“I shot him,” said Cæsar shortly, “don’t ask for morbid particulars. Where is another picture?”
“This?”
This was a photo of a horse standing alone in a field and beneath was written, “Jessica waiting to be tamed.” Aymer offered no explanation,—if Christopher had looked he would have seen the scar show up again sharply over a frown.
The next was rather a wicked snap-shot of Aymer cover shooting, with what looked suspiciously like a dead fox curled up at his feet.
“It was a wretched little cub I had tamed,” he explained, “the little beast used to follow me everywhere. It’s really tied up to a tree, but it always lay out as if dead when it heard a gun. I took it out with me to try and get it used to the sound.”
There was a picture of Aymer and Nevil riding and coming over a big water jump side by side.
Aymer told him it was at the Central Horse Show and related the triumphs and honours of the day. 64
But when the polo photograph turned up again Aymer appeared tired of the amusement, and sent Christopher off to meet his father in the brougham at Maidley station, four miles distant. “If someone doesn’t go he’ll be reading reports and working out figures till he arrives at the door,” said Aymer. “It’s disgraceful not to know how to take a holiday properly. It’s only small boys who ought to work like that,” he added severely.
“You haven’t given me any work to do, Cæsar,” protested Christopher, but Cæsar only laughed.
When the boy had gone, however, Aymer continued to turn over the photographs. It was an extremely unwise proceeding, for each of them called him with irresistible voice back to the past from which he had sworn he would turn his eyes. It was always there with its whispering, mocking echo, but like a good fighter he had learnt to withstand its insidious temptations, and hold fast to the quiet, secure present where all he could know of joy or fulfilment was centred.