Aymer gazed out of the open window at Christopher and Peter Masters as they walked to and fro on the terrace. He knew the subject they were discussing, and he was already sure how it would end. But what were the real issues involved he could not determine, and he was impotent, by reason of his vow and will, to influence them. He could only lie still and watch, tortured by jealous fear and the physical helplessness that forbade him the one relief of movement for which his soul craved. The patience the long years had schooled him into was slipping away, and the elementary forces of his nature reigned in its stead.

Under the overmastering impulse towards action he made a futile effort to sit up that he might better follow the movements of the two outside. It was a pathetic failure, and he swore fiercely as he fell back and found his father’s arms round him.

“Aymer, if you are going to be so childish, I shall tell Christopher not to go.”

“No. I’m a fool, but I won’t have him know it. He must go if he will.”

“There is nothing to fear if he does. What is wrong with you?”

“I want to go back to town, I’m tired of this.”

“You are far better here than in town,” said his father uneasily.

“I’m well enough anywhere.”

“I shall have to tell Christopher not to go.”

“No.” The tone was sharply negative again, and after a moment’s silence Aymer said in a low, grudging voice, “You’ve always helped before; are you going to desert me now?” 228

For answer his father got up and pushed the big sliding sofa away from the window.

“Very well, then behave yourself better, Aymer, and don’t ford a stream before you come to it. You’ve got to listen to Penruddock’s speech.” He folded back the Times and began to read.

When Christopher came back a little later he saw no sign of the trouble. Perhaps he was a little too much engrossed in his own perplexities to be as observant as usual.

“CÆsar, do you think it’s a shabby thing to stay with a man you don’t like?”

“Are you going?”

“I think so. I want to see how he does it.”

“Does what?”

“Makes his money. Does it seem shabby to you?”

“You can’t know if you like him or not. You know nothing about him.”

“I shall be back at the end of the week. You don’t mind my going, CÆsar? I’d rather go before I settle down.”

“Another week’s peace,” returned CÆsar, indifferently. “The truth is, you’re in a scrape and putting off confession, young man.”

Christopher laughed at him.

They were to leave early next morning, so Peter Masters bade Aymer good-bye that night. He apologised clumsily for taking Christopher away so soon after his long absence.

“It’s the only free week I’ve got for months, and I want to study your handiwork, Aymer.”

“Christopher has points. I don’t know how many score to me,” returned his cousin with steadily forced indifference.

“Well, you’ve taken more trouble over him than most fathers would do.”

“Are you an expert?” 229

Peter laughed grimly and stood looking at Aymer with his chin in his hand, a curiously characteristic attitude of doubt with him.

“You won’t be overpleased when he wants to marry, which he is sure to do just when he’s become useful to you.”

For the first time in his life Peter Masters recognised the harassed soul of a man as it leapt to sight, and saw the shadow of pain conquer a fierce will. The revelation struck him dumb, for incongruously and unreasonably there flashed before his mind a memory of this face with twenty years wiped out. He went slowly away carrying with him a vivid impression and new knowledge.

It was a new experience to him. He knew something of men’s minds, but of their emotions and the passions of their souls he was no judge. He puzzled over the meaning of what he had seen as he faced Christopher in the train next day, studying him with a disconcerting gaze. Could Aymer possibly love the boy to the verge of jealousy? It seemed so incredible and absurd. Yet what other interpretation could he place on that look he had surprised? Charles Aston’s words, which had not been without effect, paled before this self-revelation. It annoyed him greatly that the disturbing vision should intrude itself between him and the decision he was endeavouring to make, for the better termination of which he was carrying Christopher northward with him.

Christopher, on his part, was chiefly occupied in considering the distracting fact of his own yielding to the wishes of a man he disliked as sincerely as he did Mr. Aston’s cousin. Peter Masters was taking him with him in precisely the same manner he had made Christopher convey him to Marden. It was quite useless to pretend he was going of his own will; refusal had, in an unaccountable way, seemed impossible. 230 To save his pride he tried to believe he was influenced by a desire to get away from Marden until the first excitement over Patricia’s engagement had died away, yet in his heart he knew that though that and other considerations had joined forces with the millionaire’s mandate, yet in any case he would have had to bow to the will of the man who admitted no possibility of refusal. He had been unprepared and unready twice over: in the matter of the journey from London and in the stranger matter of this present journey. Christopher determined the third time he would be on guard, that in all events, reason should have her say in the case.

