And then the meaning of all this swept over Christopher’s mind like a wave of fire, scorching his soul, desecrating and humiliating the very mainspring of his life.
Aymer’s son! He knew Masters believed it as surely as if he had blurted it out in his own unbearable way, and it was not to save him, it was from no sense of decency Masters had not said it audibly. Christopher longed to fling the unspoken lie back to him, to refuse the collaboration of detail that the passing minutes crowded on his notice. He put on speed; tried to outstrip the evil thought of it, to think only of Cæsar, the dear companion of his days, the steady friend, the unobtrusive mentor and guide. But a thought he could not outstrip slipped into his mind so insidiously and stealthily, he could not tell how or whence it came.
“You only know Cæsar; you never knew Aymer Aston of the silent past.”
Faster and faster rushed the car in futile attempt to outpace the whispered treason. The speed indicator stood at 40 and still mounted.
“I should like to remark,” said Peter Masters thoughtfully, “that I have not yet made my will and it would cause some inconvenience to a vast number of people to have several millions left masterless.”
“It’s an open road,” returned Christopher, “I know what I’m at. I expect I enjoy life as much as you do.”
He slowed down suddenly, however, to about twenty miles an hour to pass an old woman in a 197 donkey cart, and the hateful thought swept on in advance apparently, for he overtook it again when their speed ran up ten points.
Christopher had chosen a rather circuitous route which offered fewer villages than the general high-road. It was a glorious day, the banks were starry with primroses, and all the hedgerows, just bursting into green rosettes, were hunting ground for birds innumerable.
Green emerald grass in water-meadows, fresh green growth on the hillside, and red bud and green promise hung from every tree. The crisp air whispered warnings of frosts still to come, but braced the nerve and gladdened the heart nevertheless, and called imperiously to youth to seek its kingdom. Christopher was at no pains to spare the nerves of the master of millions, and though he invariably crept through villages and towns sedately and drove with an eye for crossroads and distant specks on the white track before him, they swept through the open country with a breathless rush.
How good it would have gone alone, Christopher thought savagely, and resentment rose high in his heart. He was going to meet Patricia for the first time with understanding eyes. In the past months his love had grown with steady insistence until the imperious voice of spring, singing in concord with it, had overridden the decision of his stubborn will, demanding surrender, clamorous for recognition, and now having allowed the claim he was again forced back on the unsolved question of his own history. It was as if some imp of mischief had coupled his love to the Past, and had left him without knowledge to loose the secret knot. The silence became intolerable for fear of the next words that might break it from his companion. It would be better to take control himself—so he slackened speed a little and had the satisfaction 198 of hearing Peter Masters heave a relieved sigh.