Part 58 (1/2)

Mr. Saunderson looked at him critically. ”That is an ingenious suggestion Mr. ...” he paused.

”Aston,” said Christopher. ”It's the name those who have treated me as a son gave me, and I see no obligation to change it.”

The lawyer rose.

”Then we are to defer further discussion till Wednesday?”

”Until Wednesday. In town, not here.”

He left with Mr. Shakleton in his wake, and Christopher was at last alone and free to weigh if he would the weight of this stupendous burden, which he resolutely decided was not his to bear. He stood looking out of the window at the still driving mist and had to drag his thoughts back from the external aspect of things to the inner matters he must face. But there was no lucidity in his mind, nothing was clear to him but his fierce resentment against the dead man, and a pa.s.sionate pity for a faded woman.

”It was the beauty of grace rather than feature....” He was stung with intolerable shame for the manhood he must share with one who had wrought such havoc in the woman he was most bound to protect from herself, as well as from the world. The risks and chances of those early days flickered before him. He had been abandoned to such for some vague ultimate good to the colossal idea of fortune which neither he nor its late possessor could spend. Was he more bound to take it and its cares to himself than its author was bound to care for his own flesh and blood? Anger clouded his reason and he knew it. Yet if he could not think coherently on the matter, of what use were the three days of grace he had claimed? He could not endure company at present, and the four walls of his room were as a prison. At last he sent a hasty message to the motor house, tossed a few necessaries into a bag and wrote a note to Caesar. ”Dear Caesar, I've got to make up my mind about this and I must do it alone, so to come to some decision I'm going off in the car. I'll be back when I've got the thing straight in my mind. Tell St. Michael and Nevil about it, but if you can help it don't let anyone else know.--Christopher Aston.”

He drove slowly down the drive, out into the highroad and, turning westward, sped away into the misty distance.

A great stillness fell on Aymer when Christopher left him. He had lived so long under the shadowy fear of the thing that had now happened, that it was hard to credit the fear had pa.s.sed in fulfilment. He had been forced back to face the past, and, behold, the terror of it was gone. He could only measure the full value of the effort he had made by the languor and listlessness that now wrapped him round, as a child who had overtaxed his strength and must needs rest. A hazy doubt crept into his mind as to what it was he had so dreaded--the resuscitation of the past, or Christopher's reception of it. In either case the fear had faded as some phantom form that melted in daylight.

He stumbled on one thought with vague wonder. No barrier had been raised between him and his adopted son: instead he found the only barrier had been erected by his own lack of strength to face that truth until the inexorable hand of G.o.d forced him to the issue.

As to the future he recognised that might be left to Christopher, whose whole life, since Aymer took him, had been a preparation for this situation. His long struggle to keep a grip on life was ebbing fast, it was good to leave decisions in another's hands, to rest, and accept.

When Mr. Aston returned Caesar gave him Christopher's note with a brief remark.

”Saunderson has been.”

The note, short as it was, told the rest. Mr. Aston looked anxiously at his son, but Aymer met his eyes with a quiet smile.

”I'm glad you were away, St. Michael. You've had enough to contend with, and there was no need. There is nothing for either of us to do.

It's Christopher's affair.”

Mr. Aston looked at the note again and reread the signature, then he gave it back, satisfied.

”What will happen if he won't accept it?” he questioned thoughtfully.

”It is for him to decide.” Aymer's tone was earnestly emphatic.

”Father, we've done our part. We can't alter it if we would. Leave him free.”

”It is the crown of your success that you can do so, my dear old fellow.”

”The coronation has not taken place yet,” returned Caesar, with a touch of dry humour that rea.s.sured his father more than any words that all was well with his son.

Meanwhile, hour after hour, Christopher's car raced over the white roads. The twinkling lights in the villages through which he sped grew fewer and at last ceased. A more solid blackness was the only inkling of dwellings on either hand. Once the low, vibrating hum of the car seemed to bring a light to a high window, but it fell back into the dark before he had caught more than a faint glimmer on the blind.

He met nothing: the road for all he knew was utterly empty of life. In the silent, motionless darkness it was like a path into illimitable s.p.a.ce. He knew every mile of it, yet in the night the miles stretched out and raced with him.

It was far from village or town when at last Christopher wrenched his mind from the mechanical power that held it prisoner, and realised that town or no town, bed or no bed, he must stop. He brought the car to a standstill under the lea of a low ridge of downs, at a point where an old chalk pit reared its white face, glimmering faintly in the darkness. He hazarded a fair guess as to his whereabouts.