They were going direct to Stormly, which was midway between Birmingham and the Stormly mines, from which the fortunes of the family had first been dug. Stormly Park was Peter’s only permanent residence, though much of his time was spent in hotels and travelling. The house, begun by his father, had expanded with the fortunes of the son. It stood remote from town or village. It was neither a palace nor a glorified villa, but just a substantial house, with an unprepossessing exterior, and all the marvels of modern luxury within. The short private railway by which it was approaching ran through an ugly tract of country terminating beneath a high belt of trees that shut off the western sun and were flanked by granite walls.

On the platform of the minute station two porters in private uniform received them.

“I generally walk up if I’m not in a hurry,” said Peter Masters abruptly.

He had not spoken since they left Birmingham, where a packet of letters had been brought him, to which he gave his undivided attention. With a curt nod to the men, with whom he exchanged no word at all, he led the way from the siding across a black, 231 gritty road and unlocking a door in the wall ushered Christopher into Stormly Park.

The belt of trees was planted on a ridge of ground that sloped towards the road and formed a second barrier between the world without and the world within. When they had crossed the ridge and looked down on the Park itself Christopher gave a gasp of astonishment. It stretched out before him in the sunset light a wide expanse of green land, with stately clumps of trees and long vistas of avenues that led nowhere. It was like some jewel in the wide circling belt of trees. It was so strange a contrast to the sordid country without, that the effect was amazing. Christopher looked round involuntarily to see by what passage he had passed from that unpleasing world to this sunkissed land of beauty.

Peter Masters saw the effect produced and his lips twitched with a little smile of pleasure.

“My grandfather planted the place,” he said. “He understood those things. I don’t. But it’s pretty. My mother, Evelyn Aston, you know, used to always travel by night if she could, she disliked the country round so much.”

“It is rather a striking contrast,” Christopher agreed.

They passed through a clump of chestnuts just breaking into leaf.

“There is coal here,” said Peter. “It will all have to go some day. I make no additions now.”

They came suddenly on the house, which was built of grey pointed stone, its low-angle slate roof hidden behind a high balustrading. The centre part was evidently the original house and long curved wings had been extended on either side. There was no sign of life about the place, nor did it carry the placid sense of repose that haunts old houses. Stormly Park had an air of waiting; a certain grim expectation lurked 232 behind the over-mantled windows and closed doors. It was as if it watched for the fate foreshadowed in its owner’s words. Even the glorious sunlight pouring over it failed to give it a sense of warm living life.

It filled Christopher with curiosity and a desire to explore the grey fastness and trim level lawns beyond. Some living eyes watched, however, for the front door swung open as they approached and two footmen came out. Christopher again noted Peter Masters did not speak to them or appear to notice their presence. On the steps he paused, and stood aside.

“Go in,” he said when his visitor hesitated.

Christopher obeyed.

The interior was almost as great a contrast to the exterior as the Park was to the surrounding country. It was rich with colour and warmth and comfort.

They were met by a thin, straightened-looking individual, who murmured a greeting to which Peter Masters paid no attention.

He turned to Christopher.

“This is Mr. Dreket, my secretary. Dreket, show Mr. ––” for an imperceptible moment he paused—“Mr. Aston his room and explain the ways of the place to him. I’ve some letters to see to.”

He turned aside down a long corridor. Christopher and the secretary looked at each other.

“I shan’t be sorry for a wash and brush up,” said Christopher, smiling.

The other gave a little sigh, expressive more of relief than fatigue, and led the way upstairs. As they went up the wide marble steps Mr. Masters reappeared and stood for a moment in the shadow of an arch watching the dark, erect young head till it was out of sight, then he retraced his steps and disappeared in his own room.

Christopher did not see him again till dinner-time. 233 The two dined together at a small table that was an oasis in a desert of space. The room was hung with modern pictures set in unpolished wood panelling. Peter vaguely apologised for them to one accustomed to the company of the masterpieces of the dead.

“I’m no judge. I should be taken in if I bought old ones,” he said. “So I buy new, provided they are by possible men. They may be worth something, some day, eh?”

“They are very good to look at now,” Christopher answered, a little shyly, looking at a vast sea-scape which seemed to cool the room with a fresh breeze.

“You Astons would have beaten me anyhow,” pursued Peter. “I’ve got nothing old: but the new’s the best of its kind.”

Christopher found this was true. Everything in the house was modern. There was no reproduction, no imitation. It was all solidly and emphatically modern: glass, china, furniture, books, pictures, the silk hangings, the white statuary in the orangery: all modern. There was nothing poor or mean or artistically bad, but the whole gave an impression of life yet to be lived, an incompleteness that was baffling in its obscurity.

