Part 2 (1/2)
”No, he is quite big, grown up, but he can't get about as you can, he is--a cripple.”
He said the words with a sort of forced jerk and half under his breath, but Christopher heard them and s.h.i.+vered.
”Do you live there, too?” he asked, pressing a little nearer the man who was no longer a stranger.
”Live where?”
”With the--your son.”
”Yes, I live there too. My boy couldn't get on without me--and here's the White Elephant, which means supper and bed for a tired young man.
Jump down, Christopher.”
CHAPTER II
The spirit of waning July hung heavily over London. In mean streets and alleys it was inexpressibly dreary: the f.a.gged inhabitants lacked even energy to quarrel.
But on the high ground westward of the Park, where big houses demand elbow-room and breathing s.p.a.ce and even occasionally exclusive gardens, a little breeze sprang up at sundown and lingered on till dusk.
In this region lies one of the most beautiful houses in London, the country seat of some fine gentleman in Queen Anne's day. It hid its beauties, however, from the public gaze, lying modestly back in a garden whose size had no claim to modesty at all. All one could see from the road, through the iron gates, was a glimpse of a wide portico, and a long row of windows. It stood high and in its ample garden the breeze ran riot, shaking the scent from orange and myrtle trees, from jasmine and roses, and wafting it in at the wide open windows of a room which, projecting from the house, seemed to take command of the garden.
It was a large room and the windows went from ceiling to floor. It was also a very beautiful room. In the gathering dusk the restful harmonies of its colours melted into soft, hazy blue, making it appear vaster than it really was. Also, it was unenc.u.mbered by much furniture and what there was so essentially fitted its place that it was un.o.btrusive. Three big canvases occupied the walls, indiscernible in the dim light, but masterpieces of world fame, heirlooms known all over Europe. There was a curious dearth of small objects and unessentials, nothing in all the great s.p.a.ce that could fatigue the eye or perplex the brain of the occupant.
The owner of the room was lying on a big sofa near one of the open windows. Within reach was a low bookcase, a table with an electric reading lamp, and a little row of electric bells, some scattered papers and an open telegram.
The man on the sofa lay quite still looking into the garden as it sunk from sight under the slowly falling veil of purple night.
He was evidently a tall man, with the head and shoulders of an athlete, and a face of such precise and unusual beauty that one's instinct called out, ”Here, then, G.o.d has planned a man.”
Aymer Aston, indeed, was not unlike his father, but far more regular in feature, more carefully hewn, and the serenity of the older face was lacking. Here was the face of a fighter, alive with the strong pa.s.sions held in by a stronger will. There was almost riotous vitality expressed in his colouring, coppery-coloured hair and dark brows, eyes of surprising blueness and a tanned skin, for he spent hours lying in the sun, hatless and unshaded, with the avowed intention of ”browning”; and he ”browned” well except for a queer white triangled scar almost in the centre of his forehead, an ugly mark that showed up with fresh distinctness when any emotion brought the quick blood to his face. There was indeed nothing in his appearance to suggest a cripple or an invalid.
Nevertheless, Aymer Aston, aged thirty-five, the best polo-player, the best fencer, the best athlete of his day at College, possessing more than his share of the vigour of youth and glory of life, had, for over ten years, never moved without help from the sofa on which he lay, and the strange scar and a certain weakness in the left hand and arm were the only visible signs of the catastrophe that had broken his life.
A thin, angular man entered, and crossed the room with an apologetic cough.
”Is that you, Vespasian?” demanded his master without moving. ”Have they come?”
”No, sir, but there is a message from the House. I believe Mr. Aston is wanted particularly.”
”What a nuisance. Why can't they let him alone? He might as well be in office.”
The man, without asking permission, rearranged his master's cus.h.i.+ons with a practised hand.
”The young gentleman had better have some supper upstairs, sir, as it's so late,” he suggested. ”I'll see to it myself.”
”Send him in to me directly they come, Vespasian.”
”Yes, sir.”