It is one thing to produce, and another to launch the production on an unwilling world. Christopher soon found he had but exchanged an arduous engrossing task for a sordid uphill struggle. Yet if his mind sometimes flew back to Peter Masters’ offer, it was never with any desire to open negotiations with him, nor did he ever remind Aymer of the possibility. They fought together against the difficulties that beset the great venture and their comradeship reduced the irritating trivialities of the first start to bearable limits.

Since the day when he received Peter Masters’ curt acknowledgment of satisfaction with the selected car, neither Christopher nor the Astons had heard one word from the millionaire. His restored interest in the family appeared to have evaporated as rapidly as it had risen, and peace fell on Aymer’s troubled mind. He flung himself heart and soul into the business of launching Christopher’s discovery, and verified his cousin’s old opinion of his business qualities. The initial difficulties of obtaining the patent being overcome and a small, private company formed, they started a factory for the manufacture of Patrimondi within five miles of Marden, and a decently capable staff was secured to meet the slow, but steadily increasing, demands for the new material.

After some months of uphill work they suddenly received an order for laying the roadways and a special motor track at an International Exhibition. From this plane Patrimondi leapt into fame. Within three months of the opening of the Exhibition the little factory had doubled its staff and even then could not produce enough to meet the demand. With the mounting 299 strain Christopher began to prove of what metal he was made. He stuck to the work with steady persistence, meeting success as he had met difficulties, counting each but expected incidents in a life’s work. This level-headedness enabled him to bear a physical strain that would have broken down the nerve of any man more subject to outward conditions. A large proportion of extra work was entailed on him by the starting point of Patrimondi being so distant from London, but he resisted all suggestions to move it nearer town, or make his own headquarters there, or take any step that would serve to separate Aymer from easy contact with the work that made so great a difference in his monotonous life.

Since the last appearance of Peter Masters, Aymer had seemed to lose something of his old independent spirit of resistance. The mine of strength within himself, which his father had developed, was nearing exhaustion, and he lived more and more by force of his interest in outward things, and the active part he played in Christopher’s life. But this diminution of his inward strength made the question of any move too serious to be contemplated, although they still vaguely spoke of a time when they would return to London. Mr. Aston knew that he himself could not face the old strenuous life again.

He had dropped out of the line of workers too early, and though seventy years found him still a man of active habits and vigour of mind, he was too conscious of his divorce from the past to endure meeting it daily face to face.

The fortunes of Patrimondi continued to leap forward by untraceable impulses. They were able to choose their work now, and Christopher gave the preference first to roads whose construction was under his own direction from the very foundation, and secondly to such work as least separated him from 300 CÆsar, but this last fact he was careful to conceal even from Mr. Aston’s watchful eyes.

In the world of workers he became known as the “Roadmaker,” and fabulous stories of his origin and fortune were circulated. Unknown to himself or to those nearest to him, men high up in the financial world kept their eye on the young man—made no prophecies—said nothing—but were careful for reasons best known to themselves to help rather than oppose him when he happened to cross their path. But the greatest of all their race, Peter Masters himself, made no sign at all. No fabulous fortune was, however, gathered in. “Patrimondi” paid well, but the working expenses were great. Christopher made big returns to the men, not in wages only, but in every condition of their work. Those in power under him soon learnt it was better to forget the momentary interests of the company than the living interests of the workmen, but in return for his care Christopher did insist on, and get from his men, an amount of work that made other employers open their eyes with envious wonder.

All this time Patricia held her place in his life. It would have been hard to trace her actual influence on his daily actions, but it was there, preserving his finer instincts under the load of material cares, linking him indissolubly to that world of high Realities which is every man’s true inheritance. Yet he made no attempt to claim her and at times wondered at his own procrastination. The idea implanted by Peter Masters bore strange fruit, for even an unconsciously harboured lie must needs hamper the life behind which it finds shelter. He could make no advance towards Patricia while that invidious doubt of his parentage existed, and he lacked the remorseless courage of Mr. Aston to inflict pain for however justifiable a cause on CÆsar. Also perhaps his pride had a word to say. 301 If there was a secret, it was theirs, and they had not chosen to divulge it to him. Again, he had fathomed something of the depth of the jealous love bestowed on him, and his own affection and gratitude would have their say. All and each of these reasons arrayed themselves against his love. When he tried to face it first one and then the other weighed heaviest, till at length he called time to his side and flung himself into his work the harder to leave that ally free scope. All of which meant that he was yet but a worshipper at Love’s throne, and failed to recognise that his place was on it.