Peter Masters talked much of events, of material things, of himself, but never of mankind in general. He spoke of no friends, or neighbours: he appeared to be served by machines, to stand alone in life, unconscious of his isolation. They played billiards in the evening and the host had an easy victory, and gave Christopher a practical lesson in the one game he had found time to master.

“I’ve work to do. Breakfast to-morrow at 8 sharp. You are going to Birmingham with me.”

No question about it or pretence of asking his visitor’s wishes. Christopher did not resent that, but he resented his growing inability to resist. He flung 234 open the windows of his room and looked out. Eastward there was a glow in the sky over the great sleepless city: northward a still nearer glow from a foundry, he thought, but westward the parkland was silvered with moonlight and black with shadows, which under the groups of chestnuts seemed like moving shapes.

He leant out far and the cold night air shivered by. That was familiar and good to feel, but the glare northward caught his eyes again, and held him fascinated. It rose and fell, now blushing softly against a velvet sky, now flaring angrily to heaven. It seemed to quiver with voices that were harsh and threatening. It filled Christopher’s heart with unreasonable horror against which he struggled in vain, as with the dim terror of a stranger. At last he closed the window and shut it out.

“I don’t like it,” said Christopher half aloud. “It’s all right, it’s only a foundry, but I hate it.”

With that he went to bed and in the dark the dance of the fires flickered before his eyes.

The next few days were spent in gathering fresh impressions and disentangling bewildering experiences, and in small encounters with the unanswerable will of his host.

He was taken to the great offices in Birmingham, and the wonderful system by which each vast machine was worked was explained to him. He was even privileged to sit with the great man in the inner sanctum and copy letters for him, though he was summarily turned out to see the sights of the great city when a visitor was announced. He explored the depths of the coal mines and finally spent a long morning at the foundry whose nightly glare still haunted his dreams. It was the latter sight that Peter Masters evidently expected would interest him most, for here were employed the most marvellous and most 235 complicated modern machinery, colossal innovations and ingenious labour-saving inventions in vast orderly buildings; the complex whole obedient to an organisation that left no item of power incomplete or wasted. But Christopher gave but half his mind to all he was shown, the other half was on those still stranger machines, the grimy, brutal-looking workmen toiling in the hot heart of the place, the white-faced stooping forms on the outskirts. They eyed him aslant as they worked, for visitors were rare occurrences. He asked questions concerning them and received vague answers, and a new machine was offered for inspection.

Fulner, the young engineer who had been told off to show him round, understood what was expected of him and did his duty. Masters himself, though he accompanied them, apparently put himself also in Fulner’s hands; he took no particular interest in the work, but his eye followed every movement of Christopher’s and his ear strained to his questions. Christopher noticed that none but heads of departments paid any attention to the owner’s presence, and he would have thought him unknown but for a word or two he caught as he lingered for a last look at a particularly fascinating electric lathe.

“Thinks he’s master,” grinned one man, with a shrug, towards the retreating form.

“Thinks we’re part of his blasted machinery,” growled his fellow worker.

Christopher passed on and forgot the lathe.

“Where do these people live?” he asked in the comparative quiet of a store yard.

“In the—the villages round, and as near as they can,” said the engineer quietly and looked back. Mr. Masters had gone off to the store-keeper’s office and was out of hearing. Fulner looked at Christopher again and apparently came to a decision. 236

“It is difficult, sometimes, this housing question,” he said swiftly, “are you really interested?”

“Yes, I want to know what contrast they get to this. It’s overpowering, this place.”

“If there was time––” began the other, and stopped, seeing Mr. Masters was approaching. He was followed by a harassed-face sub-manager, who waited uneasily a few yards off.

“Christopher, I shall have to stay here an hour or two. You had better go back. You can catch the 12.40 at the station. Fulner will see you there.”

He nodded to the engineer and strode off towards the main offices.

The sub-manager exchanged a look of consternation with Fulner before he followed.

“We’ll go this way,” said Fulner, leading Christopher to a new corner of the great enclosure, “that is, if you don’t mind walking.”

He did not speak again until they were outside the high walls that surrounded the works, then he looked quizzically at Christopher.

“You shall see where they live if you wish to,” he said, “the contrast is not striking—only there is no organisation outside.”

They went down a black cindery road between high walls and presently the guide said quietly, “Are you coming here to us, Mr. Aston?”

“No.” Christopher’s voice was fervent with thankfulness.

The other looked disappointed and stopped.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “We thought you were. There were rumours”—he hesitated, “if you are not coming perhaps it is no good showing you. It makes a difference.”

