Part 18 (2/2)

”Well I never, if it ain't Jimmy!” cried Jessie, beaming, and Christopher could have embraced her if it were in accordance with the custom of his years, and he felt less inclined to bolt down the stairs out of reach of his adventure.

Neither of the two women expressed any pleasure at his appearance.

Mrs. Sartin accepted her daughter's recognition of their visitor as sufficient evidence it was not a hoax, and asked Christopher in.

The room, though the window was open, smelt just as stuffy as of old, and a familiar litter of toys and odds and ends strewed the floor.

Christopher missed the big tea-tray and Britannia metal teapot, but the sofa with broken springs was still there, covered as it had ever been with the greater part of the family wardrobe.

Christopher sat in the armchair, and Mrs. Sartin, having plumped the baby into its chair, sat down by the door. The small Jimmy pulled at her ap.r.o.n. Jessie leant against the wall and giggled. No one said anything. Christopher began to wish he had not come.

”I never could remember the name of this place,” he began at last, desperately. ”I just came on it by accident to-day, and remembered everything all at once.”

”s.h.i.+lla Buildings, that's what it's called,” said Mrs. Sartin nodding her head. ”Block 7, C. Door.”

Silence again. A strict sense of etiquette prevented either of the feminine side of the company from uttering the question burning on their tongues.

”I did see Sam once, a long time ago,” Christopher struggled on, ”but I could not catch him.” He got red and embarra.s.sed again.

”'Ows your Ma?” asked Mrs. Sartin at last.

”She's dead,” explained Christopher very gravely, ”five years ago now--more.”

”Lor'. To think of it. I never thought she was one to live long. And she went back to her friends after all, I suppose.”

It was not a question: it was only a statement to be confirmed or contradicted or ignored as the hearer liked.

”She died in the Union at Whitmansworth,” said Christopher bluntly. ”I lived there afterwards and then someone adopted me. Mr. Aymer Aston, son of Mr. Aston. Perhaps you know the name.”

Mrs. Sartin appeared to consult an imaginary visiting list.

”No, I can't say as I do. Do you, Jessie?”

Jessie shook her head. She had ceased to look at their visitor; instead, she looked at his boots, and her cheeks grew red.

”I thought I would like to see if you were still here.”

”Very good of you, I'm sure.” It was not meant ironically, it was solely addressed to the blue suit and brown boots, but it nearly reduced the wearer of these awe-inspiring clothes to tears.

For the moment, in the clutch of the past, with a.s.sociations laying gripping hands on him and with his curious faculty of responding to the outward call, Aston House and the Astons became suddenly a faint blurred impression to Christopher, less real and tangible than these worn, sordid surroundings. Had anyone just then demanded his name he would undoubtedly have responded ”Hibbault.” He felt confused and wretched, alive to the fact that little Jim Hibbault had neither people nor home nor relations in the world, if these once kindly women had no welcome for him.

”I heard you call Jim,” he hazarded at last, in an extremity of disconcerted shyness.

Mrs. Sartin eyed the four-year-old nestling in her ap.r.o.n and pulled him from cover.

”Yes, that be Jim. We called 'im Jim arter you. He was born arter you an' your ma went away.”

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