Mr. Aston knelt by him and put his hand on his shoulder, concealing his own distress at this unheard-of breakdown.
“My dear boy, it would not make the slightest difference to Christopher. I’m seriously afraid he’d tell Peter to go to the devil—and he’d come home by the next train. He’d never accept him.”
“He’d never forget,” persisted Aymer, the sleeping agony of long years shining in his eyes. “It would not be the same, father. He would not be—mine. I could not pretend it if he knew. Peter would be there between us—always as he was––”
He broke off and took up the thread with a still sharper note of pain, “Father, can’t you understand. I don’t mind a woman. He’ll love and marry some day: it’s his right. I don’t grudge that. But another father—his real one. Oh, My God, mayn’t I keep even this for myself?” He hid his face on the cushions, all the wild jealousy of his nature struggling with his pride.
His father put his arm round him, hardly able to credit the meaning of the crisis. Was that white scar on his son’s forehead no memorial to a dead jealousy, but only an expression of a slumbering passion?
“Aymer, old fellow, listen. Peter isn’t going to tell, I feel sure of it. And it would make no difference. 262 You must allow I know something of men. I give you my word of honour, Aymer, I know it would make no difference to Christopher. You wrong him. You will always be first with him.”
“It’s not Christopher,” returned Aymer, lifting hard, haggard eyes to his father, “it’s myself. Twice in my life I’ve wanted something—someone for myself alone. Elizabeth—and now Christopher! It’s I who can’t share.”
“Jealousy, cruel as the grave.” Involuntarily the words escaped Mr. Aston.
“More cruel.”
He dropped his head again. St. Michael continued to kneel by him in silence. The elementary forces of nature are hard matters with which to deal. Silence, sympathy, and the loan of mental strength were all he could offer.