“I want to see where the people live,” insisted Christopher, looking him squarely in the face.

The other nodded and they went on and came to a 237 narrow street of mean, two-storied houses, with cracked walls and warped door-posts, blackened with smoke, begrimed with dirt. As much of the spring sunshine as struggled through the haze overshadowing the place served but to emphasise the hideous squalor of it. Children, for the most part sturdy-limbed and well-developed, swarmed in the road, women in a more or less dishevelled condition stared out of open doors at them as they passed.

To the secret surprise of Fulner his companion made no remark, betrayed no sign of disgust or distaste. He looked at it all; his face was grave and impassive and Fulner was again disappointed.

They passed a glaring new public house, the only spot in the neighbourhood where the sun could find anything to reflect his clouded brightness.

“We wanted that corner for a club,” said Fulner bitterly, “but the brewer outbid us.”

“Who’s the landlord?” demanded Christopher sharply.

Fulner paused a moment before he answered.

“You are a cousin of Mr. Masters, aren’t you?”

“No relation at all. Is he the landlord?”

“The land here is all his. Not what is on it.”

A woman was coming down the road, a woman in a bright green dress with a dirty lace blouse fastened with a gold brooch. She had turquoise earrings in her ears and rings on her fingers.

She stopped Fulner.

“Mr. Fulner,” she said in a quavering voice, “they say the master’s at the works and that Scott’s given Jim away to save his own skin. It isn’t true, is it?”

Fulner looked at her with pity. Christopher liked him better than ever.

“I’m afraid it’s true, Mrs. Lawrie, but Scott couldn’t help himself. Mr. Masters spotted the game when we were in the big engine-room. You go down 238 to the main gate and wait for Jim. Perhaps you’ll get him home safe if you take him the short cut, not this way.” He nodded his head towards the public house they had passed.

“It’s a shame,” broke out the woman wildly, but her sentences were overlaid with unwomanly words, “they all does it. I ask now, how’s we to get coal at all if we don’t get the leavings. Jim only does what they all does. What’s ’arf a pail of coal to ’im? I’d like to talk to ’un, I would. Jim will go mad again, and I’ve three of ’un now to think of, the brats.” She flung up her arms with a superbly helpless gesture and stumbled off down the road.

Christopher looked after her with a white face.

“What does it mean?” he asked.

“The men have a way of appropriating the remains of the last measure of coal they put on before going off duty. It’s wrong of course: it’s been going on for ages. I warned Scott—he’s the foreman. They’ve been complaining about the coal supply at headquarters. Mr. Masters caught Jim Lawrie at it to-day as we left the big engine-room.”

“Is it a first offence?”

“There’s no first offence here,” returned Fulner grimly. “There’s one only. There’s the club room. We have to pay £20 a year rent for the ground and then to keep it going.”

“But surely, Mr. Masters––” began Christopher and stopped.

“Mr. Masters has nothing to do with the place outside the works. It is not part of the System. He pays 6d. a head more than any other employer and that frees him. There’s the station.”

He paused as if he would leave his companion to make his way on alone. He was obviously dissatisfied and uneasy.

“Won’t you come to the station with me?” Christopher 239 asked, and as they walked he began to speak slowly and hesitatingly, as one who must choose from words that were on the verge of overflowing. “I was brought up in Lambeth, Mr. Fulner. I am used to poverty and bad sights. Don’t go on thinking I don’t care. These people earn fortunes beside those I have known, but in all London I’ve never seen anything so horrible as this, nothing so hideous, sordid—” he stopped with a gasp, “the women—the children—the lost desire—the ugliness.”

They walked on silently. Presently he spoke again.

“You are a plucky man, Mr. Fulner. I couldn’t face it.”

“I’ve no choice. I don’t know why I showed you it, except I thought you were coming and I wanted your help.”

“Are there many who care?”

“No. It’s too precarious. Mr. Masters doesn’t approve of fools. Mind you, the men have no grievances inside the works. The unions have no chance now. It’s fair to remember that.”

“Is it the same everywhere?”

“The System’s the same. I know nothing about the other works but that. There’s the train: we must hurry.”

“What do you want for your club?” Christopher asked as he entered his carriage.

“A billiard table, gym fittings, books. We’ve a license. We sell beer to members,” his eyes were eager: the man’s heart was in his hopeless self-imposed work.

Christopher nodded. “I shall not forget.”

So they parted: each wondering over the other—would have wondered still more if they had known in what relationship they would stand to each other when they next met.