couldn’t do less; but how do I come in?”

A drunken man reeled out of a house and lurched against Christopher, who put out his hand to steady him without a word of comment, and when the drinker had found his balance, he turned again to Sam with sharp indignation.

“He could do a jolly sight less for me and still be more generous than most people’s fathers. There’s no ‘of course’ about it.”

Sam stared stolidly in front of him.

“That’s just it. It’s one thing to do it for someone belonging to one, and another thing to do it for a stranger,” he persisted.

“Well, that’s just how I feel, only I don’t make a fuss. It’s CÆsar’s way, and a precious good way for us.”

They parted at last with no better understanding on the vexed subject, and Christopher, once back at Aston House, sat frowning over the fire instead of going to bed. Why all of a sudden had this question of his amazing indebtedness to Aymer been so persistently thrust on him. Hitherto he had accepted it with generous gratitude, without question, had recognised no room for speculation, allowed no play to whispers of curiosity. It was CÆsar’s will. Now he was suddenly aware, however he might close his mind, others speculated; however guard his soul from inquisitiveness, others questioned, and it angered him for CÆsar’s sake. His mother had never spoken to him of the past, never opened her lips as to the strange sacrifice she had made for her unborn child, except once when they were hurriedly leaving London by stealth, after the episode with Martha Sartin’s rascally husband. Mrs. Hibbault had remarked wearily: “I 181 wonder, Jim, shall I spend my life taking you out of the way of bad men?”

When he asked her if she had done it before she answered: “I took you from your father.” It was the only time he remembered her mentioning that unknown father; he recollected still how her face had changed and she had hurried her steps, as if haunted by a new suspicion.

It gave him quite unreasonable annoyance that these thoughts intruded themselves to-night, when he wanted to give his full attention to the wonder and glory of the discovery he had made in Constantia Wyatt’s company. That was, indeed, a matter of real moment. How had he contrived to be blind to it so long? He had not reached the age of twenty-one without entertaining vague theories concerning love, and having definitely decided that it had nothing to do with the travesty of its name which had confronted him on his wanderings. Neither taste nor training, nor the absorbing passion for his work had left him time or wish to explore this field which roused only an impatient contempt when thrust on his notice. Of Love itself, as before stated, he held vague theories: regarding it rather as a far-off event which would meet him in future years and land him eventually at Hymen’s feet. And here he found all such theories suddenly reversed. The first moment the idea of marriage was presented to his notice the vision of the only possible bride for him stood out with quite definite distinctness. Instead of Love being a prelude to the thought of Marriage, that thought had been the crashing chords that had opened his mind to Love. But the Love had been already there, unrecognised. He found he could no way now imagine himself as apart from Patricia. To eliminate her presence from his heart was to lose part of his individuality; to separate his practical life from her was as if he wantonly destroyed 182 a limb. Away from her actual presence and before this dual conception of themselves he was of assured courage, thankfulness and strange joy, but the moment his thoughts flew to her in concrete form, to Patricia Connell at Marden Court, he experienced a reversion: his confidence was gone, the assured vision became a very far-away possibility, a glory which he might hardly hope to attain.

Very slowly this latter aspect blotted out the first triumphant joy of his discovery. Mundane things, such as Renata Aston’s wishes, CÆsar’s consent, and even the person of Geoffry Leverson interposed between Patricia and him. This mood had its sway and in turn succumbed to an awakening of his dormant will and every fighting instinct. Patricia must be his, was his potentially, but he recognised she was not his for the asking. He would have to acquire the right to say to CÆsar, “I want to marry Mrs. Aston’s sister.” Aymer might easily make the way smooth for him, if he would. He had no reason then for believing he would oppose the idea. Yet Christopher knew that in the gamut of possible needs and desires the one thing he could not freely accept from CÆsar’s hands was his wife. His life was before him, before Patricia too. When he reached this point in his deliberation he made a sudden movement. The fire had gone out and it was very cold. Christopher decided it was time to go to bed.