Part 31 (1/2)
Mrs. Sartin held firmly to the carriage door and the oscillation of the cab caused her to nod violently, but it was not in a.s.sent to Christopher's proposition. She appeared to be turning something over in her slow mind.
”I don't know but what I could arrange with Eliza,” she remarked.
”Of course you can, like a good woman; and you and Jessie come up to Aston House at one o'clock and say where you'd like to go, and we'll go.”
Martha demurred. ”Mr. Aston won't like it.”
”Won't like what?”
”Our comin' to 'is 'ouse, like as if we 'ad any claim on you.”
”Do I or you know Mr. Aston best?” he demanded imperiously. ”Claim indeed. Martha, you dear old stupid, where would I be now, if you hadn't taken my mother in?”
”That were just a chance, Mr. Christopher, because I 'appened to be comin' 'ome late and your pore ma was took bad on the bridge as I crossed, and bein' a woman what 'ad a family, I saw what was the matter.”
”What was it more than a chance that Caesar in looking for a boy to adopt stumbled on the son of someone he used to know?”
Again the oscillation made Mrs. Sartin nod vigorously. She bestowed on her companion another of those shrewd, dubious glances, began a sentence and stopped.
”Yes. What were you saying?” asked Christopher absently.
”You've come quite far enough, Mr. Christopher,” she announced, with the air of a woman come to a decision, ”you just tell that man on the top to stop and let me out. Thanking you all the same, but I don't care to be seen driving 'ome this time of night and settin' folks a-talking. You set me down, there's a dear Mr. Christopher.”
She got her way in the matter of dismissing the cab, but not in dismissing Christopher, her primary desire, lest an indiscreet tongue should prompt her to say more than was ”rightful,” as she explained to Jessie.
”For if the dear innocent don't see 'ow the land lays, it isn't for me to show 'im, and Mr. Aymer so good to Sam.”
”Maybe you are all wrong,” said Jessie shortly.
Mrs. Sartin sniffed contemptuously.
The Sartins no longer inhabited Primrose Buildings, but were proud inhabitants of a decent little house in a phenomenally dull street, sufficiently near the big ”Store” to suit Sam's convenience. Sam himself came to the door and, late as it was, insisted on walking back with Christopher into the region of cabs, and, becoming engrossed in conversation, naturally walked far beyond it.
”This partners.h.i.+p business,” began Sam at once, ”I do wish, Chris, you'd get Mr. Aymer to make it a loan business. I'd be a sight better pleased.”
”I can't for the life of me see why,” Christopher objected with a frown. ”It's only a matter of a few hundred pounds, and if Caesar chooses to spend it on you instead of buying a picture or enamel, or that sort of toy, why should you object. It's not charity.”
”Then what is it?” demanded Sam, ”because I'm not a toy. Don't fly out at me, Chris, be reasonable. I'm as grateful to him as I can be, and I mean to use the chance he's given me all I can. But this partners.h.i.+p business beats me. It's all very well for him to do things for you. Of course he couldn't do less; but how do I come in?”
A drunken man reeled out of a house and lurched against Christopher, who put out his hand to steady him without a word of comment, and when the drinker had found his balance, he turned again to Sam with sharp indignation.
”He could do a jolly sight less for me and still be more generous than most people's fathers. There's no 'of course' about it.”
Sam stared stolidly in front of him.
”That's just it. It's one thing to do it for someone belonging to one, and another thing to do it for a stranger,” he persisted.
”Well, that's just how I feel, only I don't make a fuss. It's Caesar's way, and a precious good way for us.”
They parted at last with no better understanding on the vexed subject, and Christopher, once back at Aston House, sat frowning over the fire instead of going to bed. Why all of a sudden had this question of his amazing indebtedness to Aymer been so persistently thrust on him.
Hitherto he had accepted it with generous grat.i.tude, without question, had recognised no room for speculation, allowed no play to whispers of curiosity. It was Caesar's will. Now he was suddenly aware, however he might close his mind, others speculated; however guard his soul from inquisitiveness, others questioned, and it angered him for Caesar's sake. His mother had never spoken to him of the past, never opened her lips as to the strange sacrifice she had made for her unborn child, except once when they were hurriedly leaving London by stealth, after the episode with Martha Sartin's rascally husband. Mrs. Hibbault had remarked wearily: ”I wonder, Jim, shall I spend my life taking you out of the way of bad men?”