Perhaps they did spoil Aymer Aston, these good people, who loved him so greatly, setting so high a store upon his happiness that their own well-being was merged therein.

While it was quite true that neither Nevil nor any other could have worked peacefully in the electrical atmosphere of the house after Christopher left with Peter Masters, it is also true that no temporary personal inconvenience would have driven Nevil to undertake the long and tiresome journey, if his brother’s welfare had not been involved.

The need had been great. Aymer’s restless misery increased every day of Christopher’s absence. He refused to see any of the household but his father and Vespasian, and though at first he made desperate efforts to control himself, in the end he gave up, and long hours of sullen brooding silence were interposed with passionate flashes of temper. It was the old days over again, and all those near him realised to the full how great was the victory that had been won and how terrible life might have been for them all without it. Therefore they were very patient and tolerant, though Mr. Aston began to consider seriously if he would not be justified in breaking his given word to Aymer and summoning Christopher back at once.

He looked very worn and tired when he joined Renata at dinner on the Thursday night.

“Nevil does not mean to be away long, does he?” he inquired anxiously.

“No, I think not. Why, St. Michael? Does CÆsar want him?” 259

“He asked for him this evening.”

“What a pity.”

She went on with her soup, with a little rose of colour on her face, thinking of the secret her husband had of course confided to her. Presently observing St. Michael hardly touched his dinner and seemed too weary to talk, she suggested nervously that she should sit with Aymer that evening. He conjured up a kind smile of thanks, but refused in his gentle, courteous way, saying that Aymer seemed disinclined to talk.

When Mr. Aston went back to the West Room a little later, that disinclination seemed to have evaporated. He heard CÆsar’s furious voice pouring a cascade of biting words on someone as he opened the door. Vespasian was the unfortunate occasion and the unwilling victim; Vespasian, who was older by twenty years than in the days when he stood unmoved before continuous and worse storms. His usually impassive face was rather red and he now and then uttered a dignified protest and finally bent to pick up the shattered glass that lay between them and was the original cause of the trouble. Aymer, with renewed invective, clutched a book to hurl at the unfortunate man, but before he could fling it, Mr. Aston leant over the head of the sofa and seized his wrists. The left would have been powerless in a child’s grasp and the elder man’s position made him master of the still strong right arm.

At a faint sign from Mr. Aston, Vespasian vanished.

Aymer made one unavailing attempt to free himself as his father drew his hands up level with his head. He tried not to look at the face leaning over him.

“Aymer,” said his father, with great tenderness, “do you remember what I used to do with you when you were a little boy and lost your temper?”

Aymer gave a short, uneasy laugh. “Tie my hands 260 to a chair or a bed head. It was all right then, it is taking a mean advantage now.” He ended with a choking laugh again, and Mr. Aston felt his hands tremble under his careful grasp.

“Aymer, my dear old fellow, if you must turn on someone, then turn on me. I understand how it is. Vespasian doesn’t. That’s not fair. It’s the way of a fractious invalid, not of a sane man. Where’s your pride?”

Aymer bit his lip. He was helpless and humiliated, but after all it was his father. He looked up at him at last with a crooked smile.

“I’ve none—in your power like this, sir. Let me go, I’ll be a good boy.”

They both laughed, and Mr. Aston released him. The colour burned on Aymer’s face. Grown man as he was, the sudden subjection to authority so exerted was hard to bear even in the half-joking aspect with which his father covered it.

Mr. Aston knew it. He had deliberately used the very helplessness that was his son’s best excuse for his outbreak, to check the same, and however thankful for his success, the means were bitter to him also, only he was not going to let Aymer see it or get off without further word.

“I shall have to send you to school again,” he said, picking up the broken glass. “I can’t have Nevil’s property treated like this. He’ll be adding ‘breakages’ to the weekly bill.”

“I’ll pay,” pleaded Aymer, contritely, “if you won’t tell him. Where is he?”

“Gone to London, of all the preposterous things; so Renata says. She expects him back to-morrow, I suppose Bowden will look after him, but I should have wired to them had I known he was going.”

He seemed really a little worried, and Aymer laughed. 261

“What a family, St. Michael! Nevil can look after himself a good deal better than you think. He puts it on to get more attention.”

“Do you think he is jealous?”

“Not an ounce of it in him. I have the monopoly of that,” he added, with a sharp sigh, and then, without any warning, he caught his father’s arm and pulled him near.

“Father,” his voice was hoarse and unsteady, “if Peter tells Christopher, what will happen? I can’t think it out steadily. I can’t face it.”

