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 passed 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 325 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 God 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 Cæsar 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.