When he asked her if she had done it before she answered: “I took you from your father.” It was the only time he remembered her mentioning that unknown father; he recollected still how her face had changed and she had hurried her steps, as if haunted by a new suspicion.
It gave him quite unreasonable annoyance that these thoughts intruded themselves to-night, when he wanted to give his full attention to the wonder and glory of the discovery he had made in Constantia Wyatt’s company. That was, indeed, a matter of real moment. How had he contrived to be blind to it so long? He had not reached the age of twenty-one without entertaining vague theories concerning love, and having definitely decided that it had nothing to do with the travesty of its name which had confronted him on his wanderings. Neither taste nor training, nor the absorbing passion for his work had left him time or wish to explore this field which roused only an impatient contempt when thrust on his notice. Of Love itself, as before stated, he held vague theories: regarding it rather as a far-off event which would meet him in future years and land him eventually at Hymen’s feet. And here he found all such theories suddenly reversed. The first moment the idea of marriage was presented to his notice the vision of the only possible bride for him stood out with quite definite distinctness. Instead of Love being a prelude to the thought of Marriage, that thought had been the crashing chords that had opened his mind to Love. But the Love had been already there, unrecognised. He found he could no way now imagine himself as apart from Patricia. To eliminate her presence from his heart was to lose part of his individuality; to separate his practical life from her was as if he wantonly destroyed 182 a limb. Away from her actual presence and before this dual conception of themselves he was of assured courage, thankfulness and strange joy, but the moment his thoughts flew to her in concrete form, to Patricia Connell at Marden Court, he experienced a reversion: his confidence was gone, the assured vision became a very far-away possibility, a glory which he might hardly hope to attain.
Very slowly this latter aspect blotted out the first triumphant joy of his discovery. Mundane things, such as Renata Aston’s wishes, Cæsar’s consent, and even the person of Geoffry Leverson interposed between Patricia and him. This mood had its sway and in turn succumbed to an awakening of his dormant will and every fighting instinct. Patricia must be his, was his potentially, but he recognised she was not his for the asking. He would have to acquire the right to say to Cæsar, “I want to marry Mrs. Aston’s sister.” Aymer might easily make the way smooth for him, if he would. He had no reason then for believing he would oppose the idea. Yet Christopher knew that in the gamut of possible needs and desires the one thing he could not freely accept from Cæsar’s hands was his wife. His life was before him, before Patricia too. When he reached this point in his deliberation he made a sudden movement. The fire had gone out and it was very cold. Christopher decided it was time to go to bed.
CHAPTER XV
Jessie proved by no means averse to “gadding about,” as her mother expressed it. She and Mrs. Sartin turned up punctually at Aston House, though laden with an air of desperate resolve. On their way they had both cheerfully concealed some tremulous qualms and neither had ventured to express a dormant wish that Mr. Christopher had chosen some other spot for lunch than the lordly, sombre, half-opened house. It was not until they stood beneath the great portico that their vague discomfort got the upper hand, and Mrs. Sartin agreed without demur to Jessie’s suggestion that they should seek a smaller entrance. As they were turning away the great door swung open and Christopher came out.
“How jolly of you to be so punctual,” he cried, greeting them warmly. “Where were you off to? Did you think I wasn’t at home because the blinds were down? They don’t open all the house for me,” he added, leading the way through the great hall. “I live on the garden side.”
Mrs. Sartin had no mind to hurry: she wanted to take in the solid beauties as she passed. Jessie plucked her nervously by the sleeve seeing Christopher was outpacing them, and terrified of being left in that labyrinth of corridor without a guide. However, once within the sunny little room with its homely comforts and Christopher’s kindly self for host, they regained their wonted composure.
The smallness of the staff left in charge at Aston House gave Christopher an excuse for dispensing with the services of Burton, the footman, and the meal was 184 a great success. It never occurred to the host to think these good kind friends of his in any way out of place here. His sense of humour was quite unruffled, nay, he was even genuinely pleased to see the good, ample Martha, the strings of her black bonnet untied, her face wreathed in smiles, vigorously clearing out a tart dish, and Jessie’s homely features lit up with passive enjoyment, her brown eyes shining beneath the ridiculous curls.