Christopher was in France when he saw the notice of Peter Masters’ death in the papers, and he was more staggered by it than he cared to admit to himself. The millionaire had been knocked down at a busy crossing with no more ceremony than would have served for his poorest workman. He had been carried to the nearest hospital and died there almost directly, alone, as he had lived. There was the usual hasty account of his life, but by some magic that had perhaps root in Peter’s own will, no mention was made of his marriage.

Christopher wrote home on the subject this-wise:

“It seems to me the more terrible since I think he was a man who never believed any such mischance could dare to happen to him. He always gave me the impression of one who read his own mortality for immortality, and was prepared to rule Time as arbitrarily as he ruled men. It does not look to an outsider as if he had gained any particular happiness from his fortune, but happiness is a word everyone spells in their own way.... I shall be back at the end of the week, for I find Marcel quite capable of finishing this piece of work....”

Such was the epitaph pronounced over Peter Masters by his own son, and Aymer, reading, sank beneath 302 the dead weight of responsibility that was his. The outcome of neutrality can be as great a force as that of action, and to assume the right to stand aside is to play as decisive a part as the fiercest champion. Nevertheless he held to that neutral attitude through the pangs of self-reproach.

There was no will, Mr. Aston told him, when he returned from the plain business-like affair of the funeral.

The news, incredible as it was, was yet a respite to Aymer.

He did not trouble to conceal it.

“But I am certain Saunderson knows something. Do not count on it, Aymer.”

“I count every chance in my favour,” returned Aymer deliberately. “I discount even your belief that Peter knew, since he said nothing.”

Mr. Aston looked at him sadly. He had no such hope, nor was he even certain he was justified in seconding CÆsar’s wish that the fortune should pass Christopher by. The nearer the great thing came to them the more difficult was it to ignore the vastness of the interests involved, and the greater the responsibility of those who stood motionless between Christopher and it. Yet Mr. Aston knew as well as Aymer that neither of them would move from their position, and if they had acted wrongly in following the wishes of the dead woman in preference to the material instincts of the living man, they must accept the result, and Christopher must accept it, too.

But he felt keenly Aymer’s failure to present an unbiassed face to the turn of circumstances.

“How long will it be before Saunderson acts if he has any clue to go on?” Aymer asked wearily after a long silence.

“He would act immediately, but whether that would land him on the right line would depend on the 303 strength of the clue. Aymer, my dear fellow, try and put the matter from you. You are not going to act yourself.”

“No, but I’m no hand at waiting.”

That was true, and as usual the days of suspense told heavily on Aymer. Christopher’s return was an immense relief. He had had a heavy spell of work and travelling, and allowed himself a few days’ holiday. It happened that Patricia was also at Marden. She spent so large a percentage of her time with Constantia now that her presence in the house that had been her home more resembled a visit than Christopher’s comings and goings. No one had mentioned the fact that she was there to him, and he found her in the drawing-room before dinner kneeling by the fire and coaxing it into a cheery blaze.

“You are a regular truant, Patricia,” he complained after their greeting.

“Constantia maintains I am at school with her and calls me truant when I run down here for a few days.”

“Are you at school? What does she teach you?”

“Subjects too deep for mere man,” she retorted lightly. She continued to kneel with her back to him and the light touched her wonderful hair, that still seemed too heavy a crown for the proud little head. It was like molten gold. Christopher felt a new heartache for the days when he could touch it without fear in the blind bravery of boyhood. He wanted to see her face which she so persistently turned from him.

“I am not sure it is a suitable school for you.”

“Since when have you become responsible for my education, sir? Would you prefer my going to school with Charlotte? You are confounding me with Patrimondi. You will end by rolling me out flat on a high-road one day.”

She was talking arrant nonsense in self-defence, for every fibre of her being was quivering at his presence. 304 The old hushed cry awoke in her heart “Christopher and Love—Love and Christopher.” If she looked at him he must see it, her eyes must needs betray the pitiful whisper but for the clamour of foolish words. Where was Renata? Why were they all so late to-night of all nights? Yet she had hurried her dressing—chosen her gown even, on the chance of this interview that outmatched her schooled frivolity. The need to see her face and her eyes again pressed on the man—became imperative—as something of great moment, strangely difficult to achieve.

At last he abruptly spoke her name.

“Patricia.”

She involuntarily turned to him and found what had appeared so hard was quite easy, for she discerned some unusual trouble in his mind, and was woman enough for the mothering instinct to sweep up over the personal love.

“What is it, Christopher?”

He had wit enough to keep his advantage, for there was something to read on the upturned face that must not be deciphered in haste.

“I am seriously worried, Patricia. You might assist instead of hindering me.”

“Well, what is it?”

“What is Constantia teaching you?”

“Me again,” she returned with a show of indignation, “why on earth should that worry you?”

“I don’t like new facets to familiar diamonds,” he grumbled obscurely, “you are getting too old. Patricia.”