Mr. Aston knelt by him and put his hand on his shoulder, concealing his own distress at this unheard-of breakdown.

“My dear boy, it would not make the slightest difference to Christopher. I’m seriously afraid he’d tell Peter to go to the devil—and he’d come home by the next train. He’d never accept him.”

“He’d never forget,” persisted Aymer, the sleeping agony of long years shining in his eyes. “It would not be the same, father. He would not be—mine. I could not pretend it if he knew. Peter would be there between us—always as he was––”

He broke off and took up the thread with a still sharper note of pain, “Father, can’t you understand. I don’t mind a woman. He’ll love and marry some day: it’s his right. I don’t grudge that. But another father—his real one. Oh, My God, mayn’t I keep even this for myself?” He hid his face on the cushions, all the wild jealousy of his nature struggling with his pride.

His father put his arm round him, hardly able to credit the meaning of the crisis. Was that white scar on his son’s forehead no memorial to a dead jealousy, but only an expression of a slumbering passion?

“Aymer, old fellow, listen. Peter isn’t going to tell, I feel sure of it. And it would make no difference. 262 You must allow I know something of men. I give you my word of honour, Aymer, I know it would make no difference to Christopher. You wrong him. You will always be first with him.”

“It’s not Christopher,” returned Aymer, lifting hard, haggard eyes to his father, “it’s myself. Twice in my life I’ve wanted something—someone for myself alone. Elizabeth—and now Christopher! It’s I who can’t share.”

“Jealousy, cruel as the grave.” Involuntarily the words escaped Mr. Aston.

“More cruel.”

He dropped his head again. St. Michael continued to kneel by him in silence. The elementary forces of nature are hard matters with which to deal. Silence, sympathy, and the loan of mental strength were all he could offer.

It came to his mind in the quiet stillness how in just such a crisis as this, when he was not at hand to help the same cruel passion had wrought the irrevocable havoc with his son’s life. He looked at the dark head pressed on the pillows and remembered his young wife’s half-laughing pride in her first-born’s copper coloured aureole of hair. He recollected the day he had first held him in his arms, himself but just arrived at man’s estate, and this helpless little baby given into his power and keeping. He had done his best: God knows how humbly he confessed that more than truthful Truth, yet even all his love had failed to save that little red-haired baby from this ... jealousy, cruel as the grave! Perhaps he had been too young a father to deal with it at first. Was it his failure or were there greater forces behind—the forces of ages of other failures for which poor Aymer paid....

Aymer moved till his head rested against his father’s arm, like a tired child. Presently he looked up rather shamefacedly. 263

“It’s over. What a fool I’ve been. Don’t tell Christopher, father.”

A faint reflection of what Aymer considered his own terrible monopoly, caught poor St. Michael for a fleeting moment, a jealous pang that his son’s first thought must go to the boy. He realised suddenly he was tired out and old, and got to his feet stiffly.

Aymer gave him a quick, penetrating glance.

“Send Vespasian back, father,” he said abruptly, “and you go to bed. What a selfish brute I’ve been.” And when Mr. Aston had bidden him good-night he added in the indifferent tone in which he veiled any great effort, “If Peter should want Christopher to stay longer, you might tell him to come back—it doesn’t pay to be so proud—and I’ll apologise to Vespasian.”

“He’s worth it,” said Mr. Aston with a smile, “he and I are getting old, Aymer.”

“Negatived by a large majority, sir,” he answered quickly.

It was not of Christopher he thought in the silent hours of the night, and Mr. Aston’s brief jealousy would have found no food on which to thrive had it survived its momentary existence.

When Mr. Aston came down in the morning the first sight that met his astonished eyes was Christopher, seated at the breakfast table and attacking that meal with liberal energy. He sprang up as Mr. Aston entered.

“My dear boy, I thought you were not coming till to-morrow at the earliest.”

“Will it be inconvenient?” asked Christopher, with demure gravity. “I’m sorry, but I was so bored.”

He stumbled a little over the prevarication. St. Michael was not Peter Masters, even excuses found no easy flow in his presence.

“I’m delighted,” said Mr. Aston, and looked it. 264

He had breakfasted in his room, so he sat down by Christopher and tried to find out the reason of the opportune return.

“Your letters did not sound at all bored.”

“I only realised it yesterday evening,” returned Christopher, with great gravity, “so we—that is I—came down by the mail last night—and Nevil....”

“Nevil?”

“Yes, I picked him up, you know. He was seeing a man in Leamington.”

Christopher carved ham carefully, and avoided Mr. Aston’s eye, smiling to himself over his promise to Nevil not to betray him.

