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Updated: May 9, 2025
The ripeness of the air, the wealth of colour, and the harmonious dignity of the season seemed a fit setting to the old Tudor mansion, with its reposeful beauty just touched with renaissance grace. The glory of the world passes, but it is none the less a glory worth observing. The Astons regarded Marden as the metropolis of their affections.
He spent it freely now the Astons were no misers, but his father and he managed to nearly double the original capital and this was Aymer's to do with as he would. Apparently he meant it for Christopher.
They fought together against the difficulties that beset the great venture and their comradeship reduced the irritating trivialities of the first start to bearable limits. Since the day when he received Peter Masters' curt acknowledgment of satisfaction with the selected car, neither Christopher nor the Astons had heard one word from the millionaire.
In Violet's eyes that in itself condoned many flagrant defects. The Astons moved in the highest circles of the city spite of Mrs. Aston's "flamboyant" style and her husband's demonstrative vulgarity; as a member of their family, therefore, her social status would be secure. If the girl had any heart it must have pleaded on behalf of Bernard Murray young, handsome, lovable, as he was.
The Astons, probably quite unconsciously, pursued their usual course of leaving Christopher to drift into the stream of their existence without any explanation or attempt to make that existence a clear cut and dried affair to him.
For the moment, in the clutch of the past, with associations laying gripping hands on him and with his curious faculty of responding to the outward call, Aston House and the Astons became suddenly a faint blurred impression to Christopher, less real and tangible than these worn, sordid surroundings. Had anyone just then demanded his name he would undoubtedly have responded "Hibbault."
"They are very good to look at now," Christopher answered, a little shyly, looking at a vast sea-scape which seemed to cool the room with a fresh breeze. "You Astons would have beaten me anyhow," pursued Peter. "I've got nothing old: but the new's the best of its kind." Christopher found this was true. Everything in the house was modern. There was no reproduction, no imitation.
The Astons looked so much alive, that they might have been mistaken for Stanleys, who, in their turn, were so affected with this tender mark of friendship, that they looked as tearful as if they had been Astons. After reading the inscription, "My dear Clara," said Lucilla to Miss Aston, "where could you get these beautiful verses?
It seems to me there's nothing I can talk about at home now whether it's getting old or teeth or hair I'm always supposed to be "passing remarks." And I wouldn't mind if it was my Hastings cousins I had to live with. But they can't have me any more, and now I'm at Wakely with the Astons. 'The Aston's? David echoed.
The Astons, old and young, were companions who answered to every need of his energetic mind. He made giant strides in his studies in these days and passed beyond the average into the class of those of real ability. All his well-earned holidays were spent at Marden, where there was always Patricia as a most admirable playfellow.
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