“You are losing your manners.” But even under the banter the colour died from her face and her hand fell listlessly to her side.

“I won’t allow you to be older than I am.”

She was saved further embarrassment by Renata’s entrance, but all dinner time she was conscious of his 305 silent “awareness” of her and was troubled by it, and it was a new and unpleasing sensation to be troubled by any attitude of Christopher’s. Then his scrutiny stopped abruptly as if she were suddenly placed outside his range of vision, and that attitude suited her mind as poorly as the other.

She hardly knew if it were by her own will or Christopher’s that she sat with him and Aymer that evening. She was quite powerless to resist the request that might have been a command, and there is some pain in life that we cling to, dreading its loss more acutely than its presence.

Mr. Aston was away, a rare occurrence now, and the three sat talking before the fire, till the dear familiar intercourse and the peace put to sleep the dull ache in Patricia’s heart. They talked—or rather the men talked—of Christopher’s latest experiences abroad. He had been to the scene of a vast tunnelling operation in which his part was to come later.

“They suggest we should take over their men’s shanties as they stand.”

“Will you?” demanded CÆsar. These things were in Christopher’s hands.

“They might serve as material,” he answered drily. “Two of their overseers and twenty men asked for berths with me. They are mostly Italians. If we keep them to make our encampment, I shall have to go myself. It is rather odd how these men pick things up. I heard––” he broke off abruptly.

“We didn’t,” remarked CÆsar suggestively after a minute.

“It was not much, but it is funny how a nick-name travels. There were about five hundred men there still, and I heard one say as I passed, ‘Ecco il ‘Roadmaker.’’”

He was evidently boyishly pleased at the recognition, though he did not conclude the sentence. The 306 man had saluted him as he added to his comrade, “C’É un maestro d’uomini, non di brutti.”

Patricia gave CÆsar a quick look and caught his answer. It was as if some sudden bond of sympathy were tied between them.

CÆsar continued skilfully to ply Christopher with questions and extracted the information that the Patrimondi Company was much disliked by the big manufacturing powers.

“They say we spoil our men, and their own grumble. They sent me a deputation to ask us to cancel the Sunday holiday, which they never grant on contract work, and they feared the result of our example.”

“And you politely agreed?” suggested CÆsar, watching Patricia.

“I told them to––” again he stopped and laughed; “well, Patricia, I told them such was the time-honoured custom of my country and regretted my inability to consider their request.”

“I expect they only get into mischief on Sunday.”

CÆsar flung out this with assumed contempt, but it brought no quick retort. Christopher answered slowly, with his eyes on the fire.

“We plan excursions for them when there is anything to see or amusements of some kind. They are like children. If they are not amused they must needs make mischief.”

His voice was rather grave and Aymer knew there must have been difficulties here of which he did not mean to speak openly.

“It is deplorable if our Roadmaker is going about destroying other people’s comfortable paths. Don’t you agree with me, Patricia?”

She flushed up quickly, grasping his meaning at once.

“Not if their paths encroach on weaker people’s rights. I think it’s just what is wanted.” Then because 307 CÆsar laughed, she realised he was only drawing her, and flung him an appealing glance.

“But we mustn’t encourage him openly, Patricia, or he’ll leave us no old tracks at all.”

“I’m only the humble instrument of a company,” protested Christopher. “I merely carry out the regulations of my superiors.”

“Who are entirely at your mercy, you should add.”

Christopher disdained to reply to so obvious a fallacy. Presently, when he had gone to fetch some drawings to show them, CÆsar said quizzically.

“Has he obliterated any of your pet footpaths, Patricia?”

She shook her head.

“The Company has great confidence in him,” he announced gravely.

She looked straight at him. There was a kind intelligence in his eyes, and he held out his hand to her. “Present company not excepted. But we must not spoil him, Patricia.”

And she understood that her secret was Aymer’s and it lent her a sense of security and rest to know it, so that when she went to bed she reproached herself for her former childish moods. “I should be glad his strength of purpose and commonsense are so great,” she told herself, forgetting love and commonsense were ever ill neighbours. “I am never going to marry, and it would be difficult to say no to him. To-night was just one of the best of times that can be for us.”

That unwise thought aroused the dull throbbing ache in her heart again and the reasonable salve she offered it had no effect. She slept with it, woke with it, and knew it for the close companion of many days.

But Christopher’s last thought was, “I am not going to do without her any longer, if I am to meet her any more in this way. I should have read her 308 soul again to-night if I had not remembered in time.”

Aymer Aston lay awake wondering what was the matter between the two that they did not guess their palpable secret. He was the richer for another day’s respite and every day was a tide carrying him to the shore of safety.