“Nevil went to London. How did—” Mr. Aston stopped suddenly, “Christopher.”

“Yes, St. Michael.”

“You are not to lie to me whatever you do to others. Tell me what it means.”

Christopher regarded him doubtfully and then laughed outright.

“Nevil did not like travelling alone. He thought he would get lost, so he asked me to look after him.”

“He went from London to Leamington to get a companion to travel home with?”

“Exactly. Isn’t it like him, St. Michael?”

They again looked steadily at each other.

“And being a bit weary of fighting for the right of individual existence,” went on Christopher, “I agreed to bring him home. Mr. Masters has been most kind, but he does like his own way.”

“And what about you?”

“Oh, I like mine, too. That’s why it was so boring. How’s CÆsar?”

“He will be pleased to see you. Where is Nevil?”

“Gone to bed, I expect. How he hates travelling.”

“Yes.” 265

“He hates explanations still more, please St. Michael.”

“He should have prepared a more plausible story.”

“He thinks it quite credible. He expected me to believe—about the man in Leamington.”

“And did you?”

“Well, do you?”

They both laughed and Christopher looked at the clock.

“Do you think Vespasian will let me take in CÆsar’s breakfast?”

“He would be delighted, I’m sure. CÆsar won’t believe in Leamington either, Christopher.”

“But he will easily believe I was bored—which is true. I don’t think he is as fond of Mr. Masters as he pretends to be.”

Whether Aymer believed or not, he asked no questions. He only remarked that Peter was far more likely to have been bored and Christopher had no eye to his own advantage. To which Christopher replied flippantly that it was a question of “vantage out,” and he was not going to imperil his game with a rash service.

After that he sat on the foot of the bed and talked frankly of his visit, and minute by minute the jealous fire in Aymer’s heart died down to extinction.

Presently, however, he said abruptly and rather reproachfully: “You never told me Mr. Masters had married.”

For a confused second the room and the occupants were lost in a fiery mist and only Christopher’s voice lived in the chaos. Then Aymer found himself struggling to maintain hold of something in the mental turmoil, he did not know what at first: then that it was his own voice. It amazed him to hear it quite; steady and cool. 266

“Why should she interest you? Did Peter tell you?”

“No. Never mentioned it. One day I found Mrs. Eliot, the housekeeper, in a room, a sort of boudoir, playing about with holland covers, and I helped her. What was she like?”

“Mrs. Eliot?”

“No, you old stupid. Mrs. Peter Masters. I know you knew her, because there’s a pen-and-ink sketch of you and Mr. Masters playing cards in the room.”

“Oh, is there.”

“Is she dead?”

“Yes.”

“What was she like—to marry Mr. Masters?”

“Like? Like other women,” returned Aymer, shortly.

Christopher looked at him sharply and realised he had committed an indiscretion—that this was a subject that might not be handled even with a velvet glove.

“Explicit,” he retorted lightly. “However, that’s not important. Now for something of real moment.”

He plunged into an account of Peter’s final offer to him, and his own refusal.

“Why on earth did you refuse? Wasn’t it good enough?” demanded Aymer curtly.

“No, not with P. M. attached. Might as well take lodgings in Wormwood Scrubs—quite as much liberty. But, anyhow, CÆsar, you see now what you have got to do.”

“Get you apartments in Wormwood Scrubs?”

“No. Do be serious. Give me a laboratory here and some experimental ground. Do, there’s a dear good CÆsar.” In reminiscence of old days he pretended to rub his head against CÆsar’s arm.

“Ah, you invented Peter’s offer to wheedle me into this. I suppose.” 267

“Exactly. Seriously, CÆsar, if you would, it would be excellent. I’ve been thinking it out, I could work here safely. No one to crib my ideas. But I must have trial ground.”

“That’s Nevil’s affair.”

“Well, I undertake to manage Nevil if you are afraid,” said Christopher, with an air of desperate resolve.

“I thought you didn’t like Marden,” persisted CÆsar, fighting in an unreasoning way, against his own desires, “and this engaged couple will wander round and get in the way.”

He looked Christopher straight in the face with scrutinising eyes, but he never flinched.

“I’ll put up a notice, ‘Trespassers will be blown up.’”

“Well, you’d better talk to St. Michael, but remember, I can’t buy up the other fellows. You’d better have taken Peter’s offer.”

“I’d much rather bore you than Mr. Masters.”

“I’m not complaining.”

That was the nearest approach he made to expressing to Christopher his deep, quiet content at the arrangement that astute young man had so skilfully suggested. St. Michael said a little more and Christopher knew without words that he had pleased them both.